Page 30

Elizabeth

T he morning dawned cheerless and grey, the heavy sky pressing down like Elizabeth’s spirits.

Within the hour, they would leave Netherfield behind for Kent, where Lady Catherine de Bourgh and the Earl of Matlock awaited at Rosings Park.

Elizabeth stood at the window, watching grooms ready the carriage, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the cold glass while her mind dwelt on the peculiar events of the previous evening.

Jane’s face had fallen when Mr Bingley, all warmth and attention throughout the ball, had vanished before the final set without so much as a goodnight. The memory of her sister’s brave attempt at a smile still stung.

“Perhaps he was called away,” Jane had murmured as Elizabeth helped her into the carriage. “Though I had hoped we might walk in the gardens before the ball concluded.”

Elizabeth had nodded and squeezed her sister’s hand, but a scene she’d witnessed earlier haunted her thoughts—Darcy and Bingley in heated conversation on the terrace, followed by Bingley’s sudden change, his easy manner replaced by something formal.

And Darcy himself, growing more distant by the hour.

A soft knock broke her reverie.

“Come in.”

Sarah appeared with a curtsy. “Mr Darcy says the carriage will be ready in half an hour, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

When the door closed, Elizabeth sank onto the chair before her dressing table.

The mirror reflected a pale face, shadows beneath her eyes from a night of restless turning.

Darcy’s wounded expression when she’d mentioned Wickham flashed in her memory.

But there was something else there too, something beyond mere disappointment at her secrecy.

She found him in the entrance hall with Bingley. Both men fell silent at her approach.

“Good morning,” she said, the words hanging awkwardly between them. “I trust you are well?”

“Tolerably well, Mrs Darcy,” Bingley replied, his usual animation nowhere to be found. “I was assuring Darcy your journey to Kent should be pleasant, the roads are clear.”

“You’re most kind,” Elizabeth said, watching him carefully.

“The carriage is waiting.” Darcy glanced towards the door. “We should leave now to reach Rosings before dark.”

Their farewells to the Bingleys were hasty and colder than she had expected.

They had already said their goodbyes to the Bennets the night before, though Elizabeth intended to call on them on her return from London later that week.

As the carriage pulled away, Elizabeth cast one last look at Netherfield, her stomach tight with foreboding.

Darcy stared at his book, though Elizabeth noticed his eyes weren’t moving across the page. She gazed out at the passing countryside, gathering courage for what needed to be said.

“Fitzwilliam,” she began at last. “I must apologise about Mr Wickham.”

“I don’t wish to discuss it further.” He snapped the book shut. “Not now. My mind is elsewhere.”

Elizabeth studied his face but found nothing there—no anger, no warmth, only a distant civility that hurt more than rage would have.

“I can tell something else troubles you,” she ventured.

“Beyond Wickham. Won’t you tell me?” She wondered if her family had made him so uncomfortable during the dinner and the ball thereafter, he might have withdrawn from her.

They had not acted any differently than they usually would, but what was usual to her might have been alarming to Darcy.

Her sisters and their boisterous natures could be difficult to get used to, especially when one was accustomed to more formal surroundings, as he was.

Darcy’s gaze fixed on something beyond the carriage window. “I’m merely concerned about Rosings. My aunt isn’t known for flexibility or generosity towards those who thwart her wishes.”

“I’ll try not to provoke her unnecessarily.”

“A challenging task.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips before vanishing. “Lady Catherine considers provocation her exclusive privilege.”

They lapsed back into silence. Elizabeth opened her borrowed volume of poetry but found herself reading the same lines over and over, the words blurring as her mind circled around the change in him.

Not angry but… disappointed. As though something fundamental had shifted.

Yet, with him unwilling to discuss the matter, she had to sink back into silence for now, and hope that somehow, they would find their way back to each other again.

They passed the remainder of the journey speaking of nothing—the weather, passing villages, a flock of birds—while avoiding anything of substance.

By the time they crossed into Kent, dread had settled in Elizabeth’s chest. Darcy had not spoken much of his family since the initial letters had arrived.

She knew what to expect, knew they were often of ill humour; that she had gathered from Colonel Fitzwilliam.

During his visit, he had painted a picture of the Fitzwilliam side of the family that had shown her just how much Darcy had risked when they ran away together.

She wanted to reach out and ask how he felt, and if things had been normal between them, she would have.

Alas, as things stood now, he was as likely to round on her as to ignore her, and thus she said nothing.

Instead, she chided herself for not having listened to Jane when she advised her to be honest.

***

Lady Catherine’s manor house appeared against the darkening sky, its sharp silhouette stark and imposing. The formal gardens stretched in precise lines and angles, reflecting their mistress more clearly than any portrait.

“Rosings,” Darcy murmured unnecessarily. “My aunt will be watching from the upstairs parlour. She stands guard whenever visitors are expected.”

Elizabeth smoothed her wrinkled travelling dress. “I’m afraid I’ll make a poor impression.”

“Lady Catherine would find fault regardless. It’s her favourite pastime.”

As predicted, Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood waiting in the entrance hall, ramrod straight, disapproval etched into every line of her face. Beside her stood a gentleman of similar age—Lord Matlock, Darcy’s uncle. Lady Matlock had not accompanied him on the journey.

“Nephew,” Lady Catherine pronounced, her gaze sliding past Elizabeth as if she were invisible. “You’re late. Dinner approaches.”

“I beg your pardon; the roads were busier than anticipated. Aunt Catherine,” Darcy bowed. “May I present my wife, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy? Elizabeth, my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and my uncle, Cecil Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Matlock.”

Elizabeth curtsied, her chin lifted. “Lady Catherine, Lord Matlock. I’m honoured.”

Lady Catherine’s lips pinched tight. “Indeed. Mrs Jenkins will show you to your chambers. Dinner is at seven precisely. We do not tolerate tardiness at Rosings.”

With that, she swept from the hall, Lord Matlock following with barely a nod towards Elizabeth. She stood, utterly perplexed. She had not expected to be welcomed with fanfare but a brief conversation? Some civil whiskers? Nothing at all? A cold shiver ran down her back.

“I did warn you,” Darcy murmured as they climbed the stairs. “Though I’d hoped my uncle might show more civility.”

“I’m not offended,” Elizabeth lied. “One can’t expect immediate acceptance when one has married against family wishes.”

Something flashed across Darcy’s face—guilt? —before vanishing. “Their behaviour falls short of common courtesy. I’ll speak with my uncle.”

“Please don’t. It would only create more discord.”

Before he could answer, a joyful voice called his name. A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs; her face bright with happiness as she rushed down to meet them.

“Fitzwilliam! Mrs Darcy!” She embraced her brother, then turned to Elizabeth with genuine warmth. “Mrs Darcy, I’ve so looked forward to meeting you!”

Elizabeth felt the knot in her chest loosen at Georgiana’s welcome. “Miss Darcy, the pleasure is mine. Your brother speaks of you with such affection that I feel we’re already acquainted.”

“Please, call me Georgiana. We’re sisters now.”

“Then you must call me Elizabeth.”

Darcy watched this exchange with the first genuine smile Elizabeth had seen all day. “Is Richard here too?”

“He arrived yesterday,” Georgiana nodded. “He’s in the library.”

As if summoned by his name, Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared at the top of the staircase, descending with easy grace. Elizabeth’s shoulders relaxed at once. Richard’s presence put her at ease, for it was good to have an ally of sorts. And with Georgiana, perhaps she might find another.

“Darcy! Elizabeth! Thank heavens you’re here—I was about to drown in Lady Catherine’s opinions on chimney sweeps.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she curtsied. “We meet again.”

“I thought we settled on Richard. There is no need for formality on Georgie’s account.”

“Richard, then,” she replied as Georgiana looked on with a bright smile.

Just then, the housekeeper appeared. “Shall I show you to your rooms?” she offered, but Georgiana stepped forward.

“Let me take Elizabeth,” she said. “That way, I can get to know my new sister better.”

“I would like that,” Elizabeth said, grateful to have a little distance between herself and Darcy for once.

“Very well, then I shall escort you, Darcy. What do you say? You can tell me all the latest from Derbyshire,” Richard said and patted Darcy’s back.

Georgiana led Elizabeth to elegant rooms on the eastern side of the house. The chamber was beautiful but lacked Pemberley’s warmth.

“Cousin Anne had these rooms before her marriage,” Georgiana explained. “They’ve been redone since, of course. My rooms are down yonder, around the corner near the dreadful painting of one of Sir Lewis’s great-great-greats.”

“Sir Lewis was Lady Catherine’s husband, yes?”

“Indeed,” Georgiana smiled and pushed open the door to the chamber Elizabeth was to occupy. “It is a shame you cannot stay longer,” she said as they entered into the room. It was smaller than her chambers at Pemberley but well appointed.