Chapter 42 #2
If that were the case, then the matter became one not of restoration, but of recognition. A misunderstanding, perhaps. An absence wrongly assumed permanent. That could be corrected—carefully, properly, with the right documentation and witnesses.
So long as the current heir presumptive does not object.
His mouth tightened as he considered Mr. Collins and his wife. The man would not relinquish his expectations willingly, though whether he possessed the wit to mount any meaningful opposition remained doubtful. Still, it would be prudent to anticipate some attempt at resistance.
It would not go well for him.
From what Darcy had observed, Mr. Collins was not a man equipped for prolonged or intelligent opposition.
His arguments would be loud, perhaps, and officious—but not effective.
Still, such matters could not be left to chance.
Documentation would be required. Testimony.
A careful presentation of facts that would leave no room for doubt.
Mr. Bennet will require guidance.
The thought came without arrogance, only certainty. Mr. Bennet possessed intelligence, yes, but not inclination. He would not willingly engage in the necessary effort unless compelled, and even then, not with consistency.
She would still carry it.
No.
That, he would not allow.
Darcy’s gaze dropped again to Elizabeth, nestled safely in his arms. His arm tightened infinitesimally around her before he forced himself to relax.
This was precisely the sort of burden she would take upon herself without hesitation—managing, organizing, compensating for the deficiencies of those around her.
So instead, he would make the offer to take it on. In some respects, that responsibility had already fallen to him, simply by the fact that she was his wife.
Marriage altered more than affection. It altered duty.
And a Darcy always did his duty.
Once this determination was made, Darcy’s thoughts moved on to travel, and to Lady Catherine.
They were meant to depart for Rosings in only a few days, but now…
Now everything was uncertain.
Would Lady Catherine even wish to return to Rosings, proceeding as planned? Or would she desire to linger in Hertfordshire, drawn by the sudden reappearance of the past she had long believed buried?
He almost allowed himself a dry huff of breath.
The more relevant question was not what Lady Catherine desired—but what Elizabeth did.
Darcy glanced down at her once more.
Would she wish to remain? To come to know the man who sired her? Or would she prefer escape?
The thought gave him pause.
Elizabeth, who had borne so much of her family’s burdens, might well choose distance if it were offered. Time to consider, rather than immediate immersion in yet another upheaval.
Or would she invite Frederick and Teddy to Pemberley the way she did Lady Catherine, with the offer of coming to know one another better?
Darcy’s mind stilled for a brief moment as the image formed. It was not unappealing; it was practical. A neutral ground. Space. Resources. Distance from immediate scrutiny while matters were set in order.
But that, too, depended on Frederick’s inclinations. A man newly returned—if he were indeed who he claimed—might not wish to remove himself so quickly from the place he had been striving to reclaim.
Too many variables.
Darcy exhaled slowly, forcing himself to still the rapid progression of thought.
One matter at a time.
Establish the truth of Frederick’s status.
Secure Mr. Bennet’s cooperation.
Anticipate and neutralize Collins.
Determine Elizabeth’s wishes.
Everything else must follow.
He shifted slightly, careful of Elizabeth, and adjusted the coverlet where it had slipped from her shoulder. She stirred faintly at the movement, her fingers tightening momentarily against him before relaxing once more.
Darcy stilled.
After a moment, when her breathing deepened again, he allowed himself the smallest release of tension.
Extraordinary.
That he could be lying here, holding his wife, while calmly planning how best to unravel what might very well become a legal and social catastrophe—
It was, he thought, not a situation for which he had been particularly prepared.
And yet—
His gaze settled on Elizabeth once more, and something steadied within him.
It will be managed.
Not easily. Not quickly.
But it would be done.
Because it must be.
And because she should not have to bear it alone.
Elizabeth stirred slightly, her hand shifting against him. Darcy stilled at once, his hold gentle but secure.
Let the world wait.
For this moment, at least, she was at peace.
And he would do all he could to keep it that way.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth had never before found breakfast to be such an exercise in restraint.
She sat at the table with every appearance of composure, her hands neatly folded when not engaged, her responses measured, her countenance calm. Anyone observing her might have thought her merely attentive to the polite conversation passing between the party.
No one, she was quite certain, would suspect that her thoughts were nowhere in the room at all.
They were upstairs.
Her cheeks warmed slightly at the direction of her own mind, though she bent her head to her plate in what might easily be taken for interest in the meal before her.
The murmur of voices continued around her—Lady Catherine expounding upon some improvement at Rosings, Bingley offering cheerful agreement to Jane, Lady Anne contributing with gentle tact—but Elizabeth heard very little of it.
She ought to be attending.
She knew it.
Instead, she found herself recalling the steady warmth of Darcy’s arm about her, the quiet strength of his presence, the way the world—if only for a few brief hours—had seemed held at bay.
How easy it would be to return there.
To withdraw. To close the door. To pretend, if only for a day, that nothing beyond those walls required her notice.
Elizabeth reached for her teacup, steadying herself with the familiar motion.
No.
The thought was as firm as it was unwelcome. There was no retreating from what awaited them. The world had a way of intruding—persistently, inexorably—no matter how one might wish otherwise. She had learned that lesson too well to ignore it now.
Still…
Her lips curved faintly despite herself as she lowered her gaze.
It had been very pleasant, while it lasted.
“Elizabeth?”
She started slightly and looked up to find Georgiana watching her with quiet concern.
“You seem fatigued this morning,” the younger girl said softly.
Elizabeth summoned a small smile. “I did not sleep as soundly as I might have wished.”
Which was not, strictly speaking, untrue—though not for the reason Georgiana would suppose.
Across the table, Lady Catherine was speaking with Jane. “…and I always maintain that a proper arrangement of the morning room makes all the difference to one’s comfort. At Rosings, of course—”
The newly-minted Mrs. Bingley nodded politely. “I am certain Rosings sets the standard in such matters.”
Only Jane, Elizabeth thought, hiding her smile with her napkin.
Lady Catherine accepted this without suspicion, continuing her discourse with evident satisfaction.
Elizabeth set her cup aside as the footmen moved quietly about the table, removing dishes and replacing them with fresh.
The presence of servants pressed upon her awareness, shaping every word, every expression.
It was a peculiar sort of performance—conversation stripped of substance, meaning hidden beneath polite trivialities.
It could not continue.
As the meal began to draw to a close, Elizabeth turned slightly toward Jane, timing her words carefully.
“Jane,” she said in a tone of casual ease, “Papa and his… brother will be calling at Netherfield this morning.”
She darted her gaze towards the servants, and Jane’s eyes widened. “Of course,” she said in a forced tone. “I imagine you all will wish to speak privately, given how long it has been since we have seen him.”
“Yes, precisely.” Elizabeth was relieved Jane could understand her request so easily.
“The small morning room with the rose design would be an ideal place for you,” Jane continued. “I will have the fire lit.”
Elizabeth inclined her head in agreement, grateful—as always—for Jane’s ability to adjust without fuss.
Jane turned slightly, including the others. “Lady Anne, Miss Darcy—perhaps you would walk with me in the gardens while the gentlemen are engaged?”
“I think that would be very pleasant,” Lady Anne replied at once.
“But—”
Georgiana’s protest was silenced with a quelling look from her mother. Her curiosity vanished into composure as though it had never existed. “The gardens are lovely at this hour,” she finished more evenly.
Elizabeth lowered her gaze, hiding the flicker of amusement—and sympathy—that rose within her. Lady Catherine, for her part, appeared entirely content with the arrangement.
“Yes, yes, that is quite sensible,” she said. “Such matters are best handled without unnecessary interruption.”
The butler came into the room at the moment. “Mr. Bennet,” he announced, “and Mr. Frederick Bennet have arrived.”
Elizabeth felt the shift like a physical thing.
Jane’s hand stilled against the table. Bingley straightened. Georgiana’s fingers tightened briefly in her lap before going still again.
Elizabeth drew in a slow breath.
This was it.
No more delays. No more carefully managed conversation.
No returning upstairs.
She rose. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady. “Shall we, my dear?”
Darcy nodded and extended his arm towards her. She took it, and together they moved the door, her courage steadying with every step as his arm remained firm beneath her hand.