him — he may speak like an idle young buck, but he possesses a strong understanding. He patronizes numerous scientists in the Royal Society.”
“Then I look forward to this dinner party even more.” Elizabeth brimmed with questions about some of the earl’s statements, particularly those relating to Bingley’s present and future brothers-in-law. “What is this ‘betting book’ of which the earl spoke?”
“A tradition at White’s — a form of entertainment, really. Members record their private wagers there, in part to keep them honest about payment, but also to impress others with their wit and outrageousness.”
“What do they bet on, besides Lord Griswell’s children?”
“Anything — politics, the weather, Napoleon’s next move.” He sipped his wine and shrugged. “Mr. Parrish’s marriage plans.”
“Miss Bingley’s announcement today must have delighted Mr. Hurst. Will his fellow wagerer accuse him of cheating?”
“I doubt it. The bride may be Hurst’s sister-in-law, but Parrish’s engagement to Miss Bingley happened so fast, who can say whether Mr. Hurst knew any more about it than the rest of us?”
Indeed, Elizabeth silently conceded. Given that all her encounters with the indolent Mr. Hurst had seen him eating, drinking, playing cards, or dozing on the sofa, she believed the proposal could have taken place on his lap without the man noticing. It may well have been a perfectly fair wager.
“Did Lord Chatfield’s remark about Mr. Hurst’s card losses concern you?”
Darcy shook his head. “Hurst hardly conducts himself like one of those wild dandies who lose the entire family estate in a game of faro. He likely just forfeited a few pounds at whist.” He seemed pensive as he took another sip of wine. “Perhaps I should caution you, Elizabeth, that gossip makes the
She ruefully recalled how she’d once been deceived about Darcy’s real character by half-truths someone else had told her. “London society hardly has a monopoly on slander,” she said. “Don’t worry — I have learned to exercise discernment.” She would not allow prejudice, nor the smooth words of another one such as Mr. Wickham, to similarly blind her again.
They spent the greater part of the meal in discussion of more pleasant matters. Darcy expressed a wish to visit the British Museum during their time in London; Elizabeth, an art exhibition. They made plans for their first Christmas together at Pemberley. They spoke of the wedding and their guests — who had said what, who had looked well, who had not. Elizabeth confirmed Darcy’s impression that Charlotte was in the way of adding to the number of Collineses in the world.
“Will her mother attend her when the time comes?” Darcy asked.
“Yes, and will stay until the child is a month or two old. Though with Lady Catherine there, heaven knows Charlotte shan’t want for advice.”
“My aunt is certainly generous with her opinions. Perhaps I should strive to heal our breech directly, so that when your time comes, you, too, may benefit from her instruction.”
She called his bluff. “I thought rather to invite my mother to live with us for six months. Women want their mothers at such — Darcy, are you choking on a fish bone?”
In the carriage, Elizabeth yawned. Though the happiest of her life, the day had been excessively long. “To think that when I awoke this morning, I thought merely getting married would occupy my day.”
“Me, too.” Darcy took her hand and with his thumb traced her wedding band through the glove. “Do you think the house is ready for us yet?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not a bit.”
She nestled into her husband’s side, resting her cheek against his chest. “Mr. Darcy, take me home.”
Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her.
This one looks innocuous enough.” Elizabeth studied the splintered wooden beam. It was a simple, aged pine log, unremarkable but for a star carved into its center. A circle connected the star’s five points.
“Lintel, circa 1640,” Darcy read from the display card, “taken from the doorway of a Massachusetts cottage. The beam bears a symbol known as a pentagram, evidence of familiarity with witchcraft in New England decades before the infamous Salem Witch Trials of 1692.”
His voice echoed in the empty gallery. She and Darcy had come to the British Museum for the afternoon, drawn by the Towneley sculpture collection and a set of medieval manuscripts Darcy had wanted to see. After viewing the old texts, they had wandered into an exhibit titled “Curiosities from the Colonies.” This room they had all to themselves. Apparently, none of the museum’s other visitors had much interest in New World relics.
In the back of the gallery, they’d discovered a display of items marked “Mysterious Articles.” The beam lay among a dozen or so objects believed to have been used for mystical purposes. She found the assortment particularly intriguing. The shaman’s drum, dreamcatcher, totem mask,
She pointed to another item, a circlet of braided plant roots. “This was believed to ward off illness. Does one wear it, do you suppose? Sleep with it under the pillow? Hang it on the door?”
“Does it matter?” Darcy shrugged. “Superstitious people have all sorts of ridiculous rituals to keep bad luck away. It is not as if the thing actually holds power.”
She cocked her head and gave him a wry smile. “Are you sure?”
“I am.”
Her lighthearted mood ebbed. He might be certain, but she wasn’t. She considered herself a rational woman, one who valued sense above sensibility. She read gothic tales for entertainment not verisimilitude, and believed more strongly in what she could observe than what she couldn’t. Yet a part of her occasionally wondered if there wasn’t something else out there, forces just beyond conscious perception. Not enchantments, or illusions — the sorcery of Merlin or
At her silence, Darcy’s expression grew more serious. “Come now, Elizabeth. Do not tell me you believe in fairies and hocuspocus?”
Reluctantly, she withdrew from her reverie. “I believe warm weather spoils more milk than elves do, and you’ll never catch me whistling into the wind to keep witches away.”
“Thank goodness.”
“But”—she swept her arm toward the display—“does that mean none of this is real? What was it Hamlet said onstage last night? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Do you believe only in what you can see?”
“Excepting God, yes.”
“Perhaps I take a broader view.”
He raised one dark brow. “Explain.”
How to explain what she couldn’t quite articulate in her own mind? He’d enjoyed the play last night, told her it was one of his favorites — maybe she should draw an analogy from it. “Have you ever felt your late father’s presence at Pemberley?”
“His ghost has never informed me that he was poisoned in the garden,” he replied stiffly.
Perhaps referring to
“Never.”
