Chapter Eight
Elizabeth
T he gentle clink of silverware and the muted rustle of morning conversation ought to have made for a tranquil breakfast at Pemberley, yet the air was thick with tension. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, seated at the head of the table as if she were mistress of the house, had been dispensing pointed remarks throughout the meal. Now, her voice cut through the quiet once more.
“It is most curious,” she remarked, delicately folding her napkin, “that after nearly half a year of marriage, there has been no mention of an heir. One might have hoped for a greater sense of duty.”
The words fell heavily upon the room. Elizabeth’s hand stilled over her teacup, though she kept her eyes lowered. Mr Darcy, however, straightened in his chair, his voice calm but firm.
“Aunt, that is not a subject for your discussion, nor is it appropriate conversation at the breakfast table.”
Lady Catherine arched an imperious brow. “Not mine to discuss? As if the continuation of the Darcy line were not the concern of every respectable member of this family! Had matters been handled as they ought from the beginning, none of this would be an issue.”
Elizabeth set her cup down with deliberate composure, her countenance serene despite the simmering tension. “Handled as they ought, Lady Catherine? Forgive me, but I am not certain I understand.”
Lady Catherine’s gaze sharpened. “You know very well what I mean. Were it not for my intervention, this family’s reputation would have been irreparably damaged. It was my vigilance that ensured this marriage took place.”
Mr Darcy’s jaw clenched, his tone darkening. “Your interference almost did far more harm than good.”
Elizabeth’s voice was calm, but her words carried a quiet force. “Indeed, had there been no meddling, perhaps there would have been no scandal. It is remarkable how easily misinformation spreads when some are all too eager to believe the worst.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “I acted in the best interests of my family. You should be grateful for the position you now occupy.”
Elizabeth’s expression did not waver. “Grateful?” she repeated softly. “Grateful that the truth was eventually uncovered, clearing both Mr Darcy and I of a disgrace neither of us deserved? I wonder, had there been less interference, whether there would have been any disgrace to clear at all.”
Lady Catherine rose abruptly, her voice trembling with indignation. “How dare you!”
The room fell into stunned silence. Georgiana’s gaze flickered nervously between her aunt and Elizabeth, her hands twisting in her lap. Mr Darcy remained seated, though his hand gripped the arm of his chair with barely concealed tension.
“I dare,” Elizabeth replied evenly, her voice steady, “because this is now my home. I have endeavoured to show you respect, Lady Catherine, but I will not permit insult—especially when it rests on errors not of my making.”
Lady Catherine’s face darkened. “You presume too much. You are beneath me, and you would do well to remember your place.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed, though her voice remained composed. “I am the wife of Mr Darcy and mistress of Pemberley, and as such, I hold a position of equality in this family. If my place is not beneath my husband, then it is certainly not beneath anyone else.”
Mr Darcy rose to his feet, his tone measured yet unmistakably firm. “Aunt, this conversation cannot continue. May I have a word in private, if you please.”
For a long moment, Lady Catherine hesitated, her glare shifting between Mr Darcy and Elizabeth. At last, with a stiff nod, she swept from the room, her skirts rustling indignantly. Mr Darcy followed, his expression grim.
As the door closed behind them, silence reigned. After a few moments, Georgiana spoke hesitantly. “How long did she say she intended to stay?”
Elizabeth let out a soft sigh, a faint smile touching her lips despite the tension. “Her letter made no mention of a departure. Yet, I must admit, I had rather hoped her visit might be brief.”
Georgiana released a tentative laugh, some of the tension easing. “One can only hope.”
Elizabeth reached out, gently squeezing Georgiana’s hand. “Indeed, one can.” Her gaze softened as she looked at the younger woman, “Come, my dear. Let us walk in the gardens and clear our heads.”
The crisp spring air greeted them as they stepped outside, their steps crunching softly on the gravel pathways. The breeze tugged at the ribbons of their bonnets, and the faint scent of blooming flowers perfumed the air. They spoke of lighter matters, though the morning’s confrontation lingered at the edges of their thoughts.
As they passed beneath the study windows, raised voices drifted down to them, piercing the tranquil atmosphere.
“You are defending her over your own blood?” Lady Catherine’s voice, high and strident, carried on the wind.
Elizabeth froze, her breath hitching. Georgiana glanced at her with wide eyes, but neither moved.
“I am defending my wife ,” came Mr Darcy’s reply, sharp and uncompromising. “A woman who has conducted herself with dignity amidst circumstances no less humiliating for her than for me. If you will not cease these attacks, then you may remove yourself from Pemberley altogether.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. For the first time, she felt the faint stirrings of something akin to gratitude towards the man she had married.
Elizabeth and Georgiana exchanged glances, neither daring to speak, before retreating into the safety of the garden.
***
That evening passed in an unusual quiet. Lady Catherine took her dinner in her chambers, allowing for much needed reprieve for the remaining residents of the estate. She did briefly join them in the drawing room, though only to fetch a book she had left there. Her sharp tongue had clearly been held in check by the memory of her nephew’s rebuke. It was a fragile peace, but for Elizabeth, it was a glimmer of hope.
This hope only increased when, later that evening, Elizabeth found a small box on her bed. Beside it, a note in Mr Darcy’s elegant hand read:
“Let this mark a fresh beginning. For civility. —F.”
Inside was a golden brooch, its delicate flowers encircled by a border of ridged metal. It was elegant and understated—infinitely more thoughtful than the embroidery thread he had given her at Christmas. She held it in her hand, considering its weight and what it might signify. Perhaps now was time for them to talk…
It was with trepidation that Elizabeth made her way from her room towards Mr Darcy’s study. She hesitated at the door. The flickering light of a candle seeped through the gap beneath it, a sign that he was still inside. She took a steadying breath and knocked softly, the sound barely disturbing the stillness of the hallway.
“Enter,” came Mr Darcy’s voice, low and even, though tinged with surprise when the door creaked open to reveal Elizabeth. He straightened slightly, setting aside the letter he had been reading. The study was dimly lit, a single candle casting long shadows over the room’s dark wood panelling and shelves lined with books.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice calm but curious. “To what do I owe this visit?”
She stepped forward, her hands clasped before her, the golden brooch resting in her palm. “I came to thank you, Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.
“For what, may I ask?” His brow furrowed in puzzlement until his eyes fell to her hand. A flicker of understanding crossed his face, softening his expression.
Elizabeth extended her hand, revealing the brooch. “This. It is a thoughtful gift, and a far cry from… well, from the embroidery silks at Christmas.”
The corners of Mr Darcy’s mouth twitched, almost forming a smile, though he quickly composed himself. “Ah, yes. I see I may have been misinformed in my previous choice of gift. Bingley assured me it would be well-received.”
“Mr Bingley?” Elizabeth let out a light laugh, shaking her head. “Poor Jane, if he follows such advice for her. But truly, I did not expect such a gesture. It is most becoming and very kind of you.”
“It is only fitting,” Mr Darcy replied, his voice quieter now. “You have endured much these past weeks. You deserve some small token of recognition, if nothing else.”
Elizabeth’s amusement gave way to a warmth she had not anticipated. Her gaze softened, and she stepped closer, her tone gentler. “That is not all. While Georgiana and I were walking in the gardens earlier, we overheard you and Lady Catherine in here.”
Mr Darcy stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I see.”
“Please know we did not linger intentionally,” Elizabeth assured him, though a glimmer of mischief sparkled in her eyes. “But what we did hear—what Georgiana and I both heard —meant a great deal to me. I am not accustomed to having someone defend me with such… fervour.”
Mr Darcy’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave a small nod. “It was no more than your due, Elizabeth. My aunt has behaved unpardonably towards you, and I will not tolerate such conduct, not even from her.”
“You may think it no more than my due,” Elizabeth said softly, “but I do not take it lightly. I thank you, sincerely.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, though it was not uncomfortable. Mr Darcy appeared to weigh his next words carefully before speaking. “This arrangement between us has not been what either of us wished for,” he said at last, his voice even. “But I hope you know I do not hold you in disdain, nor do I wish for discord between us.”
Elizabeth met his gaze, her own steady. “Nor do I. Perhaps civility is not so lofty a goal as we once imagined.”
Mr Darcy’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “To civility, then.”
“To civility,” Elizabeth echoed, and for the first time, she felt a quiet hope stir within her—that peace, at least, might be possible.
She excused herself soon after, leaving Mr Darcy to his letters. Back in her room, she sat on the edge of her bed, the brooch resting in her palm once more. Its delicate golden flowers caught the light, refined and elegant—a touch of beauty amidst the turmoil.
Elizabeth drew in a breath, her gaze drifting to the drawer where she had stowed the embroidery thread he had given her at Christmas. She pulled it open and retrieved the small box, along with a plain handkerchief. Sitting at her writing desk, she unfolded the fabric and smoothed it out with care.
“If he is willing to make an effort,” she murmured to herself, “then so shall I.”
She selected a skein of deep blue thread, the colour vivid against the pristine white of the fabric and threaded her needle. Slowly, her hands began to work, each stitch a quiet promise. The tension of the day melted away as she embroidered, the candlelight casting a warm glow over her labour.
Perhaps civility was indeed within reach.