Something Elizabeth had said came to mind. “I’ll stop you there,” said Darcy. “Is Mrs. Elton intending to match him with my sister?”
“Of course she is,” cried John. “Plain as a pikestaff! Why else would she suddenly want this fellow to come for Christmas, if not to hob and nob with an heiress? Mrs. Elton’s family is nothing to boast of. Her father was a Bristol merchant, for pity’s sake! Yet Mrs. Elton parades about as if she were one of the mighty of the land.”
“The nouveaux riche are often so,” agreed George. “But we are straying from our purpose. What should be our next step?”
“Have we established that you and your brother approve of Mrs. Bennet?” said Darcy.
“I’m not marrying her,” said John. “That is up to old Woodhouse. Any port in a storm is what I say.”
“We should cause them to spend time together,” said George slowly. “Which activities would bring this about?”
“Oho,” cried John. “Enticement indeed! Henry Woodhouse is an active fellow. He gets up from his chair. Then he sits down again. Then he talks about healthful practices such as walking. At length he convinces himself to take a turn about the gardens. An abbreviated turn, naturally; he calls it his winter constitutional. Vastly romantic.”
Darcy could not help but laugh. Who knew matching two older people could be so difficult?
“As to romance,” said George, “I suppose we ought to hang mistletoe. There is some growing at Donwell.”
“Why are you looking at me?” said John. “I’m not climbing into a tree for any! My vote is for Christmas punch, lots of it. Or egg-nog that is heavily laced with rum.”
“That could be problematic,” said Darcy.
“What if poor Hervey comes calling and drinks too much?” added George.
“So, we pray for snow to keep callers away. Snow, snow, beautiful snow. Sleigh bells ring, and away we go.” John’s smile widened. “And if we have enough snow, we can take out the sleigh. Squeeze Woodhouse and Darcy’s mother-in-law into it.”
“Have you a sleigh?” said Darcy.
John turned to his brother. “Do we?”
“Yes, an ancient one that belonged to our grandfather. Mr. Woodhouse would never consent to ride in it. Nor, for that matter, would I.” George pushed back his chair. “We ought to go into the drawing room.”
“We wouldn’t wish to worry our dear papa with a prolonged absence.”
“The real worry,” said George, “is what our wives might be thinking.”
John rose to his feet. “Best not to bring that up! I daresay Emma suspects something.”
“So does my wife,” said Darcy. “If she guesses what we intend. . .”
“Panic stations, gentlemen!” cried John. “Adversity reveals genius! We must brazen it out together.”
“So says the lawyer,” grumbled his brother.
Darcy followed them out of the dining room. “Is that what Horace was?”
“Poet or lawyer; what difference does it make?” said John.
Darcy and George Knightley shared a look. “A word once uttered can never be recalled,” quoted George glumly. “Horace was right about that too.”
The men came into the drawing room together, and John was introduced. If he paid particular attention to Mrs. Bennet, no one appeared to notice.
A footman placed the backgammon table beside Mr. Woodhouse, and Mrs. Bennet smilingly brought forward a chair. Were they about to play together?
Darcy exchanged a look with George Knightley. “What’s all this?” he heard John whisper.
“Mary,” called Mrs. Bennet. “Mr. Woodhouse would like to play backgammon. Do oblige him with a game.” She began placing the checkers into position.
Mary was seated at the opposite end of the drawing room. “Thank you just the same,” she said politely, “but I prefer a book.”
To her credit, Mrs. Bennet took Mary’s refusal in stride. “Perhaps another time,” she said pleasantly. “I should be delighted to be your opponent, sir.”
Mr. Woodhouse did not appear to be slighted. On the contrary, he was smiling.
“We must come up with ways to entertain your family while you are with us,” he told Mrs. Bennet. “What say you to a drive to see Donwell Abbey?”
“But that’s almost a mile!” cried John.
George Knightley broke out coughing; his brother’s mouth snapped shut.
“How delightful!” said Mrs. Bennet. “That is, if you consent to come with us, sir.” Her smile was unmistakably coy.
“It has been years since I have visited Donwell,” said Mr. Woodhouse.
“Not so very many years, surely. You speak as if you are an old man. Anyone can see that you are not.”
Mrs. Bennet had said something like this before, with pleasing results. Old Mr. Woodhouse was not immune to flattery.
“Do you know,” he said suddenly, “I think I might. The distance is not so very great. It would give me an additional opportunity to see the children. Provided, of course, that it does not snow.”
“That would be simply lovely.”
“My goodness,” said Emma Knightley. “A drive to Donwell. This is a surprise.”
Was it Darcy’s imagination, or did she exchange a look with Elizabeth? He glanced quickly away. But not, perhaps, quite quickly enough.
Chapter 6
The following day, Donwell Abbey was visited and duly admired by each of the guests. Emma looked about with longing eyes, but it was Mrs. Bennet who displayed the most interest. Her excitement for the coming ball was palpable. Apparently, she had ordered a new gown and was anticipating its delivery from London.
“To think that this wonderful mansion is yours, Mr. Knightley,” she said again and again.
How could George reply to this?
Fortunately, Mrs. Bennet continued talking. “And how good you are to consider dear Mr. Woodhouse’s comfort and well-being. My Mary is of a similar disposition, you know. She is always thinking of others.”
George did not see much evidence of this, but he said nothing. There was no longer any doubt that Mrs. Bennet intended her daughter to become the second Mrs. Woodhouse. After dinner, he said as much to his brother and Darcy.
“What care we for that?” said John. “For our purposes, one wife is as good as another.”
“But surely not a young woman,” protested Darcy. “A male heir would diminish your wife’s portion and prevent your son from inheriting Hartfield.”
“What male heir? Oh.” John’s brows descended. “Confound it. I’d not thought of that.”
“Mrs. Bennet is the better option,” said George. “Moreover, Mary Bennet is rather solemn.”
“That’s a kindly way to put it,” muttered John.
“Curious, is it not? That a young woman should be so much older than her years, whereas her mother behaves as if she were a girl?”
“It suits our purposes admirably,” said John. “One way or another, Mrs. Bennet has become a fixture at old Woodhouse’s side.”
Music from the pianoforte drifted in from the drawing room. The performer was obviously Mary Bennet.
“She’s at it again,” said John. “She ought to have taken up the harp instead. Easier on the ears. If she should attempt Gluck’s Che Farò even one more time, I’ll go mad.”
Darcy finished his port and set the glass aside. “We ought to go in.”
“Why? There is no one remotely of interest in there.”
“Mr. Coxe and the Gilberts have come,” said George. “You might enjoy observing them as they jostle for preeminence.”
“Delightful,” scoffed John. “Young idiots.”