Voices were already audible in the hall.
For one brief moment, no one moved. The house, which had seemed so animated only moments before, now felt unnaturally still.
Elizabeth saw Darcy clench his jaw. “You are not responsible for your aunt,” she said quietly.
A faint expression passed across his face – something between gratitude and admiration.
He did not move from his place.
Elizabeth remained beside him. Whatever indignity, reproach, or opposition was about to enter that room, Elizabeth knew one thing with perfect certainty – she would not leave him to face it alone.
***
The door opened without ceremony. Mr. Bingley entered. He looked about the room with a degree of agitation wholly unlike his usual cheerful composure. His colour was heightened, hismanner hurried, and for a moment he seemed uncertain to whom he ought first to speak.
“Darcy…” he began, then checked himself, glancing at the others. “Miss Bennet, Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Bennet…” He stopped altogether, as though aware he had addressed no one properly.
Darcy stepped forward. “Bingley.”
Bingley came nearer at once, lowering his voice, though not so much that Elizabeth, standing close, could not hear.
“She has been to Netherfield first,” he said quickly. “I met her there. She would not be persuaded to wait – nor, indeed, to remain. She demanded that I should conduct her here at once…” He hesitated, as if uncertain whether to continue.
Darcy’s expression did not change. “Go on.”
Bingley leaned a little closer. “She found much to criticise,” he said, with forced composure. “The house, the arrangements, even the neighbourhood – everything. She declared the place ill-chosen, ill-managed, and…” he stopped again, then added in a lower tone, “she nearly reduced Caroline to tears.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. The effort to remain composed was not entirely successful.
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth and gave the faintest inclination of his head. “I see.”
Bingley drew a breath. “She is quite frightening.” With that, he withdrew slightly, taking his place beside Jane.
As if summoned by the words, they heard a walking stick strike sharply on the stone floor.
A servant appeared at the door. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
She entered without hesitation. Her presence seemed, in an instant, to alter the very air of the room.
Tall, composed, and magnificently certain of her own consequence, Lady Catherine advanced as though she conferred distinction merely by crossing the threshold. Her gaze passed over the company – not with curiosity, but with assessment.
She looked at Mr. Bennet and waited.
Mr. Bennet’s eyes widened. He hesitated, then looked at Darcy.
He stepped forward. “Aunt, this is unexpected.” He bowed slightly. There was no tenderness in the exchange. Then, turning with deliberate formality, he addressed the room, “Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bennets, this is my mother’s elder sister from Rosings, Kent, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
He then inclined his head toward Lady Catherine.“My aunt, Mr. Bennet and his family.”
Lady Catherine gave the faintest sign of acknowledgement, though it was nearer to tolerance than civility.
First, she huffed slightly, as if displeased by the necessity of the introduction, but she looked at everyone in turn. Then, her eyes moved to the three younger ladies in the room. “Which of you is Miss Mary Bennet?”
Mary looked up and quietly answered as she curtseyed once more.
The older woman looked at her from head to foot, but without saying anything further, she turned her gaze to Jane, and then to Elizabeth.
Her disapproving eyes rested on Elizabeth, then on Darcy. There, they remained. “Fitzwilliam,” she said.
