The Earl and Countess of Apethorpe descended from their carriage with the measured dignity of their station. Lord Apethorpe was tall and spare, his silver hair swept back from a face that had likely been handsome in youth and had settled into distinguished severity. His wife was smaller, darker, her features arranged in an expression of careful neutrality—the face of a woman who had long ago learned to betray nothing.
“Mrs. Darcy.” The Countess extended her hand as Elizabeth approached, her voice cool and measured. “How good of you to receive us on such short notice. I hope we have not inconvenienced you.”
“Not at all, Lady Apethorpe. We are delighted to welcome you to Pemberley. May I present Miss Georgiana Darcy?”
Georgiana curtsied, murmuring the appropriate phrases with the polish that her finishing school’s instruction had instilled. Elizabeth noted the way the Countess’s gaze lingered on her sister-in-law, a nod of approval barely perceptible. Georgiana’s manners had evidently passed muster, and the Countess recognized the refinement she valued. The Earl merely inclined his head, his eyes wandering to the portrait gallery as though seeking something—or someone—in the faces that lined the walls.
They processed to the blue drawing room, where the Sèvres service gleamed on the tea table, and Jamison stood at attention near the fireplace, having banked the fire to the precise temperature Miss Pargeter had demanded. Elizabeth gestured the Apethorpes toward the best seats—the settee nearthe window, where the afternoon light would fall kindly on the Countess’s complexion—and took her own place in the chair opposite, arranging her skirts with hands that were steadier than her nerves.
Tea was poured, plain biscuits circulated, and the Earl pronounced the china satisfactory. The Countess admired the view, noting the grounds were well-kept, while Georgiana contributed remarks on the weather so exquisitely bland that Elizabeth could have embraced her on the spot. This was the minuet of formal calls, all measured steps and polite evasions, a far cry from the cheerful bedlam of Longbourn, where her mother and sisters had commented on everything and everyone with unfiltered delight.
“We understand Mr. Darcy is in London,” the Countess said, taking the smallest sip of tea possible. “On business, I presume.”
“Yes, my lady. He expects to return within the week.”
“A pity. We had hoped to pay our respects to him as well.” The Countess’s eyes met Elizabeth’s over the rim of her teacup. “Though I confess we were equally eager to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Darcy. We have heard so much about you.”
Have you indeed,Elizabeth thought.And what exactly have you heard? That I am a fortune hunter? A desperate spinster who accepted the first proposal that came her way? Or merely a gentleman’s daughter of no particular consequence, elevated beyond her station by a man’s inexplicable whim?
“I hope the reports were not too alarming,” she said aloud, permitting herself a small, measured smile.
“On the contrary. We were told you are a woman of considerable intelligence and wit.” The Countess’s tone was as bland as her weak tea, revealing nothing of her true feelings. “Our daughter valued such qualities, though she often lamented how rarely she found them in her own sex.”
Elizabeth was frankly surprised that the Countess would mention her daughter so directly, and she exchanged a worried glance with Georgiana, who had gone very still.
“I did not have the pleasure of knowing Lady Amelia,” Elizabeth said carefully. “But I understand she was a woman of remarkable accomplishments.”
“Remarkable.” The Countess repeated the word as though testing its weight, turning it over in her mind. “Yes, that is one way to describe her. She was certainly never content with the ordinary. From childhood, she required . . . more. More attention, more admiration, more scope for her talents. The world as it was could never satisfy her; she needed to remake it according to her own vision.”
“She sounds incredible,” Elizabeth said, thinking of how Amelia had captured a man’s devotion and then refused to accept it on any terms but her own.
“My daughter was utterly certain of her own rightness. No counsel could sway her, no consequence could frighten her. When she decided upon a course, she pursued it without regard for who might be wounded in the process.”
“Mother.” The Earl spoke for the first time since entering the drawing room, his voice a low warning that carried the weight of long practice.
He subsided as the Countess shot him a withering glare—the sort of look that had probably ended many arguments over the course of their marriage.
“We supported Mr. Darcy’s suit, you know.” The Countess had turned back to Elizabeth, her gaze intent, almost hungry. “When he offered for Amelia, we urged her to accept. A man of his standing, his character, his evident devotion—what more could a mother want for her daughter? But Amelia had her principles.” The word emerged with a faint twist, as though it tasted bitter on her tongue. “She believed marriage was a speciesof bondage, that a woman who accepted a husband’s name also accepted his dominion. She would not be possessed. She could not be contained.”
“My husband behaved honorably,” Elizabeth heard herself say, the words sharp before she could stop them.
“Indeed, he bears no fault,” the Countess agreed, and something in her voice softened. “We were not permitted to see Thomas after the birth,” she continued, her voice dropping. “Amelia felt our support of Mr. Darcy’s suit was a betrayal of her liberty. She accused us of valuing position over her happiness, and she wished to live apart from us. She wrote us, her pen as sharp as a stiletto, and she did not spare our feelings.”
“I am sorry.” The words emerged before Elizabeth could consider whether she truly meant them, but as she spoke, she found they were sincere. “That must have been very painful.”
“It was.” The Countess’s voice was raw now, stripped of its careful polish. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief that materialized from somewhere in her sleeve. “We lost our daughter years before she died. The phaeton accident merely made it final.”
Georgiana had gone pale, her teacup rattling slightly in its saucer. The Earl was staring fixedly at a point above Elizabeth’s head, his jaw tight. The Countess sat rigid, as though holding herself together by force of will alone.
Elizabeth had braced herself for adversaries, not for parents hollowed out by loss. She had rehearsed arguments for claims and lawyers, for the chill of legal maneuvering, but not for grief that had been left to sour in the dark for years.
“Perhaps,” she said slowly, “you would like to see your grandson now.”
The Countess’s breath caught, a small, broken sound. “Yes. Yes, we would like that very much.”
Elizabeth nodded to Jamison, who departed to fetch Hartley and Thomas. Georgiana, sensing the need for something to fill the silence, offered to play a piece on the pianoforte, and the room filled with the gentle strains of a sonata—adequate, if not inspired. The time passed agreeably enough, though Elizabeth could not help noticing the way the Apethorpes’ eyes kept drifting toward the door with such naked yearning that a lump caught in her throat.
When the door opened again, Thomas stood in the threshold with Hartley’s hand on his shoulder, dressed in his blue velvet coat. He clutched Captain—his one-eared wooden horse—against his chest, and his eyes, Darcy’s eyes, dark and serious, swept the room with suspicion.
