‘Yes, she is, very charming,’ he said with warmth.

‘But does she always receive people whilst reclining on a sofa?’ asked Elizabeth, unable to suppress her mirth.

‘Ah, you find it amusing,’ he said, seeing the humour in her eyes. ‘And so it is, an amusing affectation. Our great hostesses all like to have them. Do your hostesses at home not like to make an effect?’

‘I cannot say; I rarely go into society,’ said Elizabeth, ‘or at least not this sort of society, and no one in Meryton would dress in such a way or spend the evening lying on a sofa unless they were ill!’

‘Your husband does not take you to the London salons then?’ asked Philippe. ‘I was certain he would do so.’

‘I hardly know where he takes me—or perhaps I should say, where he will take me. He has only been my husband for a week.’

‘Ah, yes of course. Being so newly married you will have better things to do with your time than to go to salons,’ said Philippe, raising his eyebrows.

Elizabeth, much to her surprise, blushed, and Katrine, seeing it, said, ‘Take no notice of my brother.’ She tapped his arm reprovingly with her fan. ‘He is very French; he does not understand the English idea of good taste. He thinks of nothing but the pleasures of the flesh, and he has no reticence in him.’

‘Ma soeur! You wrong me,’ he said, pretending to be wounded. ‘What impression of me will you give to la belle Elizabeth?’ Then turning to Elizabeth he said, ‘I think of many things, of my horses and carriages, my friends and family, of art and music… see, I will prove it to you. I will take you to meet our resident genius, and you shall see how I listen to him with rapture in my eyes!’

He offered her his arm with such an air of gallantry that she could not refuse, and he led her to the other side of the room, where a young man was starting to play the piano. He was surrounded by a devoted coterie of women who leaned over the instrument or stood adoringly by his side.

He was very handsome in the French fashion, with a high brow, sleek hair, and pronounced features. He played with exquisite taste, his fingers running over the keys more quickly than seemed possible, blending the notes in a strange and rippling liquidity. It flowed out from his fingers and into the room, filling the space with the hypnotic melody.

‘I have brought someone to meet you,’ said Philippe.

He introduced Elizabeth to the three women leaning across the piano and then to the pianist, Monsieur Huilot, ‘a young musical genius.’

Monsieur Huilot took the compliment gracefully, never once breaking off from his hypnotic melodies, and asked Elizabeth if she enjoyed music. When she answered that she did, he said, ‘That is good. Music feeds the soul, and the soul, it needs feeding.’

He continued to play, his tapering fingers caressing the keys, and the music was gorgeous. But Elizabeth could not keep her eyes on him, for they kept wandering to Darcy, who was still watching her whilst the women around him tried to catch his attention.

There was a lull in the music and Darcy stood up, crossing the room to Elizabeth and saying, ‘Will you not play?’

‘You of all people know that I am an indifferent pianist,’ she replied.

She had played before him on a number of occasions, first in Hertfordshire, when they had both been guests of Sir William Lucas, and later at Rosings, the home of Darcy’s aunt. She had not wanted to do so, even in such small gatherings, and she was even less disposed to play here, where there was so much musical talent.

‘I beg to differ; you play very well. Besides, you cannot mean to refuse me, now that I have come in all my state to hear you,’ he said with a wry smile.

Elizabeth laughed, for it was the complaint she had made against him at Rosings. He had been aloof and superior, and she had suspected him of trying to discomfit her; though she had been quite wrong, for he had just wanted to be near her.

‘Very well,’ she said, adding to the other guests, ‘you have been warned.’

She played and sang, and received a polite response, despite the fact that she was in truth an indifferent pianist, for she was not willing to devote several hours a day to practise. But this lukewarm response was more than made up for by Darcy’s look, and by his saying to her, not long afterwards, ‘We have been here long enough. What do you say to our going to the Lebeune’s ball? I would like to dance.’

She needed no urging. The sumptuous atmosphere was starting to oppress her and the strangely sinuous people were unsettling. She was relieved to get outside and breathe the fresh air.

Night hung over the city like a dark mantle, pierced with the light of flambeaux, and up above, there seemed to be a thousand stars.

There was as much activity as there was in the daytime. Paris was a city which did not sleep. Carriages rolled through the streets taking brightly dressed passengers to balls and soirées, and light and laughter spilled out of the taverns. English voices could be heard mingling with the French, as Elizabeth’s compatriots took advantage of the peace and visited Paris in great numbers.

And yet despite the colour and laughter there was a lurking horror beneath the brightness, a sense that violence could erupt again at any time. For all its elegance, Paris was a city torn apart by destruction. The revolution had left its mark.

‘You’re very quiet,’ said Darcy.

‘I was thinking,’ said Elizabeth.

‘About what?’

‘About the revolution. About how it changed everything.’

‘Not everything,’ he said, touching her hand.

The carriage pulled up outside a long, stone building and they went inside.

The Lebeune’s house was shabby, full of faded splendours and battered grandeur. The marble columns in the hall were dull and the carpet covering the stairs was worn into holes. As Elizabeth ascended to the first floor, she looked at the portraits hanging on the walls, but they were so begrimed that she could not discern their features and she could see nothing beyond a dark and gloomy outline. Their frames too were begrimed, and although they were gilded, they had long since lost their sparkle. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, splendid in size and shape, but so denuded of candles that it gave out no more than a dim glow.

The people too were faded. The men’s coats were shiny with wear and their shoes were scuffed, whilst the women’s dresses were mended and patched. They wore the old style of clothing, heavy gowns with full skirts and damasked fabrics. Elizabeth had met their type before, in England, people who had once been wealthy but who now lived on the charity of their friends—not by taking money, but by accepting invitations to dinner or to stay, which both parties knew they could never return.

But despite the weary air of both people and surroundings, Elizabeth preferred it to the Rousel house. There, the surface had been dazzling and the undercurrents jaded; here, it was the other way about. Beneath their wary smiles, the people were warm and friendly. They had known sorrow and loss, but their spirit survived.

Elizabeth felt herself begin to breathe more freely.

She was introduced to a dozen people. She told them of England and talked to them of their own city, but at last she could resist it no longer, and with a glance at Darcy, she invited him to lead her onto the floor.

‘A married couple. How outré!’ was the whisper as they took their places, for it was not done for married couples to dance together.

But Elizabeth did not care. It was like the days of their courtship. She and Darcy talked freely of everything they had seen and heard that day. They talked of art and music, of the people they had met and the people they still hoped to meet.

‘My cousin liked you, as I knew she would,’ said Darcy with pride.

Elizabeth thought of Mme Rousel’s eye and thought that liked was a strong word, but at least the beauty had not disapproved of her and had made her welcome.

‘It is a good thing not all your family are against the marriage,’ she said. ‘Will you invite her to visit us at Pemberley?’

‘Possibly. But I do not think she will leave France. Her life is here, with the glamour and amusements of Paris.’

Elizabeth was not sorry. She could not imagine Mme Rousel in England, where, in her gossamer-like dresses, she would surely catch her death of cold!


***

Elizabeth woke late on the morning after the ball. She and Darcy had not returned home until almost four o’clock in the morning, and when she finally roused herself, it was almost midday.

‘Good heavens!’ she said, jumping out of bed. ‘Why did you not wake me?’ she asked her maid.

‘The master said I was to let you sleep,’ said Annie, as she placed a tray of pain and chocolate in front of her.

‘Well, perhaps he was right. But now I must hurry,’ she said, eating her breakfast. ‘We are supposed to be going riding in an hour.’

Darcy had bought her a new mare and the animal was due to be delivered that morning. They had arranged to go riding by the side of the Seine if the weather was fine.

She had not brought a riding habit with her, having not intended to ride, but she had been able to buy one in Paris. The Darcy money and the Darcy name had ensured that the habit was made and delivered quickly, and it was now ready for her to wear. It lacked the artistry of London tailoring, but nevertheless, it was finer than anything she had worn as Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It was made of dark green broadcloth, with a high waist and a long, slender skirt, and she matched it with a green hat and York tan gloves. Her ruffled shirt showed white between the lapels. She glanced at herself in the mirror and then went downstairs.