This last comment, delivered with a pointed glance at Charles Bingley, made Elizabeth wish for temporary deafness.
“How fortunate that Lizzy has found her true family,” Lydia added, helping herself to more wine. “Though I don’t see why it makes her such a grand catch now. She’s still the same Lizzy, only with a different name.”
Before Elizabeth could respond to this unexpectedly perceptive observation from her youngest sister, the dining room door opened to admit Mr. Furgate, Darcy’s butler.
“Mr. Darcy, sir,” Furgate announced, “Mrs. Amelia Bingley has arrived and requests to join the family for dinner. She sends her apologies for the unexpected nature of her visit.”
Charles Bingley nearly choked on his wine. “My mother? Here at Pemberley?”
His reaction was so startled that Elizabeth’s curiosity was immediately piqued. Caroline, however, swirled her wineglass, looking like she’d pulled a plum from the pudding.
“Of course,” Darcy said. “Please show Mrs. Bingley in and have another place set immediately.”
“Very good, sir.”
The door opened to admit a stately woman of perhaps sixty years, dressed in rich plum silk. Her silver-streaked hair was arranged in an elegant style. Most striking, however, were her bright-blue eyes—sharp, intelligent, and calculating.
“Mrs. Bingley,” Darcy said, rising from his seat. “Welcome to Pemberley. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Bingley replied, her cultured voice carrying just the right note of apology. “When Caroline wrote of your house guest, I simply could not resist the opportunity to meet the young lady causing such a stir in our quiet corner of Derbyshire.”
Her gaze moved deliberately to Elizabeth, who felt herself being assessed with uncomfortable thoroughness.
“Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Bingley continued, “or should I say, Miss Darcy? I have heard the most extraordinary reports.”
Elizabeth smiled. “As the matter remains legally unresolved, Miss Bennet will suffice for the present, Mrs. Bingley.”
“Such commendable modesty,” the older woman observed, though whether she meant it as a compliment or criticism remained unclear.
A flurry of introductions followed as Mrs. Bennet practically vibrated with eagerness to establish her connection to this new arrival. “I am Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire, mother to Elizabeth—though of course we now know she is actually the daughter of Rose Bennet Darcy, my husband’s sister.”
Mrs. Bingley’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Indeed? How fascinating. I look forward to hearing the full account.”
The footmen hastily rearranged place settings to accommodate their unexpected guest, with the result that Elizabeth found herself flanked by Charles Bingley and his mother.
“I must say, Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Bingley began once the soup course was served, “you bear a striking resemblance to your mother. Rose had the same expressive eyes.”
Elizabeth’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “You knew my mother, Mrs. Bingley?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Bingley replied with a casual wave of her hand. “Our husbands were great friends, after all. Rose was a delightful woman—so spirited and unconventional. Not everyone appreciated her directness, but I found it refreshing.”
“What a blessing that you knew my sister Rose,” Mrs. Bennet interjected. “She was always the clever one in the family. Mr. Bennet’s father had her educated almost like a son—Latin, mathematics, and all manner of unusual subjects.”
Mrs. Bingley’s smile tightened. “Indeed. Rose had a remarkable mind. Such a tragic loss when she died so young.”
“But at least her daughter survived,” Charles offered, turning toward Elizabeth with a warmth that he used to reserve for Jane.
“Charles has always been close to the Darcys, as was my husband, who was well acquainted with both Mr. John and Mr. William. We vacationed here often,” Mrs. Bingley said, her eyes shrewd beneath her pleasant expression. “As a friend of Rose, I was so relieved to hear that her daughter had survived.”
“How gratifying to know my mother is remembered so fondly,” Elizabeth replied, meeting Mrs. Bingley’s gaze with equal shrewdness. “Were you present when the fire started?”
Mrs. Bingley hesitated, her composure faltering. “I—well, that was quite some time ago, my dear. Memory grows imprecise with the passing years.”
“And yet, you must have heard about it,” Elizabeth suggested, noting the woman’s discomfort.
“I believe—yes, I recall now. I was taking tea with Lady Anne in the blue drawing room.” Mrs. Bingley’s confidence seemed to return. “Such a dreadful shock. The messenger came running from the cottage, quite beside himself. We couldn’t believe it at first.”
“So, your entire family was visiting Pemberley at the time?” Elizabeth drilled deeper, noting that Lady Anne was no longer around to verify Mrs. Bingley’s story.
