CHAPTER TWELVE
THE RETURN FROM the ice had brought a pleasant fatigue that softened voices and inclined tempers toward indulgence.
By the time luncheon was served, the house bore that gentle air of satisfaction that follows shared exertion.
Cloaks had been shed, cheeks still glowed from the cold, and conversation flowed easily as Mrs Reynolds supervised the placing of dishes upon the table.
Elizabeth found herself seated opposite Darcy, their exchange limited but easy—a remark upon the warmth of the room, another upon the welcome appearance of the meal. A portion of Christmas plum cake had been set out, its aroma rich and promising.
Darcy addressed the table with quiet formality. "I hope this evening will provide some restorative entertainment after the morning's exertions. Georgiana has expressed a wish to perform some Christmas carols, and I understand Miss Mary Bennet has been kind enough to agree to join her."
A murmur of pleased approval went around the table. Mary coloured with visible gratification, while Mrs Bennet declared it a charming plan.
Elizabeth had just remarked upon the prospective pleasure of having a carol evening despite their winter confinement when Lady Catherine's voice entered the conversation.
"Miss Elizabeth," she said, with measured cordiality, "you must find Pemberley quite diverting, particularly being confined here for Christmas rather than spending it in London as intended."
Elizabeth looked up at once. "It has been exceedingly pleasant, your ladyship."
Lady Catherine smiled, though the expression did not reach her eyes. "I should imagine so. A large house, full of society, and so many opportunities for amusement. One must be careful, however, not to mistake animation for intention."
Elizabeth felt the words settle, cool and deliberate. She attempted to discern their precise meaning, yet knowing Lady Catherine as she did, she could not doubt there was some intended rebuke beneath the civility.
"I have not found them difficult to distinguish," she replied calmly.
"I am relieved to hear it," Lady Catherine continued. "It would be unfortunate if kindness were to be interpreted as encouragement. Young ladies are sometimes led astray by such misunderstandings, particularly when they are unaccustomed to the attentions of superior connections."
Mrs Gardiner, who had been listening quietly, set down her fork. "Elizabeth has always understood the distinction between civility and expectation," she said with quiet firmness.
Lady Catherine inclined her head, acknowledging the remark without conceding it. "That is as it should be. One must always consider one's position, and the expectations naturally attached to it."
Caroline Bingley smiled faintly. "Indeed. Expectations can be most inconvenient when improperly formed."
Jane's hand stilled upon her glass, her expression troubled, while Elizabeth met Miss Bingley's gaze without flinching. "Then I am fortunate in having formed none improperly, nor attempted to do so."
Her eyes found Darcy's across the table. His expression held something she could not quite interpret—was it apology, or anger? She could not determine which.
A brief silence followed, awkward and heavy. Eyes shifted from one person to another as the tension thickened.
Mrs Bennet, seeming not to fully grasp the undercurrents, said earnestly, "I am sure we are all quite sensible of our positions, Lady Catherine. Why, Mr Bennet is always reminding me of ours."
"Indeed I am, my dear.” Mr Bennet's eyes glinted with amusement. “Though I confess I find the effort of remembering one's position quite exhausting. It requires such constant vigilance. I admire those who can maintain it without appearing to think of anything else."
A few uncertain smiles appeared around the table, the barb subtle enough to pass as jest.
Lady Catherine's expression remained cold. It would seem that she had no ready reply that would not seem petty, so she kept mute.
Darcy set down his fork with deliberate care.
"I believe, Aunt, that the only expectations which matter at Pemberley are those of its master.
" His tone was even, but there was steel beneath it.
"As for position, society sets unrealistic expectations upon it far too often.
What matters here is character and conduct.
I can assure you that all my guests are equally welcome and equally valued. "
Lady Catherine's lips thinned, but she said nothing.
The table fell silent. Lady Catherine returned her attention to her plate. She had made her meaning clear, even if she could pursue it no further.
Elizabeth continued her meal with composed attention, yet Darcy, seated opposite her, saw the slight tension in her shoulders, the restraint with which she lifted her glass.
Though he had spoken, his jaw remained tight, and something in his expression suggested the matter was far from settled in his mind.
***
Later That Afternoon, Lady Catherine requested Darcy's company in the smaller drawing room.
He found her standing by the window, her posture rigid with evident purpose. She turned as he entered, dispensing with pleasantries at once.
"My dear Darcy, I wished to speak with you privately."
He inclined his head, already sensing the direction this conversation would take. The scene at luncheon had been no accident—his aunt had been testing boundaries, and he had pushed back. Now she would attempt a different approach.
She began by inquiring after Georgiana, remarking that they had not had sufficient opportunity to speak of family matters in person, and asking how his sister fared.
Then she turned to estate business, though she was careful to add that she did not presume to intrude upon such concerns.
Darcy answered each question with careful consideration, recognizing the preamble for what it was.
"I had hoped," she continued at length, "that this Christmas would afford Anne some measure of comfort and particular attention. She has spoken of Pemberley with great anticipation these many months."
"I trust she has found it agreeable," Darcy replied with deliberate care.
"She has found it busy," Lady Catherine said, her emphasis pointed. "You have been much occupied."
With the Bennets, she meant. With Miss Elizabeth Bennet in particular. Darcy maintained his neutral expression, though inwardly a familiar irritation began to rise. How predictable this was—how tiresome.
"I could not help but observe," she continued, "that Anne was afforded little opportunity for your particular company this morning. She skated but briefly, and not with you."
"Anne was well attended by the party," Darcy said evenly.
"That is not the point." Lady Catherine's tone grew sharper. "Some attentions are not a matter to be delegated. Certain expectations have always existed between you and Anne."
There it was—the assumption to which she had clung for years, despite his repeated attempts to gently discourage it. He had been too subtle, perhaps. Too willing to let silence stand where clarity was required. Now Darcy understood whence the slight to Elizabeth during luncheon had originated.
How had she known? She must have observed them from above, he concluded, for he knew his aunt was forever vigilant for something to correct.
"I am not conscious of having neglected my cousin," he said.
Lady Catherine regarded him with narrowed eyes. "You are very conscious of others, however."
He met her gaze then, respectful but unyielding. She was referring to Elizabeth, of course. Everything led back to Elizabeth.
"I am aware of my surroundings," he replied.
She paused, seeming to weigh her next words with deliberation.
"There are influences which lend an air of encouragement where none ought to exist. Young ladies of lively disposition may easily mistake civility for something more substantial—particularly when their circumstances render such connections decidedly advantageous. "
Darcy's jaw tightened. The insinuation was unmistakable: that Elizabeth was angling for his regard, that her presence at Pemberley was calculated. It was precisely the sort of prejudice he himself had once harbored, and the irony of hearing it from his aunt now filled him with cold anger.
"I am careful with my civility," he said, his voice low.
"Then you must be equally careful with appearances," Lady Catherine pressed. "Anne has ever been considered your intended—"
"Madam," Darcy interrupted, his tone quiet but firm, "nothing has ever been settled between Anne and myself. Nothing has been promised, neither by me nor by my late father."
Her expression stiffened with visible affront. "Your mother wished it. It was her dearest hope."
"My mother expressed a preference," Darcy corrected, "but she did not command it. Nor would she have expected me to marry without regard to my own feelings, or indeed to Anne's."
He had stated this before, in varying forms, but his aunt had always contrived to deflect or dismiss it. Not this time. He would be perfectly clear.
"You would do well to remember your obligations to your family," Lady Catherine said coldly.
"I remember them with complete precision," he replied. "But I will not let my happiness be governed by assumptions that were never mine to begin with."
Lady Catherine studied him, her displeasure evident in every line of her rigid bearing. "We shall speak again on this matter. I should be exceedingly sorry if affairs were allowed to proceed imprudently."
"As should I," Darcy said. "Which is precisely why I will not permit misunderstandings to continue uncorrected."
He bowed, signaling the conclusion of their interview, and left the room before she could marshal another argument.
His composure remained intact as he traversed the corridor, but his thoughts were far from tranquil.
The scene at luncheon returned to him with piercing clarity—Elizabeth's quiet dignity as she faced his aunt's veiled insults, the restrained grace with which she had defended herself.
She had borne it without complaint, yet he had observed the tension in her shoulders, the careful control in her expression.
Lady Catherine's words this afternoon had been no better—worse, even, for the implications they contained. That Elizabeth was mercenary in her attentions. That her civility, or perhaps her interest in him, was calculated and self-serving. That she required warning away.
It was insupportable.
He had spent months learning to see past his own prejudices, confronting the arrogance and unfounded assumptions that had nearly cost him any possibility of winning her regard.
Her presence beneath his roof had forced him to confront what he could no longer ignore: the regard he had tried so desperately to suppress, the very feelings that had prevented his return to Hertfordshire for fear that they may not be reciprocated.
She occupied his thoughts constantly. He desired her company above all others.
He had come to need her near him with a profundity that both startled and compelled him.
He would not now permit others to level selfish accusations at her, nor would he allow her to suffer the prejudicial judgments of which he had once been guilty.
Lady Catherine would not be permitted to wound Elizabeth again—not by implication, not by insinuation, not by the oppressive weight of her disapproval.
If silence had once served his purposes, it would do so no longer. The time for ambiguity was past.