“I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy. An express has arrived from Longbourn. From Mr. Bennet.”
“An express?” Elizabeth’s hand trembled. “I wonder if all is well.”
She took the letter and broke the seal, and then, her face transformed—from the soft, open expression of a woman who had just called a man home to something else entirely. Something that looked very much like horror.
“Elizabeth?” Darcy reached for her elbow. “What has happened?”
“My mother.” Elizabeth’s voice emerged flat, strange. “My mother has won a lottery. She departed Longbourn with Lydia only, no Kitty, and they will arrive in London by nightfall.”
“Then we must prepare the linens,” Darcy said, already turning toward the house.
“Not only that, but Papa warns me to—” Elizabeth looked at the letter again, and her mouth twisted. “To ‘prepare accordingly, for your mother’s nerves have been quite overcome by her good fortune, and her excitement regarding your prospects renders her deaf to all counsel.’ He also mentions that he cannot accompany them because he has urgent business in Meryton regarding a militia officer.”
“Wait, did you say Lydia only? No Kitty? Why?”
Elizabeth scrambled to unfold the second sheet of paper, shaking her head. “He doesn’t say. Only that Kitty is a comfort to him, not to leave an old man alone. Oh, Darcy, what if there has been some impropriety involving Lydia?”
“That could not happen. Your father is an astute man, and he would not allow an impropriety to occur under his own roof.” He imagined himself as a father to five beautiful daughters, and the only thoughts he could conjure involved blunderbusses and swords sharp enough to run through a man. “Likely, Lydia gave your father no peace until he relented. Their arrival in the middle of the season is a more pressing concern. They will demand invitations, not understanding the way of calling cards and maneuvering of the ton.”
Elizabeth looked at the letter, then at the garden gate. The reality of the coming evening was already dawning on her. “They will expect you to facilitate it all, Darcy. My mother will expect you to open every door in London, and if you cannot, she will create enough noise to ensure everyone within three counties knows precisely why.”
“Then, I suppose now is an appropriate time for me to resign my role as your trustee and social deputy, wouldn’t it?”
Elizabeth took his hand and giggled. “Yes, no more duty for you, Mr. Darcy.”
“Then I am free to call on you every day, my dear Miss Bennet.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “As a suitor, and not as a deputy, guardian, or rake.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE WRONG BENNETS
Elizabeth drew on her gloves,even in the privacy of her bedchamber, to keep from gnawing at her fingernails. Time stretched, delicate and interminable, as she waited for Mrs. Bennet’s arrival—torn between dreading her mother’s triumphant entrance and fearing some calamity or highwayman had intervened.
Why did her mother leave Kitty at home with her father? What possible business could her father have with militia officers? Hadn’t Charlotte said that Wickham had already deserted the militia? It was all very puzzling, and none of it helped by Mr. Darcy’s most impetuous ejaculation—that she might as well marry him for twenty-five years of mud and rolling eyes. Why didn’t he simply propose rather than hide behind a jest?
She pressed her fingertips to her lips, catching herself before she could bite through the fabric. It would not do to mull. Darcy had lost the thread entirely by likening her to Nettle, and then Mr. Bennet’s express had arrived, prompting Darcy’s hasty retreat before luncheon, claiming a commitment with his solicitor.
Elizabeth walked to the window and back, watching the morning light flutter through the curtains. Mary was practicing Clementi in the music room. The sound drifted through the house with the reliable sweetness of a heartbeat.
“Lizzy.” Jane’s voice, gentle as always, sounded from her door. “Shall we walk today? The weather is fine.”
“The weather is always fine when you suggest walking, Jane. You have an arrangement with the clouds.”
“I have an arrangement with my sister, who has been wearing out the rug, eating nothing, and wearing the expression of a woman pretending a large impact did not occur.”
Elizabeth looked at Jane. Jane looked back with the steady, luminous patience that had been driving Elizabeth to confession since they were children, because Jane’s patience was not passive—it was a siege engine disguised as a teacup, and it always won.
“I am merely anxious about Mamma and Lydia. Do you think their carriage got stuck somewhere? Or they got off to a late start?”
“They likely forced the driver to turn around because Lydia forgot her lucky ribbon. Try not to fret, Lizzy.”
Before she had even finished, the front door burst open. It did not merely surrender its position but capitulated completely to a force of nature, heralded by the sound of a trumpet—well, not exactly, because Mrs. Bennet’s voice had always traveled faster than her person.
“Lizzy! Jane! Good gracious, four stories, four, Lydia, did you count, and a knocker, a proper brass knocker, and the carpet, do you see the carpet, it must have cost—well, I shall not say what it cost in front of the servants, but I shall say it is finer than anything Lady Lucas possesses, and Lady Lucas has been insufferable about her drawing room carpet since Michaelmas!”
Mrs. Bennet spun around in the entry hall, her eyes wide and bright, her mouth gaping. She wore her best traveling pelisse, the green one with fraying trim. Her bonnet was askew from the journey, her eyes scouring every surface, every fixture, every square inch of 33 Grosvenor Street.
“—and the chandelier, Lydia, look up, look up, that is crystal, I know crystal when I see it. Your aunt Philips has a piece of crystal hardly bigger than a thimble, and she displays it as though it were the crown jewels?—”
