"Oh, Elizabeth," my attacker excitedly exclaimed very loudly and very close to to my ear, "I have been longing to meet you ever since I heard of your marriage to Fitzwilliam."
Ah. So this was an embrace. Not an assassination.
"Let her go, darling. She doesn't know who you are," said a male voice. The man spoke softly, yet commandingly with a hint of dry amusement.
The lady reluctantly released me allowing me better view of the speaker. Standing in the center of the room was a fine figure of a man—very tall, very imposing, very—
"Darcy," I said in an unthinking whisper.
Of course the man must beaDarcy. He could be none other than Mr. James Darcy as there were no other gentleman I could see in the room. But when I had spoken I had meanttheDarcy.MyDarcy.
Which was a rather silly mistake to have made because the man was so old. Not truly old. Not keep-the-windows-closed-he-may-crumble-into-dust-and-blow-away old. Just old-enough-to-be-my-father old. Though he looked well-preserved, he was graying and certainly in his fifth decade, perhaps beyond.
And certainly not my Mr. Darcy.
My hope that no one had heard my foolish utterance or at least had not realized my mistake was crushed immediately by my enthusiastic assailant. With a giggle she said, "The resemblance is remarkable, isn't it? At a distance it is easy to mistake James for Fitwilliam—I have done it myself."
Seizing my hand as if we were the best of friends, the lady pulled me across the vastroom, "Come, let us inspect him more closely."
"Isn't he lovely?" she said when we were standing before the gentleman. "Past his prime perhaps, but he has held up well. Fitwilliam, I think, shall age well, too, and will look as every bit as distinguished when he is as absolutely ancient as James."
The lady chortled at her own jest. The gentleman's severe countenance remained unchanged except for his eyes which, when they gazed upon the lady, softened around the corners in an expression of tolerant fondness.
"Mr. Darcy, I presume," I said to the gentleman.
"Yes. James Darcy. Will's uncle. This silly creature is my wife Rebecca."
The lady beamed at the gentleman upon this remark, as if it had been the aspiration of her life to be deemed silly.
I begged them to be seated and called for tea. As soon as we had all settled in, a delicate little matter became hugely obvious. Rebecca Darcy's blazing mane of fiery red curls ought to have been the most noticeable thing about her. Those perfect spirals were guaranteed to be the envy of every lady whose fringe is destined to fall limp no matter how dexterously the curling tongs are applied.
Her hair was, however, not the most noticeable thing about her. Nor was it her beautiful day dress styled in the height of fashion which claimed first notice, though it certainly was not aiding in the concealment of the problem. Not sufficiently at least.
The most noticeable thing about Mrs. Rebecca Darcy was that she had an enormous bulge. In the abdominal region.
I have often heard remarks about the miraculous obscuring capabilities of the empire waist gown which allowed ladies who would have previously been forced to shun society at the first hint of the delicate condition to hide their secret a few weeks more. Mrs. Darcy's gown, however, had been pushed past the limit of its concealing abilities. A month ago.
She was certainly with child. And I was certainly staring.
I knew I must say something. Anything would do provided it was not, "Are you having twins?"
"Where is Fitzwilliam?" Mrs. Darcy demanded before I could make any sort of attempt at pleasantries.
"He left early this morning—just the house I mean, not town. I have been assured repeatedly he intends to return at some point," I said lightly in an attempt at humor.
Mrs. Darcy chuckled appreciatively, but her husband remained stony faced. Mrs. Darcy asked about Georgiana's whereabouts and I was once again forced to admit ignorance.
"Mrs. Vane is here, I believe," I said desperately, "Shall I send someone to tell her you have come?"
"Oh, no. There is no need to disturb her," replied Mrs. Darcy far too quickly.
Her husband smirked. "Still afraid of my sister?"
"I am sure I am not afraid of anybody."
A look passed between them, his expression dubious hers assured. He apparently came out the victor in their silent struggle, for Mrs. Darcy felt the need to reiterate her position. "I am not afraid of Constance," she said, "I simply know she hates me and do not wish to force her into my company"
"Hate perhaps is too strong a word to describe her feelings."
