Chapter 16 The Trapped Heiress
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE TRAPPED HEIRESS
Elizabeth smoothed her hands over her best dress for the third time in as many minutes, a nervous habit that would have amused her under different circumstances.
The blue muslin was presentable but hardly fashionable, and the small tear in the sleeve where she had caught it on a bramble remained visible despite Martha’s careful mending.
Such deficiencies in her appearance had never troubled her at Longbourn, where comfort and practicality outweighed London fashions, but the prospect of taking tea at Pemberley induced an unfamiliar anxiety about her attire.
“You look lovely, child,” Martha said, appearing behind her in the glass. “Though I cannot fathom why Mr. Darcy would suddenly extend an invitation to tea. After all his years avoiding social obligations, he has never invited me to Pemberley.”
Elizabeth’s stomach tightened with the familiar mixture of anticipation and anxiety that had plagued her since receiving the invitation. “Perhaps he is merely being courteous to a visitor. He did rescue me from the road, after all.”
Martha sniffed, clearly unconvinced. “Men like Darcy are never ‘merely courteous’ without purpose. Mark my words, there is something amiss in this sudden hospitality.”
Elizabeth supposed Martha was right. A gentleman’s basic decency did not erase the arrogance she had witnessed at the Meryton assembly, regardless of how his eyes had softened when he spoke of his late uncle and aunt.
“He is likely curious about my research,” Elizabeth said. “I am well aware of the danger, and I should like to solve the murders so we can proceed with my claim. My birthday is in less than a fortnight.”
“Will be a sennight soon,” Mrs. Wickham said. “My George gets leave before All Hallows’ Eve. I’m eager to conclude this matter for you by then.”
“As am I,” Elizabeth acknowledged. “I should write my father about the locket.”
“It will be the proof I require.” Martha adjusted Elizabeth’s spencer with maternal satisfaction. “You look quite the young lady. Mr. Darcy will surely be impressed by your refinement.”
“I am not seeking to impress Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied more sharply than intended. “I am seeking information about my aunt Rose, nothing more.”
“Of course, dear. Though there’s no harm in making a favorable impression while conducting your research.
A gentleman’s good opinion often opens doors that formal requests cannot.
My George has the good opinion of many, unlike Mr. Darcy, who is not quite as considerate.
Although I suppose a man who usurped an estate like Pemberley believes himself to be above common courtesies. ”
Martha’s criticisms didn’t sit quite well with Elizabeth.
Though she harbored her own misgivings about Darcy’s character, there was something discordant about Martha’s complaints when she lived in Rose Cottage by Mr. Darcy’s grace.
Yet Elizabeth couldn’t deny the truth of the statement.
Darcy was indeed high-handed and privileged, carrying himself with the unmistakable air of a man who believed himself well above reproach.
Still, his kindness on the road—the way he had walked beside his horse rather than see her continue in pain—suggested compassion that Martha couldn’t comprehend.
“We should depart soon,” she said, purposely changing the subject. “It would not do to keep the master of Pemberley waiting.”
The carriage ride through the estate grounds provided Elizabeth with glimpses of what should have been her inheritance—rolling parkland, ancient oaks, and the occasional flash of the grand house through breaks in the treeline. Each view sent a pang through her chest.
“Remember what I told you about the family,” Martha murmured as their carriage drew up to the entrance. “There are complexities you do not yet understand, loyalties that run deeper than surface appearances suggest.”
Elizabeth nodded, though Martha’s cryptic warnings had become increasingly frequent and less comprehensible.
The woman seemed to see conspiracies and hidden meanings in every social interaction, a tendency that Elizabeth attributed to too many years of isolation in a cottage with only her memories for company.
The carriage rolled to a stop before Pemberley’s grand entrance.
As a footman helped her descend, Elizabeth was struck anew by the magnificence of the house—honey-colored stone gleaming in the autumn sunlight, hundreds of windows reflecting the sky, the entire structure appearing to grow from the landscape rather than impose upon it.
My birthright, she thought with a mixture of pride and resentment. What would my life have been had I grown up here instead of Longbourn?
A stern butler ushered them into the entrance hall, where Elizabeth’s breath caught at the soaring ceiling and grand staircase. She had seen nothing like it, even during her brief London seasons with the Gardiners.
“Mr. Darcy is entertaining other guests this afternoon,” the butler explained. “He asked that you be shown in immediately upon your arrival.”
Elizabeth’s steps slowed involuntarily. Other guests complicated matters considerably, but of course, she could not turn back.
The drawing room doors opened to reveal not just Mr. Darcy, but an entire party. Charles Bingley, his sister Caroline, and Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were arranged around the elegant room as if they were fixtures rather than last seen at Hertfordshire.
“Miss Bennet!” Bingley rose immediately, his sunny countenance contrasting with Darcy’s grave expression. “What a delightful surprise. We had no idea you were visiting Derbyshire.”
Elizabeth recovered quickly, dropping into a polite curtsy. “Mr. Bingley, Miss Bingley, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. How unexpected to find you here.” She glanced at Darcy, whose face revealed nothing, and dropped another curtsy. “Mr. Darcy, I hope we are not intruding upon a private party.”
“Not at all,” Caroline said with a glacial smile. “We’ve only just arrived. Such a coincidence to find you in this remote corner of the country.”
Caroline’s gaze swept critically over Elizabeth’s dress, lingering on the slight fraying at the cuff.
“I am here researching my aunt, Rose Bennet Darcy. She was my father’s sister,” she explained, settling into her practiced narrative. “Mrs. Wickham has been most helpful in sharing her recollections.”
Caroline’s sharp eyes missed nothing, while Mr. Hurst seemed half-asleep already. Mrs. Hurst watched Martha with peculiar intensity, as if trying to recall something long forgotten.
“Mrs. Wickham,” Bingley addressed Martha directly, his usual cheerfulness subdued. “I trust you are well? I remember my father speaking of your husband with great respect. Such a loss to the estate when he passed.”
Martha’s response was barely audible. “Thank you, sir. Ralph served the Darcy family faithfully for many years.”
“How interesting,” Louisa Hurst said suddenly. “I remember visiting Pemberley often as a child. Mr. John Darcy was especially memorable, but as I recall, he did not agree with his brother about Mr. Wickham.”
“Indeed, that is news to me,” Darcy said. “My uncle did not take me into his confidence concerning the steward.”
“Oh, but we were much too young,” Bingley said. “Louisa has a memory like an elephant.”
Mr. Hurst snorted into his tea, rousing from his usual torpor. “Did you just compare your sister to a pachyderm, Bingley?”
“Charles!” Louisa exclaimed, her fan fluttering in mock indignation. “You had better not tell them how much older I am if you insist on such unflattering comparisons. A lady’s memory may be remarkable without drawing such bestial parallels.”
“Mrs. Wickham,” Caroline addressed Martha with deceptive sweetness, “you must have such interesting stories from your years on the estate. The changes you’ve witnessed, the families you’ve served—quite a remarkable perspective on local history.”
Martha’s teacup rattled against its saucer. “I keep my observations to myself, Miss Bingley. ’Tis not a servant’s place to gossip about their betters.”
“Of course not,” Caroline agreed smoothly. “Though surely your recollections of happier times—before the tragedy—might be worth preserving alongside Miss Bennet’s research?”
“How commendable of you to assist Miss Elizabeth with her quest,” Louisa said, rolling her eyes at Mrs. Wickham. “I do wonder. How is little Georgie faring?”
“Why, Louisa, we just spoke to George Wickham in Meryton a few days ago,” Charles said, sipping his tea noisily. “Miss Lydia reported that it was Wickham who brought news to Longbourn on Miss Elizabeth’s departure.”
The tension in the room thickened perceptibly. Elizabeth felt Martha stiffen beside her. Her hand gripped Elizabeth’s arm with surprising strength.
“We should not stay,” Martha whispered. “This is a mistake.”
“I agree,” Elizabeth said. “But surely, it would be rude to walk out.”
“We must.” Martha leaned closer, her words a heated whisper against Elizabeth’s ear.
“The Bingleys cannot be trusted in Darcy family matters. Benjamin Bingley had a falling out with your father over business dealings. He took William Darcy’s side in the dispute.
There is more to their presence here than coincidence. ”
Elizabeth felt her brow furrow. This was new information—crucial information about her parents’ history that Martha had not seen fit to share until this moment. “Why?”
Instead of answering, Martha set her teacup down and announced, “Pardon me, but I might have left a pot boiling. Miss Bennet and I must depart.”
“By all means, Mrs. Wickham,” Darcy’s voice cut through the drawing room, silencing all conversation. “However, I have a matter of business to discuss with you.”
Martha stiffened beside Elizabeth. “Business, Mr. Darcy?”