Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(33)

“My apologies,” Lizzie said. “I seem to have lost my companion.”

The other woman did not rush to assist as Mrs. Matthews had. Instead, she arched a single brow. “Should I fetch someone to collect you?”

“No, thank you. I shall collect myself, then . . .” What should she do next? “Er . . . find my companion and leave.”

“Very well,” the other woman said. “Although I should point out that a young lady will never find a husband if she’s in the habit of retiring early.”

Unlike Mrs. Bennet, the stranger relayed this warning with a mocking tone, as if she were making fun of convention instead of Lizzie. It made Lizzie regard her with a slight smile. “There shall be other dances.”

The woman did not smile back. “There are always other dances, but rarely second chances.”

Lizzie wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to say to that. Luckily, she was not obliged to respond, as the woman looked back at the dancers and said, “It’s all a beautiful facade for what these balls truly represent.”

“And what is that?”

“A market.”

Lizzie wasn’t sure if she’d heard her correctly. “A market?”

“A marriage market. All the young ladies want good, secure matches and a step up the social ladder. All the young men want a pretty wife to add to their fortunes. Their parents scheme along the sidelines.”

Lizzie did not disagree with this stranger’s point of view, but she was shocked to hear her speak so openly.

“Women get the worst of it,” the older woman continued. “Gentlemen get to choose from a roomful of beautiful ladies. But ladies have no choice. The only power they have is in their refusal, and if they refuse too often, they stop receiving invitations.”

This, Lizzie could agree with. She thought of Collins at the card table, pursuing Charlotte one moment and attending a public assembly the next. Was it a betrayal of his interest in her friend or simply what young men did? “I agree with you, madam, but what else are we supposed to do?”

The woman smiled, and it felt like a secret between them. “Refuse to participate in this sham altogether. But only one in a hundred ladies will do that. Perhaps not even that. One in a thousand.”

Lizzie’s instinct for argument compelled her to respond. “Until there are more opportunities for young ladies, most will continue down the paths set out before them.”

“And in the meantime?” the woman asked.

“Forge new paths. It is easier to be brave, perhaps, when one has examples of bravery to follow.” She could scarcely believe there was a society woman willing to have this sort of conversation without scandalized gasps. If all public assemblies harbored such company as this one, Lizzie might be more inclined to participate.

The woman regarded her with cool satisfaction, but before Lizzie could engage any further, she spotted a blond head in the crowd. “Oh, I believe I see my companion. I’m sorry, I must depart. Thank you. . . .”

But the strange woman didn’t introduce herself. Instead, she inclined her head and turned away, disappearing into the crowd. Lizzie watched her go, perplexed and amused. How very strange.

“Miss Bennet!” Wickham appeared at her side. “There you are. I couldn’t find you for the longest time! Caroline has left the ball early, which caused a great deal of speculation amongst the other young ladies, as she’s only danced one reel with that redheaded bloke. I couldn’t follow her without you, but if we hurry . . .”

“It’s all right, Mr. Wickham,” Lizzie murmured, feeling quite exhausted all of a sudden. “I believe I got what I came for.”





Nine


In Which Lizzie Picks Up a Tail



THE FOLLOWING MORNING FOUND Lizzie restless and uncertain about the case. She’d lost a day to her investigation by loitering on Harley Street, and it yielded only more questions. She had only four days until Mr. Bingley’s hearing and nothing in hand but a button. To make matters worse, her mother had reached the limits of her patience regarding Lizzie’s absences and insisted that all of the Bennet ladies spend the day together. Lizzie was forced to sit in the drawing room, continually jabbing herself with an embroidery needle, while enduring Mary’s mediocre attempts at the piano.

If she didn’t get the job at Longbourn, she would wither away from boredom.

Mary’s fumblings were good for one thing: covering Lizzie’s whispers as she briefly sketched out the previous night’s activities to Jane.

“You’re certain that Caroline was telling the truth?”

“She’d have no reason to lie about their sudden lack of money.” Lizzie gazed at Jane’s perfect stitches, depicting a rather charming scene of marigolds and fronds. Her own bit of muslin was supposed to bear a strawberry patch, but as per usual, her red silk thread had gotten hopelessly tangled. “Besides, witnesses can place her at the dance the night of the murder. So I must conclude that she’s merely an unbearable person.”

Mary’s song ended abruptly, and the end of Lizzie’s sentence caught the attention of her other sisters. “Who is an unbearable person?” Lydia asked, eager for gossip.

“No one,” Lizzie said.

“Elizabeth, it’s impolite to whisper to Jane if you’re not going to include the rest of your sisters in the conversation,” her mother chided.