CHAPTER XXXVI

A great wail pierced the air. In the public gallery, Sarah Davidson collapsed into Mr. Weir's arms in a fit of tears. Lady Matlock, still as a statue on the judge's bench, watched helpless. She caught his gaze for a moment, but he turned away. Below her, Mr. Davidson was taken back down to the cells.

Sir Charles turned to her and, seemingly oblivious to the distress playing out in his courtroom, asked for the pleasure of her hand for the first set at St. James's that evening. She nodded dumbly. Excusing herself on that basis, she stood and left.

Elizabeth's feet carried her quickly outside. A large crowd had gathered across the courtyard. She looked down at her silk pelisse and fine skirt: she did not much fancy walking through the throng. As if to confirm her fear, something grabbed at her elbow and she felt herself yanked back into a dark alcove.

"You need to leave," Mr. Weir said in a hurried whisper. "It's not wise for you to be seen here."

"I know," she replied, breathlessly. "I am leaving. You will get her home safely? Tell me that please, so I do not worry."

"Of course."

She reached down into her reticle and fished out two shillings. "You shouldn't be out of pocket."

She stared at him for a moment. His kind eyes looked drained, his jaw tense. She dearly wished she could say something clever, to take away whatever pain he was in. "I am sorry for your friend."

"Forty minutes," he spat. "I've known men take longer over deciding which waistcoat to wear. Damn Edwards. Damn Sidmouth, damn the whole lot of them–" He caught himself and looked to her.

"You should return to your friends. They will not thank you for talking to me for so long. Go take their comfort and give it in equal measure."

"You are too good for them, Bess."

"Bess?"

"It is the only name you have ever given me that is your own."

With a serious, parting glance, he turned away, leaving Elizabeth to realise how unlikely it was that they should ever now meet again. She pushed aside the ache that realisation brought and went in search of her carriage.

She was only an hour late. Annette had drawn up her bath. Slipping in it, the scent of oats and rose petals filled her senses. Her maid scrubbed at her hair, but it was her feelings that caused her head to ache. They threatened to split her skull open and spill out like evils from Pandora's box. Now she was out of the bath, and Annette was rubbing her down with oils: she tried to focus on those. The scent was more sensual than her usual English florals; jasmine and sandalwood. It made her feel apart from herself, which was a comfort.

Her hair was dried and set in record time; her face and brows powdered; lips and cheeks painted. She sat empty, like one of her daughter's dolls, watching the transformation in the mirror, as if it were happening to someone else. Annette pulled her up to standing and stripped her dressing gown off. Mindlessly, she stepped into her petticoat; it was the finest she had ever worn, but she did not notice. Pushed back into her seat, silk stockings were rolled up her leg and held tight in place with ivory ribbons. Mercifully there was no hoop; with the old King's death, his wife's grip on court fashion had come to an end; the new King preferred Grecian lines to cake like contraptions. She stepped into her new court gown and stood for Annette to pull the ties and fasten buttons. Her reflection in the mirror did little to improve her mood.

Lady Matlock's court dress was a thing to behold. Made from the finest white Indian muslin, a delicate band of Buckinghamshire beaded bobbin lace ran down the centre, embroidered with white silk thread. But it was not the quality of fabric that made it striking. Having wanted to give the ball as little of her attention as possible, Elizabeth delegated all decisions to her maid and dressmaker. That alone explained the sheerness of the fabric and the cut of the bodice. For once, she considered herself fortunate to not be as ample bosomed as her sisters: her dress left little to the imagination as it was.

Annette pulled her down again to fix her gloves and jewels: diamonds for her ears, neck, wrists. Finally, she set the Matlock tiara tight in her curls. Elizabeth did not even dare guess at the worth of what she was wearing – it must have been at least twice her father's annual income. Draped in such an overt display of wealth, modesty over a bodice seemed redundant. Eight years ago, even half of what she was wearing now would have made Lizzy Bennet cripplingly uncomfortable. Tonight, Lady Matlock was simply resigned.

Emerging from her dressing room, she made her way to the main hall. Dozens of candles fought off the evening gloom. They cast a shadow on the tall figure stood at the foot of stairs. It was a small comfort to her, knowing he would loath the whole experience as much as she.

Months of being seated in Whitehall, not riding in Derbyshire, had served to make him an even more imposing figure. His court clothes complemented her own, dark navy, almost black, embroidered with silver silk thread. At the click of her heels on the marble stairs Lord Matlock turned around. She saw him catch his breath. Those dark eyes were back, drinking her in. Despite herself, she felt a flutter. Her husband was as tall, dark, and handsome as ever. She fought to keep her face passive as he bowed over her hand and kissed it. He offered her his arm with a low 'Lady Matlock', and escorted her out to their carriage.

A large crowd had gathered outside the Palace of St. James's, hoping to catch a glimpse of Europe's finest as they entered. The Matlock coach was allowed further into the grounds than most. Their experience that night would be very different to the one time she had attended as Mrs. Darcy, and very different again to Sir William Lucas's many, many stories. Remembering a conversation from a lifetime ago, Lady Matlock turned to her lord. "I take it you will not be honouring this place with a dance?"

He looked puzzled for a moment. Then, to her surprise, his features wavered with a fleeting look of sadness. "That is certainly my intention."

"Sir Charles has my first set."

"Lucky you." He said it so dryly, he actually made her laugh.

The carriage pulled up and a royal footman flung open the door. Their moment was lost.

The Matlocks had arrived fashionably late. The main hall was already full when the crier announced the Earl of Matlock and his Lady. All eyes turned to them. Lady Matlock affected her now well-practiced look of immense disinterest. It helped that she dearly wished to be anywhere other than where she was.

The distinction of rank was strictly imposed at St. James's. They passed quickly through the first room, filled with only minor knights of the realm and aldermen. By the third room, she fleetingly recognised a set of guests from her time as Mrs. Darcy, but they were gone too soon for her to acknowledge their faces. They finally stopped in the rooms set aside for the high aristocracy and heads of Government. Mr. and Mrs. Goulburn approached them first. She held her tongue as pleasantries were swapped, only speaking to thank Lady Castlereagh for her glowing compliment on her appearance, though she thought Mr. Goulburn's indelicate look far more telling. In time, they were joined by Lord and Lady Liverpool, and finally, Lord Sidmouth. As that man approached her chest tightened. She quaffed an offered Champagne to steady her nerves. She marked every word or jest that man made with her husband and loathed him for it.

She was about to reach for another glass, when a footman approached and addressed the Lords Liverpool, Castlereagh, Sidmouth and Matlock; they and their wives were summoned for an audience with the King. Her stomach lurched: she swirled to face her husband, but he simply offered her his arm, as if that sort of thing happened every day. She did not believe his nonchalance but sought to emulate it nonetheless.

The King's rooms were marked by an opulence only royalty could excuse. This, Elizabeth suspected, was what Mary had in mind when she warned of the dangers of the ton. Members of Europe's aristocracy lay all about, some on snuff, others on wine, some on something much stronger – and almost all in very public displays of affection. Lydia had been damned for far less. She began to tremble. Lord Matlock looked down at her: he probably thought it anxiety. She could not tell him it was cold rage.

At the end of the room, sat on a settee, was the King himself, being very affectionate with Lady Conyngham. He certainly lived up to his reputation as the Prince of Whales: a frightful man, painted up so much he more resembled a pantomime dame than a King. Elizabeth could not believe he had ever been thought handsome, or especially learned. And yet, she watched as Lord Liverpool and Sidmouth, and even handsome Lord Castlereagh, made deferential bows to this stuffed-up man. When it was her own husband's turn, she likewise dropped a low curtsy – the kind Lydia and Kitty used to practice as girls, for the day they would surely be presented at St. James's. And just like them, she waited to be allowed to rise – and waited; and waited.

Permission did not come. From her position, practically on her knees, she could not look up and see what was happening. She had a sense her husband had been allowed to straighten up. Despite all her walking, her leg muscles began to ache.

"We are pleased you saw sense, where your uncle did not Matlock," the King was addressing her husband. "If half of what Sidmouth has said is true, you will have a very bright future in my government."

"It is an honour to serve your Majesty," Matlock said stoically.

"You would have done well to be down here sooner, though I suppose you'll have been well occupied up in – Derbyshire, is it? We can see why, it seems very enticing, your little bit of cuntry. Tell us Lady Matlock, is this your first time at St. James's? We don't recall seeing you these last seasons, and we are sure to have remembered someone with your countenance."

Hearing her name she looked up and went to stand, but the King held up his hand. "We like you best where you are. You make a pretty picture on your knees."

Her mind went blank: she could not comprehend what had just been said. She felt her husband bristle beside her, but he held his tongue. It was Lady Castlereagh who stepped in.

"Your Majesty, Lady Matlock is in a delicate condition. I'm sure she would find standing, or indeed sitting, a great deal more comfortable."

"Oh, very well then." He leant forwards and extended a gloved hand. Swallowing down her bile, she accepted. He pulled her up. Flustered, and unsure of quite what was going on, she explained she had visited once before, Your Majesty, for the 1813 season.

"Ah, we will have missed you. More's the pity." Still holding her hand, he slid off her glove and, turning her hand over, kissed the bare skin of her palm. "No matter, now Liverpool's Government is secured, there is time enough to make up for that loss."

Elizabeth's whole being screamed – all except her voice, which had completely abandoned her. Her face burnt. She had never, in her whole life, been so humiliated, and with all of the King's court, the Liverpools, Sidmouth, Castlereaghs to witness. She bit her tongue against white rage flaring through her. Next to her, Matlock's jaw locked tighter than the doors of Newgate.

It was Lord Sidmouth, of all people, who rode to their rescue. "Your Majesty should like to know that the last of the Cato trials was completed today. The sentence hearing will be held tomorrow morn. You should know, we expect Wood will use this as an excuse to whip up more support for that woman."

The King dropped her hand with a snarl. She yanked her glove back on and fell back next to her husband. The ministers spoke on the Queen's case for a while longer, until the King declared that he did not intend to let that woman spoil his whole night. They were all of them dismissed, but not without a parting remark on his looking forward to watching Lady Matlock on the dancefloor. Once sure they would not be heard, she hissed at her husband: "Could you not have stopped him?"

"You know perfectly well I could not," he shot back.

In that moment she dearly, dearly missed Darcy. But there was no opportunity to collect herself, or further berate him. The Master of the Dance called the floor open. Sir Charles came to claim her hand. As they were making their way to the dancefloor, Lord Castlereagh stepped up and asked for her second, soon followed by Mr. Brougham – with whom he had been speaking – taking her third. She thought back to her churlishness the previous autumn, when no one asked her to dance, and believed she would have gladly swapped all her future dance-cards to be stood again at the sidelines of the Pemberley harvest feast.

Dancing did not make Sir Charles's conversation any livelier. Still, the lack of discussion allowed her to concentrate on dampening her footfall; her bodice was not made for vigorous dancing, and the King had taken to the floor just a few couples away from her. She did not wish to give him any satisfaction.

Twenty minutes passed: the first dance was over. She watched Sir Charles head off with her husband and Lord Sidmouth, as she stood up with Lord Castlereagh. Just another forty minutes to get through. Enough to seal a man's fate.

Her new partner followed her gaze. "I expect they will be working out the sentences for tomorrow."

"Surely that is for Sir Charles to decide alone?"

"In most cases yes, but not this one."

She caught his eye. "Will it be like Hotspur?"

"Sidmouth is going to suggest that the traitors be hanged until they are dead; then that their heads should then be severed from their bodies, and that their bodies be divided into four quarters, to be at the disposal of His Majesty."

She felt faint. "That is barbarous."

He simply smiled at her. "I have the sense you are still full of the righteous passion of youth, Lady Matlock. It can be very endearing, but life rarely falls neatly into heroes and villains. You will find in time, it is often not a case of doing what is right, but what is necessary."

"Only a cynic would think as such, my lord."

"And only a fool would think otherwise."

It was a relief to be handed over to Mr. Brougham. By now she had lost track of Matlock entirely. Her new partner asked if he was likely to be on the dancefloor, so she explained his aversion to the activity and St. James's. The actions of the King would not have softened his opinion of the place.

She felt more at ease with Mr. Brougham. They were not able to speak freely, but when the dance brought them together, he was generous with his news of the Queen in exile. While an interesting topic, it stopped her from asking him what she most desired to know, though it could only bring her more hurt. She wanted to hear him describe an intelligent, thoughtful man, good humoured and an astute physician. What would such a man be doing that night? Comforting a friend? Visiting patients? Their dance ended before she could ask.

There was no dinner, but time was called for refreshments and to let the musicians rest. It was a blessing: her cheeks ached from forcing a smile. Grabbing a flute of Champagne, she excused herself from Mr. Brougham's company and stepped through to the lower rooms where, despite the bustle and crowds, she knew she would not be disturbed. There was still dancing here, so she fell into her old habit of standing back and watching the couples. Sipping her wine, she could well picture what she looked like, face passive, brooding at the back of the room, drawing attention with her fine, trim person, handsome jewels, noble manner, and the report – certain to be in general circulation, of her being the wife of the Earl of Matlock. It was a bittersweet irony. She knew she would be looked at with great admiration for about half the time she spent there, until she was found to be proud, above her company and above being pleased – and not all her husband's large estates across the North and Midlands could save his wife from having a most forbidding and disagreeable countenance. This account of herself caused her no distress; she did not wish to be approached. No one would approach her in this room; she could be left alone to her thoughts.

Watching the dancing couples took her back to fonder memories. The beautiful ballroom of St. James's melted into the Liverpools' town house, warm against a cold November evening. Music and laughter filled her head again, as she was spinning, stumbling, falling into kind eyes. The scene shifted again: Fife House was gone, and now she was in Netherfield, dancing a largo with Darcy, his eyes dark and intense – till they suddenly shone with the light of an unexpectedly joyful boyish grin as they were back in Pemberley, just the two of them, dancing a reel as Georgiana played. He spun her round and round and round – now back in Fife House, her partner still tall and smiling; but then to Netherfield with a thoughtful kind-eyed partner, only now he looked broken, lost – the harvest festival flashed across her sight, catching her off guard, as she pulled away still spinning– back to Fife House, spinning, laughing, she could not tell who with: the face kept shifting–

"Elizabeth!"

That snapped out her trance. She put a hand to the wall to steady herself. It could not have been her name that was called; not here. No one would address her such in an assembly such as this. Some movement to her side startled her. Her empty flute was being refilled. Had she drunk so much without noticing? Someone called her name again. She checked herself. She needed some air.

"Lady Matlock! Dear cousin!"

She cursed: she should have guessed at this happening. There, making his way through the crowd was Sir William, as jovial as ever, with Lady Lucas close on his heels. And behind them, their son-in-law: her cousin Collins. Her skin prickled and her head felt like it might split in two; she was really, desperately, not in the mood for chatter.

Drawing herself up she greeted them politely, if not as warmly, as they approached. Sir William and Mr. Collins were delighted. Lady Lucas had, at least, the good sense to look abashed.

"Miss Eliza," Sir William cried. "This is an unexpected pleasure. We did not think to see you in these rooms–"

"Indeed, I was just on my way to take some air," she smiled politely as she made to move away. Her path was quickly blocked by Mr. Collins, sweeping into a deep bow.

"Please cousin, allow me to escort you. Why I was just saying to Sir William, was I not, how my fondest wish was that I might see you and your esteemed husband here tonight. It has been so long since you have been to Rosings, though of course that is quite understandable, we all feel the loss of Lady Catherine, and to see the place without her – well I must own cousin it is not quite the same, though of course that is not to find fault with Miss De Bourgh, who remains as civil and gracious as ever. I expect Lord Matlock has a great many livings under his patronage now? And must have a connection with the bishops, which of course Miss De Bourgh could not possibly–"

"My husband has his own designs for where he will give patronage, Mr. Collins, and I am sure I should not think to advise him on such matters. You'll excuse me." She dropped a quick curtsy and walked away.

It was a cut. She knew it was. And it would be reported back in Meryton as such: that Miss Lizzy Bennet had become very affected and thought herself too grand to be seen with her old neighbours. But at that moment, she did not much care.

She summoned a footman and asked where she might take some air. He pointed her towards the front of the Palace, where balcony and stairs led down to St. James's Park. She stepped out, expecting the cold night to envelope her in peace, but the balcony was lit with massive touches and groups of women stood round comforting each other over slights real and imagined. How was it fair that they all had confidants, while she had no one: no sisters, no Charlotte? She could not even speak openly with Annette. Bitterly, she stalked past them all, downs towards park.

The night grew colder and darker as she progressed. Eventually, her eyes adjusted to pale moonlight. The noise of the ball became a low rumble. Against the dark outline of trees she could just make out the silvery outline Whitehall and Westminster Abbey off to the east. Somewhere in the distance, the bells tolled out midnight. Above her, the clear sky was littered with stars. She took a deep, cleansing breath and tried to sort through her emotions. Anger was easiest: anger at her husband for again leaving her most of the evening; for the scene that played out in the royal chamber, and his doing nothing about it. Anger at the King. And anger at herself, for acting such a fool – though she was hardly in any position to challenge him.

The sorrow was harder. Collins had caught her off guard, and wherever he was, Charlotte's memory could not be far behind. If she had not rejected Collins, would her friend still be alive? It had been an easier thought to deal with in the past, when she had been happy. But what had rejection bought her? Charlotte dead and Lizzy – what had become of Lizzy? Perhaps it would have been better if Netherfield Park had never been let.

She wiped at her face; it was a stupid, dark thought. There was nothing to be gained by it. She could not live her life through what-ifs. And yet – she looked up again, craning her neck round till she found the plough; sisters; home. Then down to face St. James's Palace in all its splendour. The jewels at her neck were chill in the evening cold. It was fortunate no one could see her; the cold was making her dress scandalous, regardless of her rank. What must Lady Lucas have thought of her? How different a creature she had become to that little miss who used to arrive on her doorstep covered in mud. At least Mr. Weir could not see her like this. There was a strange comfort in that. How could he, a man of substance and resolve, who struggled to leave the world better than he found it – respect a lord's doxie? A king's doxie?

On that miserable thought, she took a final, steadying breath and returned to the ball.