Elizabeth blew out her candle and went to bed. Darcy had not yet come up. She lay in the dark, listened to the house settle around her, thought about what she would say to Darcy in the morning, how she would approach Lady Catherine.
She caught Darcy before breakfast, in his dressing room, while he was pulling on his boots.
“You should speak to Lady Matlock,” she said. “About your father.”
He looked up. “Aunt Margaret?”
“She was at Pemberley before your father died. She told me so herself, not long after she first arrived, on a walk. She said your father was agitated, distracted. He spoke to her about Wickham, and I think that means it was after Wilson had come to him. She left a few days before his death, and she has carried a feeling ever since that something was not right about it.” Elizabeth sat on the arm of his chair, close enough to touch him but not touching. “She has been waiting six years for someone to ask her, Darcy. Do not leave her out of this.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You have been thorough.”
“I have been paying attention. Several people have been thinking something was not quite right for six years, and nobody quite had the words to tell you, and you were too busy carrying everything alone to hear them anyway.”
He caught her hand. Held it. “I will speak to her today.”
“Good. There is one other thing. Lady Catherine.”
His expression shifted, became somewhat resigned. “What about her?”
“Anne mentioned it to me. Her mother said once that your father died because he would not listen. Catherine quarrelled with your father about Wickham before he died. She thought him foolishfor the favour he showed Wickham. If she believed your father’s death was connected to that quarrel, to Wickham, she may have information.”
“You want to speak to Aunt Catherine about my father’s death.” Darcy looked as though he did not quite know what to make of that. Perhaps he had expected her to say something else; some grievance about his aunt’s behaviour, though Elizabeth was determined never to bother him with that. She could handle Lady Catherine.
“I want to find out what she knows. If there is even the smallest chance that she has a piece of this, I would rather ask and be rebuffed than leave it unasked.”
Darcy studied her face. “Be careful with her, Elizabeth. My aunt does not respond well to questions she has not invited.”
“I know. But I would rather have her angry than silent.”
He kissed her hand, let it go, went to find Lord Matlock. Elizabeth went down to breakfast, sat through Lady Catherine’s opinions on the proper temperature of toast, waited for the right moment.
She approached Lady Catherine in the yellow drawing room after luncheon, alone. Lady Matlock had gone to walk with Anneand Georgiana. Kitty was reading in the library. The house was quiet. Catherine sat by the fire looking dissatisfied at being without companionship. Elizabeth came in and closed the door behind her, and did not look at Sir Roderick, sleeping in his chair in the corner.
“Lady Catherine. May I speak with you?”
Catherine looked up. Her expression was the one she reserved for Elizabeth: civil tolerance layered over deep disapproval. “You may.”
Elizabeth sat. She had thought carefully about how to approach this, and had decided that indirection would not work. Lady Catherine despised indirection. She respected boldness, even when she punished it.
“I have been learning a great deal about my home and my new family since my marriage,” Elizabeth said. “About the history of the house, the tenants, the people who have served Pemberley over the years. And about the late Mr Darcy.”
Catherine’s eyes sharpened. “What about him?”
“You knew him well. Better than most, I think. And you were not afraid to tell him when you thought he was wrong.”
“I was not. George was a good man but a stubborn one, and he did not always see clearly where his affections were engaged.”
“You mean Wickham.”
The name landed in the room like a stone dropped into still water. Catherine’s face was rigidly controlled, utterly still, and Elizabeth could see the calculation behind her eyes: what did Elizabeth know, and what was the purpose of this conversation.
“I mean Mr Wickham, yes. I told George repeatedly that his attachment to that boy was misguided and would end badly. He refused to hear me. He said I was jealous of a motherless child, which was offensive, and that I did not understand the bond between them, which was patronising. We quarrelled. I told him he would live to regret it.” She paused. “He did not live to anything, as it happened.”
“Anne told me you once said he died because he would not listen.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “I shall have to speak to my daughter about discretion. I do not care to have my words repeated to all and sundry.”
“She did not repeat them indiscreetly to all and sundry. She repeated an observation her mother made, because I asked her about her uncle, and she answered honestly. As I am asking you now.”
