Page 37

“That will do, Martha,”

said the Countess.

“We are retiring for the evening; you need not wait upon us further.”

“Very good, my lady,”

replied the housekeeper with a graceful curtsy.

“I wish your ladyship a quiet and restful night—and if I may say so, it gladdens us all to see your contentment over your son’s marriage.”

Miss Bingley, though once inclined to be astonished by the ease with which servants addressed a titled lady, had now grown nearly accustomed to it.

She had witnessed much the same at Netherfield, where Mrs.

Nicholls and the rest of the household had, by slow degrees, begun to speak to the Countess not only with deference, but with a certain ease.

It had never been so when she presided at Netherfield.

The servants obeyed her, but coldly, and ever with caution.

Respect had been paid, certainly—but never warmth.

She had accepted the Countess’s gracious invitation to remain at their house in town during the absence of her brother and Jane, who were presently engaged upon their wedding tour.

The invitation had been most timely, for she was not yet received with any degree of favour at the Hursts’ residence—though her brother, prior to his departure, had written in the hope of effecting a reconciliation.

It was expected she would remain until the commencement of the Season; and with the Countess’s patronage, she entertained every hope of establishing herself among the first circles.

She pictured herself admired and sought after, the object of speculation—men of consequence in pursuit, and women whispering her name with envy.

And yet—though she scarcely dared confess it even to herself—a quiet melancholy lingered beneath her anticipation.

She had long imagined such a future; but now, with it nearly within her grasp, the triumph she had once anticipated refused to arrive.

Something was amiss, though she could not name it.

In the course of time, however, the truth began to unfold itself.

As the Season advanced and she found herself indeed pursued—not merely by gentlemen of respectable standing, but by men of rank and consequence—her triumph became universally acknowledged.

And with it came the whispers.

Ladies with whom she had once associated now addressed her with a civility that barely concealed their disdain.

They resented her sudden elevation, her intimacy with persons of note—and she understood them perfectly.

She had once been one of them. Their jealousy was familiar, almost intimate.

She perceived that she might, without much effort, attract the notice of a Viscount—perhaps even that of a Duke’s son.

Yet such triumphs, once the height of her ambition, no longer held the charm they once possessed.

Her long-cherished aspirations now appeared in their true form: not noble ideals, but fragile illusions fashioned of artifice and display.

The bitter truth was this—her birth, long considered an obstacle, had been forgotten the moment she stood beside a Countess.

And if so slight a connection could elevate her, then it could also be withdrawn with equal ease, and she would tumble once more into obscurity—or worse, into ridicule.

It was all too precarious, too insubstantial.

And for the first time, Miss Bingley found she could not content herself with appearances.

Three months later, at a modest dinner given by the Gardiners, she was introduced to Mr.

Harding—a gentleman engaged in trade, not unlike her own father, and possessed of intelligence, integrity, and a quiet, unpretending charm.

From the first, there existed a gentle and mutual regard.

Such sentiments were not new to her; yet in former times, she had resolutely subdued them in favour of more ambitious designs.

This time, she permitted them to take their natural course.

They were married within two months, and the Countess would later declare it the most gratifying consequence of her involvement.