She had been right. It had been best, and still he ached with the wrongness of the necessity of pretending that she was only what she appeared to be.
He folded the note and returned it to his pocket, counting the cost of discretion.
Nineteen
Muffin had to be confiscated.
“He will come to the wedding in my pocket, Miss Bennet. I shall make him very small.”
“He will not come to the wedding, Miss Darcy. He will wait for your return with the dignity appropriate to a horse of his standing.”
Anne scrunched her face but set him down on the shelf, smoothing his mane once, with a reverent finger.
“He shall watch from the window, then. He likes to see the carriages.”
“A compromise worthy of diplomats, Miss Darcy.”
Anne stepped back into the room and presented herself for final inspection. Her pinafore was white, starched to the point of architectural rigour, and her blonde curls had been arranged under Alice’s patient hand into a style that would survive a coronation, let alone a ceremony at St George’s. She stood with her hands folded at her waist, her chin level, her feet placed with the exactness of a dancing master’s pupil.
Elizabeth regarded her.
“You look very fine, Miss Darcy.”
“I know.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. “Remember. You will sit beside Lady Catherine. You will not turn your head and will not speak unless she speaks to you. You will not fidget, you will not sigh, and you will certainly not enquire whether God has noted anything in His ledger.”
“I know, Miss Bennet. I am not a child.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together.
“My apologies, Miss Darcy. I stand corrected.”
“Shall we go down, Miss Bennet?”
“In a moment. I must attend to myself first.”
Elizabeth rushed to her room and dressed. The cream silk fitted her perfectly. The bodice sat close without pressing; the sleeves were short, the neckline modest, the line of it running from her shoulders to the floor in a plain and beautiful geometry. Madame Delacroix had cut it for a woman who would be standing rather than sitting, would be walking rather than lounging, and who would not wish to call attention to herself.
She crossed to the washstand and pinned her hair in a severe knot, without ornament. She let two small strands fall at her temples, because the fashion required it and she had learned not to fight fashion on unimportant points.
She looked into the glass. The woman who looked back was unfamiliar. She did not feel grey and drab anymore. She was beautiful.
The thought surprised her. She held her own gaze for a second longer, then she turned from the glass, retrieved Anne, and they went downstairs.
Mr Darcy was in the entrance hall, standing by the marble console with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a dark blue coat, and an impeccable cravat.
Elizabeth paused on the second-to-last step, and he turned around. His eyes landed on her. She descended the final step.
Mr Darcy did not speak.
He stood with his hands still clasped behind his back, and he stared at her for a full minute. Barton cleared his throat, and the sound restored the hall to its ordinary dimensions. Mr Darcy’s shoulders shifted, his eyes moving, fractionally, to a point over her left shoulder.
“Miss Bennet.”
“Mr Darcy.”
“The carriages are ready.”