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A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

W hen Darcy and Elizabeth arrived at Himdale House on Tuesday, they were met by Lady Catherine, who was still fuming about Elizabeth’s ruined gown.

“That stupid, stupid woman,” she seethed.

“Madame Badeaux should know better than to drink wine anywhere near any of her creations, let alone to stumble and spill the wine on it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Its ancient Persian designs were perfectly suited to this occasion. I ought never to patronise her again.”

Lady Matlock, who was standing next to Lady Catherine, shot a slightly guilty look at Elizabeth. It had, after all, been she who induced Madame Badeaux to have the accident and even provided a bottle of Madeira to facilitate it.

“Now, now, these things happen from time to time. There is no need to withhold your custom because of an unavoidable mistake. And does Mrs Darcy not look beautiful in this gown?” She gestured towards the shimmering green dress.

“It will do, I suppose,” sniffed Lady Catherine.

Elizabeth felt Darcy shake with repressed laughter as they took in his aunt’s heavy silk Persian-style gown stiff with intricate embroidery and a tall turban topped with white plumes.

“I cannot abide these absurd modern fashions,” the great lady continued as she adjusted the rings on her gloved fingers.

“A woman might be fully enceinte and no one would be the wiser.”

Elizabeth squirmed uncomfortably as Lady Catherine eyed her middle. She cast about for something that might take the dowager’s mind off what she considered to be such an offensive form.

“Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth said, “is it not absurd that we must bow to the vicissitudes of fashion, no matter how unattractive the styles of the day? I have sought to introduce some timeless elements into my attire by wearing Lady Anne’s jewels. Do you think that effect has been achieved?”

Lady Catherine inspected her with a critical eye.

“I suppose that since there is nothing to be done about the figure and the hair, the jewels do a fine enough job of drawing attention from those shortcomings. But you must have more jewels to distract the eye. Barnes!” she called to the butler.

“Order my maid to bring down my largest emerald necklace at once. No, all of them! You must wear all of them together, madam.”

Darcy leapt to her defence. “No. Elizabeth will wear only my mother’s jewels, those of the Darcy lineage, and those I have given to her. She is not a de Bourgh, and those jewels given to you by Sir Lewis should be worn only by Anne.”

He turned back to Elizabeth and smiled tenderly as he took her hand in his. “As for myself, I am delighted by my wife’s appearance tonight. She needs no jewels to enhance her beauty.”

Dimly, Elizabeth could hear the earl chuckling and Lady Matlock sighing, but she was so occupied with the sensation of her husband’s lips on her fingers, she could disregard even Lady Catherine’s angry snort.

“Elizabeth looks magnificent,” came Georgiana’s soft voice. She stepped into the room on the colonel’s arm. “I hope to hear about the opera later at supper.”

Elizabeth was relieved her new sister was remaining at Himdale House for the evening, likely happy to play the pianoforte without Lady Catherine’s commentary, often emanating from two rooms away.

Soon we shall leave for Pemberley and be free of all our relations and their opinions.

But there remained a long evening ahead, and, as the carriage drew closer to Covent Garden, Lady Catherine once again lectured Elizabeth on the finer points of curtseying, with exacting specifications about how deeply, to the degree, one must bend one’s knees and incline one’s head according to the relative station of the two being introduced.

Darcy clasped Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it whenever Lady Catherine said something particularly ridiculous, apparently in order to prevent himself from laughing.

She nudged him gently with a quelling elbow and nodded at his aunt, wondering how precisely the lady had invented these formulas and whether she had a protractor hidden somewhere on her person.

Once in the box, Lady Catherine claimed the centre seat in the first row, where she could best observe the members of the crowd and be observed herself.

She motioned for Elizabeth to sit beside her.

Lady Matlock sat on Elizabeth’s other side, whilst Darcy slipped into the seat just behind her in case intervention was required.

He found that his view of the left side of the stage was obstructed by the large plumes on his aunt’s turban.

Back and forth they waved and fluttered as Lady Catherine surveyed the scene around them and expounded loudly on all she knew of opera, the opera house, the performers, and the particular members of the audience.

It was dizzying, almost hypnotic, as they swayed with the rather terrible music.

He found himself almost desperate to snatch at them and pull them off her ridiculous turban.

He envied the viscount and his wife, who had left town on the convenient excuse of visiting her family in Surrey.

If that was indeed where they had gone—Abington had always been such an egregious fabulist. Perhaps they were only holed up in Croydon, waiting for Lady Catherine to leave for Kent.

Poor Elizabeth is prisoner to my aunt, who would assuredly be most proficient in opera had she ever learnt . It was quite a scene, he thought, as he gazed upon his dear Elizabeth sitting between the two other ladies, a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.

As Darcy watched his wife and willed her to feel his protection and love, he tried to overlook Fitzwilliam’s yawns and his uncle’s quiet snores.

The opera was already well into its first act, as, like a considerable number of the most stylish members of their station, their party had arrived at an hour more convenient to themselves than to the opening notes of the evening’s entertainment.

Many eyes, even those in the boxes near the stage occupied by those of an exhibitionist bent, were drawn to Lord Matlock’s box.

Darcy wanted to believe all those glances were curiously admiring his beautiful new bride, but he suspected they were instead fixed aghast on his aunt’s turban, a gleaming white beacon in the dark hall.

There was nothing for it now, unfortunately.

Lady Catherine brought out an enamelled and jewelled fan and commenced fanning herself.

Although it was cold outside, the blazing candles, the press of bodies, and the scents of perfume, wine, and tobacco created an oppressive atmosphere inside the theatre.

Darcy was almost grateful for the movement in the close air produced by his aunt’s gesticulations when she snapped the fan shut and used it to point out members of the audience to Elizabeth in her customary booming voice.

“That lady over there in puce is the baroness of Wagstaff, and next to her in that insipid yellow gown is her daughter, Miss Victoria Twisden. Miss Twisden is renowned for being jilted when her betrothed ran off with her French maid. Her father, a baronet,” she sniffed, “is widely held to be quite mad, although as no one has seen him for several years, he may simply be drunk. We shall not call on them, nor shall we receive them.” Lady Catherine paused and took a breath.

Lady Matlock leant towards Elizabeth and whispered, “Lady Catherine is mistaken. It is the Viscountess Claypool whose daughter was jilted, and Lord Rivington who rusticates on his estate in a constant state of inebriation. We may safely call on the baroness and Miss Twisden. ”

Lady Catherine indicated with her fan a box higher than their own.

“There. That woman in blue with the lorgnette. Years ago, just before I married Sir Lewis, she stole my lady’s maid right from under my nose.

Offered her twice the money and half the responsibility, and off went that ungrateful harpy.

Under no circumstances must you speak to her or her dreadful sister, Mrs Dumont.

Her husband is a wealthy banker, but untitled. Excuse my frankness, but it is so.”

Lady Matlock whispered, “Mrs Dumont is universally loved. We shall have tea with her and her sister in two days’ time, it is already set.”

Darcy cleared his throat just loudly enough to remind the ladies that others were present in their box. He leant forwards and whispered in Elizabeth’s ear—the one closest to Lady Matlock, just to be safe. “Nod if you are in need of rescue.”

Sadly for him, she shook her head, but he thought he heard a giggle. Teasing girl! She is enjoying this ordeal!

He took out his watch to see how long they had already endured this tedious, tedious opera and to calculate how long before they could leave.

So popular was it that he had seen, and unfortunately heard, the piece several times in the past, and he therefore knew that nearly two hours of this monstrosity remained—and that the most dreadful part was just about to begin.

“Ah!” cried Lady Catherine, her attention all at once turning to the stage.

“This is my favourite aria. Is it not magnificent? The soaring heights, the swooping lows.” She hummed a few bars.

“Although it must be said that this performance by Miss Stephens is rather lacklustre. I do not approve of how these modern productions have women singing the men’s roles en travesti .

In my day, men were men, and castrati ?—”

Leaning forwards from his perch behind Elizabeth, watch still in hand, Darcy quickly interrupted his aunt in an effort to prevent her from saying any more about the history of castrati and how best to produce them. “Lady Catherine, do you not?—”

“Any of us could do better than she.” Lady Catherine suddenly began to warble along with the music, not so loudly as to drown out the soprano entirely, but it was a near thing.

So startled was he by the yowling that Darcy jerked back, sending his watch flying.

He scrambled to fetch it before it could roll underneath the seats and knocked heads with a loudly startled Fitzwilliam in the process.

When he looked up, watch in hand, he found Elizabeth smirking at him, her beautiful face suffused with suppressed mirth.

Some in the hall turned to ascertain the source of the racket but, Darcy was pleased to note, only a few grouchy dowagers seemed to make comment from behind their fans.

The wealthy and titled were for the most part so busy in their boxes gossiping, doing business, and playing cards that they hardly seemed to notice.

Lady Catherine at last came to the end of a musical phrase on a dissonant high note, once again drawing the eyes of audience members. She paused. “There. If only I had learnt, I might have been a true proficient.”

Darcy’s eyes began to water as he tried to suppress his laughter at this echo of his own recent thought.

“Pray, spare Mrs Darcy and the rest of us from any further musical lessons,” growled the earl. Bending his head towards Darcy, he hissed, “Your wife is stubborn, and now she may be deaf as well. I wish I were, at least until my sister has returned to Rosings.”

“Elizabeth’s ordeal ends tonight. I hope yours will end soon—very soon.

” Darcy turned from reassuring his uncle to see that those in the crowd who had been staring at their box had returned their attention to the stage.

All except one: an older gentleman, white perruque jauntily perched upon his head, who had his opera glass trained on Lady Catherine.