“Isn’t that rather like stealing?” said Mary.
“Not at all,” he replied loftily. “True genius is to further polish that which cries out for refinement.”
Mr. Coxe’s eyes narrowed. “You consider yourself a genius?”
Hervey’s tone sharpened. “I consider genius to be the refiner’s fire of the intellect.”
William Coxe did not bother to conceal his contempt. Later, when tea was served, he spoke again to Mary. George gave a sidelong look to Mrs. Bennet. Would she notice this development?
“That fellow has never done a lick of work in his life. So his poem is cribbed from Marmion, is it?”
“Please disregard my outburst, Mr. Coxe. I ought to have verified my suspicion before saying anything. But the provocation was too great. I simply could not help it.”
“This is hardly a court of law. It isn’t as if you have perjured yourself.”
“Yes, but I prefer to be certain of the facts before accusing anyone.”
“An unusual viewpoint, but a wise one. This Suckling’s a rum fellow; I rather fancy putting his nose out of joint. Any chance old Woodhouse has a copy of Marmion lying about?”
“I have no idea. It does not seem likely, but I will ask Emma. The passage could take some time to locate. As I recall, Marmion has six cantos.”
“No need to worry about that; I am a dab hand at research. Comes with the profession.”
“I would not like to distract you from your work.”
Mr. Coxe shrugged. “A capital diversion from the musty old tomes. Jurisprudence tends to be rather dry. But first, we must obtain Marmion. The question is, where?”
“Does the village have a subscription library?”
William Coxe’s head came up. “We do indeed. Miss Bennet, it is you, not Suckling, who is the genius.”
George saw Mary’s cheeks grow pink. Was it with pleasure? Did Mrs. Bennet notice this exchange of smiles?
Huzzah to Elizabeth and Emma! Their work was bearing fruit! Now if only Mrs. Bennet would transfer her interest to Papa Woodhouse.
It was all George could do to keep from gleefully rubbing his hands.
Later that night, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Darcy was privileged to overhear his wife. Few women could put the screws to Mrs. Bennet with such finesse!
“A future like Miss Bates? Do you mean me? Certainly not. I shall live with you or with Jane.”
“Not entirely, Mama. What happens when Kitty and Mary find husbands?”
“Then I shall live with them as well. It shall be a give-and-take.”
“That depends upon whom they marry,” said Elizabeth. “If their husbands are not as prosperous—as is the case with Mr. Wickham—perhaps there will not be room.”
“Of course they will be prosperous. The idea!”
“It is a possibility.”
“The Wickhams cannot offer me a home only because he is in the army. And you are quite wrong, Lizzy, about living like Miss Bates and her mother. I do have an income, though it is a fraction of what we enjoyed at Longbourn. It is vastly more than what Miss Bates has.”
Elizabeth kept silent.
“Well, it is!”
Darcy saw his wife draw a long breath. “Speaking of potential husbands,” she said lightly, “have you noticed Mr. Coxe’s interest in Mary?”
“The lawyer? I saw him talking to her. It signifies nothing.”
“Perhaps he likes her.”
“Gracious, no. Why should he? But it makes no difference. What has he to offer her? I expect he lives in rooms above his office.”
“They were smiling and laughing.”
“Were they? That is certainly a first for our Mary.”
“I suspect you were too preoccupied to notice.”
“Very possibly. Mr. Woodhouse was telling the most amusing tale from his boyhood, about a goose stealing bread from his hand. Did you know that geese have teeth?”
Elizabeth gave a gurgle of laughter. “Do they?”
“According to Henry Woodhouse, yes. His poor hands carry the bite marks to prove it.”
“A hardship indeed.”
“Speaking of hardship,” said Mrs. Bennet, “my new ball gown has not arrived. So vexatious! My poor nerves!”
“There is always tomorrow morning. Besides, does it matter what you wear? You are not known here. One of your other evening gowns will do as well.”
“Wear a gown that is two seasons old? When Mrs. Elton and Mrs. Suckling will be dressed in the latest fashion? Never! They will look down their noses at me. See if they don’t.”
“Does their opinion matter?”
“It does to me, Lizzy. I simply must wear my precious gown made by that London modiste. And I shall not have the bad taste to look down my nose at them.”
Darcy saw his wife conceal a smile.
“Well,” amended Mrs. Bennet. “Perhaps only a little. There is no harm in that.”
Chapter 11
The next morning, George Knightley found himself on duty as chaperon. What a laughable assignment! Over the top of his newspaper, he watched Mrs. Bennet pace the length of the drawing room. She paused at the windows that overlooked the carriage drive. “Oh, heavens,” he heard her say. “What am I to do?”
“Does it snow, my dear?” called Mr. Woodhouse. “This is a most unfortunate season for a ball. I have told Mr. Knightley again and again, but does he listen?”
George hid behind the newspaper, trusting it to shield him from his father-in-law’s notice.
“If we have snow tonight,” he continued, “all will be lost.”
“I am not worried about the weather,” Mrs. Bennet assured him.
“You cannot expect me to believe that. You have strayed to the window a dozen times. What other reason can there be?”
She came across the room and resumed her seat. The backgammon table stood between them, and she absently began to lay out the checkers.
“The sorry truth is that my poor gown is lost. Elizabeth’s and Mary’s were delivered, but mine? It shall never come in time. This makes no sense because the others did. Do you suppose highwaymen have apprehended it?”
“Surely not. There are many hours before the ball. It is best, you know, not to imagine the worst.”
George bit his lip to keep from laughing. Henry Woodhouse always imagined the worst!
There was a small silence. “I expect you are right,” said Mrs. Bennet. “This is a happy place, Mr. Woodhouse. I have been happy here. I should not fret over a delivery.”
“A wise decision. Worry does our health no good. Then too, when something is wanted, it is often delayed. You know what they say about the watched pot.”
“A watched pot never boils,” quoted Mrs. Bennet. “My dear father used to say the same. Mind, I have not boiled water for years. I have, however, had my share of waiting an eternity for tea to be brought in.”
Mr. Woodhouse laughed gently. “I entirely agree. In fact, we ought to have tea now. Yes, a nice cup of tea should do us good.” He gave a tug to the bell pull. When Ruth came, he gently made the request.
“Yes, Hartfield is a happy place. I believe a large part of that is because of you, Mr. Woodhouse. And your sweet daughters, too. What a blessing to have them safely married!”
“And yet, marriage does break up the family circle.”
“On this subject,” she said smilingly, “we shall always disagree.”
“How I would like to have my daughters living here,” he said earnestly. “With both of them singing and laughing, as when they were girls. We have plenty of room.”
“One cannot hold back the passing of time, Mr. Woodhouse. How I wish we could!”