“It has come to my ears that there was a matter of most concern to me, and since it is said you were both present at the incident, I am certain you may oblige me by enlightening me,” Lady Catherine said, delivering the sentence as though it were written on the paper before her, while watching like a hawk the two Hertfordshire brothers.
“If we know of the matter, we shall do as asked, your ladyship,” James Bennet replied.
“You were walking near the lake yesterday morning,” Lady Catherine continued, her tone conversational only in appearance, her eyes sharp as she observed their reactions. “On the Hunsford side, I am told.”
“Yes, Lady Catherine,” James answered at once, his voice calm and steady, meeting her gaze without flinching. “We were.”
“How fortunate,” she observed coolly, a faint arch of her brow betraying the irony she intended, “that gentlemen should find themselves so conveniently placed when disturbance arose.”
Her gaze shifted to Elias and settled there, sharp and appraising, as though testing the mettle of one who had dared to act beyond his station.
“You are the younger brother,” she said, her words deliberate. “The one inclined toward study, I believe—the law, if I am not mistaken.”
“I am, your ladyship,” Elias replied quietly, his voice even, returning her scrutiny with respectful composure that drew a slight narrowing of her eyes.
“Hm.” She regarded him as though assessing the soundness of a chair before sitting upon it, her silence inviting confession or discomfort, yet finding neither. “Then you will understand the value of precision. I dislike rumours. I prefer facts, plainly stated and without embellishment.”
Elias inclined his head, his reply measured and sincere. “As do I, Lady Catherine. Facts serve better than conjecture in all matters.”
Her brows lifted a shade—not at the answer, but at the composure with which it was delivered, a flicker of reluctant interest crossing her features before she resumed. “Then you may tell me,” her ladyship said, carrying the weight of command in her voice, “what occurred upon the bridge.”
James shifted slightly, prepared to intervene if needed, his posture protective yet restrained, but Elias spoke first—not hastily, not defensively, his tone calm and unflinching.
“Miss Darcy was distressed,” he said, his words chosen with care. “A gentleman had addressed her without invitation, and with persistence she clearly did not welcome. She attempted to leave. He prevented her, rather brutally.”
Lady Catherine’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the edge of the escritoire, a subtle reaction that betrayed the gravity of her reception of the revelation, her voice sharpening as she pressed onward. “Prevented her—how?”
“He seized her wrist,” Elias continued, his voice steady though the memory stirred a quiet intensity within him. “She resisted with courage. In freeing herself, she lost her footing and fell into the water.”
A silence followed—brief, taut—during which Lady Catherine’s gaze remained fixed upon him, searching for evasion and finding none.
“And you?” she asked at last, her tone cool yet edged with curiosity. “What part did you play, Mr. Bennet?”
“We both ran toward the bridge. I jumped into the water and brought Miss Darcy out,” Elias replied, meeting her eyes without retreat. “She was in danger, and delay would have been unforgivable.”
James spoke then, firmly but without heat, his voice supporting his brother’s account with quiet authority that drew a glance of acknowledgement from Elias. “I pursued the man, my lady, and prevented his escape until he could be secured.”
Lady Catherine sat back, her posture unchanging, though a faint flush touched her cheeks. “So,” she said at last, her words measured yet carrying the sting of wounded pride, “two gentlemen from Hertfordshire presume to instruct Rosings on vigilance.”
James bowed again, deeper this time, his reply respectful yet unwavering. “No, Lady Catherine. We acted only as any honourable men would have done, without presumption.”
Her gaze returned to Elias, lingering with renewed appraisal. “You risked yourself for a young woman far above your station.”
Elias met her eyes—did not challenge, did not retreat, his voice quiet but firm. “For a lady in peril, ma’am. Station could not weigh against necessity.”
For a moment, Lady Catherine said nothing, her silence heavy with consideration, a subtle shift in her expression betraying that his answer had struck a note she had not anticipated.
Then she rose, her movement deliberate, her voice crisp yet stripped of its earlier sharpness. “I do not thank you,” she said, the words carrying the finality of one who rarely admitted obligation. “Gratitude is a private matter, and I do not dispense it lightly. But I acknowledge necessity when I see it acted upon with propriety.”
She turned slightly away, as though dismissing the subject—yet her voice continued, quieter now, directed more to herself than to them. “You will not speak of this beyond what has already been required. Rosings will not be discussed in Hertfordshire, nor Pemberley, nor my niece.”
“No, Lady Catherine,” Elias said, his assurance calm and immediate.
James echoed him without hesitation. “You have our word, ma’am.”
She paused, her back still to them, then turned just enough for Elias to see her expression—calculating, resolute, yet touched with a reluctant respect. “And you, Mr. Bennet,” she said coolly, addressing the younger with a directness that held him in place, “will remember that truth is not the same as licence. You were correct to act. You would be incorrect to imagine that correctness grants entitlement.”
Elias inclined his head, his reply quiet yet unwavering, a faint warmth in his eyes at the unexpected concession. “I understand the distinction perfectly, my lady, and claim no entitlement beyond the satisfaction of having served where duty called.”
