Page 33 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)

WHAT’S PAST IS PROLOGUE

E lizabeth felt almost as if she were floating. Darcy was unavailable to pay calls that morning, having mounds of paperwork to review from those many businesses that he was attempting to divest—but he had urged her to invite her aunt and uncle to come to dinner, as soon as was possible.

It was odd—to have felt only days before that she was making a sacrifice for the sake of the children, only to be learning now that she probably had made the best decision of her life and was the most fortunate lady in the world.

As she sat at the writing desk in her sitting room, intending to write to the Gardiners and then to answer the letter she had just received from Lydia, who was fully occupied attending to their newly opened—and by all accounts, successful—shop in Bishop’s Stortford, she could only marvel at the changes.

At some time in the past—by her early twenties at least—she had given up utterly on the idea of marriage and a family for herself; she had accepted, even embraced, her spinsterhood.

No longer had she cared much about gowns and ribbons; it had been more important that Cassandra and Tommy were cared for.

When she wed Darcy, she had never supposed that he would become the fulfilment of youthful dreams she had decided were childish fantasies.

Now, remembering the night before and this morning, she could hardly believe herself the same person.

Certainly, Darcy was not—had never been—the person whom she imagined.

He is so much better , and she could not wait to inform her family of his goodness, to the extent that she could.

Lydia would be especially pleased that her predictions had been accurate.

As she sealed the invitation to the Gardiners, Mrs Miles interrupted her with a gentle knock.

“You have callers, Mrs Darcy.” She handed over two fashionably printed cards.

Mrs Caroline Plumpton , read the first. Mrs Louisa Hurst was printed upon the other.

Abruptly, Elizabeth was thrown back into the past—to the last time she had seen one of those ladies. It had been an ugly confrontation at Netherfield, a few short months before Jane and Bingley’s deaths.

“Frankly, Jane, you allow your servants to rule you. It is time you put your foot down and take charge of your nursery,” Mrs Plumpton, her bejewelled earbobs flashing, arms akimbo, had lectured sternly.

The look on Jane’s face was flushed with indecision. “Cassandra will apologise, of course,” she offered meekly.

Elizabeth’s temper had flared; how dare Mrs Plumpton—who paid so little attention to her own child herself, yet who allowed no one else to discipline him either—pretend that she was some sort of proficient parent! How dare Cassandra’s mother refuse to defend her daughter!

“Cassandra will apologise for nothing,” Elizabeth had declared implacably.

“Walter has behaved in an unacceptable manner. He bit her until he drew blood, Mrs Plumpton, like a rabid dog, and is not fit for the company of other children. Come, see the bruised and swollen bite marks upon your child’s arm, Jane! ”

Mrs Plumpton’s face had flushed dark red, fury snapping in her narrowed eyes.

She ignored Elizabeth, addressing Jane alone.

“This is the problem, Jane. You have allowed your country relations the run of my brother’s home.

He is too amiable to put his foot down, but it is plain he avoids the place.

Like woodworm, they have infested every nook and cranny, destroying its peace and sanctity, until he can only find refuge in Mayfair with the Hursts.

No wonder he can seldom be convinced to even visit this place, if this is the sort of performance he is treated to—a shrewish sister who has practically taught his own children to run wild. ”

Elizabeth had watched as those hateful words preyed upon all of Jane’s feelings of inadequacy; she then witnessed the moment Jane had caved beneath them.

“Lizzy, there is no reason to be hateful,” she had declared, drawing herself up, facing her sister.

“I should not have to say this to you. After all we have done for you, hearing you speak to my guests—to my family in such a manner is unacceptable. You owe Caroline an apology. Tilson shall of course be replaced, and Cassandra will apologise to Walter.”

The satisfied smirk on Mrs Plumpton’s face had been too much; Elizabeth had wished to slap them both.

“Over my dead body,” she swore, turning on her heel.

She had returned upstairs and spent the rest of the evening in the nursery—guarding Cassandra and Tommy.

There were no apologies rendered, not then, and not the following morning, when she heard the sounds from below of carriages being loaded.

She had watched from the nursery windows as Mr and Mrs Plumpton were handed into one carriage, and Walter with his nurse, into another.

“Good riddance,” Elizabeth had muttered.

But Jane had been shattered, her little house party ruined. Elizabeth had tried to reason with her.

“Your sister-in-law is the shrew,” Elizabeth had said. “You know Cassandra is a sweet girl, who would never have shoved Walter away had she not been attacked.”

Jane would not listen. “You have always been unmannerly, saying whatever you think, no matter how uncivilised! Now you have taught my daughter your wild ways! It is no wonder my children hate me! You are ruining my marriage and my family with it!”

“Jane, that is nonsense! Your children adore you, and if you spent more time with them, you would know it for yourself!” But her sister had only wept copiously, offering incoherent, hysterical accusation.

It was Bingley himself who—finally—intervened, and then, only when his wife’s shrieks and cries were too noisy to ignore.

With unusual sternness, he had ordered her to her bed.

He had told Elizabeth to ‘never mind it all’ and to ‘ignore Caroline’ and that Jane was only overwrought due to ‘her excessive nerves’.

Jane and Bingley departed the following day, with but the briefest of goodbyes to the children. Jane had refused to speak to Elizabeth. Bingley had, in his too-hearty, over-cheerful fashion, extended farewells for them both.

It was the last time Elizabeth had seen her sister alive.

Jane had begun to make some of her own friends, towards the end of her life.

Elizabeth only knew that, however, because a couple of matrons had written to her mother, quite kindly, upon Jane’s death.

It had been a comfort. But their unresolved differences, their final parting, would be a scar upon Elizabeth’s heart forever.

And now the women I most despise are here, in my home, doubtless trying to ingratiate themselves with Darcy.

The housekeeper was still patiently awaiting her answer. The urge to claim she was not at home was strong. “I will be down momentarily,” she said instead.

Elizabeth took her time; she considered changing into a finer day gown, but decided against appearing as if she felt the need to bedeck herself in anything grand for this particular company.

When she entered the drawing room, they greeted her with the enthusiasm of long-lost relations. She did not sit.

“Oh, Mrs Darcy, we were so pleased to hear of your marriage!” Mrs Plumpton gushed.

“So pleased,” Mrs Hurst repeated, a bit more nervously, plainly reading Elizabeth’s expression and finding nothing of pleasure in it.

“My dear sister Jane would have been so happy, had she lived to know of it,” Mrs Plumpton continued. Blatantly affecting emotion, she brought her handkerchief up to the corner of her eye.

“Um, yes, that is, we ought to have visited—we meant to visit you much sooner, much more often, that is, to express the depth of our grief, and to condole our niece and nephew—” Mrs Hurst began.

It was too much, and Elizabeth cut her off before she could perjure herself any further.

“How very often during her life, Jane told me of the way you treated her, your constant complaints of her inadequacies, your mean-spirited vindictiveness, your ridicule of her ‘countrified’ ways, your criticism of the fortune she did not have, the fine people she did not know. I cannot think of a single reason why I would invite you to make my life the bottomless pit of misery you made of hers.”

Louisa Hurst’s brows rose in surprise. Caroline Plumpton opened her mouth to say something, leaning forwards as if she would argue. Mrs Hurst laid a cautious hand upon her sister’s, clearly a warning. Mrs Hurst always did have more social acuity than her younger sister.

“We all have regrets, I am sure,” she hedged in a conciliatory fashion.

“I do,” Elizabeth agreed. “I regret that Jane absorbed your reproaches so fully, that she spent so much time trying to please you, that she courted your approval so assiduously. I regret that she allowed you to hurt her. She was a far better wife than your brother ever deserved—and a better sister than you did.”

She watched Mrs Hurst’s hand clench on Mrs Plumpton’s arm, stopping the protest that almost escaped. Oh, yes, Mrs Hurst is aware of plenty of her brother’s flaws.

“We will go, now,” Mrs Hurst said—mostly addressing her sister, whose face had turned beet red in shock and indignation.

“I would stay and listen, if I were you,” Elizabeth charged, her voice emerging with harsh demand.

Both women froze in the act of rising, staring at her—Mrs Hurst with consternation, Mrs Plumpton with resentment.

But at that moment, Darcy entered the drawing room; she ought to have known that one of his loyal retainers would inform him of just who was visiting.

Mrs Plumpton, seeing an opportunity to change the tenor of the conversation, stepped forwards.

“Oh, Mr Darcy—we came to congratulate you upon your marriage, and to express our happiness that our dearest niece and nephew have been so fortunate as to gain such a father!”

Against every rule of protocol, he gave her his back, striding directly to Elizabeth and taking both her hands in his. “Is this company disturbing you, darling?”

He had never before called her by such a term of endearment; it was probably for the benefit of her visitors, but she found a smile, regardless, when a moment before she had not felt anything of happiness.

“I am well. I find I have not quite finished saying all that I wish to say to them.”

He turned, stepping behind Elizabeth and placing his hands upon her shoulders before solemnly addressing both ladies. “I am quite certain that you will wish to hear anything my wife sees fit to tell you.”

Mrs Hurst made a fluttering motion, as if to deny any objection, but Mrs Plumpton was not quite cowed. “Oh, but?—”

“You will listen,” Darcy ordered, in such a tone of command that her mouth snapped shut.

“During her life, both of you did your best to make Jane feel she was to blame for the loss of my husband’s friendship,” Elizabeth continued, keeping her voice even and calm now.

“As it happens, your brother managed to lose Mr Darcy’s friendship all by himself, without any assistance from my poor sister.

Let us hope Mr Bingley’s worst behaviour never becomes public, lest it reflect badly upon you, even from the grave. ”

“I find it incredible that you should ever have assumed such a thing of Elizabeth’s dear sister,” Darcy added coldly.

“I stood up with Bingley at his wedding. Surely you cannot believe I would lend my support to any match of which I utterly disapproved. Her birth was better than his—and yours, I might add.”

His hands were warm upon her shoulders; Mrs Plumpton could not seem to remove her gaze from them.

“Dearest Jane would have wanted—” she began.

“No apology is adequate,” Mrs Hurst quickly interrupted.

“That is correct,” Elizabeth replied. “But yes, let us truly speak of what Jane would have wanted. She wanted acceptance. It was denied. She wanted friendship. You deprived her of it. She wanted family. You both made her feel as an outcast. She wanted her children to have a relationship with their cousin, Walter. Thus far, it seems impossible. Walter is completely unmanageable, spoilt, and difficult. This is not solely his fault, as his nurses are allowed to administer very little discipline. I feel sorry for him. He is only four years old, and if you go on as you are now, I expect he will be ruined well before he is school-aged. Therefore, I am willing to have him this summer at Pemberley. You will not be welcome to accompany him, not this time. However, if all goes well, we shall see what the future holds. We shall see if we can make something of him, before you have wrecked him entirely.”

Mrs Plumpton’s mouth opened and closed like a particularly angry trout, her face mottled with ruddy rage. “How dare you—” she began, but Mrs Hurst rounded on her.

“Caroline, do not be a fool. Walter is a little savage. Accept Mrs Darcy’s generous offer or none of us will ever speak to you again. She is right, right about everything.”

Mrs Hurst brought her handkerchief up to her mouth, as if she had astonished herself. But Mrs Plumpton seemed to wilt.

“I will have Henderson show you out,” Darcy said, and as if the butler were waiting just beyond the drawing room door for this very hint, he appeared.

Moments later, Darcy and Elizabeth were alone.