Page 71 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

Darcy almost smiled. “Yes, ma'am.”

“I take it you came on horseback?” He nodded. “I will send a boy to fetch the horse and take it to the stables.”

She moved toward the door. “Miss Bennet is well.” Darcy held his breath, longing to hear more. “She has good courage, that one. And a kind heart. Your father chose wisely.” She paused at the threshold and looked back at him. “You will make her a good husband.”

“If she will have me.”

Mrs. Reynolds smiled. “You will make her a good husband. I believe it with all my heart.” She was gone before he could voice any more doubts.

He stood in the middle of his old room with the fire at his back and the rain against the glass and hoped with every fiber of his being that the housekeeper was right.

Elizabeth felt like Daniel walking into the lions' den. She had told herself, descending the stairs, that she was not afraid. She repeated it to herself on the landing, and she had almost believed it to be true by the time she reached the bottom step. However, when the parlor door came into view and she saw who stood there, eager to receive her and introduce her to the family within, she had to admit how ill-prepared she was for this moment.

She was not prepared for Wickham. Had not expected to find him standing at Colonel Fitzwilliam's side when she, Charlotte, and her father entered the room. Had certainly not considered that he would have the nerve to present himself among people who were counting on the estate passing through entirely different hands. She could not decide if his presumption was a mark of boldness or delusion. She feared the latter.

Mr. Wrayburn greeted them first, moving through the assembled company with the somber authority of a man who had officiated at enough of these occasions to find them unremarkable. He was kind, and his composure was reassuring. Elizabeth exhaled very slightly as he moved them forward.

Colonel Fitzwilliam presented them to his parents. Lord and Lady Matlock received them with civility if not with any warmth or hospitality. Elizabeth curtsied politely while Lady Matlock studied Elizabeth like a woman assessing whether a piece of furniture was worth the room it occupied. As they moved away, she heard Lady Matlock say, behind her, rather loudly and clearly, “Thank goodness Richard will not have to marry her.”

To which Lord Matlock harrumphed. “A cut beneath the cloth, by any standard.”

Their rudeness took the sting out of their remarks. Elizabeth’s humor rose, and the pack of ferocious lions she had imagined lost their teeth in her mind for all the effect their harsh words had on her.

Colonel Fitzwilliam introduced them to Lord and Lady Lisle, who received them with the critical eye of people who categorize everyone they meet, determining whether they would be useful to them or not. Their bored reception made it clear that Elizabeth fell into the second group. She bit the inside of her cheek and suppressed her increasing merriment.

Mr. Wickham fell into step beside her, his hand finding her elbow in the manner of a man establishing a claim. She noted it and stepped away from him toward the colonel.

The next introduction was altogether more welcome. Mr. Schweitzer rose from the settee with a bow and a flood of apologetic English so fractured and self-deprecating that Elizabeth liked him immediately. His wife—Anne, formerly de Bourgh—rose beside him. Had Elizabeth not been watching the lady as her husband fumbled through his apology for his accent, Elizabeth would have missed seeing Mrs. Schweitzer close her eyes to conceal the rolling of them. They were a gracious pair, and it pleased Elizabeth greatly to learn that not everyone at the dinner table had determined to think poorly of her.

They had only a moment before the colonel was guiding them onward, toward the far corner of the room. Elizabeth had been aware of the woman in the corner from the moment she entered. It would have been difficult not to be, for she occupied her chair with the authority of someone who considered it a throne, her cane planted before her, her gaze fixed on Elizabeth with the unblinking attention of an adversary who had decided the outcome in advance and was simply waiting for the proceedings to confirm it.

Colonel Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to speak. “You are the girl my nephew was bound to marry,” the woman interrupted.

“I am,” Elizabeth said. Apparently, rudeness would be a theme that evening.

“You had no right to agree to such a match.”

“She did not agree to it,” Mr. Wickham said. Elizabeth would have preferred to answer for herself, but as his answer was precisely hers, she allowed it to stand.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, with the careful tone of a man performing a duty he finds distasteful, “may I present my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

“Your family is insignificant,” Lady Catherine continued, as though the introduction were an interruption. “Your connections are nonexistent. My Anne was promised to Darcy from their cradles. Lady Anne herself wished it.” A faint sound came from the direction of the settee—something that might have been the word Mama. Lady Catherine did not acknowledge her daughter’s warning.

“Be that as it may—” Elizabeth began.

“Miss Elizabeth had no more say in the arrangement than Darcy did,” Mr. Wickham interjected.

“And yet she came here, ready to claim what was never meant for her.”

Elizabeth clamped her mouth shut, her agitation growing. There was nothing she could say that Lady Catherine would not take issue with… if she were allowed to speak for herself. Still, she refused to show her vexation. With a nod of her head, she said, “Her Ladyship is welcome to believe what she wishes.”

Again, Mr. Wickham spoke. “She came as summoned, which is more than can be said of some.”

Lady Catherine's eyes moved to Mr. Wickham with slow, deliberate displeasure as she repositioned her heavy artillery. “Are you her appointed protector and claim the right to speak in her stead?”

Wickham bowed. “Her Ladyship's insight is, as always, remarkable.” Elizabeth's face warmed. She kept it pleasant by sheer force.

“If she is capable of speech,” Lady Catherine said, returning her gaze to Elizabeth, “then perhaps she might try it.”