Page 27

Elizabeth

D arcy sat beside Elizabeth in the carriage as they made their way to Longbourn. She glanced at him, noting the slight rigidity in his posture that betrayed his apprehension.

“They are not so very terrible,” she ventured with a small smile. “I promise the evening shall not extend beyond bearable limits.”

Darcy turned towards her, his expression softening. “I am not concerned for myself, but for you. This morning’s visit appeared to tax your spirits considerably.”

“It was overwhelming,” Elizabeth acknowledged. “But tonight, will be different.”

The carriage rolled to a halt, and Elizabeth laid her hand briefly upon Darcy’s arm. “Remember that we need not stay above two hours if the company proves too trying.”

“I have weathered Lady Catherine’s company for days on end,” Darcy replied, his lips curving slightly. “Surely I may survive one evening with your family.”

A footman opened the carriage door, and Darcy descended first, turning to offer his hand to Elizabeth. As she alighted, she noted a curtain twitching at the drawing room window—undoubtedly her mother, eager for the first glimpse of her wealthy son-in-law.

The door opened before they reached it, revealing Hill in her best cap, curtsying low as they approached. “Welcome, Mr Darcy, Mrs Darcy,” she said, ushering them into the hall where the family waited with uncharacteristic formality.

Mrs Bennet stood at the centre, her Sunday gown adorned with every ribbon she possessed, her face arranged in what Elizabeth recognised as her company smile.

Mr Bennet lingered at the edge of the group, his expression caught between amusement and resignation.

Jane, elegant in her simple muslin, offered a genuine smile of welcome, while Mary, Kitty, and Lydia formed a curious assembly of contrasting demeanours—Mary solemn, Kitty nervous, Lydia barely containing her forward gaze.

“Mr Darcy!” Mrs Bennet exclaimed, dropping into a curtsy that threatened the integrity of her stays. “What an honour to welcome you to our humble home at last. Longbourn cannot compare to Pemberley, of course, but we trust you shall find it comfortable, sir.”

“Mrs Bennet,” Darcy replied with a bow. “You are most kind. Longbourn appears a pleasant estate indeed.”

They were ushered into the drawing room where tea was promptly served.

Elizabeth watched her husband surreptitiously as the family arranged themselves around him.

He maintained perfect politeness, answering Mrs Bennet’s effusive enquiries about Pemberley with calm precision, neither encouraging her obvious fascination nor betraying any impatience with her persistent questions about the estate’s dimensions, furnishings, and income.

“And the grounds,” Mrs Bennet continued, “I understand they are quite extensive. How many acres did you say?”

“Mama,” Elizabeth intervened, “I am certain Mr Darcy did not come to Longbourn to provide an inventory of Pemberley’s assets.”

“Oh, but it is so interesting!” Mrs Bennet protested, even though Elizabeth had answered most of these questions already. “To think that my own daughter should be mistress of such a grand estate. It is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

Darcy’s expression remained impassive, but Elizabeth noted a slight tightening of his fingers around the teacup.

“Ah, I daresay I hear the dinner bell,” Mr Bennet said, though no such sound had been heard. Grateful, Elizabeth got up and escorted Darcy to the dining room.

At dinner, Elizabeth sat across from Darcy positioned between Mrs Bennet and Mary. It was not an arrangement she would have chosen, but she trusted her husband’s composure would withstand even her mother’s most effusive attentions.

The first course proceeded without incident, the conversation flowing in channels of polite enquiry about the weather, the state of the roads, and the health of various neighbours.

It was not until the second course that the conversation took a more dangerous turn.

“Tell me, Mr Darcy,” Mrs Bennet began, “have you many acquaintances among the nobility? I understand your aunt is Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park.”

“She is,” Darcy confirmed. “Though we are not presently in frequent communication.”

“Not in communication with your own aunt? How extraordinary.” Mrs Bennet’s eyes widened. “Is she perhaps not in good health and unable to write?”

“Her health is excellent, I believe,” Darcy replied. “Our estrangement stems from her disapproval of my marriage.”

A hush fell over the table at this blunt statement. Elizabeth looked up sharply, surprised by her husband’s candour.

“Disapproval?” Mrs Bennet repeated, her voice rising slightly. “But why should anyone disapprove of a match with our Lizzy? She may not have a great fortune, but she is a gentleman’s daughter, with excellent connections.”

“Mother, Mr Darcy’s family was as surprised by our marriage as you were,” Elizabeth interjected swiftly. Elizabeth looked in Jane’s direction and not a second later, Mary flinched at the table. Elizabeth could only assume Jane had nudged her with her foot to say something to divert attention.

“Now, Mr Darcy,” Mary said. “I have been reading most particularly on the subject of familial duty. Fordyce suggests that proper deference to one’s elders is the cornerstone of moral character. Does that not include one’s aunts and uncles?”

“Indeed, if they are willing to engage in conversation,” Darcy replied politely.

“Oh, Mary, pray do not lecture Mr Darcy on moral philosophy,” Lydia interrupted with a toss of her head.

“It is excessively dull, and I am certain he has more interesting matters to discuss. Tell us, Mr Darcy, do you host many balls at Pemberley? I cannot wait for the ball at Netherfield on Saturday, it is only a shame the militia has moved on or they would have provided much entertainment. We had the Derbyshire militia stationed here for some while and they were the most delightful lot.”

Elizabeth saw Darcy stiffen almost imperceptibly at the mention of officers. “The nearest regiment is stationed at Derby,” he replied. “We have little interaction with the militia at Pemberley.”

“How disappointing,” Lydia sighed. “The militia left Meryton last month, and the neighbourhood has been terribly flat since their departure. Lieutenant Denny promised to write to me, but I have had not a single letter.”

“Lydia,” Mr Bennet said sharply, “I hardly think Mr Darcy has journeyed all the way from Derbyshire to hear about your disappointed expectations regarding Lieutenant Denny. Who, as it were, ought not to be writing to an unwed young girl anyhow.”

“No, indeed,” Lydia agreed cheerfully. “But perhaps he might like to know about the officers who were stationed here. Some of them were quite diverting company. Do you not agree, Lizzy? I believe some where even from your area. Lambton, yes?”

Elizabeth felt a chill settle in her stomach. “I found some of the officers to be agreeable acquaintances,” she said carefully.

“Agreeable?” Lydia laughed. “You were quite particular in your admiration for one officer, as I recall. Mr Wickham, wasn’t it? I hardly had a chance to talk to him because he always took up all your time. Such a handsome man, and so very charming!”

Blood drained from Elizabeth’s face as she raised her eyes to meet her husband. Darcy’s expression changed—the pleasant civility replaced by a cold intensity that seemed to lower the temperature of the entire room.

“Lydia, you mistake the matter entirely,” Elizabeth said, attempting to sound light. “Mr Wickham was merely an acquaintance. I would hardly elevate him to more than he was.”

“Oh, but you walked with him on several occasions,” Lydia persisted, oblivious to the sudden tension. “And he singled you out at that party at Aunt Phillips’s house, telling you all those fascinating stories. What were they about again? Something about an inheritance that was unfairly denied him—”

“Enough, Lydia,” Mr Bennet cut in, his voice unusually stern. “You exhaust us all with your chatter about the officers. I am certain Mr Darcy has no interest in these provincial attachments.”

But the damage was done. Darcy had turned his attention to his plate, his face a careful mask, but Elizabeth could see the rigid set of his shoulders and the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped his fork.

The remainder of the dinner passed in strained conversation, with Elizabeth making desperate attempts to revive the earlier civility, but a pall had been cast over the gathering that could not be dispelled.

When the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port, Elizabeth caught her husband’s eye, attempting to convey her distress and regret, but his gaze slid past her, focusing on some point beyond her shoulder.

The evening concluded with a stiffness that belied the initial warmth of their welcome. When at last they took their leave, Elizabeth felt a growing dread at the conversation that must inevitably follow.

The carriage journey commenced in tense silence. Elizabeth cast about for words to bridge the chasm that had opened between them, but found none adequate to the task. It was Darcy who finally broke the stillness, his voice controlled but edged with emotion.

“You knew George Wickham.”

It was not a question, but Elizabeth answered as if it were. “Yes. He was stationed at Meryton with the militia last autumn.”

“And you did not think to mention this… acquaintance to me at any point during our marriage?”

“You never told me about him,” she argued, aware it was a poor defence that would swiftly fall apart once he knew the whole story.

“Mrs Reynolds told me you asked questions about the portrait gallery and she mentioned that she spoke of him. She was uneasy because she knows how I despise him and wanted me to be aware she had spoken of him to you. However, I did not bring it up because you appeared not to know anything of him.”

Elizabeth twisted her fingers in her lap.

This made it worse. “I discovered his connection to you only recently, when I saw his portrait at Pemberley. Mrs Reynolds made it clear she cared little for him but would not elaborate. Then Colonel Fitzwilliam provided further details during his visit. I felt it best not to bring him up. He was no longer in either of our lives.”

“Did Wickham speak to you of me while in Hertfordshire? Your sister implies as much.”

Elizabeth hesitated, then decided that complete honesty was the only path forward. “He did. He claimed that you had denied him a living promised by your father, leaving him in financial distress.”

Darcy’s laugh was harsh and without humour. “Of course he did. Wickham has always excelled at presenting himself as the injured party.” Were these not the words Mrs Reynolds and Darcy’s cousin had used? Elizabeth thought so.

He paused, then continued with deliberate precision.

“The true story is somewhat different. My father provided generously for Wickham’s education, intending him for the church.

When my father died, Wickham approached me to say he had no intention of taking orders.

He requested three thousand pounds in lieu of the living, which I provided.

He squandered the money within two years, then returned demanding the living he had previously renounced. I refused.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam told me this much,” Elizabeth said quietly.

“Did he tell you the rest?” Darcy asked, his voice tight with suppressed anger.

“Did he tell you that Wickham then disappeared, only to resurface at Ramsgate last summer, where my sister was staying with her companion? Did he share how Wickham insinuated himself into Georgiana’s affections, convincing a fifteen-year-old girl that he loved her, persuading her to agree to an elopement?

Did he tell you that Wickham’s true target was not my sister but her fortune of thirty thousand pounds? ”

Elizabeth felt sick with dismay. “He mentioned an incident involving Georgiana.”

“Had I arrived at Ramsgate a day later,” Darcy continued, “my sister would have been ruined beyond recovery. As it was, the experience left her shattered, her trust in her own judgement destroyed. She cannot bear even to hear Wickham’s name mentioned.”

“I had no notion how badly it affected her—”

“No,” Darcy interrupted, “you did not. Because you chose to conceal your acquaintance with him rather than trust me with the truth.”

The carriage rolled to a stop before Netherfield’s entrance, the glow of lanterns illuminating Darcy’s face—a face now drawn with lines of strain and disappointment. He descended first, then turned to assist Elizabeth, his hand impersonal beneath her gloved fingers.

“Why did you not tell me?” he asked as they climbed the steps to the entrance.

Elizabeth looked up at him, seeing the hurt there.

“At first, I knew nothing of your connection to him. Then, when I discovered it, I feared… I feared you would think me of low character for having engaged in a friendship with him, brief aa it might have been. And later, I was ashamed to admit I had been so easily deceived. But after Caroline Bingley mentioned the militia yesterday, I knew I had to tell you.”

“Yet, you did not. I slept in the room next to yours last night. You had ever chance. You saw me this morning, again you said nothing.”

“I would have told you,” she said. “I wanted to when I returned home but then there was tea, and then we were in the drawing room, and then we rode out…” The excuses sounded hollow even to her own ears.

“Trust, Elizabeth,” Darcy said, “is the foundation upon which a marriage must be built. Even a marriage such as ours requires honesty to flourish.”

They had reached the entrance hall now, the butler holding the door open for them, his face carefully blank. Darcy paused, then addressed her with formal courtesy.

“I believe I shall retire immediately. The evening has been… taxing. Good night, Mrs Darcy.”

“Good night, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, watching as he ascended the stairs without a backwards glance.

She remained in the hall for a long moment after he had disappeared, her thoughts in disarray.

How swiftly their newfound happiness had been threatened by this unwelcome truth.

The warmth and understanding that had grown between them during their weeks at Pemberley seemed suddenly fragile, a delicate structure built upon shifting sands.

With a heavy heart, she made her way towards her own chamber, the distance between it and Darcy’s seeming greater tonight than ever before.