Page 4 of Lord Lonbourn’s Daughter

Elizabeth and Jane were dressing together, as usual. Their maids were flitting about in their limited wardrobe, making suggestions about what gowns they should wear.

“Jane, would it be prudent to marry just so that I can wear darker colours?”

Jane laughed and scowled at the same time.

“Oh, do not look at me like that. You look beautiful in white, light blue, and pink, while I look like a washed-out cloth in these pale colours. To be able to wear dark-blue, deep greens, or rich reds…”

“You look lovely in pink, Lizzy.”

“You do not need to lie for my benefit.”

“Why this sudden interest in colours and dresses, Lizzy? Does it have anything to do with a certain brooding gentleman?”

“Certainly not! We are here to attract suitors, so it would be easier if I looked my best.”

“Oh Lizzy, you are the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance!”

“Nonsense! You do have a mirror, do you not? Besides, you are my sister and have an obligation to flatter me incessantly. Whether or not it is true holds no bearing.”

“Oh, Lizzy!”

“I am sorry, Jane. I shall leave my petulance behind, and I promise to be utterly pleasant and content for the rest of the day to make amends.”

“I might hold you to it!”

Elizabeth sighed and accepted a light-grey gown from her maid. Simple and unadorned, it suited her mood perfectly.

#

Her father was already eating when they joined him in the breakfast room. He gestured for them to sit as he had something to relate.

“You girls wanted to experience a London Season. I dare say none is complete without a trot through the park.”

“Oh yes, I should dearly love a ride out of doors to stave off the stiffness from last night’s dancing.”

“Tired of the Season already, Lizzy?”

“Not at all, dear Papa. I am merely a little sore from all that stepping and turning. A ride with the wind blowing in my face sounds lovely.”

“When I mentioned trotting, I was planning to use my own two hoofs.”

“Excellent. I shall fetch my boots.” Elizabeth relished the idea of a brisk walk.

“But, Papa, are you to walk fast? You know I cannot keep up with you and Lizzy. Perhaps I should remain at home. I have a novel I have not finished,” Mary interjected.

“Oh no, dear Mary. You are coming with us. But there is no need to fret. There will be no trotting. A stroll would be a more apt description. I only mentioned trotting to lure your sister to attend. People walk in the park to see and be seen, not for the benefit of exercise.”

“And what will you tell Jane to tempt her to accompany us?” Elizabeth enquired.

“Jane, will you escort me to Hyde Park?”

“Yes, Papa!”

“Do you see how easily it is done, Lizzy? A simple yes—no questions asked. It is no wonder Jane is my favourite daughter.”

“I thought I was your favourite,” Elizabeth retorted whilst schooling her expression into false affront.

“Certainly, you are my favourite witty daughter. Jane is my favourite obedient daughter.”

“What about me, Papa?”

“You, Mary, are my favourite studious daughter. Kitty is my favourite artistic daughter, while Lydia is my favourite lively daughter. Are there any more questions on my preferences before we depart?”

“None whatsoever, Papa,” Elizabeth demurred and went in search of her pelisse, parasol, and fan. It was a lovely day, and contrary to her father’s belief, she expected to stretch her legs.

She was sorely disappointed. Never having strolled in Hyde Park during the fashionable hours, the impediments of crowded paths had not occurred to her.

People were dawdling about, and every other person stopped to greet them.

Their stroll went from slow to non-existent.

And as if that was not enough, their townhouse lay beside the home of none other than Mr Darcy.

Elizabeth now understood why her father was so reluctant to visit London—the neighbourhood was positively dour.

The misfortune of the aforementioned gentleman leaving his house at exactly the same time as they embarked on the same journey was too cruel to contemplate. Her father inviting him to join their little party, however, was unpardonable. He must enjoy torturing her, which was not very paternal.

She noticed Mr Darcy looking as tired as she felt, which restored her equilibrium somewhat. Not that she was a vengeful person, per se, just grateful for small mercies.

A glance at his hand revealed the purpose for his walk. He held a book that Elizabeth recognised as one of twelve small volumes of a novel she had scandalised her mother by reading a couple of years ago. It was definitely not a tome appropriate for genteel ladies.

Somehow, she did not know how it happened, but while her father strolled with a daughter on each arm, she was left to the mercy of Mr Darcy.

He had not offered her his arm—not that she would have taken it, but it was the polite thing to do.

Another fault she could lay at his door in addition to not speaking a word.

Not even insipid pleasantries erupted from his mouth.

It was all so vexing until she realised that by forcing him to converse, she might vex him as much as he vexed her.

“We must have some conversation, Mr Darcy. It would look odd to stroll the entirety of Rotten Row without a word spoken between us.”

“I would be happy to comply. Please inform me of what you would most like to hear.”

“What say you of books?”

“Certainly, I imagine you are an avid reader of novels.”

“I am. I adore a good romance with a heroic gentleman who rescues a damsel in distress. Is it not a paradox that ladies reading about gentlemen acting like gentlemen should be looked down upon? Gentlemen read about rakes and the worst of libertines and laud them as if they were the ones to admire.”

“I cannot say I understand your meaning.”

“I have just discovered a new author who calls herself ‘A Lady’. I would dearly love to find out who she is because she has written the most compelling tale of love and loss. Sense and Sensibility is the name of her work. The main characters are two sisters who are reduced in circumstances after their father’s death.

Elinor, the eldest, meets and befriends a stoic gentleman, but it turns out that he is already engaged to another lady. ”

Mr Darcy’s ears were pink, so she did not pursue that line of questioning.

“Anyhow, she maintains the friendship although her heart is broken, even aids him in finding a profession when he is disinherited by his family. The shrew—”

“Lucy Steel.”

“Yes! You have read Sense and Sensibility?”

“Yes, well, I have a much younger sister. She has just turned sixteen. I share the guardianship of her with my cousin. She loves novels, but I prefer to read them in advance to determine whether they are appropriate for a young girl’s malleable mind.”

“If she is sixteen, her mind should be largely formed by now. I doubt she would be harmed by a simple tale.”

One of the women in the parade of promiscuous fashionable females promenading in the park in the hope attracting men of substance had the audacity to wink at Mr Darcy.

The gesture was noted by Elizabeth, who wondered whether the woman was known to him.

Elizabeth fell into quiet contemplation, but Mr Darcy’s expectant expression brought her quickly back to the present.

“I interrupted you. Please continue your analysis.”

“Well, Lucy transfers her affections to his brother, and they live happily ever after, as you know since you have read the book. I prefer this author over any other I have read. Much more than Gothic tales like Udolpho, which I think is too gloomy. Sense and Sensibility has an uplifting quality. Sense does win out in the end, does it not?”

“Yes, but I am surprised that you perceive Elinor as the heroine of the story, not Miss Marianne.”

“Marianne is a flighty daydreamer. She is much too… I do not know, at fault I suppose, to be a true heroine. She flaunts propriety with Willoughby, even accompanies him to his estate without a chaperon. I cannot applaud her behaviour by naming her a heroine, although I imagine Colonel Brandon would brand me a cynic for the slight.”

“You have given me some points I would like to discuss with my sister when she finishes.”

“Well, my point was that while these kinds of stories are ridiculed by society in general, the characters in the sordid tales of the Monk and Tom Jones are praised as great heroes.”

“I have not heard anyone mention Capucin Ambrosio as a hero.”

“Perhaps not, but Tom Jones certainly is.”

“He is…”

Mr Darcy was clutching his book so hard his knuckles had grown white. She had not managed to discern which of the twelve volumes he was holding. She would not like to spoil his enjoyment by mentioning what he might not yet have discovered.

“Do you perceive him as a hero, Mr Darcy?”

“I do not, and neither did Henry Fielding. He also wrote An Enquiry into the Causes of the Late Increase of Robbers —an attack on corruption that ranged over many topics, from the scandalous drinking habits of the age to inefficiency in combat against highwaymen. He blamed the excess of luxury, which made people indulge in too frequent and too expensive amusements, drunkenness, and gaming. He thought London’s population lacked the education to handle such pursuits.

That once exposed to licentious behaviour, they simply could not stop.

He was the chief magistrate in Westminster and exerted himself in the cause of justice.

He once gave, ahem, a streetwalker who had been apprehended but had committed no crime beyond being poor, funds to… follow her trade in the market.”

Elizabeth was not afforded any time to form a reply because, in the next moment, Mr Darcy grabbed her arm and hauled her off the path. Her boot became caught in her hem by the sudden movement, and she would have fallen but for Mr Darcy securing her with his other arm around her waist.

She would have addressed such an affront in a different manner had not a curricle pulled by a pair of greys, with a chariot with four matched bays following in hot pursuit, passed them at great speed.

The path around the Serpentine was wide enough for a carriage but not for a second to overtake it; neither was it possible to use the lawn to the sides, since there were people everywhere.

Some had stepped onto the grass to exchange pleasantries with acquaintances, while others had set up tables with tents to shield their pale complexions from the sun.

If Mr Darcy had not responded in such a timely manner, Elizabeth would have been run over.

Elizabeth cursed her inattentiveness; she had been much too occupied with besting Mr Darcy in wordplay to be observant of her situation.

“This is all Prinny’s fault, urging these young bucks to race their horses!” the Earl of Longbourn growled before expressing his gratitude to Mr Darcy for his quick thinking. This was followed by an impromptu invitation for dinner at their house the next evening if he was not otherwise engaged.

Jane and Mary flocked around Elizabeth to see whether she was well. There was nothing the matter with her, but her dress had suffered from being trodden upon. The seam of the hem had given way—a fashion calamity. There was nothing else to do but return home.

Mr Darcy turned as well, his tome all but forgotten in his hand.