The suggestion hung in the air, absurd and yet somehow enticing. Darcy dared not glance at Elizabeth, lest he give away his maddening regard for her. He needed distance. Space to think, to process the tumult of emotions Elizabeth Bennet’s presence had unleashed. Most of all, he needed to regain his equilibrium, to armor himself against whatever further disruptions this impossible woman might cause.
“I believe we’ve had quite enough melodrama for one afternoon,” he said, moving to the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have letters to write regarding these new… arrangements.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE DARCY GALLERY
Elizabeth’s fingerstwisted in her lap as she watched Mr. Darcy exit the drawing room. The tea time at Pemberley had dissolved into a battlefield littered with casualties. Less than an hour ago, she had followed Mrs. Wickham here with such certainty, convinced that within these walls lay the answers to her true identity, the proof of her birthright. Instead, she found herself shipwrecked on the shoals of her own temper, Mrs. Wickham banished, Mr. Darcy regarding her with suspicion and wounded pride, while the Bingley siblings circling like overly solicitous vultures.
The aftermath of battle always proved more exhausting than the conflict itself. Her righteous fury had burned bright and hot, but now she felt hollow, scraped clean by the force of her own words. She had defended Mrs. Wickham with such passion, such certainty, yet tiny seeds of doubt had begun sprouting in the silence that followed the older woman’s departure.
“Well!” Caroline Bingley broke the ringing silence with affected brightness. “What a… stimulating discussion. I do hope Mr. Darcy isn’t too distressed by such a frank exchange.”
“I’m sure Mr. Darcy has survived worse assaults on his character,” she said dryly, “though perhaps not in his own drawing room.”
Mr. Bingley hovered before her like an anxious butterfly. “Darcy takes everything to heart, though he’d never admit it. Remarkable man, really. Deeply principled.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth fixed him with a penetrating stare. “And what of your principles, Mr. Bingley? I recall your particular attentions to my sister Jane in Hertfordshire. Has your regard shifted so quickly? Why are you here, adding to the intrigue?”
Bingley flushed to the roots of his fair hair. “I hold your sister in the highest esteem. However, my party had never planned to winter in Netherfield. Isn’t that so, Caroline?”
“Most certainly so.” Caroline came to her brother’s immediate aid. “We always retire to London for the holidays, and since Darcy’s precipitous departure from Hertfordshire, my brother has no tutor to school him in the arts of estate management.”
Elizabeth stood from the settee, not sure where she should go. Mrs. Wickham had taken her carriage. Elizabeth didn’t have her reticule or valise. Her hands were empty other than her gloves, and…
Georgiana noticed her uneasiness. “Miss Bennet, I do hope you are not too distressed by all this unpleasantness.”
“I confess myself rather overwhelmed,” Elizabeth admitted, surprised by her own honesty. Something about Georgiana’s genuine concern made pretense seem not only unnecessary but unkind. “Your brother and I seem destined to misunderstand each other at every turn.”
“Oh, but Fitzwilliam is not nearly so severe as he appears,” Georgiana said, stepping closer with visible relief at Elizabeth’s willingness to engage. “He has shouldered such burdens since Father died, and sometimes I think the weight of responsibility makes him… well, rather more serious than nature intended.”
Charles Bingley suddenly brightened. “Miss Bennet, you must allow me to say how admirably you conducted yourself. Such spirit!Such principled defense of your friend! I have always maintained that integrity is the finest quality in a lady.”
His solicitousness toward her, when only days ago he had been all smiles and gallantry toward Jane, struck a discordant note that made her spine straighten with suspicion.
Elizabeth glanced toward the drawing room door, painfully aware of her awkward position. She was neither family nor invited guest, yet without conveyance, resources, or even the most basic possessions, she found herself entirely dependent on the hospitality of a household whose master she had just thoroughly insulted. Propriety offered no guidance for such an extraordinary situation. Did one request accommodations from the sister of the man one had just verbally eviscerated? The social manuals her mother had forced upon her contained no chapter on “What To Do When You May Be The Rightful Heir But Have No Proof And Have Just Called The Current Master Heartless.”
“I find myself in rather unusual circumstances,” she ventured carefully, meeting Georgiana’s earnest gaze. “I confess I’m uncertain of the proper course. With Mrs. Wickham’s departure… I seem to be left here.” She hesitated, unwilling to articulate her complete dependence.
Georgiana’s eyes widened with sudden understanding, and she clasped her hands together. “Oh! You must stay here, of course. We have plenty of room, and—” She stopped, blushing at her own eagerness. “That is to say, if you are indeed my cousin, then Pemberley is as much your home as it is mine. And even if not, you remain our guest until matters are resolved.”
Elizabeth felt a rush of gratitude toward the girl. “You are most kind.”
“Not at all,” Georgiana insisted, then brightened as a new thought struck her. “We should visit the portrait gallery immediately. You must see Uncle John and Aunt Rose—your parents, that is, if… well, you understand. Their portraits are quite remarkable, and there’s even a family painting with you as a baby!”
Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Elizabeth’s energy revived with an eagerness to see these tangible connections to her possible past. “I would like that very much, Miss Darcy.”
“Georgiana, please,” the girl insisted, then bit her lip. “That is, if we are indeed cousins, might we not use our Christian names?”
Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s transparency. “I would be honored… Georgiana.”
“What a splendid idea,” Caroline observed with the sharpness of a needle piercing cloth. “A tour of the gallery would be most educational for us all. The Darcy lineage is so distinguished.”
“I shall accompany you as well,” Bingley declared, offering his arm with a flourish that Elizabeth found excessive. “A tour of one’s ancestral home is a significant occasion.”
Elizabeth hesitated, reluctant to encourage his attention yet aware of the social awkwardness of refusing. But in the end, she decided having Darcy’s best friend on her side would ease the tension significantly.
The journey through Pemberley’s halls provided Elizabeth with glimpses of what might have been her birthright—high ceilings adorned with delicate plasterwork, walls hung with tasteful artwork, furniture that whispered of generations of refinement rather than shouting of new money. Unlike the ostentatious displays she had seen in other great houses, Pemberley’s elegance lay in its restraint, a quality of beauty and function rather than mere display.
