“Nor I,” Darcy agreed from behind her.
Mrs. Bennet looked ready to protest, but subsided at Elizabeth’s warning glance. Martha’s lips thinned with displeasure, but she too nodded reluctantly.
“Then it is settled.” Blythewood rose, signaling the end of their extraordinary meeting. “I shall begin compiling the necessary documentation for a formal investigation into Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s claim. Smith will contact all parties regarding statements and interviews.”
As they prepared to depart, Mrs. Bennet suddenly brightenedwith a new thought. “Oh! Mr. Darcy! I nearly forgot to thank you for your hospitality.”
Darcy blinked, clearly nonplussed. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bennet?”
“For hosting us at Pemberley, of course. When Lizzy wrote of the All Hallows’ Eve assembly, I knew we simply must attend to support her in her first public appearance as Elizabeth Rose Darcy. We’ve brought our trunks and everything—Lydia and I traveled directly to Lambton, you see, knowing you’d escort us to Pemberley afterward.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, certain that her mortification had reached heights previously unknown to humankind. When she opened them, she found Darcy regarding her mother with an expression she could not quite interpret—something between resignation and, astonishingly, the faintest hint of amusement.
“Indeed,” he said gravely. “Miss Elizabeth had not mentioned your planned attendance, but Pemberley has ample room for family guests.”
The emphasis he placed on “family” was subtle but unmistakable, and Elizabeth felt a rush of gratitude so intense it momentarily robbed her of speech. Whether he intended to acknowledge her potential relation or merely to be courteous to her mother mattered less than the kindness of the gesture.
Martha Wickham’s lips curled in a derisive smile. “How gracious of you, Mr. Darcy, to welcome the woman claiming your cousin’s identity and her… interesting family. Though a true Darcy would never align herself with such common behavior.”
The insult hung in the air, its target deliberately ambiguous—aimed at either Elizabeth’s claim to Darcy blood or her connection to Mrs. Bennet. Either way, it demanded a response.
Elizabeth rose from her chair, positioning herself between her mother and Martha Wickham. “Mrs. Bennet raised me with love and care, regardless of my parentage,” she said, her voice low but carrying. “Her methods may lack refinement, but her heartdoes not lack generosity. I would rather be judged by my character than my connections—a sentiment I believe the Darcys would share.”
She felt more than saw Darcy’s reaction—a subtle shift in his posture that suggested approval, perhaps even admiration. Martha’s face tightened with frustration at being so neatly outmaneuvered.
“This isn’t over,” Martha warned, moving toward the door. “There are others who know the truth—others who won’t be silenced by legal maneuvers or fine words.”
With that ominous declaration, she departed, leaving a wake of tension behind her.
“Well!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed into the silence. “What an unpleasant woman. To think she dared accuse me of theft, when I have raised Lizzy as my own these twenty years. The very idea.”
Elizabeth shared a sympathetic glance with Darcy, finding understanding in his dark eyes. Together they managed to extract Mrs. Bennet and Lydia from Blythewood’s office with a minimum of further drama, though not without several more effusive declarations regarding Elizabeth’s rightful place and Mrs. Bennet’s maternal devotion.
Outside, Darcy’s carriage waited, the coachman impassive despite the unusual party now approaching his vehicle. With impeccable courtesy, Darcy handed Mrs. Bennet and Lydia inside first, then Georgiana, before turning to offer Elizabeth his assistance.
As her gloved hand met his, he spoke quietly, for her ears alone. “You handled that with remarkable grace, Miss Bennet.”
The simple praise, delivered without condescension or pity, warmed her more than any elaborate compliment could have done. “Thank you,” she replied softly. “For everything.”
And she meant it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DINNER DESIGNS
“Such exquisite china.Surely the finest I’ve ever seen—even finer than Lady Lucas’s best service.” Mrs. Bennet’s voice carried across Pemberley’s cavernous dining room. “And just think, Lizzy, all this will be yours. Well, I suppose it already is yours, in a manner of speaking. Darcy blood will tell.”
Elizabeth flinched for probably the hundredth time since her mother’s untimely arrival in Derbyshire. Her mother had swept into Pemberley like a whirlwind, immediately claiming the head of the table as she, being the wife of a gentleman, outranked Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Sitting opposite Darcy, she extolled Pemberley’s many splendors with the proprietary air of an empress surveying newly conquered territories. Nothing had escaped comment—from the “heavenly” draperies to the “masterful” silverwork.
“Goodness, Lizzy, how grand is your estate,” Lydia remarked, helping herself to more wine than was proper for a girl of her age. “I should think the servants alone would fill our entire house at Longbourn.”
“Lydia, please,” Elizabeth murmured, wondering if the roof could fall on her and bury her alive.
“Now, Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Bennet gestured expansively with her soup spoon. “You simply must tell me about these magnificent portraits in the hall. Is that gentleman with the stern expression your grandfather? He has Lizzy’s eyes exactly. Or rather, she has his, I should say.”
Elizabeth dared a glance at Darcy, expecting to find cold disapproval. Instead, his lips curved with what might be sympathetic humor. Georgiana, seated across from Lydia, looked like a startled doe facing unexpected gunfire, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her napkin.
“Just look at how gracefully Lizzy holds her teacup. Such elegant fingers. Her penmanship is the finest in all of Hertfordshire, though now we understand why. Darcy blood will tell! Not that my other daughters aren’t accomplished, of course. Jane is quite the beauty, though sadly lacking a suitor at present.”
