Page 50 of The Slipper Scandal
"It is not an overabundance of confidence, Lady Yarrow. It is merely an understanding that one’s worth is not measured by the length of one's pedigree or the size of one's fortune," Elizabeth said calmly. "A principle I believe Mr. Darcy shares, despite what others might assume about his character."
Lady Yarrow stared down her nose at Elizabeth, a new sort of calculation in her gaze. "You defend him with remarkable loyalty for a woman who has known him so briefly."
"I speak only what I have observed," Elizabeth replied. "Mr. Darcy values substance over superficiality. A rare quality, perhaps, but one I have come to appreciate most highly."
A moment of silence followed as the three women exchanged glances, their initial strategy of intimidation clearly failing.
"Well," Lady Yarrow said at last, her tone shifting to one of brittle civility, "how unusual you are, Miss Bennet, to speak with such conviction. We must not monopolize you further. No doubt others wish to make your acquaintance." With a nod that managed to be both gracious and cutting, she led her companions away.
As they departed, Elizabeth felt a both exhilaration and disbelief at her own boldness. She had not planned those responses; they had simply flowed from her, unaffected and unforced. In defending Mr. Darcy, she realized she had spoken nothing but the truth. Hedidseem to value substance oversuperficiality, and she had indeed come to appreciate that quality in him.
She looked up to find his gaze fixed upon her from across the room. The relief in his eyes was unmistakable, but there was something else there too: warmth, even admiration. For a moment, it seemed as though the crowded room had fallen away, leaving only that silent connection between them, a bridge of understanding that felt surprisingly, disconcertingly right.
"Well done," murmured Lady Matlock, who had materialized at her side. "I begin to understand my nephew's fascination."
Elizabeth had scarcely recovered from that approving statement when Arabella strode over, slipping her arm through Elizabeth's with a conspiratorial smile.
"I saw you vanquish that dreadful trio," Arabella murmured. "Mother is positively glowing with pride.”
"I fear I may have been too forthright," Elizabeth admitted, though she could not entirely suppress the satisfaction she felt at having held her ground.
"Nonsense. They deserved every exquisite barb you delivered." Arabella's smile turned wicked. "Oh dear,” she said, not sounding in the least apprehensive. “Approaching from the left. It is Mrs. White and her formidable entourage. Steady yourself, Lizzy."
Mrs. White was a portly woman with an unfortunate tendency to lean uncomfortably close when speaking. "Miss Bennet, I have been most curious to meet you. Lady Worcester says that you are a veritable scholar of artistic style. Tell me, what is your opinion of the Italian masters? Surely you must have thoughts on Caravaggio's use of chiaroscuro?"
Elizabeth found herself genuinely interested in the question. "I find Caravaggio’s dramatic contrasts compelling, though I confess I prefer the subtlety of Vermeer's treatment of light." She waited for Mrs. White to offer her own opinion.
"Vermeer!" Mrs. White exclaimed, as though Elizabeth had named a circus artist. "How . . . provincial."
Before Elizabeth could respond, and certainly before Mrs. White had defended her opinion, or indeed even stated it, she and her friends moved on, having gained the opportunity that they sought—to deride her taste. She knew there would have been no avoiding it, for had she said she preferred the strong, focused light favoured by Caravaggio, Mrs. White would still have affected dismay.
Arabella rolled her eyes where no one but Elizabeth could see, and then they moved towards a display of watercolours. After a few minutes, they were intercepted by Mrs. Nott, who had separated herself from Lady Yarrow and was now accompanied by a thin, sharp-featured woman Elizabeth had not met.
"Mrs. Smith,” Mrs. Nott said, “may I introduce Miss Abernathy and Miss Bennet?”
Once the niceties had been completed and not a second later, Mrs. Smith blinked languidly and addressed them. “I understand you hail from Hertfordshire, Miss Bennet. My late husband had property in that dreadful county. However did you manage to catch Mr. Darcy's attention in such a wilderness?"
There was a royal residence in Hertfordshire, and everyone in London seemed to know that she and Mr. Darcy had met here in town. There was really no point in correcting the woman. "Perhaps," Elizabeth replied mildly, "Mr. Darcy finds the wilderness refreshing after too much civilization."
Mrs. Smith’s laugh was like breaking glass. "How droll you are, Miss Bennet."
“You may not recall, Mrs. Nott,” Arabella said, a dangerous edge to her otherwise composed words, “that my family spent many years in Hertfordshire and found it most congenial.”
Mrs. Nott grimaced, then linked arms with Mrs. Smith and took her leave.
"So, you are the famous Miss Bennet," someone declared from behind her.
Elizabeth turned, ready to defend herself yet again, only to face an elderly woman with kind eyes and an amused expression.
"Forgive me, we have not been introduced. I am Mrs. Thorn, and I knew your Mr. Darcy's mother.” She tipped her head a little to one side as she assessed Elizabeth. “Anne would have liked you, I think. You have both her directness and a similarly disciplined temper."
This was the first genuinely sympathetic comment Elizabeth had received all afternoon. "You are very kind to say so, Mrs. Thorn."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it, child. I simply recognize quality when I see it." She patted Elizabeth's arm. "Pay no mind to these peacocks. They will come around once they realize you are not going anywhere."
With that encouraging word, Mrs. Thorn moved on, leaving Elizabeth feeling slightly reassured about her prospects in London society.
She followed Arabella’s eyes across the room to where Mr. Darcy indeed stood watching them, his expression one she was beginning to recognize as pride. Not in himself. In her.
