Page 49 of Elizabeth and Caroline
Inside the doorway, her nerves melted away.
Well, they did not. They were there, but she somehow blocked them, made it so that she could not access them—she knew not how; her body did it on command. She needed to be calm and self-assured for this, so she was.
She and her husband were announced upon entering the first room of the ball. There was no dancing here, though she could hear the strains of the musicians in a room over. Instead, here, people stood in groups of three or four, chatting with each other. They all looked up at the announcement of herself and her husband, however, which Elizabeth thought boded well.
At least, it was as she had expected it would be,anyway… whether it was well or not depended on perspective, she supposed. People knew of the marriage, but they had not come to meet her. They had not invited them to dine at their house. They had shunned her and Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy hadn’t noticed, but he’d likely been relieved, as he would just as soon avoid most social activity.
However, they were curious.
She lifted her chin, holding her head up high, looking around the room with an expression on her face that she hoped conveyed a sense of amused superiority. She made sure that her dress was not at all obscured, though no one would quite understand what it was about it yet.
Her dress was made with a clever decorative feature that was also useful. It had little decorative buttons just beneath her bust, at the place where the skirt of her empire waist began. She was carrying a reticule that had been made with button holes. When she was ready to dance, or—indeed—whenever she wanted use of both hands, she could button the reticule to the dress.
It could have been made in such a way where it was nearly invisible, of course, if she had chosen to have a reticule made out of the same fabric as her dress, but she wanted everyone to see it, so she had the reticule made out of a bright floral pattern, and her dress was pale, pale ivory. The reticule was a splash of color as it hung from her arm.
“Let’s get some lemonade,” she said to her husband with an air of bright gaiety. She wanted to show everyone this while they were still staring at her.
She moved the reticule, buttoning it in place, securing it away, and then received the glass of lemonade, smiling up at her husband.
“This is what you were saying,” he said. “A useful dress.” He tilted his head. “I like it. It’s smart, Lizzy.”
“It’s not that smart,” she said. “I’m sure anyone could have thought of it.”
“But I thought this was something you were doing for Georgiana. Is it still necessary?”
“It is,” she said. “For Caroline.”
He looked around the room. “Is Miss Bingley coming tonight?”
“Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth. “But we spoke about timing our entries just so.”
Her husband let out a little laugh. “It is very complicated being a woman in society, I suppose. I had no notion of the complexities.”
Everyone in the room had noticed the dress, the buttoned reticule, and they were all talking in low voices to each other now, but casting glances at the two of them now and again.
“It is, in fact, complicated,” she rejoined. “I know all men are convinced that they are doing all the important things for the world, but the complexities of female social structure are important to society as a whole, as I think you know.”
He considered and then nodded. “It is, in fact, something that terrifies men, I think. But we do respect it. I am glad to see you have it well in hand.” He paused. “Is everyone staring at us?”
“That’s by design,” she said. “Sip your lemonade, and let’s talk of something else, rather loudly, so that if anyone overhears they think we are not noticing the fact they’re all talking about us.”
He shifted on his feet. “Why didn’t I ever think of doingthat?” He cleared his throat. “I must say,” he said in a clear and cold voice, “I cannot think that I’ve seen such a lovely painting.” He gestured at a painting that was hanging on the far wall.
Elizabeth did not think there was anything overly lovely about it. It seemed rather typical. It was of a woman with a towering wig and an elaborate dress, holding hands with a child—perhaps a girl or boy, too young to quite say—wearing a little gown. It must have been one of the former owners of the house. “Oh, yes, I quite agree,” she said, however, her voice also clear.
“It’s the composition, you see,” said Mr. Darcy. “Do you note how the figures are not exactly center, but over to the left? This highlights that flowering tree in the background.”
He was right. Elizabeth didn’t know anything about thecomposition of paintings, but she could see that he was correct, and she wondered if this was something he’d been taught or if it was just the kinds of things that people speculated on in the higher echelons of society. “Quite masterfully done,” she said. “I wonder who the artist is.”
“Let us go closer and look for a signature,” said Mr. Darcy.
Everyone moved out of the way, like The Red Sea parting, as they crossed the room to examine the painting.
They had not made it halfway across the room before someone greeted Mr. Darcy.
“Oh,” said Mr. Darcy with a smile. “This is Mr. Graceling. Mr. Graceling, my wife.”
