Page 129 of Colour My World
Howard inclined his head. The footman held firm. Mr Collins spluttered like a landed trout as the butler followed the guests.
* * *
Near the door stood an easel bearing the menu. Bennet squinted at the copperplate script, unsure whether it foretold supper or summoned spirits.
He escorted Lady Catherine to the head of the table, where a footman pulled out her chair with exaggerated ceremony. As she settled herself like a monarch receiving homage, Bennet took in the spectacle before him.And here was a stage most excellently set.
Silver candelabras, tall as sentries, lined the centre, their flames casting flickering shadows over gold-rimmed porcelain. He ran a finger along the edge of the tablecloth, unsurprised to find it so starched, he might split a lip on it.
At each place, a name card. Bennet sighed, utterly content. This was going to be better than theatre. And he was in the middle of it.
* * *
The soup was excellent. Or so Elizabeth assumed. She had yet to take a proper taste. Each time her spoon neared her lips—
“Miss Elizabeth, what precisely was the nature of your education?”
She lowered her spoon. “I had the advantage of an excellent governess in my youth, and thereafter applied myself to such authors as I found in my father’s library.”
“How novel. And under whose guidance?”
“From the authors themselves.”
She lifted her spoon again.
“What languages have you mastered?”
“Mastered, madam? French, Italian, and Greek—for reading only.”
“Do you ride?”
She lowered her spoon. “Well enough, Your Ladyship.”
“Side-saddle, I presume?”
“Of course.” She tried again.
“And your accomplishments?”
Elizabeth abandoned all hope of tasting her soup before the main course arrived. “I play, I sing, I draw—”
Lady Catherine waved a hand. “Yes, yes, but at what level?”
Mr Darcy set down his spoon. “Must the soup cool while our characters are dissected?”
Before Lady catherine could reply, he turned to Elizabeth. “¿Le gusta la sopa, señorita?”
Lady Catherine crowed, “Miss Elizabeth has no Spanish, by her own words.”
“The Spanish was deliberate,” Mr Darcy said. “I feared she might mistake this for the Inquisition.”
Elizabeth, still holding her spoon, met his gaze. “Gracias, señor.”
Her father muffled a cough, which might have been a laugh. Mr Darcy bit his bottom lip.
Lady Catherine's eyes narrowed. “You did not mention you spoke Spanish.”
“No, madam,” Elizabeth replied. “I have notmasteredit.”
