Page 71 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
I rang. The door was opened by a white-haired man with a slight stoop. He was soberly dressed and subtly proud. A butler.
“Good afternoon, madam.”
“Good afternoon. I am calling without appointment for Mrs. Hurst.” I placed my card on his silver tray. “Please tell her it is an urgent matter.”
He nodded and left at a snail’s pace. A clock ticked ponderously. I scuffed at the marble floor, then checked my bonnet for dust in the mirror.
The clock had advanced eight minutes when he returned. “Madam.” He gestured to a doorway. I puffed a sigh of relief. I had not been sure I would be received.
I was shown into an elegant drawing room, long and thin by the standards of a country home, but good-sized in town. Mrs. Hurst stood at the far end, hands crossed against her elaborate floral dress.
She made no motion of greeting. She said nothing.
“Thank you for receiving me,” I said.
“You are visiting London,” she observed, which seemed rather obvious. Then she added, “Alone.”
On the drive up, I had considered behavior so much more egregious than traveling alone that I forgot how scandalous my mere presence was. A lady did not travel unaccompanied. Perhaps Mrs. Hurst had received me solely to gather gossip.
But social fencing would end this interview in moments. We had to reach the real topic before I was cast out.
I took a deep breath and began.
“Mrs. Hurst. Unintentionally, and through private communication, I have learned the cause of Mr. Bingley’s sudden return to London and his separation from my sister Jane. I should add that my sister knows nothing of this, and she is unaware of my presence here.”
There. I was committed now.
Mrs. Hurst was silent.
“Part of my information,” I continued, “is that certain parties”—Mr. Darcy—“believed the separation of your brother and my sister was of little consequence, for my sister held no great affection for your brother.” My voice caught. I swallowed. “I can assure you that is untrue.”
There was dead silence. I could feel my opportunity to reach this woman closing. I rushed on.
“I am aware that my visit and request are extraordinary—”
“I have heard no request,” she interrupted sharply.
It was a relief to hear a response, even that.
“I… I will presume to suggest that the separation of Mr. Bingley and my sister, however well intentioned, may not be in their mutual best interest. Not… conducive to their happiness. I have reason to think you are sympathetic to my view. Therefore…”
“Therefore, what?”
“Perhaps we could… have them thrown into each other’s way somehow? I am sure it would take no more than that. If only they met again—” I stopped. I sounded like a meddling fool in a terrible romantic novel.
Mrs. Hurst was staring like she had admitted a lunatic to her drawing room. Perhaps she had.
“How does your brother feel?” I asked, clutching at any straw.
She stiffened and turned, staring at a vase of daisies as if her brother’s innermost secrets hid in the petals. Seconds passed. “My brother was devastated.”
“Then why did heleave?” Pathetically, my voice quavered on the last word.
“Charles is very influenced by the ‘certain parties’ you mentioned. Will you name them?”
That was a brilliant, vicious request. Now I was forced to utter a specific accusation. If I was wrong, or if she wanted to use my words against me, all was lost.
But her escalation broke my restraint. Fear of society’s rules—those vacuous moats that hold everyone in their allotted place—fell away. The rulesstill existed. Their practical power was unchanged. But if they blocked me from helping Jane, they were unjust. Unworthy of consideration.
