Pamela Aidan: An Assembly Such as This

“Thank you, Your Lordship, and a Happy Christmas to you, sir!”

As Witcher closed the door upon Brougham, Darcy climbed the stairs back to the library, distracted by Dy’s parting remark.

“Darcy.” Bingley’s sudden appearance from the shadows at the top of the stairs sent Darcy’s thoughts skittering. “It is getting rather late. I believe I shall take myself off as well.” Darcy turned, and they both descended the stairs. “What an evening!”

“Agreed, and one I intend never to repeat!” Darcy rejoined. “I shall take my chances at Drury Lane to hear L’Catalani in the future.”

“Oh, that’s right, we never did hear the diva! But really, Darcy, I have never seen such opulence and elegance in my life! Everything was in the height of fashion and taste. Although there were more than a few whom I would not hesitate to call ‘high in the instep,’ many were quite amiable. And Brummell, Darcy! To think you cast him in the shade!”

“Yes, well, the less said about that, the better I will like it.”

“As Lord Brougham said, there is not much likelihood of that! He is a great gun, is he not? Such condescension.” They reached the bottom, and Bingley took his things from the footman. “Great pity about his horse. Makes one think, does it not?”

Darcy looked steadily into Bingley’s now sober countenance. “Making sure of your ground before you take the fence?”

“Yes…quite.” Bingley took a deep breath. “I begin to see the wisdom in your counsel. I was rushing my fences, not sure of the ground, and disregarding the warnings of a friend,” he confessed. “I must think about Miss Bennet rationally, as you have advised me.”

Darcy ruthlessly suppressed his elation at Bingley’s words. “That is all I could wish for, Charles,” he responded quietly. “Proper reflection on the matter will, I am certain, yield a satisfactory answer.” Although the smile Bingley returned him was weak and wistfulness had returned to shadow his eyes, Darcy allowed himself to hope that his campaign was nearing a triumphant conclusion. If Miss Bingley could add to his counsel a suitably disinterested testimony corroborating Miss Bennet’s indifference, the matter would be resolved, he was sure of it. A note must be sent immediately.

“Good night then, Darcy. Dinner at Grenier’s on Sunday?”

“Make it Monday after I beard Lawrence in his den, and I shall be there.”

“Lawrence!”

“Yes, I intend him to paint Georgiana when I bring her back with me after Christmas. The next morning, I hope, will see me set out for Pemberley.”

“Then it must be Monday! Good night, again, Darcy. Mr. Witcher.”

Darcy waited until Bingley had climbed into the hack summoned for him and the driver urged his horse forward before turning from the door.

“Will that be all, Mr. Darcy?” Witcher asked, recalling him from his bemusement.

“Yes, Witcher. Dismiss the staff to their rest and have breakfast ready at ten, I think.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I ring Fletcher?”

“Yes, do so! And Witcher” — he stopped the butler as he reached for the bell pull — “I shall have a note ready to send round early in the morning. No answer is desired.”

“Yes, sir.” Witcher pulled on the rope, and Darcy once again mounted the stairs to discharge two last duties. The first was a note to Miss Bingley; the second would be a confrontation with his now celebrated valet. When Darcy finally gained his chambers, it was to find his nightclothes neatly laid out upon his bed, hot and cold ewers of water standing at the ready, and his toiletries lying in neat ranks upon the washstand. Gone was every stitch of the clothing that had been marshaled for his inspection earlier that evening. Unappeased by Fletcher’s meticulous industry, Darcy closed the chamber door with decided force and strode quickly to the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, summoning a grave look upon his face. The dressing room door sprang open almost before he had settled his features.

“Mr. D —”

“Fletcher, I wish to have a word with you!”

At Darcy’s tone, Fletcher’s eyes at first went wide and then quickly lowered. “Yes, Mr. Darcy, sir.”

“I distinctly recall warning you that I had no wish to compete with Mr. Brummell nor to occasion any undue notice on anyone’s part.” His indignation rekindled, Darcy warmed to his subject. “I believe those were my exact instructions, were they not?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Darcy.”

“Mr. Fletcher, you have failed me, then, on both counts.”

Fletcher’s head came up, expressions from guilt to uncertainty and on to caution passing over his features in quick succession. “In truth, sir?”

“In excruciating truth, Fletcher! You have made me the ‘glass of fashion and the mold of form,’ and I do not thank you for it! As it happens, I should have liked to have passed unnoticed at Melbourne House this evening; but, thanks to this blasted cravat, there was no chance of that. I find myself now in a most disagreeable position.” He began pacing the room. “ ‘ Measure for Measure,’ you said. Little did I realize that you meant Brummell! Were you aware that he knows you by name, man?”

“I had heard rumors…” Fletcher’s face blanched white, in guilt or surprise, Darcy could not tell.

“Rumors! I wonder you are not in direct communication! They were laying bets, Fletcher, bets!” Darcy stopped only a pace away from his valet, whose eyes had once more returned to the floor. “I will not have it, Fletcher, I absolutely will not have it! If you desire to valet a fashion card, you have my leave to find one who delights in preening before Society. But if you will continue in my employ, you will content yourself with my simpler requirements.” He turned away, sat down on his dressing chair, and growled, “Now untie this infernal thing.”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher approached him carefully and with expert fingers began disassembling the intricate article. “Mr. Darcy?” he asked after working out the knot.

“Yes, Fletcher?”

“If I may, sir…Exactly how grievously did I fail you tonight, sir?”

Darcy looked at him measuredly. Anxiety and pride waged undisguised war on a countenance that was usually closed to him. Fletcher’s excellent control was in near shambles, and given his intimate relationship with the man, Darcy had to consider the reason why. That he had succeeded in intimidating Fletcher he dismissed out of hand. No, the answer was not to be found in his anxiety; therefore, he must look to the man’s pride. He cleared his throat. “The Sphinx is retired.”

Fletcher’s hands trembled. “ That grievously, sir!” He, too, cleared his throat. “Please allow me to offer my most humble apologies and beg you would not ‘think too precisely on the event.’” The offending neckcloth lay now in a limp heap on the dressing table.

“Humph,” Darcy snorted, and looked askance at his valet. He had guessed aright; Fletcher had succumbed to the siren call of his art, and by bringing the celebrated arbiter of fashion to heel, he had unquestionably achieved the pinnacle of his profession. A wave of understanding and sympathy for Fletcher’s pride in his art swept through Darcy, but it was soon tempered by the remembrance that the success had been won on his unsuspecting and unwilling person. Fletcher appeared truly chastened, and the inconvenience of securing in a new valet…He shook his head. The man had been with him since he finished University, and he could not imagine instructing a new one in all those preferences that Fletcher comprehended so well. Firmness seemed to be what was called for and, perhaps, an olive branch.