Page 72 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“I find,” Elizabeth said, with great composure, “that the moments in which I have been permitted to speak have been rather fewer than I might have wished. But I am grateful for the invitation.” She smiled. “It is a privilege to be at Pemberley. I look forward to learning more about the family whose home it has been.” Lady Catherine stared at her.

The dinner bell, at that precise moment, was the most beautiful sound Elizabeth had ever heard. She could have kissed the butler for his impeccable timing.

By some mercy, Elizabeth was placed beside Mr. Schweitzer at the dinner table. Lord and Lady Matlock anchored the far end with Lisle and his wife. They kept Lady Catherine sufficiently occupied with their own grievances that her fire was distributed rather than concentrated. Colonel Fitzwilliam attempted, at intervals, to steer conversation into more navigable waters, and was overruled at every attempt. Elizabeth appreciated his effort.

Mr. Schweitzer's English deteriorated steadily as the meal progressed. Elizabeth watched it happen with growing appreciation for the artistry of it. It was in the middle of the fish course that he leaned slightly toward her and said, in perfectly clear and unaccented English, “Do not take their remarks to heart. They are a miserable lot and derive their only pleasure from ensuring others share the sentiment.” Elizabeth turned to look at him. He returned her gaze with complete serenity. “My Anne never wished to marry Darcy,” he continued, in the same quiet register. “She has told me that she hopes very much to be a friend to you, once things are settled.”

“I would like that very much indeed,” Elizabeth managed.

“Then it is agreed.” He lifted his wine glass with great composure. “We shall make a small rebellion of it, the three of us. And after the reading tomorrow, you must meet our children. They are rather better company than the rest of the table combined, except the colonel, of course. He is a good chap. A fine fellow.”

“Miss Elizabeth.” Lady Catherine's voice cut across three conversations. “You are whispering. It is bad manners to exclude your company.”

“Mr. Schweitzer was telling me about his children,” Elizabeth said pleasantly. “I was about to ask him how old they are.”

Lady Catherine's nose bunched as though she had smelled something offensive. “I wonder how you can understand a word he says. I do not, nor does he understand me. Evidently my refined accent is particularly difficult for the Swiss.” Elizabeth did not look at Mrs. Schweitzer. She could not have answered for her composure had she done so.

Having caught her ladyship’s attention, Elizabeth was then questioned on her upbringing, her accomplishments, her sisters, and even her age. Her father offered no assistance, being too busy, Elizabeth suspected, collecting some of the more ridiculous comments in his head to laugh at later. Colonel Fitzwilliam offered a few pleasant comments in support of her replies, all of which were met with sour looks from his family members. Mr. Wickham ceased speaking for her, to Elizabeth’s relief, though his attempts to soften their companions’ opinion of her fell on unreceptive ears.

Through all of it, Elizabeth answered clearly, without apology, and without the excessive deference they were no doubt accustomed to and which she had decided she had no intention of providing.

The evening ended at last. After hours enduring insults and intrusive questioning, Elizabeth was exhausted and grateful to retire.

She and Charlotte had no sooner gained the corridor than she heard her name. She turned to see Mr. Wickham looking as though he had something he very much wished to say. Charlotte moved down the hall and stationed herself at a distance that was both discreet and entirely unambiguous.

“How Lady Catherine spoke to you this evening…” began Mr. Wickham. “It was unconscionable.”

“I have survived worse.”

“You should not have to survive any of it. As master of Pemberley, I could ensure that you are treated with the respect you deserve. That is what I am offering you, Miss Elizabeth. Protection. Security. A position most would envy.”

“The will has not been read,” Elizabeth said. “I do not yet know whether I am free to receive any offer.”

He dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “A formality. If Darcy were alive, he would be here with the rest of his family. You saw how Wrayburn sat at dinner. He knows the matter is settled.”

“Mr. Wrayburn maintained professional discretion. That is rather different from settled.”

He stepped closer, his ease gone and replaced with something that made Elizabeth uneasy. “Miss Elizabeth, I have been patient. I have given you time and consideration and every comfort I could provide. By tomorrow evening everything will be decided, and I must know—will you have me?”

How many times must she repeat herself? “I cannot answer until I know what the will contains.”

“It contains nothing that can help you, and everything that requires you to rely on the goodwill of people who have spent this entire evening demonstrating that they have little kindness among themselves, much less any to spare for you. Marry me, and I can protect you from all of it. I think only of your welfare, of securing your happiness.”

“How would you do that?” Elizabeth asked.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“How would you make me happy?”

“By making you mistress of Pemberley, of course.”

“While I will agree that Pemberley represents security, my happiness does not depend on living here.”

He spread his hands. “I would see that you have every comfort. Gowns, jewels, as many books as you can read in a lifetime.”

Elizabeth frowned. “You believe happiness can be purchased?”

“How else can it be acquired?” he said, his smile fading when she did not return it. More seriously, he added, “I believe comfort can be purchased, and comfort is a very good foundation for happiness.”