Page 88

In retrospect, the only similar incident Elizabeth could recall in her life was the time when some horses hitched to a wagon had bolted in the main street of Meryton. The wagon, which was being unloaded of its cargo of kegs in front of the Red Lion at the commencement of the debacle, had left quite a trail of destruction. She had been nine at the time, standing beside her father who had been hailed by Sir William Lucas, or just Mayor Lucas as he had been known then. Elizabeth’s attention had been drawn to sixteen-year-old Charlotte who had been making friendly overtures behind her father’s back. Charlotte’s ten-year-old brother Freddy had produced a slingshot, took careful aim, and unleashed the whole disaster. It had all seemed to unfold so slowly and gracefully: the first barrels crashing to the ground as the horses jolted forward to the oaths of the attendants; the subsequent barrels rolling down in stately procession to chase screaming citizens as the cart was pulled along by the spooked horses; the mayhem as Mayor Lucas started this way and that, unsure where to direct his assistance; the secret smile Freddy had given Elizabeth as he slipped the slingshot back into his pocket; the clip on the ear that Charlotte had delivered to her brother without saying a word.

Now, something similar happened. It was almost as if Elizabeth was not in the room but observing a play from behind glass. She watched, fascinated, as the duchess advanced towards the four-poster bed.

“Dear boy! I have only just met Georgie and dear Princess Brunhilda at the Havershams’ and discovered your illness! I resolved immediately to accompany them home to visit you!”

Upon reaching his bedside, the duchess slid her hand along Mr Darcy’s jawbone to caress his left sideburn in such a way that Elizabeth immediately understood they were a couple. His blush deepened. Elizabeth’s mind flashed back to the night of the Netherfield ball, when Mr Darcy had very adroitly hidden behind the curtains before her mother entered the room.

“I should repair to the study,” said Elizabeth, snapping out of her trance and feeling decidedly de trop. Getting up, she set the book aside.

“No!” said Darcy, a trifle too sharply.

Then, moderating his voice, “Almeria, let me introduce you to my lectrice, Miss El...Frances Gardiner. Miss Gardiner, Almeria, the Duchess of Wingham, is an old family friend.”

“Your lectrice!” repeated the duchess, turning her eyes to appraise Elizabeth. “Well, of course! Princess Brunhilda, said something of it: that Napoleon had a lectrice to read him bedtime stories. What man does not need one?”

Elizabeth was not quite sure what the duchess meant by this speech, but it confirmed her resolution to depart. She gave a brief curtsey; certainly, a much shallower one than she thought was generally afforded a duchess.

“Stay!” begged Darcy, hearing Elizabeth move. “It is such a long time since I have seen... errr... talked to Princess Brunhilda that I fear I must redress the deficit. Clara! Will you fetch my sister and Princess Brunhilda up?”

Feeling trapped, Elizabeth occupied herself by setting Darcy's nightstand to rights, but on looking up, she noticed the Duchess quietly observing her. To her mortification, she realised she had cast herself as an underling.

Turning away, the duchess then sat down on the counterpane beside Darcy and stared at his face with such intensity that Elizabeth felt like a voyeur. The remembrance of Mr Darcy’s slipping down the servants’ stairs as Caroline disrupted their tête-à-tête on that fateful night at Netherfield intruded into her memory.

“Your glasses become you!” the duchess declared, running her finger from the bridge to the tip of Darcy’s nose.

Not seeing this assault coming, Darcy held his breath as he was caressed and prayed that Almeria would be satisfied. Alas, it was not the case.

Elizabeth watched in fascination as the duchess leant forward and reached into Darcy’s short hair to fondle his skull. She recalled wishing to do exactly the same thing several days ago.

“I can feel the fissure!” the duchess exclaimed. “Poor boy!” she added, kissing his forehead but not removing her hand from his cropped locks. She now had him in rather an intimate grip.

Darcy had not seen the kiss coming either and flinched slightly.

“Stay!” the duchess said, upon discovering a new feature and getting up to examine it. “Darcy, there is a staple in your head!”

“It is the last one,” supplied Darcy, thankful for a distraction from Almeria’s fondling. “Doctor Gordon is waiting for the bone to fuse a little more before he attempts to extract it.”

“Doctor Gordon? Naughty boy! He said nothing to me of your illness!”

“I believe that may have something to do with the Hippocratic oath,” said Darcy drily.

“The hippo-what?” asked the duchess with a laugh.

“ἃ δ᾽ ἂν ἐνθεραπείῃ ἢ ἴδω ἢ ἀκούσω, ἢ καὶ ἄνευ θεραπείης κατὰ βίον ἀνθρώπων, ἃ μὴ χρή ποτεἐκλαλεῖσθαι ἔξω, σιγήσομαι, ἄρρητα ἡγεύμενος εἶναι τὰ τοιαῦτα,[12]” offered Elizabeth, whose father had encouraged her to memorise the oath as a lesson in ethics, before immediately regretting her childish reaction to assert herself.

The duchess stared at her as if she had begun speaking in tongues, which indeed, Elizabeth had.

A small smile crept over Darcy’s face.

The duchess looked at him for an explanation, but as he could not see her quizzical stare, there was an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of the princess and Georgie ascending the stairs.

“Why, Darcy, your lectrice is a bluestocking!” declared the duchess.

“Is she not wonderful?” exclaimed Georgie, coming into the room. “Were you reading the book on mathematics, Miss Gardiner?”

“Mathematics?” asked the duchess.

“No, Georgie!” replied Elizabeth. “We were reading Sense and Sensibility.”