Page 52 of Moments Frozen in Time (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

I turned towards her as I listened to Mrs. Nicholls’ response.

“Around five in the afternoon, I think,” she said.

“The family had taken tea a short time before and was still in the sitting room, although the bell rang to indicate it was time to dress for dinner not long after. They prefer to eat at half past seven, and the bell normally rings around half past five.”

Elizabeth nodded but remained quiet for a moment.

Finally, she turned to me and spoke, “What is the likelihood that the lady I overheard in St. Albans yesterday was Mrs. Bingley? It was early enough when we stopped for the night that they could have continued on and reached Netherfield by that time.”

I took a moment to consider this before addressing the housekeeper directly, responding to her earlier question.

“I believe it would be best if you announced us properly,” I said.

“Please be certain to emphasise that Elizabeth is Mrs. Darcy—and mention nothing else. Also, if you would be so kind, open the door as wide as possible. I wish to see their faces the moment we enter.”

Mrs. Nicholls’s eyes sparkled with barely concealed amusement, though she attempted to school her features into a more neutral expression.

I could not blame her. Even I found a hint of humour in the situation.

When I left Netherfield more than two months ago, I had suspected it might mark the end of my friendship with Charles Bingley.

And standing here now, with Elizabeth on my arm, I could scarcely imagine how it could be otherwise.

As requested, Mrs. Nicholls opened the door wide. “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy to see you, sir,” she announced, her voice crisp as she addressed Bingley.

What followed was precisely the reaction I had anticipated.

The expressions around the breakfast table shifted with startling speed—first surprise at hearing my name, then bewilderment and disbelief at the name Mrs. Darcy, and finally a mixture of shock, confusion, and something perilously close to panic when their eyes landed on the woman at my side.

Elizabeth stood tall and composed, her hand tucked with quiet assurance into the crook of my arm. Together, we stepped into the room, presenting a united front.

“Good morning, Bingley,” I said evenly, my gaze barely brushing the others seated at the table.

Bingley nearly overturned his chair in his haste to stand.

“Darcy… I had not expected you. What brings you to Netherfield?” he exclaimed, his eyes darting between us.

“And with—Miss Elizabeth Bennet? I take it you finally discovered where the lady had been taken?” He cast a quick, unmistakably guilty glance towards his sister.

Only then did I allow my eyes to drift to the far end of the table, where Miss Bingley sat—looking rather too healthy for someone supposedly recovering from months of illness that had left her unable to stray far from bed or to speak or communicate to anyone.

Seated beside her was an elegantly dressed older woman with strikingly similar features.

The resemblance between them was unmistakable; one could easily mistake them for sisters rather than mother and daughter.

“She was in a cottage in Scotland,” I replied. “And since we were already in the country, we sought out a minister and were married there.”

I paused, letting the weight of the words settle before adding, with pointed emphasis, “We had been engaged before she was sent away. And we had no intention of allowing anything—or anyone—to separate us ever again.”

“But the rumours,” Miss Bingley drawled.

“Even in this backwards place, I have seen the reports in the newspaper about you and your mistress.” She stared at Elizabeth, her eyes moving up and down her form in a most unpleasant way.

I felt Elizabeth start to shiver under the gaze of that hateful woman, but she stilled the shaking and lifted her chin against the insults.

“Miss Elizabeth’s reputation will be ruined before you even step foot in town. The letters from my friends have been full of stories about you, Mr. Darcy, and you need someone by your side who will help you, not embarrass you.”

“Like you, Miss Bingley?” I asked with a scoff before schooling my expression into one of mild curiosity.

“I see you have made a remarkable recovery from that mysterious illness that kept you confined for weeks—though, as I understand it, you improved rather suddenly just a few days ago. You look quite well for someone who has supposedly been so unwell. Almost as if you had never been ill at all.”

I let the words linger for a moment, then continued in a light, conversational tone, as though the months since we had last met had passed without incident.

“You may be interested to know that Mrs. Mackenzie, Miss Elizabeth’s hostess, is a rather charming Scottish woman—full of stories about her former guests.

Bingley, did you realise that when you wrote to arrange Elizabeth’s stay at the cottage, Mrs. Mackenzie was reminded of another visitor she once hosted? ”

“Who is Mrs. Mackenzie, and why would I have written to her?” Bingley asked, his confusion written on his face. “I did not arrange for Miss Elizabeth to go anywhere. Why would you think otherwise? ”

“Mrs. Mackenzie is the housekeeper of a cottage in Scotland that is often used by unmarried young ladies as they wait for their confinement to end. She told me that a ‘C. Bingley’ arranged for Elizabeth’s stay there,” I told him.

Bingley glanced once more towards the end of the table, but this time, I noted that his gaze lingered not on his sister—but on the older woman beside her.

“I had suspected the letter was not from you,” I said coolly, “and assumed your sister to be the author. But now I see there is likely another ‘C. Bingley’ whose involvement makes far more sense. Will you not introduce me to your mother, old friend?”

My voice was edged with disdain, and from the flicker of discomfort in Bingley’s eyes, he heard my message plainly enough.

He swallowed before speaking. “My mother, Mrs. Caroline Bingley,” he said stiffly. “Mother, this is Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley and…and his wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy.”

The elder Mrs. Bingley fixed us both with a cold, assessing glare. After a beat, she spoke, her tone sharp and imperious. “How did you find her?”

I glared at the woman for a moment longer before speaking.

“It appears Mrs. Mackenzie believed Elizabeth to be like the others—sent there quietly and discreetly to avoid a scandal. But when it became obvious Elizabeth was not with child, she realised she had been deceived. And when she learnt I was searching for my intended, someone from the staff at the cottage ensured I received word of her location. I arrived just ahead of a storm and stayed there for two days with Elizabeth.”

Meeting her gaze without flinching, I continued evenly, “Elizabeth’s guardian had already approved our match, and the marriage contract was signed.

With nothing standing in our way, we saw no reason to delay.

We were wed by a Scottish minister, right there in the house, while a snowstorm raged outside.

And we have the marriage certificate to prove it.

That is the convenience of Scottish law—it permits such unions with far less obstruction. ”

“They were not supposed to release her until autumn,” she snapped back at me.

“I should never have been so generous. But Charles—” she threw a scathing look at her son “—was weak. He would not allow Miss Elizabeth to suffer physical harm. He cared too much for her elder sister to bear the thought of her grief. And now—” she waved a dismissive hand at Elizabeth—“you have ruined everything. Mr. Darcy should have been Caroline’s husband. Not yours.”

Bingley’s face turned ashen. For a moment, I thought he might faint from the shock.

Miss Bingley, by contrast, looked positively triumphant, her eyes glittering with what I thought looked like vindication.

The Hursts, seated nearby, were visibly horrified—both staring as though they could not quite believe what they had just heard.

“I would never have married Miss Bingley,” I said coldly. “Especially not after what I now know. Had you somehow forced a union between us, I would have sought an annulment—or, failing that, a divorce—as soon as it became clear that your daughter was not a maiden.”

Miss Bingley blanched.

A sharp gasp escaped Mrs. Hurst. “What are you speaking of, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, her wide eyes swinging towards her mother and sister. “Caroline? Why would he suspect such a thing?”

Then her brows drew together, as if piecing together a puzzle long forgotten.

“You left school a month early in your final year,” she said slowly, turning to her sister.

“You and Mother claimed it was to visit Aunt Gertrude in Yorkshire, who had taken ill. But you were gone for about a year…. Were you in Scotland then? At that cottage Mr. Darcy mentioned?”

Miss Bingley gave a dismissive wave of her hand, aiming for nonchalance, but the slight tremble in her voice betrayed her. “Do not be absurd, Louisa. That was years ago?—”

“She was in Scotland,” Elizabeth cut in, her voice steady and unflinching.

“At the same cottage that I found myself taken to. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mackenzie, recalled your sister’s name clearly.

Miss Caroline Bingley was there for nearly a year, remaining to recover several months after delivering her child, a son.

The baby was given to a local couple who could not conceive.

Mrs. Mackenzie remembered her perfectly and also remembered the lady’s mother visiting during that time. ”

She turned her gaze to Mrs. Hurst. “By the time Miss Bingley returned to society, I believe you were already engaged to your now husband.”