Page 8 of Conundrums & Coincidences

THREE MISSES

With seconds to spare, the last beneficiary had arrived on time.

Thank goodness. I shall not be the sole female in this tournament after all.

From out in the vestibule, Miss Kensett’s voice reached the parlour where Elizabeth sat with Miss Rigby and the three male beneficiaries. “You there! Yes, you, footman. My inept servant, not disposed for exertion of any sort and soon to be dismissed without reference, struggles with the baggage out there. Go and fetch my large trunk and portmanteau. He should be able to manage the smaller one as well as my three bandboxes and a valise. For what are you waiting? Move!”

Christopher, the footman who had remained in the parlour, stiffened at the newcomer’s tone of voice as she addressed his brother Alfred in the vestibule.

And I thought Lady Catherine was a dictatorial and insolent woman. Elizabeth had hoped the only other female beneficiary would be an agreeable addition to the party; however, Miss Kensett’s brusque and impatient manner was not an immediate recommendation. But, after all, the two of them were destined to be opponents rather than bosom-friends.

The woman’s voice yet carried. “Ah, there you are, Mr Monroe. But where is everyone else?”

Did Miss Kensett expect everyone in the manor to line up and welcome her? Scolding herself for once again being hasty in making a judgment, Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and fretted over having brought only one small trunk, one valise, and no bandboxes at all. Fashion, she knew, was a trifling distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroyed its own aim. Still, she wondered whether her attire would be found wanting. Too plain? Too informal? Too lacking in quantity or quality? Oh, stop it. There was nought to be done about it and no sense in worry.

If there was anything for Elizabeth to fret over, it was Mr Darcy’s presence. To be forced into one another’s proximity just two months following their contretemps at Hunsford was a dreadful circumstance. It certainly added another aspect to her apprehension about the forthcoming tournament. And she would have to find an opportunity to discreetly apologise to him.

As for Miss Kensett, she still could be heard making a fuss while approaching the parlour. “No, no. I shall endure for the nonce, although I am terribly fatigued from my five-mile journey from Maidenhead. I thought of stopping at an inn for a brief respite, but you would not believe the sort of riffraff places like that attract.”

The unflattering mental picture Elizabeth had painted of the harridan in the vestibule in no way resembled its subject when the lushly rounded woman—whose age she estimated as being at least four-and-twenty, and that was being generous—swept into the parlour on their host’s arm. As one, the three gentlemen jumped to their feet and set about adjusting cravats, pulling on cuffs, and tugging down waistcoats.

With flawless complexion, brunette hair, and sapphire eyes, Miss Kensett was even more handsome than Jane—truly a diamond of the first water. A floral perfume wafted in her wake, and her skirts softly rustled as she passed in front of Elizabeth, who by then was feeling decidedly underdressed in a sprigged muslin.

Furthermore, the beautiful Miss Kensett possessed that which Miss Bingley had extolled at Netherfield, being a certain something in her air and manner of walking. And, as the newcomer glided towards them in her clinging silk gown, something about her drew the eyes of Messrs Darcy, Fordham, and Hadley.

“Mr Monroe, I am already acquainted with Mr Fordham, but please make me known to these two gentlemen.” Sparing Elizabeth and Miss Rigby the barest of glances, Miss Kensett added, “And those ladies, of course.”

Their host performed the honours; and when Miss Kensett acknowledged Elizabeth and Miss Rigby by only the slightest of curtseys, it was easily perceived that Mr Monroe was embarrassed by her ungraciousness.

Mr Hadley whispered to Elizabeth, “Miss Kensett actually met me once before. Apparently, I am entirely forgettable.”

“One’s memory sometimes is weak. But for my part, sir, you will never be easily forgotten.”

When Mr Hadley blushed bright red at her compliment, Mr Darcy shot him an irritated look. Elizabeth was surprised he paid them any attention at all; she had thought he only had eyes for Miss Sophia Kensett.

After the introductions, the newcomer bestowed a particularly winsome smile upon Mr Darcy and said, “It will give me immense pleasure over the course of this se’nnight to improve my acquaintance with you…all.”

Somewhat amused, albeit in a dissatisfied manner, by the lady’s behaviour, Elizabeth realised she once again was obliged to spend days trapped in a house with a supercilious woman. And Mr Darcy. Superimposing Mr Bingley’s face over Mr Hadley’s first and then Mr Hurst’s over Mr Fordham’s, she silently sighed. Just as I feared. Netherfield Park, all over again.

While Miss Kensett was across the room being presented to the household servants, the chaperon leant in and spoke to Elizabeth in a near whisper and a tone filled with scorn. “That woman’s intentions are those of utter coquetry as well as an insatiable desire for universal admiration.”

“I believe,” said Elizabeth, “that one is apt to wrongly interpret assurance of manner as coquetry.” That was, she suspected, what had happened between Mr Darcy and herself. She had been brimming with confidence while pitting her wits against his, and, of all things, he had mistaken her playfulness for flirtation.

Furthermore, she suspected people like Miss Kensett were all pretence and, perhaps, fragility. Thinking of Miss Bingley, who constantly craved recognition, Elizabeth wondered what cruelties a tradesman’s descendant might have been subjected to at that exclusive seminary she had attended in town. She always was so desperate for Mr Darcy’s approval.

Stealing a look at that gentleman, Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. Who could blame either Miss Bingley or Miss Kensett for wanting the regard of such a man? Noticing his frown as their eyes met, she feared it was distasteful for Mr Darcy to be in her company. How he despises me!

There came then a bustle, an exodus of servants as Mrs Vincent herded her two maids—and Mr Atwater and his two footmen—from the room.

In company with Miss Kensett, Mr Monroe approached the other beneficiaries and brought over a chair for her. To that lady’s evident satisfaction, it was placed beside Mr Darcy.

Standing then in front of a tall settle chair beside the stone fireplace, the attorney requested everyone’s attention. “As you know, I shall be your host for this event, and, in addition to her other duties, Miss Rigby”—he indicated the chaperon—“will be your hostess. I should also say that, although I was Miss Armstrong’s man of business for two years, my partner, Mr Pemberton, is the actual executor of her will.”

“I have a question, Monroe,” said Mr Fordham. His arms and ankles were crossed, and he was somewhat slouched in his chair, legs stretched out before him. “Considering how solicitous you were towards Miss Armstrong, one would assume you would have been named in her will. So, why are you not a participant in this competition?”

“Your benefactress, indeed, had set her heart on leaving me a munificent legacy,” said the attorney, “but it would have been unethical of me to accept a testamentary bequest from a client. There would have been not only a conflict of interest but suspicion of undue influence, and I have a duty to not undermine public trust in the integrity of the legal profession. Be assured, sir, that I was well compensated for my services during my years as Miss Armstrong’s attorney.”

Mr Monroe sat then upon the centuries-old box chair, which, in Elizabeth’s opinion, looked terribly uncomfortable. “I thought we might take a few moments now to speak of Miss Phoebe Armstrong,” said the attorney. “Some of you may not be aware of all that occurred between her birth in Carlisle and this past February when, at the age of ninety, she died here in Buckinghamshire.”