Page 25 of A November to Remember

“It is uncharitable,” Miss Mary condemned. “And it is frequently inaccurate. There is no advantage in falsehood, sir.”

“Mary! Hush!” Mrs Bennet hissed, her fan fluttering in panic. “Do not contradict the colonel with your tedious moralising!”

Richard lowered the cake he was navigating. He turned his head and levelled an unblinking stare at the matriarch. “Madam, there is nothing tedious about a demand for accuracy. Miss Mary’s observation is correct, and I find I value her opinion highly.”

Mrs Bennet’s mouth opened and closed without producing a single sound. Miss Mary glanced at the colonel and blushed.

Robert was still composing his approach to this fascinating development when a shout erupted from the window.

“An officer!” Miss Kitty shouted. “Lydia, look! It is Captain Carter, and he has a new horse!”

Miss Lydia spun from the glass, lunged for the door, and her muslin skirt caught the edge of the delicate tripod tea table beside the sofa.

The tripod tipped. The silver tray, bearing a full pot of scalding tea Betsy had just brought in, a milk jug, three teacups, and a plate of buttered scones, began a fatal slide.

“My scones!” Richard bellowed.

What followed defied aristocratic languor, though it fell short of a theatrical spectacle. Robert lunged from the second-best chair, catching the edge of the tripod with his left hand and steadying the sliding teapot with his right, arresting their fall mere inches from disaster. Beside the cake stand, Richard leaned forward with lightning speed, catching the sliding plate of scones in his large hand before it could depart the tray.

The teacups and milk jug were sadly lost, sliding past Robert’s hand and shattering against the hearth in a crescendo of breaking porcelain and splashing milk.

Silence fell.

Robert remained still in his awkward lunge, holding the teapot securely on the slanted wood. Richard sat in his chair, the rescued plate of scones cradled to his chest.

Miss Lydia stood blinking by the door. “Well. That was very sudden.”

“Lydia Bennet!” Mrs Bennet found her voice at full volume. “You clumsy, foolish girl! You nearly scalded a viscount! You ruined your aunt’s rug! Apologise at once!”

Robert straightened by degrees. He placed the teapot gently on the stabilised table, and brushed a single drop of milk from his sleeve. He looked at Mrs Bennet, hovering on the edge of nervous collapse; at Mrs Philips, clutching her cap; at Miss Lydia, unrepentant in the doorway.

Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Magnificent!” He wiped a tear from his eye. “A falling table! A rescued teapot! An exit thwarted at the threshold! Ladies, I have paid five guineas to keep a box at the theatre for comedies with half the entertainment value of this parlour.”

Mrs Bennet stared. Then, a relieved and equally chaotic smile broke across her face, and Mrs Philips’s giggle escalated into full-blown laughter. Richard sat back in his chair and pronounced, around a bite of scone, “The texture is excellent, Mrs Philips. Though I recommend a sturdier tea table the next time.”

“You see, Sister?” Mrs Bennet pointed a finger at Robert in triumph. “Did I not tell you? Lord Keathley is a man of exceptional understanding. He appreciates a lively household!”

“I appreciate madness, madam.” Robert swept her a bow. “And I must say, I feel entirely at home.”

He looked at the two matriarchs—at Mrs Bennet’s undisguised ambition and Mrs Philips’s insatiable appetite for the affairs of others—and saw, with absolute clarity, and as if recognising his own reflection in a shop window, his people. Loud. Absurd. Devoid of the restraint that made a London high season feel like a fifteen-week funeral.

It was time.

He took up a position on the hearthrug, hands clasped behind his back. The House of Commons would have recognised the posture.

“Ladies. I shall speak plainly, for we are among friends and the cake is nearly gone.” A grunt of mourning from the colonel confirmed it. “My friend Bingley is in love with Miss Jane Bennet,” he said, his voice breaking at the last syllable.

Mrs Bennet’s fan stopped mid-stroke.

“This will not be news to you, madam; he announces it hourly, to anyone who will listen and several who will not. Yesterday, I received a full accounting of the benevolence of her wrists. I agree, though: her wrists are excellent. But here is what you may not know.” Robert began to pace the hearthrug, three steps and a turn, as an advocate before the bench. “Bingley is constitutionally incapable of action. And he is relying too much on his sisters’ opinions.”

“But—” Mrs Philips’s handkerchief was pressed to her mouth. “But what can be done?”

“Management, madam. What this situation requires is management.” He stopped pacing and faced them. “Consider our resources. I have the gentleman’s confidence, knowledge of his engagements, and control of his carriage arrangements. You, Mrs Bennet, have influence over the lady, an ambition of a purity I have rarely witnessed outside the ancient tyrants, and a household that cannot be defended against. And you, Mrs Philips, command the county itself: every parlour, every card table, every ear from here to Hatfield. Separately, ladies, we are dabblers.” He allowed the pause its full weight. “Together, we are Providence.”

Mrs Philips rose to her feet, trembling. “My lord. I have waited my whole life for this conversation.”