Seven
Lady Matlock arrived at half past two, unannounced and impeccably dressed, which was her preferred method of visiting and her family’s preferred method of being ambushed.
Darcy heard the carriage from his study and was on his feet before Barton reached the door.
His aunt did not send cards ahead nor require invitations.
She was the Countess of Matlock, and she entered rooms the way the tide entered harbours: on her own schedule, with absolute certainty, and with the general expectation that everything in her path would rearrange itself accordingly.
“Fitzwilliam.” She offered her cheek in the entrance hall and he leaned to kiss it. “You are thinner. Are you eating?”
“I am well, Aunt.”
“That was not my question.” She handed her gloves to Barton, who received them with the reverence due to sacred relics, and swept into the drawing room.
Richard was already there, sprawled in a chair with the boneless ease of a soldier on leave.
Georgiana was at the writing desk, correspondence spread before her, and she rose with a smile that suggested she had known her aunt was coming and had chosen not to warn anyone.
“Mother.” Richard stood and kissed his mother’s hand. “You look terrifying, as always.”
“And you are looking brown, Richard. When will this idiotic tan leave your complexion?” She settled into the best chair as though it had been reserved for her since the house was built.
Her eyes moved across the room in one efficient sweep—furniture, flowers, the state of the curtains—and Darcy recognised the inventory.
Lady Matlock assessed rooms the way generals assessed terrain.
By the time she accepted a cup of tea, she had already formed three opinions and was keeping them in reserve.
“Now.” She set her cup on its saucer. “I understand there is a new governess. Georgiana has told me she is a genteel young lady in difficult circumstances. I should like to meet her.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, a fraction, enough that Richard would not have noticed but his aunt certainly did. “Miss Bennet is occupied with Anne’s lessons at present. I shall ask whether—”
“Nonsense. I shall meet them both. The child ought to be presented to her great-aunt more often than she is. Bring them down.”
This was not a request. Darcy sent Alice with the message.
Elizabeth appeared ten minutes later with Anne at her side. Anne’s hair was brushed, her pinafore clean, and Muffin had been left upstairs, which suggested Elizabeth had performed a small diplomatic miracle in the intervening minutes. Anne without Muffin was a concession of considerable magnitude.
“Lady Matlock, may I present Miss Bennet, Anne’s governess? Miss Bennet, the Countess of Matlock.”
Elizabeth curtsied. It was precise, unhurried, and calibrated to the exact depth required for an earl’s wife. Not too deep, which would have been servile. Not too shallow, which would have been presumptuous. Lady Matlock’s eyebrows rose a fraction.
“Miss Bennet. I have heard you are doing very well with our Anne.”
“Miss Darcy is a pleasure to teach, my Lady. She is inquisitive and bright.”
“She is a terror, Miss Bennet. Let us not pretend otherwise.” Lady Matlock’s tone was dry, but her eyes were warm. She turned to Anne, who was standing very straight beside Elizabeth, her hands clasped before her.
“Good afternoon, Anne.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Matlock. You are wearing a very fine brooch.”
Richard made a sound into his teacup. Georgiana pressed her lips together. Lady Matlock regarded her great-niece and then smiled—a real smile, one that cracked the formidable facade and revealed the woman beneath it.
“Thank you, Anne. I chose it myself.”
“Did you? I choose my own ribbons too. Papa lets me, even when Alice says they do not match.”
“A sensible policy. Matching is tedious.”
Anne beamed. She had found an ally, and she was not going to waste the opportunity.
She proceeded to inform Lady Matlock about the current state of her education, the purpose of worms (still under investigation), and the fundamental difference between a horse portrait and a potato, which the adults in her life persisted in confusing.
She delivered this report clearly, concisely, and with self-possession.
She had been addressed as Miss Darcy by her governess and had risen to the title.
Lady Matlock listened. She asked two questions, both sensible. She did not interrupt or condescend. When Anne finished, she turned to Elizabeth.
“You have done well with her, Miss Bennet. She is articulate, confident, and polite. That is not an easy combination to achieve in a child of six.”
“She arrived with most of those qualities, my Lady. I merely provide the structure.”
“False modesty does not suit you, Miss Bennet. Accept the compliment.”
There was a flash of surprise in Elizabeth’s eyes, and beneath it, something fierce and grateful that surfaced for a fraction of a second before she composed herself. “Thank you, my Lady.”
Elizabeth excused them shortly after. Anne curtsied to Lady Matlock and they withdrew.
The room was quiet after the door closed. Richard reached for a biscuit and Georgiana returned to her correspondence.
Lady Matlock set her cup down and turned to Darcy.
He had been watching the door. He was entirely aware of it, and he could not stop.
He became also aware that his aunt had noticed the moment he turned and found her eyes firmly set on him.
His aunt’s gaze confirmed what he already feared.
She was studying him with an expression that contained no surprise whatsoever, only a cool, appraising calculation.
She had identified a problem and was determining its severity.
She said nothing, only picked up her teacup and sipped her tea.
Darcy felt the heat climb from his collar to his ears and understood, with a clarity that made his stomach drop, exactly how he must have appeared to her. A man who could not take his eyes off his own governess.
Richard, oblivious, reached for another biscuit. Georgiana sealed an envelope. Neither of them had seen a thing.
Lady Matlock had seen everything.
She set her cup down once more, and changed the subject to Georgiana’s wedding arrangements. Darcy sat very still in his chair, and felt the walls of his careful, scrupulous restraint crack a little further.
After another agonising hour, Richard escorted his mother back to Matlock House, and Georgiana retired to her chamber.
Darcy went to the nursery after tea, ostensibly to retrieve a book he had lent Anne that morning.
The book was on the shelf where he had placed it himself, four hours ago, with the specific intention of needing to retrieve it later.
The depths of his own calculation disgusted him. He went anyway.
The nursery was quiet. Anne was napping in the adjoining room, the door half-closed, and Elizabeth was alone, tidying.
She was bent over the low table, gathering chalk and paper, and the line of her neck was exposed where her hair had slipped forward from its pins.
The curve of it from her jaw to the collar of her dress was a clean, pale arc, and Darcy’s mouth went dry.
He cleared his throat.
She straightened and turned. “Mr Darcy.” Composed, as always. If she was surprised to find him lurking in doorways for the second time that week, she did not show it.
“Miss Bennet. I came to collect the Aesop.” He gestured vaguely at the shelf. His eyes, which had been instructed to remain on the shelf, disobeyed and returned to her neck. He redirected them to the table and found something unexpected.
A chessboard. Small, wooden, the pieces simple and sturdy enough for a child’s grip.
The black queen had been replaced by a carved button, and one of the white rooks appeared to be a thimble.
It had been set up mid-game, the pieces arranged in a position that suggested someone had been teaching basic strategy with considerable patience.
“You are teaching Anne how to play chess.”
“I am attempting to. She has grasped the concept of the knight and refuses to use any other piece. The board is littered with the fallen.” Elizabeth’s mouth twitched. “She also insists on naming each piece. The black king is Mr Muffin.”
“Naturally.” He studied the board. The position was simple but sound. Whoever had been playing white had a decent opening. “You play well.”
“My father taught me.” The words came out before she caught them, and something crossed her face, brief and sharp, before she smoothed it away. “I have not played in some time.”
“Play me.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“A game, Miss Bennet. Unless you would rather not.”
“I would rather finish tidying, Mr Darcy. Anne’s chalk does not organise itself.”
“Are you afraid you will lose?”
Her chin lifted. There it was. The flash in her eyes, the old defiance surfacing through the careful composure like a blade through cloth.
She held his gaze and the years fell away, and they were at Rosings again.
She was sitting at the pianoforte, and he was standing too close, and neither of them had learned a single thing.
“I have told you before, Mr Darcy. My courage rises with every attempt at intimidation.” She paused and smiled briefly. “I am not afraid of you.”
“Then play with me.”
He heard what he had said. He did not take it back.
The silence that followed was absolute. Her eyes held his. Elizabeth’s jaw tightened, the smallest movement, barely visible, and then she turned and sat in the chair opposite the board.
It was a child’s chair, built for a person of approximately three feet, and Elizabeth, who was a little more than five feet, arranged herself easily. She spent her days at this table and had long since made her peace with the proportions.
Darcy sat.