Page 21 of The Lost Prophecy

Mr Bingley laughed loudly, and the momentary tension dissolved. Elizabeth glanced at Mr Darcy. He had contributed very little during dinner, but he had followed her enquiry closely. When their eyes met, he lifted his glass slowly without drinking, and she received the distinct, thrilling impression that he had expected her to notice the missing mirrors.

The conversation turned to female accomplishments after Mr Bingley lavishly praised Mrs Hurst’s fine embroidery and Miss Bingley’s music. He maintained that young women possessed extraordinary abilities, listing painted tables, covered screens, netted purses, and every decorative achievement he had ever witnessed at a London exhibition.

Miss Bingley placed her pristine napkin beside her plate. “A woman cannot be considered truly accomplished on such modest evidence. She must understand music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, while possessing utter elegance in her manner and address.”

Mr Darcy set down his glass. “She must also improve her mind through extensive reading.”

Elizabeth considered the assembled requirements. “I am surprised that you know any such women.”

Miss Bingley’s gaze sharpened into a blade. “Many ladies meet that exact description.”

Mr Darcy regarded Elizabeth coolly. “I know no more than half a dozen.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Then I am surprised that you know so many. Your accomplished woman must have knowledge, talent, taste, elegance, and sufficient leisure to perfect them all. She must also read extensively, which seems difficult when she is continually busy painting tables.”

Mr Bingley’s deep amusement threatened the potato once more. “Darcy expects perfection.”

Elizabeth smirked. “Mr Darcy appears to expect impossibility and then blame society for miserably failing to provide it.”

Mr Darcy rested one large hand on the table. “You have formed a severe opinion from a very modest requirement.”

Elizabeth leaned forward. “I formed it from half a dozen requirements, each containing several smaller ones concealed inside.”

His voice lowered. “You strongly object to improvement, Miss Elizabeth?”

“I firmly object to arranging every desirable quality into one single woman and expressing disappointment when she has only one pair of hands.”

A restrained curve appeared in his lips. “Your concern is practical rather than philosophical.”

Elizabeth smiled back. “My concerns generally are. Philosophy has never successfully painted a table either.”

After dinner, Miss Bingley placed herself at the pianoforte and began an Italian song intended to demonstrate several of the accomplishments under discussion simultaneously. Elizabeth selected a book but found the musical performance far too determined to permit actual reading. Mr Bingley sat near the door, nervously awaiting news from upstairs. Mrs Hurst resumed her needlework, while Mr Hurst occupied a large chair near the fire and closed his eyes.

Elizabeth watched him closely through the first verse.

Mr Hurst sat as still as the portrait above him. His broad chest did not rise, his nostrils did not stir, and no breath disturbed the loose folds of his cravat. Mrs Hurst displayed the same unnatural stillness whenever her hands paused above the embroidery hoop. She resumed breathing only when Miss Bingley missed a high note, and her sister drew in air before offering loud praise.

Elizabeth lowered her eyes back to the book. People could easily hold their breath. They could also dislike mirrors, avoid food, drink peculiar wine, and maintain skin cold enough to compete with a marble floor. None of these habits proved anything beyond the clear danger of observing one’s hosts far too carefully.

Mr Darcy stood near the book table, listening to Miss Bingley while cleverly contriving not to encourage her. Elizabeth closed the volume she was holding and approached him.

She kept her voice low. “Mr Darcy, may I respectfully enquire about one of your family possessions?”

His composure tightened by an almost imperceptible degree. “You may enquire.”

“Your valet informed me that the silver punch bowl travelling through the upper passage this morning belongs to you.”

Mr Darcy stared straight ahead. “Yes, it does.”

The certainty of his answer confirmed that Fletcher had reported the entire ridiculous encounter. Elizabeth pressed on. “He mentioned magnetism, intense gravity, and very old silver.”

Mr Darcy did not blink. “Those are the principal elements.”

Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “I had not previously known that magnetism inspired deep affection for slippers.”

Mr Darcy directed a brief, unreadable glance at her feet before restoring his scrutiny to her face. “The mechanics are imperfect.”

Elizabeth stepped slightly closer. “Does the bowl often roam freely?”