Chapter 7
SEVEN
Darcy was not sorry when his cousins came to call the morning he was to dine at Grosvenor Square.
He knew the countess’s long-lost niece was supposed to visit the day before, and he was naturally curious how that encounter had gone.
The sceptical part of his nature wondered if it was a hoax of some sort—a young lady who, in league with a devious man, had learnt of Lady Romsley’s brother and hoped to profit by pretending to be a relation.
Darcy and his cousins sat in a small parlour. Georgiana was in her apartment with her companion, as he informed them when Fitzwilliam asked.
“Ah, well,” the colonel said with a laugh. “The ladies will meet this afternoon. I suppose my enthusiasm makes me want to talk to her about our cousin. I believe Georgiana will gain from knowing her.”
“It really is rather… Words fail me,” Bramwell said, sounding far more sentimental than was usual for him; it made Darcy’s brow arch. “Well, it is,” the viscount insisted. “My mother is thrilled.”
Darcy looked at Fitzwilliam, silently enquiring if he agreed. As his cousin responded, Darcy poured coffee for them, passing a cup first to Bramwell and then to the colonel.
“Despite my mother’s initial hesitation, she is extremely pleased to know my uncle Thomas had a child and that they can now know one another.
” He laughed. “My mother has already invited her to remove to Grosvenor Square, and while she had not yet agreed to that, she has promised to come with us to Romsley Hall in January. Mama was writing to Uncle Sterling when we left, telling him what had happened and insisting we shall go to Hillsdale so that they can meet before we travel to Warwickshire.”
“Is it not a little…hasty?” Darcy asked, taking a sip of the too-hot liquid.
As Fitzwilliam shook his head, too occupied by chewing a biscuit to speak politely, Bramwell said, “I do not think so. There is no reason to doubt her story, and while my mother was unsure what she thought at first, which I attribute mostly to shock, she has got past that. As for me, I do not care that she is the product of a marriage that was not sanctioned by my grandfather or, from what I understand, the lady’s father. ”
“Was she a lady?” Darcy interjected.
“She was,” Fitzwilliam answered, wiping crumbs from his cravat. “Her father was a country gentleman—smallish estate, I guess, but a gentleman is a gentleman. It was not a stellar match, but it was hardly disgraceful.”
“Not when there was genuine affection on both sides,” Bramwell added.
“And it seems clear that they loved each other dearly. I do not say my uncle was right to elope, but I imagine he was frustrated that his parents’ expectations about the sort of woman he would marry—you know what I mean, rich, excellent connexions, et cetera—were keeping him from the one he loved and made him happy. ”
It felt like some force had ripped the breath from his body, and for a brief moment, Darcy struggled to maintain his composure.
His cousin’s words made him think of Elizabeth, the lady whom—had she better connexions, a fortune, and no mystery about her parentage—he might have considered pursuing.
Even with their present separation, one he expected to last the rest of his life, he found himself thinking of her far too often for his comfort.
For whatever reason, he had never looked at a woman and seen the sort of lady he would choose to marry and spend his life with until he saw Elizabeth.
But, while his cousins, even the earl and countess, might make light of Thomas Sterling’s actions from twenty-odd years ago, if Darcy presented Elizabeth Bennet to them as his intended wife, they would call him a fool and insist the notion was unwise to the point of being impossible.
As for eloping, he would never contemplate or countenance it. After Georgiana’s near disaster of the previous summer, Darcy’s opinion of people who married in such an imprudent manner had sunk even lower than it had been previously.
“I hope she comes to stay with us soon,” Bramwell said. “The whole affair has added a certain excitement to our lives and added reason to celebrate this Festive Season.”
“She will be there soon,” Fitzwilliam said. “That is one reason my brother and I have sought you out. We are looking for an excuse to be gone until closer to dinner.”
“What he is trying so ineffectively to say is that we wanted to give our mother and cousin time alone,” Bramwell said, regarding the colonel, who was steadily moving food from the tray to his mouth; he had always had an insatiable appetite.
“I expect they will speak of my late uncle. Since it will be difficult, it is best done as privately as possible.”
Wiping his mouth, Fitzwilliam quickly added, “She really is delightful, Darcy. I doubt even you, fastidious as you are, will find reason to dislike her.”
Darcy regarded him through narrowed eyes for a long moment before saying, “Go away. Both of you. I have matters to attend to and prefer not to be insulted in my own house. Georgiana and I shall see you at dinner.”
Once his cousins left, Darcy reflected that, while he might find that he liked this new niece—somehow, he still did not know her name—he certainly would not do so after a single meeting. His cousins might believe there was little doubt she was who she claimed to be, but he would require more proof.
Later that day, having explained to his sister that they should be polite and accepting of the young lady but remain cautious—“until we have a chance to know her better and understand what sort of person she is”—they entered the earl’s town house and proceeded silently to the drawing room.
As soon as he stepped through the door, he cried, “Miss Bennet?” He must be dreaming; it was the only explanation.
But it was not so. It could not be, because as sure as he was that he was Fitzwilliam Darcy, he was certain that Miss Elizabeth Bennet stood next to Lady Romsley, the younger woman’s expression composed.
How could that be, when he was completely the opposite?
“Miss Sterling, if you please,” Bramwell said. He laughed heartily, only just managing to add, “You ought to see the look on your face, Darcy!” He was standing to the side of the room with his brother.
“Hush,” the countess said. Her brow was furrowed, and she was looking at him and the viscount anxiously, likely worried they would argue.
But Darcy could only gape at the lovely young lady beside his aunt.
Elizabeth—the person who had so drawn him in, who continued to invade his dreams—was a Sterling?
“We only discovered you had lately met half an hour ago,” Fitzwilliam explained. “If you can believe it, no one had mentioned your name to Elizabeth, and I suppose none of us told you her name.”
“Come, be introduced,” Lord Romsley said, holding out a hand to Georgiana. He stood next to his wife.
The gesture was enough to shake Darcy out of his shock, and he approached the trio with his sister. The countess made the introduction, the two young ladies curtseyed, and he bowed.
“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Darcy,” Miss Elizabeth said before addressing him. “Mr Darcy. I am sure this is as much a surprise to you as it was to me.”
“But a delightful one,” Lady Romsley insisted before smiling broadly at Elizabeth.
“As I told you earlier, we are particularly close to Darcy and Georgiana. Their mother and father were such good friends to your uncle and me, as well as being our brother and sister. Had we not spent so many years apart, you would all be dear friends already.”
“No doubt,” the earl agreed.
To Darcy, he sounded not exactly placating, but as though he recognised his wife’s enthusiasm and did not want to dampen it. After all, the countess must be reminded of her long estrangement from her brother, one that had kept her from knowing his daughter, a child she had not even known existed.
He was tempted to pinch himself to ensure he was not dreaming. But even in his dreams, he would not have conceived of having such a connexion to Elizabeth Bennet. Or must he call her Elizabeth Sterling?
As though reading his mind, Bramwell said, “To return to my earlier point, Elizabeth, will you revert to using your birth name? I know you have been called Bennet for most of your life, but…”
She glanced at the countess, met the earl’s eye, then returned to Lady Romsley, who was visibly trying not to show how important the answer was to her.
“It will be strange to be called Elizabeth Sterling,” she said slowly, “but it is my proper name. Mr and Mrs Bennet were being kind when they gave me the same name as their daughters, and I shall always be grateful and honour them as my aunt and uncle and adoptive father and mother, and Mr Bennet is my guardian until my next birthday, but”—she took a deep breath—“it is time for me to return to being the person I was born to be.” She laughed, the sound piercing Darcy’s heart; he had never expected to hear it again.
“If that did not sound too awkward and momentous!”
Darcy realised he was smiling at her and quickly schooled his features.
Thoughts, some of them conflicting, whirled through his mind.
The lady he had come to admire not a month ago was standing in his uncle and aunt’s drawing room, and she was as connected to them as he and Georgiana were.
She was not merely the daughter of an indolent country gentleman and woman with ties to trade, nor merely the girl of dubious parentage they had adopted.
She was a Sterling, a child of a family much like his own, if not quite so rich.
True, her father had been a second son, but so was his uncle Frederick, his father’s brother, and Darcy never thought of Frederick’s daughters as beneath his own sister, not in any way that mattered.