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“You may complain to me.” Elizabeth squeezed her fingers. “That is what sisters are for. We absorb each other’s grievances and pretend we never heard them afterward.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Georgiana’s face. “Is that what Jane does for you?”
“Jane does a great deal more. She reminds me that I am being ridiculous, and then she agrees with everything I have just said, and somehow I feel better for both.”
The carriage rattled down the drive, and when it reached the bend where the avenue of oaks obscured the house from view, Georgiana’s hand rose, waving a handkerchief—white against the morning light, fluttering once, twice.
Elizabeth swallowed the lump in her throat and said nothing. The gesture was poignant and not meant to be witnessed or commented on, and she turned her attention to her hairpins.
Downstairs, the household was no doubt already reassembling its dignity over lukewarm tea, though how Darcy was weathering the aftermath of his sister’s silent tragedy was another matter entirely. It would take little short of a miracle—or a very sensible conversation with his wife—to keep him from brooding over his failure as a guardian.
Then there was the Colonel’s veiled hostility—glaring at Elizabeth as if she had somehow harmed the Darcy family by her presence. She felt it but could not say anything to Charlotte, as her practical friend saw the colonel’s attitude as overzealous guardianship. At least the Ashworths had been gracious, and now that they had departed, Pemberley could heal and get on with spring planting and mending fences.
“Elizabeth!” Georgiana gasped from the window, dropping the handkerchief. “There is another carriage.”
Elizabeth went to the window and looked over Georgiana’s shoulder. Indeed, a larger, grander carriage drawn by six horses was bearing down the drive toward the house. The gleaming silver crest was unmistakable. The Matlock arms.
“Oh, no,” Georgiana whispered. “Oh, no, no—”
“Georgiana.” Elizabeth’s hands tightened on her sister-in-law’s shoulders. “Look at me.”
The girl’s eyes were wide, her composure finally cracking. “My uncle is here. Elizabeth, if my uncle is here, then Richard has—”
“We do not know what Richard has done.” Elizabeth kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. “We do not know why they have come. Your uncle may simply wish to see his niece. Your aunt may have grown concerned about the rumors in London. There are a dozen explanations that do not involve—”
Mrs. Reynolds appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath, which was itself an event of sufficient rarity to confirm the gravity of the situation.
“Mrs. Darcy. Miss Darcy. Lord and Lady Matlock have arrived. They will be shown into the drawing room with Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Your presence has been requested.”
Elizabeth released Georgiana gently and stood. She smoothed her rose-pink muslin and checked her reflection in the glass. Paler than usual, she had slept fitfully beside her sister-in-law’s sobs, but Elizabeth Bennet did not quail at the request of an earl and a countess.
“We shall need twenty minutes, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“His lordship expressed some urgency, ma’am.”
“Then his lordship may have the satisfaction of knowing we shall hurry. Georgiana—wash your face, put on the blue muslin, and remember that you are a Darcy and the granddaughter of an earl, and that neither of those facts has changed since yesterday.”
Mrs. Reynolds inclined her head and withdrew.
“I cannot,” Georgiana said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Lizzy, I cannot face them. Not today. Not after—”
“You can.” Elizabeth crossed to the dressing table and retrieved a hairbrush. “You are a Darcy. You have weathered worse than a drawing room full of relatives, and you will not give them the satisfaction of seeing you undone.” She ran the brush through Georgiana’s hair with quick, efficient strokes—a sisterly intimacy she had not quite earned but was claiming anyway. “Chin up. Shoulders back. And if your uncle says anything intolerable, you may look to me. I have considerable experience in weathering intolerable relatives.”
“Then I will look to you, Sister.” The girl’s chin came up—not steadily, but it came up—and Elizabeth felt a brief, fierce pride that Georgiana was courageous, and she would attend her aunt and uncle with a dignity befitting a Darcy.
The drawing room bore all the marks of a tribunal hastily convened.
Elizabeth saw it at once—the way the furniture had been subtly repositioned, Lord Matlock installed in the chair nearest the fire with the authority of a man accustomed to presiding, Lady Matlock beside him in an attitude of elegant concern. Charlotte sat in the corner, and Mrs. Annesley hid behind her, both seemingly engrossed in their needlework. Richard stood at the mantelpiece, his face carefully neutral, and Darcy—
Darcy stood by the window, apart from the others, his hands clasped behind his back in the posture that meant he held himself together by force of will alone. His eyes found Elizabeth the moment she entered, and an anguished plea passed between them. Elizabeth wished she could go to him, hold his head in her lap, and soothe him, but the barrier between them had been softened only by the sweet coffee and Shrewsbury cakes—not erased.
Georgiana’s crisis must be settled first; only then could the rest follow.
“Mrs. Darcy.” Lord Matlock rose with an elaborate, almost mocking, courtesy. “How kind of you to join us.”
“Lord Matlock, Lady Matlock.” Elizabeth curtsied appropriately and took a chair, positioning herself between Georgiana and Lady Matlock. “I confess I was not expecting the pleasure of your company. I hope the roads were tolerable.”
“Circumstances required it.” Lord Matlock resumed his seat. He was a tall man, grey at the temples, with the Fitzwilliam features rendered heavier and more imperious by age. His eyes, the same pale shade as Richard’s, rested on Elizabeth with the steady assessment of a man accustomed to measuring opponents before the first shot was fired. “My son has brought certain matters to my attention. Matters which require… clarification.”
