Page 61 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
Although, the park was enormous. I just kept to my routine, even though it interfered with his.
Was I enjoying Mr. Darcy?
At dinner,I watched him while I stabbed my defenseless, and quite defeated, piece of trout.
Mr. Darcy wore his customary exquisitely tailored dinner dress, this evening black and gray with bone buttons and simple silk collars.
He was handsome in a tall, stiff sort of way. But that was nothing new. Everyone had noticed him when he arrived at the ball in Meryton. And why would it matter? We walked together. It was not like we attended balls.
He did speak more now. A few days ago, we debated East India trade policy. That had been fascinating, if occasionally intense. Was he a friend? That would be unexpected. I distinctly remembered deciding to hate him.
A footman, perfectly presented in knee breeches and a powdered wig, offered a plate of custard tarts topped with browned sugar. I declined.
Dinners at Rosings were infused with sweets. Sugary courses were offered between savory, and there were two or three desserts at the end of every meal. They were all cloying, and I had taken only a few bites in all my visits.
Mr. Darcy declined the tarts with one shake of his head. I had never seen him accept a sweet course.
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine announced, ending all other conversation at the table. “I insist you try a tart.”
“They are rather sweet for my taste, madam.”
Her ladyship’s frown stirred. “You have not tried them.”
“I have tried others.” Lady Catherine scowled, far more vexed than I expected, so I tried to soften it. “I am not a large enough person to eat so many courses and then a tart.” I looked dramatically around the table and made a discovery. “Mr. Darcy is much more imposing. He may have mine.”
Immediately, I knew my joke had failed.
Mr. Darcy’s face hollowed, and the shoulders of his black dinner jacket moved to rigid alignment.
Lady Catherine, in elaborate layers of peach silk, assessed her nephew through narrowed eyes. “Offer Mr. Darcy a tart.”
The footman returned to Mr. Darcy and offered the silver plate. Mr. Darcy shook his head.
The guests watched this strange contest in silence. Charlotte was expressionless. Mr. Collins was squirming.
But Colonel Fitzwilliam was serious. He became apprehensive the moment I made my joke. There was some prior conflict here.
Had Mr. Darcy and his aunt argued over the sugar boycott?
The cheapest sugar came from the Caribbean colonies, but those plantations were reviled for their appalling use of slaves. For a decade, abolitionist ladies had led a movement to boycott colony sugar. I discovered the boycott when Mary, then twelve years old, tipped our prized sugar bowl onto the floor and smashed it to bits. She replaced it from her own allowance with one prominently labeled “East India Sugar, Not Made by Slaves.”
But Lady Catherine did not need to economize on the price of sugar.
Her ladyship’s face was granite. “Your manners do no credit to your breeding.”
“I think they do.” Mr. Darcy’s dark eyes were unmoving.
Mr. Collins, who had been wriggling more and more, grabbed a tart in each hand. He stuffed in a huge bite and began chewing with rapturous sounds.
Lady Catherine ignored him and addressed Mr. Darcy. “You sit in my home. Rosings flourishes on the prosperity of my plantations. Your refusal is both rude and hypocritical. Pemberley does not lack for colony profits.”
The truth sank in, bone-deep. This was not an argument over the boycott. Lady Catherine herself owned sugar plantations.
I was, for all moral purposes, dining with a slave owner.
“Excuse me,” I said. Voices were rising, but they faded as I passed through three double doors, each opened by liveried servants, and exited into the night air.
It was cold, the moon a narrow, setting crescent barely bright enough to light the ground. The lack of light had not been a concern when we arrived. Her ladyship always called a lit carriage for us after dinner. One of her many carriages, as Mr. Collins never failed to note.
