She held up one of the papers—a letter, Elizabeth could see, written in a style she did not immediately recognise. "This is Miss Rochford's actual handwriting. Her true correspondence. Compare it to the letters Darcy received during their courtship, and you will find they bear no resemblance whatsoever."
"I can explain why that occurred—"
"Can you? Can you explain how letters supposedly written by Miss Rochford were actually penned by you? You took advantage of an innocent young woman's trust to secure a connection far above your station."
"That is not what happened!" Elizabeth's voice rose despite her attempts to maintain composure. "Miss Rochford asked for my assistance—"
"And you gave it most enthusiastically, I am sure. What better way to study my nephew's character, to learn what would attract his attention, than by playing the role of amanuensis to his intended? But that was not enough for you, was it? When Darcy returned to Hertfordshire after his accident, intending to renew his acquaintance with Miss Rochford, you orchestrated the situation at Netherfield. You ensured that you would be discovered alone with him, knowing that scandal would force him into marriage."
"I did no such thing!" Elizabeth's hands trembled with anger and fear in equal measure. "I was offering comfort to a man in distress. Mrs Phillips discovered us by accident—"
"How convenient that she discovered you at precisely the right moment. How fortunate that there were witnesses enough to ensure the scandal could not be contained." Lady Catherine's smile was cold, cruel. "You are clever, Miss Bennet. I will grant you that. But I am not fooled by your protestations of innocence."
Elizabeth felt tears burning behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "I did not orchestrate anything. The situation at Netherfield was entirely unintentional."
"So you admit you wrote the letters?"
The question hung in the air like a trap. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, knowing that any answer she gave would be twisted against her.
"Your silence is answer enough." This was said with the air of someone who had achieved a decisive victory. "Miss Rochford has been most thorough in her account. She describes how you convinced her to allow you to write on her behalf, how you assured her it was merely friendly assistance. How you betrayed that trust by using the correspondence for your own ends."
The older woman picked up another paper from her folder. "She also reports that you have been hostile toward her since the marriage was announced. That you accused her of various failures and inadequacies when she dared to express hurt over losing Darcy's regard. This paints a rather ugly picture of your character, does it not?"
"Cassandra is lying—" Elizabeth began, but Lady Catherine cut her off with a sharp gesture.
"Miss Rochford has no reason to lie. She has been grievously wronged by you, and she has every right to see justice done." Lady Catherine's expression turned almost pitying, which was somehow worse than her anger. "But there is something else you should know, Mrs Darcy. Something that will perhaps help you understand the futility of your continued denials."
Elizabeth felt ice forming in her veins. "What do you mean?"
"My nephew knows the truth. I wrote to him a week ago, enclosing Miss Rochford's letter and explaining the full extent of your falsehood. He knows that you wrote those letters. He knowsthat you manipulated the situation to force him into marriage. He knows everything."
The room seemed to tilt. Elizabeth gripped the back of a nearby chair to steady herself. "That cannot be true. Fitzwilliam would have said something—"
"Would he? My nephew has always been exceptionally skilled at controlling his emotions, at maintaining a facade of civility even when furious. Perhaps you have not noticed his anger because he has chosen not to display it openly. Darcy is a master of restraint—it is one of the qualities that make him so well-suited to his position. Did you truly think he would rage and storm about like some common tradesman?"
Elizabeth's mind raced, reviewing every interaction she had had with Fitzwilliam since Lady Catherine claimed to have written to him. His kindness at breakfast. His request for her to stay during Dr Newport's examination. His apology for his behaviour at the assembly, his declaration that he valued her qualities...
But had there been something beneath it? Some tension she had not recognised? Discreet anger hidden behind his polite demeanour?
"I see the doubt in your eyes," Lady Catherine continued dangerously. "You’ve begun to question whether the man you think you know is real, or merely a performance designed to maintain appearances until he can extricate himself from this unfortunate situation."
"No." The word emerged as barely more than a whisper. "Fitzwilliam would not—he told me he loved me—"
"Love?" Lady Catherine's laugh was sharp and mocking. "Darcy is a dutiful man. He will fulfil his obligations regardless of his personal feelings. He married you to preserve your reputation, and he hopes to maintain the appearance of a harmonious marriage to preserve the family name. But that does not mean he has forgiven your deception, or that he ever will."
She gathered her papers and returned them to the folder with deliberate care. "I came here today not to punish you, but to warn you. Do not mistake courtesy for acceptance. Darcy knows what you did, and he will never truly trust you again."
Elizabeth felt something breaking inside her chest, sharp and painful. The conversation with Fitzwilliam this morning—his recovered memories, his apology, his declarations—suddenly seemed suspect. Had it all been performance? Had he been maintaining appearances even as he seethed with betrayal beneath the surface?
Lady Catherine had said she wrote to him a week ago. A week. Seven days during which he had continued to be kind to her, to share meals with her, to arrange romantic evenings and speak of love. Had it all been false? Had she been so foolish as to believe in his sincerity when he was simply fulfilling his duty?
"I can see you understand now," Lady Catherine said. “I trust you will reflect on what I have told you, and perhaps consider the appropriate course of action. An annulment might be possible under the circumstances—deception and fraud are grounds, after all. Or you might simply resign yourself to a cold marriage maintained for appearances’ sake. Either way, you have made your bed, Mrs Darcy. Now you must lie in it."
Elizabeth stood frozen, the spoken words echoing in her mind with terrible clarity. Darcy knows. He had known for aweek. Everything he had said and done had been performance, the actions of a man trapped by honour into maintaining a marriage he despised.
The tears she had been holding back began to fall, hot and bitter against her cheeks. She had been so foolish. So willing to believe that his recovered memories would not change his feelings toward her. And desperate to think that their growing affection was real and mutual rather than one-sided delusion.
He had apologised to her this morning. Had spoken of regretting wasted time, of valuing her qualities. And all the while, he had known about the letters and said nothing, maintaining his courteous air because that was what duty demanded. But beneath that lay disgust, betrayal and anger carefully controlled but nonetheless real.
