An Assembly Such as This

Fletcher’s hands trembled. “That grievously, sir!” He, too, cleared his throat. “Please allow me to offer my most humble apologies and beg you would not ‘think too precisely on the event.’” The offending neckcloth lay now in a limp heap on the dressing table.

“Humph,” Darcy snorted, and looked askance at his valet. He had guessed aright; Fletcher had succumbed to the siren call of his art, and by bringing the celebrated arbiter of fashion to heel, he had unquestionably achieved the pinnacle of his profession. A wave of understanding and sympathy for Fletcher’s pride in his art swept through Darcy, but it was soon tempered by the remembrance that the success had been won on his unsuspecting and unwilling person. Fletcher appeared truly chastened, and the inconvenience of securing in a new valet…He shook his head. The man had been with him since he finished University, and he could not imagine instructing a new one in all those preferences that Fletcher comprehended so well. Firmness seemed to be what was called for and, perhaps, an olive branch.

“I suppose ‘things without all remedy should be without regard. What’s done is done,’ but, Fletcher, do not serve me this kind of trick again. ‘More matter and less art.’ Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The relief in Fletcher’s voice and mien was palpable.

“Do not imagine that I am entirely mollified,” Darcy continued as he rose for Fletcher to help him out of his frock coat. “Until some fellow trumps your Roquet, I will be forced to suffer any number of fools wanting to know how it is done. Thank Heaven I leave for Pemberley soon.”

“ ‘The quality of mercy is not str —— ’” the valet began, quoting the Bard with sincerity.

“Yes, well, I beg you will not allow this triumph of yours and its attendant notoriety to interfere with your duties or those of the rest of this household.”

“No, sir,” replied his valet. The sapphirine waistcoat was eased from Darcy’s shoulders, and as he turned to watch Fletcher’s careful folding of his clothes in preparation to quit the room, it was plain that the man’s equanimity had been overbalanced this night. The entire month had been far too unsettling for both of them.

“Fletcher,” Darcy called as his valet moved toward the door, “Lord Brougham desired me to extend his congratulations.”

“He did, sir! Lord Brougham is most kind.”

“He wished you to know that the expression on Brummell’s face as he surveyed his defeat at your hands will entertain him for days to come. And Fletcher,” he ended, “my guarded congratulations as well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy!” Fletcher bowed deeply.

They bade each other a good night, and Darcy turned to readying for bed, devoutly praying that his task of dissuading Bingley was near an end and that nothing would stand in the way of a speedy withdrawal to Pemberley. Both of them might there recoup their balance. Everything would return to the way it had been.

Darcy shook out the pages of the Morning Post and methodically refolded the paper before finishing a last piece of buttered toast and draining his cup of morning coffee. The news he had missed while in Hertfordshire was shocking and disturbing, the latest incidents of public disturbance chasing the reports of the scandal at Melbourne House off the front pages of the Post and making him all the more eager to complete his business and quit London for Pemberley as soon as possible. He consulted his pocket watch; it still lacked three-quarters of an hour before his business agent was due in the library. Not, Darcy sighed as he returned the watch to his pocket, that there were not more personal reasons than alarm at the rioting of weavers in the Midlands to cause his disquiet with his situation in London.

He pushed back his chair and, rising, walked over to the window overlooking the greensward of Grosvenor Square, now blanketed with snow. The trees of the park were dark sentinels against the whiteness, save for the upper branches, whose thready fingers were delicately encased in ice that sparkled in the midmorning sun. Darcy took a deep breath and let it out slowly, covering one of the window’s chill panes with vapor that hardened to frost on the pane, so cold was the day. He ran his finger up through the ice, drawing a tiny Punch against the starry backdrop of frost. How many years had it been since he had drawn frost pictures for Georgiana? Ten? Every bit of ten, he was certain.

He curled his fingers into a fist and with its side obliterated the clown and the stars as he finished his review of his campaign thus far. No, the necessities that bound him to London chafed sorely, but no matter in what manner he examined the problem, he was fairly caught between his promises to Miss Bingley and his own concern over his friend. He was obliged to see it to a conclusion.

The meeting with his business agent proved blessedly short, and Darcy found himself free to indulge in the one activity in his short visit to Town that he had anticipated with pleasure: the selection of Christmas gifts for his sister. As the heavily swathed James and Harry argued up on the box over the best route to Piccadilly given the early morning’s snowfall, Darcy turned his attention to the coming season and all its attendant responsibilities. Both Mr. Witcher in London and Mr. Reynolds at Pemberley had received funds for gifts for the staff under their respective rules. Hinchcliffe would countenance for himself nothing more personal than a holiday purse each year, which, Darcy suspected, he had by now parlayed into quite a nest egg. Fletcher’s Christmas gift had always been the same as well: transportation to his family’s home in Nottingham for a week and a tidy sum to lighten the hearts and ease the lives of his aging parents. Quite a tidy sum this year, if the weight of Dy’s tribute to Fletcher’s genius, which had arrived this morning, was any indicator. Darcy snorted to himself as the carriage pulled to a stop at Hatchards. Harry had the door open and the steps down almost immediately.

“It be a cold ’un today, Mr. Darcy, sir.” He shivered despite his coat and muffler.

“Indeed, Harry! Tell James to keep the horses moving, and you may come with me.”

“Thank ’e, sir. James!” Harry went over to the box to give the instructions and hurried back to follow Darcy into the establishment. The bell on the door rang merrily as they entered, bringing Mr. Hatchard’s eyes up from his counter.

“Mr. Darcy, so good to see you, sir!” He advanced upon them. Darcy nodded Harry’s dismissal to the servants’ waiting room before returning the greeting. “And how have you enjoyed the volumes sent to you in Hertfordshire? I trust they arrived satisfactorily?”

“Yes, you are most obliging, Hatchard. Anything more in that line?”

“No, sir, not even a whisper. Wellesley’s in winter quarters in Portugal, you know. Perhaps, between parties and balls, someone may find the time to scribble a few lines. I look for a number of manuscripts to arrive in the spring and will certainly keep you apprised.”

“Very good! I am looking for something for Miss Darcy today. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Miss Darcy! Ah, there is so much, despite what Mr. Walter Scott may think.” Mr. Hatchard led him over to an alcove furnished with a table and chairs. In a few moments a stack of volumes were set before him. Darcy paged through the selections, his nose wrinkling over most, if not giving them a frown, in statement of review. Settling on Miss Porter’s The Scottish Chiefs and Miss Edgeworth’s latest volume of Tales from Fashionable Life, he set them on the counter to be wrapped and sauntered down an aisle to browse.

“Darcy! I say, Darcy, what good fortune!” Darcy looked up from the shelf he was perusing to see “Poodle” Byng coming toward him, his trademark canine companion trotting in his wake.

And now it begins. Darcy cast a beseeching glance toward Heaven.

“Darcy, old man, what was that knot you was wearin’ at Melbourne’s last night? Dashed complicated thing. Had the Beau in a snit for the rest of the evening. Bit off poor Skeffington’s head over his waistcoat, don’t you know.” Poodle’s genial smile transformed into one of unwarranted intimacy as he continued. “S’fellow told me it was called the Roquefort, but I told ’im I didn’t believe it. ‘It ain’t the Roquefort,’ says I. ‘Roquefort’s a cheese, you muttonhead.’ It was Vasingstoke said it; everyone knows he was kicked in the brainbox by his pony when he was first breeched. ‘Roquefort’s a cheese,’ says I, ‘and I’ll lay anybody here a monkey that Darcy’d never wear a cheese round his neck,’ didn’t I, Pompey?” He addressed his dog, who yipped obligingly. In firm conviction, they both turned expectant eyes upon Darcy.

“No, Byng, you are quite right. It is the Roquet. And don’t,” he continued hurriedly, “I beg you, ask me for instructions. It is my valet’s creation. Only he can tie the thing.”

“The Roquet! Aha, just wait till I tell Vasingstoke. ‘Strike ’im out of the game,’ is it? Well, no small wonder Brummell was in such high dudgeon! But a hint only, my good fellow, is all I ask. No wish to compete, mind you;