Carrie Bebris - Pride and Prescience

… as Darcy himself had wanted to impress her. He silently cursed his bad luck. So much for his romantic plan. Elizabeth had seen the townhouse before, when she’d come to London to visit the Gardiners and order her trousseau. But then it had been his house; now it was theirs, and he’d hoped for her first night in it to be a homecoming — for her to feel in these rooms that she was a visitor no longer, but in her own space, her rightful place, by his side. He’d wanted the house itself to embrace her as he would, to enfold her in a warm, snug haven in which they could begin their new life together.

Now, due to the perverseness of fate, they would be spending their wedding night in cold rooms dining on leftover mutton.

He turned to her. “Elizabeth, I am deeply sorry—”

She regarded him with amusement. “For what? Shutting down a house we did not intend to use all winter? Or sending your rider on a horse determined to fling its footwear across the countryside?”

“This is not the welcome you deserve.”

“Nonsense. I like what you’ve done with the place. The furniture all matches now.”

“The air in here is so chilly you cannot even remove your wrap.”

“It’s bracing.”

“We have no dinner.”

“Mr. Darcy, I believe I am now mistress here. Are you in the habit of criticizing a lady’s home and table to her face?”

The mock upbraid jostled off his last shreds of ill humor. He conceded with an exaggerated bow.

“I thought not.”

Despite their exchange, Mrs. Hale immediately commenced setting the house to rights. “Light a fire in the drawing room and remove the sheets from the furniture,” she instructed the footman. “Madam, if you and the master don’t mind waiting up in the drawing room, perhaps your lady’s maid can put your chamber in order while I start dinner. The larder’s not well stocked, but I’m sure—”

Darcy intervened. Perhaps he could salvage this scheme after all. “Mrs. Hale, we’ve caught you completely by surprise. Take the time you need to prepare the house. Mrs. Darcy and I will dine out this evening at—” Out of habit he almost said White’s, which is where he normally ate when he dined out in town, but he certainly couldn’t bring his wife to a gentleman’s club. He searched his mind for a respectable hotel, and settled on the most luxurious. It was their wedding day, after all. “The Pulteney.”

They remained at the townhouse just long enough to change from their travel attire to dinner dress, then trundled back into the carriage.

“Home sweet home,” Elizabeth said as she settled against the bench. “I think we ought to alter our plans yet again, and simply stay the week in this box. I am grown quite attached to it today.”

Darcy shifted to relieve the kink in his back that had developed during the ride from Longbourn. “You do not find it a little close?”

“That’s part of the charm. The ability to move one’s limbs more than a few inches is vastly overvalued.”

“And what of the constant motion?”

“Another benefit — it provides ever-changing scenery. What fixed room can compete? Indeed, the more I think upon it, the more my resolve hardens. Economy of exertion, variety of views — I am decided. I shall live in this carriage until we reach Pemberley.”

“I do hope you will leave it long enough to join me for dinner.”

“If you insist.”

Elizabeth glanced round the lobby of the Pulteney, taking in the lavish furnishings and equally opulent-looking guests. Even she, who until now had come to London rarely and stayed with the Gardiners in Cheapside when she did, had heard of the Piccadilly hotel. A year ago she never would have dreamed she might dine here, but a year ago the thought of marrying Mr. Darcy had also been unimaginable. How much her life had changed in a twelvemonth — in twelve hours!

“This is considerably more pleasant than our carriage, is it not?” Darcy asked as they crossed to the dining room.

“Perhaps a degree. Though I had nearly convinced myself that I wanted to be traipsing about London instead of comfortably settled at home.”

As Darcy enquired after a table, a well-dressed young couple entered the lobby. The gentleman, upon spotting Darcy, guided his companion’s attention toward them. The lady smiled in greeting as the pair approached.

“Darcy! I had no idea you were in town.” Though the man had a long, narrow face and high forehead, he was not unattractive. His whole lanky frame seemed animated with genuine delight at encountering them. “I’d heard you were off in Hertfordshire getting married.” He directed a curious, but friendly, glance at Elizabeth.

She sensed her husband’s usual public stiffness relax a bit. Apparently, Darcy shared more than a passing acquaintance with the gentleman. “Yes, I was. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Darcy. Elizabeth, this is the Earl of Chatfield and his wife, Lady Chatfield.”

The earl bowed. The countess’s smile broadened, lighting her bright blue eyes as she addressed Elizabeth. “It is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My friends shall be envious to hear that I’ve been introduced to the new Mrs. Darcy so soon.”

Elizabeth judged the lady to be about her own age, a few years younger than the earl. She had a delicate visage, small hands, and hair the color of Longbourn’s honey. She carried herself with an air of self-possession that Elizabeth associated with those born into privilege, but it was complemented by a natural warmth that made her seem altogether a kind, unaffected person. “The pleasure is mine,” she responded.

“Are you in town for Christmas?” asked Lady Chatfield.

“No, only until Thursday week,” Elizabeth replied.

“Then I’m delighted we happened upon you here, Darcy,” said the earl. “With such a lovely bride to escort around town, I doubt I’ll see you at White’s this visit.”

Darcy acknowledged the possibility as unlikely.

“Say, though — you should pop in to see the betting book,” Chatfield said. “Half the members have wagers on whether Lord Griswell’s wife will finally produce a son this time around or daughter number seven. Griswell swears it will be a boy, but everyone’s betting on another girl just to aggravate the chap. I even put in a wager myself for ten guineas.”

“Poor Griswell. You torment him.”

“Nay, it’s only sport. You should place a wager yourself.”

Darcy shook his head. “I am not a gambling man.”

“Neither am I. Don’t go in for the cards or dice at all. But a small private wager every once in a while is all in good fun. Say, I’ve seen the name of a friend of yours in the betting book quite often of late. What’s the fellow’s name? Hurst, that’s it! Just last Saturday, he bet a hundred guineas that Frederick Parrish would find his way to the altar before year’s end. Parrish, of all people! Even Beau Brummell gave up betting on him marrying anytime soon after he suddenly cried off Miss Kendall last month.”

Elizabeth started in surprise at the gossip. Lady Chatfield caught her reaction. “Do you know Mr. Parrish?”

“Only slightly,” Elizabeth responded. “We learned today of his engagement to our friend Miss Bingley. They plan to marry next week.”

“Really?” Lord Chatfield chuckled. “Capital! Hurst must have had inside information on that one. Well, good for him — makes up for some of his card losses.”

“James, sometimes you are too much.” Lady Chatfield rolled her eyes, but her gaze held affection when it rested on her husband once more. She turned to Elizabeth. “I realize this is short notice, and you’re on your honeymoon. But we’re hosting a dinner party Saturday evening, and I’d be honored if you and Mr. Darcy would join us.”