Page 51

Thanks to a slightly sheepish warning from Mr. Bingley, the Darcys made certain that their butler knew to turn away all but a select few callers.

When Miss Bingley was not admitted to Derwent House the next day, her panic-fueled fury exploded to such a degree that her own sister all but leapt from the carriage when they arrived back at the Hursts’ home.

Weary of Caroline’s ranting, Mrs. Hurst took refuge in her husband’s private sitting room—a space that she had not ventured into in many months.

When the housekeeper came to speak to Mrs. Hurst, she was surprised to find the Mistress chatting amiably with her husband.

The couple exchanged a decidedly unhappy look when the long-suffering servant informed them that Miss Bingley was currently in the drawing room throwing old Mrs. Hurst’s collection of porcelain ornaments at the portraits and that the parlor maid was bleeding from a particularly well-aimed shepherdess.

Mrs. Donald decided to delay tendering her resignation only when Mr. and Mrs. Hurst rose and prepared to deal with the bitter young woman together.

In truth, Miss Bingley had been met with no deception when she was turned away from Derwent House.

Her brother had departed earlier to meet with his solicitor and Miss Darcy was practicing the pianoforte under the exacting tutelage of her music master.

The gentleman foremost in Caroline’s thoughts was not even in the house, although her nightmare of Mr. Darcy spending the day with a fiancée was incorrect in more ways than one.

Fitzwilliam had devoted the morning to organizing details of the excursion to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, determined that it would be an unqualified success.

A cart with food, blankets, and picnic supplies was to be sent ahead while Darcy and his guests would travel by water on one of the new paddle steamers that plied the Thames .

The servants soon caught on that their fidgety master desired to please Miss Bennet and her party. It was only when he began questioning the cook on her recipes that the housekeeper finally propelled him out of the kitchens.

“It shall all be just as you wish, sir. Perhaps you should check on Miss Darcy now? Luncheon shall be served in a half hour.”

Fitzwilliam could not help but chuckle when he found himself standing alone in the hallway, the green baize door shut firmly behind him. However, he was clever enough to take Mrs. Wilkins’ advice and head toward the sounds coming from the music room.

Determined not to spend the afternoon worrying over Elizabeth, Darcy filled it running various errands about town.

After stopping at his tailor’s and choosing fabrics for several new waistcoats, he was disappointed to find that the sheet music for Rossini’s latest opera had not yet been published; Fitzwilliam had hoped to purchase it for his sister as a gesture apologizing for his recent behavior.

He left the music shop with instructions to send the piano reduction on to Pemberley when it arrived and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The air was remarkably clear for London, a brief morning rainstorm having washed everything clean. With a spring in his step, Darcy headed toward Hatchard’s bookshop, tossing a copper to the urchin sweeping the street where he crossed.

Fitzwilliam paused in front of a Bond Street jeweler, eyeing several lockets in the window and considering Bingley’s suggestion that Georgiana might like a trinket of that sort.

However, he was quite certain that if he entered he would be unable to resist buying something more substantial for Elizabeth, even though he knew it was unlikely that he could present her with the gift for months, if ever.

Somehow, such a purchase seemed too much like tempting the Fates, so Will gave a particularly lovely amethyst set a longing look but turned his steps back toward his favorite bookstore.

Mr. Hatchard himself was manning the counter and the venerable book dealer was familiar enough with Mr. Darcy to show his amusement over the variety of that gentleman’s selections once he was finished browsing.

Indeed, Fitzwilliam himself was forced to chuckle when he looked over the odd array of titles.

Between a manual on crop rotation that Darcy often used as a reference (a gift for Bingley) and John Farley’s recently published report on the agriculture and minerals of Derbyshire (he tried to keep up with new scientific advances particularly in colliery) was a three-volume novel by “a Lady” (a gift for Georgiana) and a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Women .

Mr. Hatchard’s eyebrows rose at the last and he glanced up at Darcy. The gentleman shrugged. “I am responsible for the education of my younger sister and someone I respect a great deal recommended that we read it.”

The older man nodded decidedly. “Excellent advice, if I might say so, sir. Society has fairly pilloried Mrs. Wollstonecraft, especially after that husband of hers exposed all of the… err … unconventional aspects of her life in his Memoir . But she was no anarchist, whatever they say. I have a daughter myself and that book made me think differently about how to raise her. Sometimes the lady’s prose gets a bit overly dramatic but I believe the fundamental logic to be sound. ”

Tucking away his money clip and watching as a clerk wrapped up the books, Darcy answered thoughtfully, “I must admit that I’ve long taken the gossip as fact and never bothered to actually read any of her essays, believing the publicity that they were little more than radical filth.”

Mr. Hatchard smiled. “Ah, well. You’re not alone.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the next generation discovers her work anew, the stench of society’s condemnation washed away by time.

Happens again and again with literature through the ages.

After all, isn’t Plato supposed to have buggered young Aristotle when the lad was one of his pupils? ”

Seeing that he had thoroughly embarrassed his customer with his explicit talk, the elderly book dealer waved a hand as though dispelling a foul odor from the air.

“Never mind, young man, never mind. I’m getting old and forget whether I’m addressing a respectable gentleman such as yourself or one of those radical philosophers that come by to rant now and then on their way to the Speaker’s Corner.

” He winked and Darcy left the store with his books, unsure if Hatchard might not be one of those liberal-leaning philosophers himself.

That evening after supper, Darcy distributed his gifts and the three residents of Derwent House spent an amiable evening reading before the fire.

Bingley found the farming manual and even Darcy’s geological report surprisingly fascinating and was soon making notes for himself.

Fitzwilliam was quietly pleased when Georgiana chose to begin her new novel, leaving him with Mrs. Wollstonecraft.

The further he read, the more interested he became. Darcy had always considered himself a broad-minded man but he was forced to admit that many of society’s mores which he himself had always accepted were wholly illogical when considered more impartially.

Fitzwilliam was so engrossed that it came as a surprise when the clock struck eleven. Charles smiled at the two Darcys and stood, gathering his books and papers together in a lopsided pile.

“This has been an excellent evening!” exclaimed the younger man enthusiastically.

“I have quite a list of questions to discuss with the Netherfield steward when I return to Hertfordshire; I begin to understand why you so value your library, Darce. I’m sorry to break up our little reading party, but I believe I shall need a good night’s sleep for our expedition tomorrow. ” He winked.

After bidding their guest a good night, brother and sister turned to each other. Fitzwilliam nodded at the volume in her hand. “Are you enjoying your new novel, Georgie?” He was pleased with the sunny smile that bloomed in her face.

“Oh Wills, it is wonderful! The characters feel like people I might know.”

“Nothing like Mrs. Radcliffe, then?”

Georgiana rolled her eyes and they both laughed.

Darcy tried to read all of the books his sister did so that they might discuss them.

They had agreed that, although the gothic romances could be quite amusing on occasion, the plots were often ridiculous and the characters quite unlikely outside of fiction.

When their laughter quieted, Georgiana dared her own question. “What do you think of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s book? I’d never heard of it before Miss Bennet mentioned that she was rereading it last week.”

Darcy colored slightly and looked at the book in his hands. It was still difficult for him to admit that even such an indirect recommendation from Elizabeth had him running out to purchase the volume.

“You’ve not heard about it because Mrs. Wollstonecraft is considered quite unsuitable these days; her personal life was… unconventional, shall we say.” Darcy adopted Hatchard’s euphemism and hoped his little sister would not ask any further explanation for a decade or two.

“However, her writing is thought-provoking, to say the least.” Fitzwilliam turned the book and rubbed a thumb up the spine contemplatively.

“I had never truly considered how biased our legal system is against women; I’m ashamed to admit that I believed it necessary to protect females in our society. ”

Miss Darcy’s eyebrows had risen to her hairline; she was still astonished at how much the acquaintance of Miss Bennet had altered her brother. “Will you allow me to read it?”