TWENTY-FIVE #2
“And yet,” Elizabeth said, after a moment, with a quietness that told him she had understood every word including the ones he had not said, “you are here. At the foot of a hill in Hertfordshire on a cold afternoon.” She looked at him steadily.
“You have done things others thought out of your character. You have made me laugh. Made me think. Made me notice things I might otherwise have walked past entirely.”
Darcy said nothing.
"I have always thought," Elizabeth continued, "that respect and understanding were the only foundations worth building anything upon. I have refused to think otherwise regardless of what it has cost me." She paused. "I do not think I have changed my position on the matter."
It was not a declaration. It was not even quite an answer to what he had not quite asked. But it was something considerably more than nothing, and both of them understood precisely what it was.
Darcy looked at her for a long moment.
"I would ask you," he said at last, "to think about what I have said. Not to answer it now. Only to think about it."
"I will," said Elizabeth.
Darcy's brows lifted in mock surprise. "Honestly?"
"Have I ever been otherwise with you?" A smile touched her lips.
"No." His own answering it before he could prevent it. "You have not."
They remained at the fallen log a little while longer.
The conversation shifted, as it had always shifted between them, into smaller and more comfortable things — the view, the cold, Elizabeth describing the particular quality of light over the Hertfordshire fields in winter that she preferred above all other seasons.
Darcy listened and spoke and felt something he had not felt in two years.
He knew exactly what it was.
He did not say it aloud. But he knew.
***
Netherfield
It was the coach he noticed first.
It stood before the entrance, mud-spattered and recently arrived, the horses already removed to the stables. Upon the door, a golden griffin against a field of azure.
Darcy’s stomach dropped.
Bingley, seated opposite him, leaned toward the window with mild curiosity.
“Someone has called. Do you recognise—”
“Yes,” said Darcy.
Bingley looked at him. Then at the carriage — particularly the name beneath the arms. Then back at Darcy.
“Ah,” he said, leaning away from the window.
Darcy said nothing.
He had spent the greater part of the afternoon at the foot of Oakham Mount saying things he had not said to anyone in two years, and arriving somewhere he had not permitted himself to arrive in all that time.
And now, unless he was dreaming, his aunt was inside waiting for him.
That was not a good sign.
Lady Catherine never travelled to see anyone unless she possessed an opinion too strong to be adequately expressed in correspondence.
A footman hurried toward their conveyance before Marsh had properly brought the chair to a halt.
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh, sir,” he said to Bingley. “She has been here nearly two hours.”
Darcy looked at the crest a moment longer.
Whatever the afternoon had been, it was certainly over now.
Marsh brought him through the entrance. The house suddenly felt gloomier, as though some darkness lingered over it.
The drawing room door remained closed. Still, Darcy could hear his aunt through it nonetheless. Not the words. The register.
Marsh opened the door.
Lady Catherine stood before the fireplace, her tall figure occupying the room with commanding certainty. She wore a flowing muslin gown which Darcy recognised immediately as travelling attire. The fact that she had not changed suggested she did not intend to remain long. Another bad sign.
She turned at their entrance.
Her eyes moved to Darcy — to his face, briefly to the chair, then back again — and something crossed her expression in that instant which was not quite pity and carried its own particular sting before settling almost immediately into displeasure.
Caroline sat nearest Lady Catherine, a faintly triumphant smile playing about her lips as she watched Darcy and Bingley enter.
Darcy could not entirely account for it, but there was a satisfaction in Miss Bingley’s expression he disliked immediately. She met his gaze with perfect composure.
“Fitzwilliam,” said Lady Catherine.
“Aunt Catherine.” He looked at her steadily. “This is unexpected. I should have thought a letter might first inform me of your visit.”
“I imagine it is, but urgent matters do not always permit notice.” She turned toward Bingley, who greeted her politely.
“Quite a respectable house you have here, though I confess I already find the county tiresome from my short time in it.” Her gaze travelled critically about the drawing room.
“You ought perhaps to consider changing the wallpaper if you intend to remain longer. It does the colour of your settee no service.”
That was the Lady Catherine Darcy had not wished to see. The one who dispensed unsolicited advice regardless of whether it was desired.
“Fitzwilliam,” Lady Catherine continued, turning back toward him, “may we speak privately?”
Bingley cleared his throat. “Perhaps my office would prove more comfortable. For privacy.”
Lady Catherine considered this suggestion for precisely the length of time required to establish that the thought had originated entirely with herself.
“That will do,” she said.
Caroline rose immediately. Bingley looked at her with a quiet firmness he rarely employed. She preceded him from the room without protest.
Marsh brought Darcy through the corridor toward Bingley’s office. Lady Catherine followed behind. Once inside, Marsh positioned the chair, cast a brief look toward Darcy, and withdrew. The door closed.
“I was surprised when my rector wrote informing me you were here,” Lady Catherine began.
“I confess I thanked Providence that you had at last decided to do something with yourself after all this time. Though why Mr. Bingley should choose Hertfordshire of all places remains entirely beyond me, however much I now begin to understand.”
The last sentence unsettled Darcy for reasons he could not entirely define. Understand? What could Lady Catherine possibly understand after scarcely two hours in Hertfordshire?
“That, however, is not the principal reason for my visit,” said Lady Catherine.
Darcy's jaw tightened slightly. "Why did you come, Aunt?"
“Four days ago,” said Lady Catherine without preamble, “I went to call upon Viscount Huxley at Merton Hall. He suffered a form of paralysis after being thrown from his horse during a hunting excursion.”
Darcy felt an unpleasant sensation crawl slowly up his spine.
Lady Catherine possessed one of those infuriatingly knowing expressions he had never been able to endure. He did not know where this conversation was leading. He knew only that he would not like the destination.
“He is recovering tolerably well, if you must know.” Lady Catherine placed one hand upon the desk and leaned slightly toward him. “Imagine my surprise, however, when I encountered a rather familiar face there. His physician.” She paused. “Dr Aldridge. From London.”
Something rang in Darcy's ears.
He felt the blood drain from his face before he could prevent it.
Lady Catherine did not need to say another word. She was going to anyway — that was who she was — but the understanding had already arrived the moment he heard the name.
He knew exactly where this was leading.