Mr. Darcy, Vampyre

Chapter 3

My dearest Jane,

It is almost a week since I wrote to you last, and indeed I have been very negligent for I have forgotten to post my last letter to you. Never mind, I will post them both together and you will have the pleasure of two letters at once; or, more likely, you will receive one after the other. The post from the Continent is not very reliable, I hear.

We are now established in Paris, and it is the most beautiful city. I was apprehensive about coming here at first, but my fears were unfounded. The city is unexpectedly civilised and the French, so far, seem friendly. We have had some trouble with the food, which is laced with garlic, and several of the servants have been ill; indeed one of our footmen has left us, saying that he will be poisoned here if he stays any longer. Fortunately, he has not been difficult to replace. My maid refuses to eat anything except the bread and cheese she buys at the market. I must confess, I have joined her in this simple repast on more than one occasion. Darcy too eats very little here. But that is a small matter. The shops are elegant and numerous, and there are splendours to be seen everywhere. My dear Darcy has a wide circle of friends and relatives, and I pity poor Mama for telling him that we were able to dine with four and twenty families in Hertfordshire, for I must already have met a hundred of his friends. Last night we went to a soirée and tonight we are to go to a salon given by one of Darcy’s cousins. Does that not sound grand? Perhaps I will start a fashion for salons when I return home. You and I can hold them, Jane, and be the most fashionable women in England!

How are you finding London? Are you and your dear Mr Bingley happy? I am happy with my Darcy, and yet, Jane, he has still not visited me in my bedchamber and I do not know why. I wish you were here, then I would have someone to talk to. The people here are all very welcoming, but they are strangers, and I cannot say the things to them that I could say to you.

Write to me as soon as you can at the address below.

Your affectionate sister,

Elizabeth

She addressed the letter and gave it to one of the footmen to post, together with the letter she had written in Dover, then went upstairs to dress. As she did so, she was conscious of the gulf between her old and new lives. Her experiences of Paris had, for the first time, shown her how truly different Darcy’s life was from her own. Before their marriage, she had seen him at Pemberley with his sister, at Rosings with his aunt, and at Netherfield with Bingley, but she had never seen him in society. Now, however, it was very different.

She thought of Lady Catherine’s visit to Longbourn a few short weeks before, when Lady Catherine had tried to dissuade her from marrying Darcy by saying that she would be censured, slighted, and despised by everyone connected with him, and that the alliance would be a disgrace; that Elizabeth herself, if she were wise, would not wish to quit the sphere in which she had been brought up. To which Elizabeth had replied angrily that, in marrying him, she should not consider herself as quitting her sphere, because Darcy was a gentleman and she herself was a gentleman’s daughter.

And that had been true. But only in Paris had she realised how wide was the gulf between a gentleman’s daughter from a country manor house and a gentleman of Darcy’s standing. The people he knew in Paris were quite unlike the country gentry of England. They were beautiful and mesmerising in a way she had never encountered before. The women undulated, instead of walked, across the rooms with the sinuous beauty of snakes, and the men were scarcely any less seductive. They spoke to her in low voices, holding her hand lingeringly and gazing into her eyes with an intensity which at once attracted and repulsed her.

Nevertheless, she liked Paris, and by the time she arrived at the salon, she was ready to enjoy herself.

The house was insignificant from the outside. It was situated on a dirty street and had a narrow, plain frontage, but once inside everything changed. The hall was high ceilinged and carpeted in thick scarlet, and a grand staircase swept upstairs to the first floor. It was crowded with people, all wearing the strange new fashions of the Parisians. Gone were the elaborate styles of the pre-revolutionary years, with wide hooped skirts and towering wigs. Such signs of wealth had been discarded in fear, and simplicity was the order of the day. The men wore their hair long, falling over the high collars of their coats, and at their necks they wore cravats. Beneath their coats they wore tightly fitting knee breeches. The women wore gowns with high waists and slender skirts, made of a material so fine that it was almost sheer.

There was a noise of conversation as the Darcys began to climb the stair. One or two people raised quizzing glasses so they could stare at Elizabeth. She felt conscious that her dress was English and appeared staid by the side of the Parisian finery. The fabric was sturdier and the style less bare.

Darcy introduced her to some of the people and they welcomed her to Paris, but it was not the warm welcome of Hertfordshire; it was an altogether more appraising greeting.

Elizabeth and Darcy made their way to the top of the stairs where they waited to be announced.

The doors leading to the drawing room had been removed and the opening had been shaped into an oriental arch. It framed the hostess so perfectly that Elizabeth suspected it was deliberate. Mme Rousel, reclining on a chaise longue, was like a living portrait. Her dark hair was piled high on her head and secured by a long mother-of-pearl pin, from which curls spilled artistically round her sculptured features and fell across her bare shoulders. Her dress was cut low, with the small frills which passed for sleeves falling off her shoulders before merging with a delicate matching frill at her neck. The sheer fabric of her skirt was arranged around her in folds that were reminiscent of Greek statuary, and on her feet she wore golden sandals. A dark red shawl was draped across her knees, flowing over the gold upholstery of the chaise longue in an apparently casual arrangement. But every fold was so perfect that its placement could only be the result of artifice and not the negligence it was intended to convey. Elizabeth realised that that was why she felt uncomfortable: because the whole salon, from the people to the clothes to the furniture, was the result of artifice, a carefully arranged surface which shone like the sea on a summer’s day but disguised whatever truly lay beneath.

The Darcys were announced. At the name, many of the people already in the drawing room turned round. Even here in Paris, the name of Darcy was well known. They stared openly, in a way the English would not have done, with a boldness that was unsettling.

They went forward and Mme Rousel, Darcy’s cousin, welcomed them.

‘At last, Darcy, I was wondering when you would pay me a visit. It is many years since I have seen you.’

‘It has not been easy to visit France,’ he said.

‘For one of our kind it is always easy,’ she said reprovingly. ‘But you are here now, and that is all that counts.’

She held out her hand, with its long white fingers covered in rings, and he kissed it. She then withdrew it and placed it precisely in her lap, exactly as it had been before.

‘So you are Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘You must be very special to have won Darcy’s affections. I never thought he would marry. The news has taken many of us by surprise.’ She looked at Elizabeth and then at Darcy and then back again. Her expression was thoughtful. Then she bowed slightly to Elizabeth with a small incline of her head before wishing them joy of her salon.

‘You will find many old friends here and some new ones, too,’ she said to Darcy.

Darcy and Elizabeth moved on into the large drawing room so that Mme Rousel could greet her next guests.

Darcy was at once welcomed by four women who walked up to him with lithe movements and lingering glances. Their dresses were rainbow hued, in the colours of gems, and flimsy, like all the Parisian dresses. Their hair was dark and their skin was pallid.

‘You will have to be careful,’ came a voice at Elizabeth’s shoulder.

She turned to see a man with fine features and tousled hair. He had an air of boredom about him, and although Elizabeth did not usually like those who were easily bored, there was something strangely magnetic about him. His ennui gave his mouth a sulky turn which was undeniably attractive.

‘They will take him from you if they can,’ the man continued, watching them all the while.

Elizabeth turned to look at them, and as she did so, she was reminded of Caroline Bingley and her constant efforts to catch Darcy’s attention. He had been impervious to Caroline and he was impervious to the Parisian women as well, for all their efforts to enrapture him. As they talked and smiled and leant against him, flicking imaginary specks of dust from his coat and picking imaginary hairs from his sleeve, they looked at him surreptitiously. When they saw that he was oblivious to their attempts to captivate him, they redoubled their efforts, one of them whispering in his ear, another leaning close to his face, and the other two walking, arm in arm, in front of him, in order to display their figures.

‘It is not right, what they do there, he being so newly married,’ said a woman, coming up and standing beside the two of them. ‘But forgive me, I was forgetting, we have not been introduced. I am Katrine du Bois, and that is my brother, Philippe.’

There was an air of warmth about the woman which was missing from many of the salon guests, and Elizabeth sensed in her a friend. And yet there was something melancholy about her, as though she had suffered a great disappointment from which she had never recovered.

‘It is not right, no,’ said Philippe. ‘But it is nature. What can one do?’

He turned to look at Elizabeth with sympathy but Elizabeth was only amused.

‘Poor things!’ she said.

Darcy wore the same expression he had worn when she had first seen him at the Meryton assembly; and despite the difference in the two events, the noisy vulgarity of the assembly and the refined elegance of the salon, he was still above his company. His dark hair was set off by his white linen and his well-moulded face, even in such company, was handsome. His dark eyes wandered restlessly over his companions until they came to rest on Elizabeth. And then his face relaxed into softer lines, full of warmth and love.

‘I wish a man would look at me the way that Darcy looks at you,’ said Katrine.

‘I am very lucky,’ said Elizabeth, and she knew that she was.

She had not married for wealth or position; she had married for love. She wished that she was not in company, that she and Darcy had stayed at the inn where they could have been alone, but she knew they would not be in Paris forever. The calls and engagements would come to an end and then they would have more time to spend, just the two of them, together.

‘You are,’ said Katrine. ‘I have many things; I have jewels and clothes, carriages and horses, a fine house and finer furnishings, but I would give them all for one such look.’

Darcy’s companions claimed his attention and he turned reluctantly away. As he did so, his hand moved to his chest as though he were lifting something beneath his shirt, pulling it away from his chest and then letting it drop again.

‘What is it he does there?’ asked Katrine. ‘Does he wear something round his neck?’

‘Yes, I bought him a crucifix yesterday. The shops in Paris are very tempting,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He refused to take it at first, but he had given me so much and I had given him so little that I insisted, and at last he allowed me to fasten it around his neck.’

Katrine’s voice was reverent. ‘He must love you very much,’ she said.

‘Yes, I believe he does,’ said Elizabeth.

‘And now, we have talked of Mr Darcy for long enough,’ said Philippe. ‘Any more and I will grow jealous. I will pay you out by talking of our hostess’s many perfections. Do you not think she is beautiful?’ he asked, casting his own longing look in her direction.

‘She seems charming,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Yes, she is, very charming,’ he said with warmth.

‘But does she always receive people whilst reclining on a sofa?’ asked Elizabeth, unable to suppress her mirth.

‘Ah, you find it amusing,’ he said, seeing the humour in her eyes. ‘And so it is, an amusing affectation. Our great hostesses all like to have them. Do your hostesses at home not like to make an effect?’

‘I cannot say; I rarely go into society,’ said Elizabeth, ‘or at least not this sort of society, and no one in Meryton would dress in such a way or spend the evening lying on a sofa unless they were ill!’

‘Your husband does not take you to the London salons then?’ asked Philippe. ‘I was certain he would do so.’

‘I hardly know where he takes me—or perhaps I should say, where he will take me. He has only been my husband for a week.’

‘Ah, yes of course. Being so newly married you will have better things to do with your time than to go to salons,’ said Philippe, raising his eyebrows.

Elizabeth, much to her surprise, blushed, and Katrine, seeing it, said, ‘Take no notice of my brother.’ She tapped his arm reprovingly with her fan. ‘He is very French; he does not understand the English idea of good taste. He thinks of nothing but the pleasures of the flesh, and he has no reticence in him.’

‘Ma soeur! You wrong me,’ he said, pretending to be wounded. ‘What impression of me will you give to la belle Elizabeth?’ Then turning to Elizabeth he said, ‘I think of many things, of my horses and carriages, my friends and family, of art and music… see, I will prove it to you. I will take you to meet our resident genius, and you shall see how I listen to him with rapture in my eyes!’

He offered her his arm with such an air of gallantry that she could not refuse, and he led her to the other side of the room, where a young man was starting to play the piano. He was surrounded by a devoted coterie of women who leaned over the instrument or stood adoringly by his side.

He was very handsome in the French fashion, with a high brow, sleek hair, and pronounced features. He played with exquisite taste, his fingers running over the keys more quickly than seemed possible, blending the notes in a strange and rippling liquidity. It flowed out from his fingers and into the room, filling the space with the hypnotic melody.

‘I have brought someone to meet you,’ said Philippe.

He introduced Elizabeth to the three women leaning across the piano and then to the pianist, Monsieur Huilot, ‘a young musical genius.’

Monsieur Huilot took the compliment gracefully, never once breaking off from his hypnotic melodies, and asked Elizabeth if she enjoyed music. When she answered that she did, he said, ‘That is good. Music feeds the soul, and the soul, it needs feeding.’

He continued to play, his tapering fingers caressing the keys, and the music was gorgeous. But Elizabeth could not keep her eyes on him, for they kept wandering to Darcy, who was still watching her whilst the women around him tried to catch his attention.

There was a lull in the music and Darcy stood up, crossing the room to Elizabeth and saying, ‘Will you not play?’

‘You of all people know that I am an indifferent pianist,’ she replied.

She had played before him on a number of occasions, first in Hertfordshire, when they had both been guests of Sir William Lucas, and later at Rosings, the home of Darcy’s aunt. She had not wanted to do so, even in such small gatherings, and she was even less disposed to play here, where there was so much musical talent.

‘I beg to differ; you play very well. Besides, you cannot mean to refuse me, now that I have come in all my state to hear you,’ he said with a wry smile.

Elizabeth laughed, for it was the complaint she had made against him at Rosings. He had been aloof and superior, and she had suspected him of trying to discomfit her; though she had been quite wrong, for he had just wanted to be near her.

‘Very well,’ she said, adding to the other guests, ‘you have been warned.’

She played and sang, and received a polite response, despite the fact that she was in truth an indifferent pianist, for she was not willing to devote several hours a day to practise. But this lukewarm response was more than made up for by Darcy’s look, and by his saying to her, not long afterwards, ‘We have been here long enough. What do you say to our going to the Lebeune’s ball? I would like to dance.’

She needed no urging. The sumptuous atmosphere was starting to oppress her and the strangely sinuous people were unsettling. She was relieved to get outside and breathe the fresh air.

Night hung over the city like a dark mantle, pierced with the light of flambeaux, and up above, there seemed to be a thousand stars.

There was as much activity as there was in the daytime. Paris was a city which did not sleep. Carriages rolled through the streets taking brightly dressed passengers to balls and soirées, and light and laughter spilled out of the taverns. English voices could be heard mingling with the French, as Elizabeth’s compatriots took advantage of the peace and visited Paris in great numbers.

And yet despite the colour and laughter there was a lurking horror beneath the brightness, a sense that violence could erupt again at any time. For all its elegance, Paris was a city torn apart by destruction. The revolution had left its mark.

‘You’re very quiet,’ said Darcy.

‘I was thinking,’ said Elizabeth.

‘About what?’

‘About the revolution. About how it changed everything.’

‘Not everything,’ he said, touching her hand.

The carriage pulled up outside a long, stone building and they went inside.

The Lebeune’s house was shabby, full of faded splendours and battered grandeur. The marble columns in the hall were dull and the carpet covering the stairs was worn into holes. As Elizabeth ascended to the first floor, she looked at the portraits hanging on the walls, but they were so begrimed that she could not discern their features and she could see nothing beyond a dark and gloomy outline. Their frames too were begrimed, and although they were gilded, they had long since lost their sparkle. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, splendid in size and shape, but so denuded of candles that it gave out no more than a dim glow.

The people too were faded. The men’s coats were shiny with wear and their shoes were scuffed, whilst the women’s dresses were mended and patched. They wore the old style of clothing, heavy gowns with full skirts and damasked fabrics. Elizabeth had met their type before, in England, people who had once been wealthy but who now lived on the charity of their friends—not by taking money, but by accepting invitations to dinner or to stay, which both parties knew they could never return.

But despite the weary air of both people and surroundings, Elizabeth preferred it to the Rousel house. There, the surface had been dazzling and the undercurrents jaded; here, it was the other way about. Beneath their wary smiles, the people were warm and friendly. They had known sorrow and loss, but their spirit survived.

Elizabeth felt herself begin to breathe more freely.

She was introduced to a dozen people. She told them of England and talked to them of their own city, but at last she could resist it no longer, and with a glance at Darcy, she invited him to lead her onto the floor.

‘A married couple. How outré!’ was the whisper as they took their places, for it was not done for married couples to dance together.

But Elizabeth did not care. It was like the days of their courtship. She and Darcy talked freely of everything they had seen and heard that day. They talked of art and music, of the people they had met and the people they still hoped to meet.

‘My cousin liked you, as I knew she would,’ said Darcy with pride.

Elizabeth thought of Mme Rousel’s eye and thought that liked was a strong word, but at least the beauty had not disapproved of her and had made her welcome.

‘It is a good thing not all your family are against the marriage,’ she said. ‘Will you invite her to visit us at Pemberley?’

‘Possibly. But I do not think she will leave France. Her life is here, with the glamour and amusements of Paris.’

Elizabeth was not sorry. She could not imagine Mme Rousel in England, where, in her gossamer-like dresses, she would surely catch her death of cold!

Elizabeth woke late on the morning after the ball. She and Darcy had not returned home until almost four o’clock in the morning, and when she finally roused herself, it was almost midday.

‘Good heavens!’ she said, jumping out of bed. ‘Why did you not wake me?’ she asked her maid.

‘The master said I was to let you sleep,’ said Annie, as she placed a tray of pain and chocolate in front of her.

‘Well, perhaps he was right. But now I must hurry,’ she said, eating her breakfast. ‘We are supposed to be going riding in an hour.’

Darcy had bought her a new mare and the animal was due to be delivered that morning. They had arranged to go riding by the side of the Seine if the weather was fine.

She had not brought a riding habit with her, having not intended to ride, but she had been able to buy one in Paris. The Darcy money and the Darcy name had ensured that the habit was made and delivered quickly, and it was now ready for her to wear. It lacked the artistry of London tailoring, but nevertheless, it was finer than anything she had worn as Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It was made of dark green broadcloth, with a high waist and a long, slender skirt, and she matched it with a green hat and York tan gloves. Her ruffled shirt showed white between the lapels. She glanced at herself in the mirror and then went downstairs.

As she crossed the hall, she heard a voice she recognised and she smiled with pleasure because the voice belonged to one of Darcy’s English cousins, Colonel Fitzwilliam. She knew Colonel Fitzwilliam well. They had met at Rosings the previous Easter and they had spent many happy hours walking and talking together. They had got on so well that he had thought it necessary to let her know, in a roundabout fashion, that he could not afford to marry a poor wife and that he must marry an heiress if he were to have the comforts he had come to expect from life. She had not been offended, indeed she had thought it well done, and besides, she had not had any interest in him as a husband; she had not even, at that time, had any interest in Darcy.

She went into the drawing room, looking forward to greeting him, but the men did not hear her enter and she heard Colonel Fitzwilliam saying, ‘Are you mad? You should never have married her. What were you thinking of, Darcy?’

Elizabeth was shocked. She had not known that Colonel Fitzwilliam objected to the match. He had liked her at Rosings but it seemed that, whilst he liked her well enough as a guest of his aunt’s parson, he did not like her as Darcy’s wife.

‘Let her go, Darcy,’ he continued. ‘You can’t do this to her. Send her home.’

‘No,’ said Darcy, turning away defiantly.

As he did so, he saw Elizabeth. He held out his hand to her and she went and stood next to him, taking his arm and presenting a unified front to his cousin.

‘Well?’ demanded Colonel Fitzwilliam.

‘Well?’ returned Darcy implacably.

‘Are you not going to tell her? You owe her that much. Give her a choice.’

Darcy seemed to fight a battle within himself, then he turned towards her and searched her eyes, as if he could find the answer to his problem written there. He cupped her face with his hand.

‘Well, Lizzy, what do you say?’ he asked, looking into her eyes. ‘My cousin would like you to return to Longbourn. I want you to stay with me. Which is it to be?’

Elizabeth knew that she had not been accepted by Darcy’s family, that there had been disapproving eyes turned on her at the salon, and that she would probably never be accepted by all the Darcys, but she was not unduly concerned. She was not the kind of person to be easily intimidated, and she was certainly not going to be driven out of Europe or out of her marriage by ill will. If Colonel Fitzwilliam thought that she would crumple under a bad-natured reception, then he had much to learn about her character.

She turned to Darcy. ‘Where you go, I go. If you stay, I will stay.’

Darcy slid his arm around her waist then turned to his cousin and said, ‘You see?’

‘I see only that she does not know what it is she should fear. If you will not take my advice, speak to your uncle,’ said Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘You have always respected him. Go and see him, and be guided by him.’

She felt a relenting in Darcy and he said, ‘I had already decided to do so. Elizabeth and I are going to visit him after we finish our sojourn in Paris. Now, if you will excuse us, we are going out riding.’

‘I am surprised you can find a horse to carry you,’ Colonel Fitzwilliam said darkly.

‘I brought my own from the Pemberley stables,’ Darcy said. ‘It travelled with us, tethered to the back of the coach.’

‘I should have guessed,’ said Colonel Fitzwilliam. Then, saying, ‘Darcy. Mrs Darcy,’ he made them a curt bow and took his leave.

Elizabeth looked at Darcy enquiringly as he left the room.

‘What was all that about?’ she asked. ‘Does he disapprove of our marriage, or does he think that I am expecting your family to welcome me? Does he think I do not know that there are some among them who will never accept me, and does he really think me so poor spirited I will be afraid of a cutting remark or a cold shoulder?’

‘Elizabeth—’

‘Yes?’ she asked.

He looked as though he was about to say something more and suddenly she felt a sense of dread, as though there were something dark lurking beneath the surface of her life, something which threatened her world, her security, her happiness. But then he stroked her hair and everything was as it should be. He relaxed, and she relaxed as well.

‘No matter. The horses are ready. Let me see if I can convince you to enjoy Paris from horseback.’

They went out into the street, and there in front of the house was Darcy’s impressive black stallion and the sweetest mare Elizabeth had ever seen. Although she was no horsewoman, she had lived in the country all her life and she knew that the mare was exceptional.

‘She is called Snowfall,’ said Darcy.

The name suited her. She was white, with a long mane and tail, no more than fourteen hands high with slender legs and nicely sloping shoulders. Her neck was arched and she had an overall air of elegance.

Darcy made a sign to the groom, who trotted her up and down the road on a leading rein, showing off her paces and her neat, small hooves.

‘She looks as though she has Arab blood,’ said Elizabeth, as the groom brought her to a halt.

‘Yes, she has.’

Elizabeth took a carrot from the groom and gave it to the mare, feeling the animal’s soft mouth nuzzling her hand as the carrot disappeared.

‘Do you like her?’ asked Darcy.

‘I do indeed,’ said Elizabeth.

He helped her to mount, holding her hand as she stepped up onto the mounting block and then settled herself comfortably on the mare’s back, hooking one leg around the pommel of her side saddle before arranging her skirt and allowing the groom to adjust the straps. Then she declared that she was ready.

Darcy mounted beside her and the two of them set off towards the river.

The main city was dirty, but once they approached the Seine, it was clean and beautiful. The river was lined with grand buildings, their long elegant lines stretching gracefully into the distance. Their walls were of stone and their roofs were of a pale grey, as though a watercolourist had chosen the shade to echo the river and the sky.

They rode past the Louvre, where they had already spent a morning looking at the luscious paintings of Titian and Rubens, and where they now saw a great many people making the most of the Peace of Amiens to enjoy the activities which had long been denied them. Elizabeth enjoyed the sights, and she took pleasure in the neat steps of her mare and the warm air and her husband beside her.

‘When your cousin spoke of us visiting your uncle, which uncle did he mean?’ she asked, as they rode over a bridge and came to Notre Dame. The great Gothic cathedral rose against the skyline, a concoction of spires, rose windows, and buttresses which were impressive in their artistry and their size. ‘Not his father, I take it, or he would have said so.’

‘No, not his father. I have another uncle here on the Continent. It is to him we will go.’

There came a cry behind them: ‘Darcy! Elizabeth!’

Katrine and Philippe rode up on matching bays, both of them splendidly dressed, Katrine in a velvet riding habit and Philippe in a caped greatcoat with knee breeches disappearing into highly polished boots.

‘I hoped I would find you here,’ said Katrine. ‘This is the place to meet everyone in Paris. They are all here to see and be seen.’

‘I hear you had a visit from your cousin, Darcy,’ said Philippe, as he and Katrine fell in beside the Darcys and the four of them continued together. ‘He tells me that you are going to stay with your uncle. I envy you. It is many years since I visited the Alps. The clear air, the scented forests, the feel of the night wind against the face… I miss it.’

‘Have you ever been to the Alps before?’ Katrine asked Elizabeth.

‘No, never.’

‘You did not plan them as part of your tour?’

‘We did not plan on coming abroad at all.’

‘Ah. It has been a surprise, but not an unpleasant one, I hope?’

‘Not at all. I like to see new places and meet new people.’

‘Vraiment, it is good what you say. Without seeing new places and meeting new people we grow old before our time. We must make an effort to do new things, must we not? It is what gives life its zest.’

‘But you will return to Paris?’ asked Philippe.

‘No,’ said Darcy shortly.

Philippe raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

‘At least not for a while. But later, who knows?’ said Katrine.

‘You must,’ said Philippe, turning to Elizabeth. ‘We will never forgive Darcy if he deprives us of your company, will we Katrine?’

‘Me, I would forgive Darcy anything!’ she said with a longing look at him. ‘But come, Philippe, we must away. I have to be at the du Bariers’ in an hour and you have promised to escort me.’

They rode off in a flurry of manes and hoofs.

‘Why do you need to see your uncle?’ asked Elizabeth, continuing their earlier conversation. ‘From what you said to your cousin, it sounded as though you wanted his advice on our marriage and our reception in society. Is that so?’

‘Not in the way you imagine, no,’ he said.

‘In what way, then?’

He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully, and said at last, ‘We are different, you and I. We belong together and yet we are not the same. My uncle is very experienced. He might perhaps have encountered the difficulties we will face before, and know how to deal with them.’

Elizabeth was silent. Darcy too was silent, and the only sound was of their horses’ hooves clopping along the road.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he said after a minute or two.

‘I’m… surprised,’ she said. ‘I thought our differences had been resolved, at least the differences that matter, those involving our hearts and minds. The others, the differences in our social standing and the opinion of other people, I thought no longer mattered to you, as they have never mattered to me. I thought you had overcome them.’

‘So I have, a long time ago. You’re right, they don’t matter.’

‘But something matters,’ she said, bringing her mare to a standstill, ‘because you are not happy.’

He looked surprised.

‘I am happy,’ he said.

‘Then you are not easy in our mind,’ she persevered. ‘Otherwise why would you want your uncle’s advice?’

Again he thought before speaking.

‘Elizabeth, there are things you don’t yet know,’ he said with a frown.

‘About you?’

‘About me, and my family.’

‘You mean there are skeletons in the closet?’ she asked, patting her mare’s neck.

He gave a ghost of a smile.

‘Not skeletons, no,’ he said. ‘But I think I might have underestimated the problems we will face. For myself, it doesn’t matter, but for you… I want to protect you, I want to make you happy.’

‘You do.’

‘No, not entirely. I’ve seen you looking at me, puzzled, a few times since we married.’

She could not deny it.

‘That’s because I don’t always understand you,’ she said.

‘I don’t always understand myself.’

‘You have always been a difficult man to fathom,’ she agreed. ‘Even at the Netherfield ball, I could not make you out. And I think that recently, you have grown more perplexing rather than less so. I hope your uncle can help.’

‘I think you will like him, and I think you will like the Alps. The scenery is unlike anything you have ever seen before.’ Then his eyes laughed and he said, ‘Your mother would certainly like him. He lives in a castle.’

‘A castle?’ she asked, impressed despite herself. ‘Is it finer than Pemberley?’

‘Bigger, certainly.’

‘Finer than Rosings?’

‘More imposing, at least.’

The horses began to trot more quickly, as if sensing the lightening in their riders’ moods, and before long, they reached a wider open space.

‘And what of the chimney piece?’ asked Elizabeth teasingly.

‘It is the most impressive chimney piece I have ever seen; the sort of chimney piece that would send Mr Collins into raptures.’

‘Then I beg you will not tell him about it, or he will find a way to visit your uncle, and drag poor Charlotte with him,’ said Lizzy, laughing. ‘What is his name, this uncle? Is he a Darcy or a Fitzwilliam?’

‘He comes from… an older branch of the family,’ he said. ‘He is an uncle a few times removed. He is neither a Fitzwilliam nor a Darcy. His name is Count Polidori.’

‘A count?’ asked Lizzy, amused. ‘Then we must definitely not tell Mama about him, or she will be introducing him to Kitty!’

‘He is rather too old for Kitty,’ he said.

‘That is a relief. Poor Kitty has had enough to cry about these last few months, with Papa saying he would keep a careful watch over her and never let her out! It took a great deal of soothing to make her realise that he was joking. When do you expect us to leave for the mountains?’ she asked.

‘That depends. We can go as soon or as late as you wish. Have you seen enough of Paris or would you like to stay?’

‘I think I have seen all I need to see,’ she said. ‘It is very elegant, despite the destruction wrought by the revolution. The people too have surprised me, but…’

‘But?’

‘I find I do not really like it here. The buildings are all very fine, but I am longing for green fields once again.’

‘Then we will make our preparations and set out as soon as they are complete.’