Chapter Eleven
Darcy watched Elizabeth bounce up and down as the Bennet carriage approached the house.
He smiled down at her, his heart full. Given the need to deal with Wickham, they had not wed by the end of the week, but now it was Monday, and her family was arriving for the ceremony on Tuesday. She would be his, truly his, tomorrow.
Elizabeth had spent all her tears and was no longer denying her impending loss. Darcy believed, however, that she was in no way reconciled to it. Once they were wed, he would be allowed to properly comfort her when the time arrived. For now, they would celebrate.
As Darcy stood observing, a seemingly inexhaustible number of Bennets tripped happily down the steps from their small carriage.
Mr. Bennet alighted first and turned to hand down his wife, who regarded the house uncertainly.
Next was Miss Bennet, smiling, as usual, then Miss Mary.
Both young women came to Elizabeth immediately and folded her into an embrace.
He stepped back to allow their greeting and Elizabeth smiled brightly at him.
Darcy recalled Elizabeth’s comment about not being able to fit eight people in their coach for the Netherfield ball, so he was sure they were at the end when he saw Miss Kitty, then Miss Lydia, emerge into the daylight.
His eyes darted back to the coach when there was more movement.
Astonishingly, Cleopatra Bingley was exiting, wearing a wide-brimmed straw bonnet trimmed with a brown ribbon and adorned with at least ten green and yellow feathers gathered together in a bunch on one side.
He blinked. How did that monstrosity fit in a coach strained at six? And where is Bingley?
His uncle and aunt had arrived in London on Saturday with Georgiana.
He was anxious to see his sister, but rather suspected she was more anxious to see his betrothed.
Georgiana’s letter to Elizabeth, arriving Saturday evening, expressed her approbation of the match in no less than four pages of tightly scripted exclamations.
He smiled, recalling how it had made Elizabeth beam.
His ruminations were interrupted when one last figure made its way deliberately out of the Bennet equipage.
Please do not let that be Miss Bingley, he pleaded silently.
It was not. Appearing on the steps, a little pale and slightly better-fed than he recalled, was his cousin, Anne de Bourgh.
Mr. Bennet handed her down and went to join his wife.
Darcy was shocked. What the blazes? “Anne?” he called, heading towards her. “What are you doing here?”
She gave him an owlish look. “I am here to stop your wedding, of course.”
That brought him up short. He shook his head to clear the shock. “What . . .”
Behind him, Elizabeth began to giggle, and Anne’s pale face was graced with a thin smile.
“In truth, cousin,” she said coyly, “I am here to make absolutely certain the wedding goes ahead as planned.” She made a show of looking behind her and lowering her voice.
“But do not tell my mother. She has sent me here to object.”
“But you are here with the Bennets,” he replied, confused.
Anne now began to laugh. “I have ridden from Hertfordshire for your wedding squashed next to a woman who keeps an aviary in her traveling bag, and you are stunned by my appearance?
“ She strolled over to his side, every move delicate, and hooked her arm through his.
“Someone had to go retrieve my mother and send her back to Kent—you know she would have remained at Netherfield ranting and raving for weeks before Mr. Bingley would even begin to think about asking her to leave.
She did depart, but only with the promise that I would make trouble for you.
“ She clasped his arm. “Have I succeeded?”
He laughed warmly. “You are a treasure, Annie,” he told her, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank your betrothed, cousin,” she responded gaily, releasing him to take Elizabeth by both hands.
Anne leaned in to bestow a kiss on each of Elizabeth’s cheeks.
“When I asked her sister Jane to write and inquire whether I would be welcome, Elizabeth insisted on my presence.” She gazed at Elizabeth for a second.
“I am very happy to make your acquaintance at last, Elizabeth. I have heard so much about you from your sisters.”
“I am so pleased you could be with us, Anne,” Elizabeth replied cheerfully. She whirled to face Darcy. “Are you very surprised, Fitzwilliam?”
“Stunned,” he admitted weakly, and both women laughed.
“Come inside, everyone,” Elizabeth called. “Come warm yourselves by the fire.”
Before they followed Elizabeth indoors, Anne turned to Darcy, her eyes dancing with mirth. “Should you like to tell my mother about Elizabeth’s family and what I imagine is her fortune, cousin, or may I?”
Darcy chuckled, still recovering from the surprise of her presence. “You more than anyone deserve to tell her, Annie, if you wish.”
“Oh, thank you, Fitzwilliam,“ Anne said, and her face glowed with gratification. “I do. I truly do.”
Darcy followed Elizabeth’s father inside and stood in a corner with his back to the wall. “Frightened, my boy?” the older man said with a smirk.
“We are vastly outnumbered, sir,” Darcy replied, straight-faced. “It is a tactical position.”
“Well said, son,” Bennet replied lightly. He watched the activity in the room before inquiring, “Have you anything to add to the information in Lizzy’s letter?”
“Is it wise to have the conversation here?” Darcy asked, uncomfortable.
His eyes, as always, found Elizabeth, who was speaking with Bingley’s aunt.
It warmed his heart to see her ease with other people, even those who might be considered, well, odd.
She was always kind, had even been kind enough to overlook his insult at the assembly.
Thank God for that. Now if he could only convince her to burn those drawings…
“Almost no place better,” Bennet retorted. “We are in a room full of women who are anticipating a wedding. We shall be completely ignored.”
Darcy had to agree—they had been left entirely to their own devices. “Very well. A few more pieces of the puzzle did come to light. The duke’s footman, Harry Sykes?”
“Yes?”
“Evidently, the man took Wickham’s example to heart. He was able to forge Wickham’s signature and abscond from Coutt’s with nearly all of Wickham’s savings. I believe the discovery of this was what made Wickham so desperate in the end.”
Bennet sounded amused. “Hoist with his own petard.”
Darcy shrugged. “Indeed.” He did not speak again until Bennet prompted him.
“So quiet still? Must I ask if there was anything else?”
Darcy shifted his feet. “Only that Mrs. Younge wrote the final letter and was arrested in consequence. It was a passable forgery, truth be told, but it was certainly not as well done as the one supposedly from my father. Because he was wounded, Wickham had no way to return to check the work before the letter was sent. My cousin believes Mrs. Younge had just returned from posting it when he arrived to speak with her.”
“Not the brightest of criminal minds, in the end.”
“Had he merely remained a thief, he would have done better,” Darcy had to admit. “Instead, he allowed his anger to rule him. Angry men are seldom wise.”
They stood quietly, then. Darcy was watching Elizabeth conversing with Mrs. Bingley and Miss Lydia when Richard and Bingley appeared with Mr. Perry.
“Ah,” Bennet said drily. “Reinforcements.”
The home’s most formal drawing room was a bit old-fashioned.
It was not precisely to Elizabeth’s taste, but she thought the room pretty enough.
Aunt Olivia had not bothered to do much here other than have a painter touch up the chinoiserie.
The walls were adorned with delicate trees in soft blues and creams, silhouettes of birds resting on the branches.
Mrs. Bingley was busily arranging a collection of her stuffed birds on a work table near one of the large windows in the front drawing room.
Elizabeth walked over to see what she was doing.
“Elizabeth,” the elderly lady preened, “will the wedding be held here?” She lowered her voice. “What an exquisite room.”
Elizabeth touched a bird with a green head, red body, and black and white tail. “Mrs. Bingley, is this a masked trogon? From South America?”
The older woman’s face shone with delight. “You know it?”
Elizabeth nodded, recalling a book in her father’s library. “I have seen pictures. It is a beautiful bird.”
“Oh, it is,” Mrs. Bingley cooed. “Some ladies keep them as pets, but I ask for them when they pass and have them stuffed. They are ever so exotic.” She touched each on its head as she spoke its name: “Rufus-collared kingfisher, oriental dwarf kingfisher, they are from the Orient, and would appear quite to advantage in this room.” She nodded at the wall.
“Those birds look like pheasant-tailed jacana. They are from India.”
Lydia edged her way to the table to listen as Mrs. Bingley continued.
“This is the regent bowerbird, from Australia, where the convicts go. As is the gouldian finch. And this,” she said with a fond smile, “this is the regal sunbird.” She was nearly reverent. “He is from Africa!”
Elizabeth smiled. Mrs. Bingley knew a little something about her birds. That was an interesting revelation.
“Have you been any of these places?” Elizabeth asked.
“No,” Mrs. Bingley said with a sigh. “My late husband always promised we would travel the world, but business, you see… and I am no longer young enough for such adventures. But I can just imagine seeing these birds flying in their own homes. It must be extraordinary.”
Lydia asked a few questions about the birds as Elizabeth gazed around the room. Fitzwilliam was standing with her father and they were speaking together, Mr. Bennet’s eyes dancing with mirth and her intended’s shoulders lifting in a shrug.