Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DINNER DESIGNS
“Such exquisite china. Surely the finest I’ve ever seen—even finer than Lady Lucas’s best service.
” Mrs. Bennet’s voice carried across Pemberley’s cavernous dining room.
“And just think, Lizzy, all this will be yours. Well, I suppose it already is yours, in a manner of speaking. Darcy blood will tell.”
Elizabeth flinched for probably the hundredth time since her mother’s untimely arrival in Derbyshire.
Her mother had swept into Pemberley like a whirlwind, immediately claiming the head of the table as she, being the wife of a gentleman, outranked Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Sitting opposite Darcy, she extolled Pemberley’s many splendors with the proprietary air of an empress surveying newly conquered territories.
Nothing had escaped comment—from the “heavenly” draperies to the “masterful” silverwork.
“Goodness, Lizzy, how grand is your estate,” Lydia remarked, helping herself to more wine than was proper for a girl of her age. “I should think the servants alone would fill our entire house at Longbourn.”
“Lydia, please,” Elizabeth murmured, wondering if the roof could fall on her and bury her alive.
“Now, Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Bennet gestured expansively with her soup spoon. “You simply must tell me about these magnificent portraits in the hall. Is that gentleman with the stern expression your grandfather? He has Lizzy’s eyes exactly. Or rather, she has his, I should say.”
Elizabeth dared a glance at Darcy, expecting to find cold disapproval. Instead, his lips curved with what might be sympathetic humor. Georgiana, seated across from Lydia, looked like a startled doe facing unexpected gunfire, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her napkin.
“Just look at how gracefully Lizzy holds her teacup. Such elegant fingers. Her penmanship is the finest in all of Hertfordshire, though now we understand why. Darcy blood will tell! Not that my other daughters aren’t accomplished, of course.
Jane is quite the beauty, though sadly lacking a suitor at present. ”
This last comment, delivered with a pointed glance at Charles Bingley, made Elizabeth wish for temporary deafness.
“How fortunate that Lizzy has found her true family,” Lydia added, helping herself to more wine. “Though I don’t see why it makes her such a grand catch now. She’s still the same Lizzy, only with a different name.”
Before Elizabeth could respond to this unexpectedly perceptive observation from her youngest sister, the dining room door opened to admit Mr. Furgate, Darcy’s butler.
“Mr. Darcy, sir,” Furgate announced, “Mrs. Amelia Bingley has arrived and requests to join the family for dinner. She sends her apologies for the unexpected nature of her visit.”
Charles Bingley nearly choked on his wine. “My mother? Here at Pemberley?”
His reaction was so startled that Elizabeth’s curiosity was immediately piqued. Caroline, however, swirled her wineglass, looking like she’d pulled a plum from the pudding.
“Of course,” Darcy said. “Please show Mrs. Bingley in and have another place set immediately.”
“Very good, sir.”
The door opened to admit a stately woman of perhaps sixty years, dressed in rich plum silk. Her silver-streaked hair was arranged in an elegant style. Most striking, however, were her bright-blue eyes—sharp, intelligent, and calculating.
“Mrs. Bingley,” Darcy said, rising from his seat. “Welcome to Pemberley. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Bingley replied, her cultured voice carrying just the right note of apology. “When Caroline wrote of your house guest, I simply could not resist the opportunity to meet the young lady causing such a stir in our quiet corner of Derbyshire.”
Her gaze moved deliberately to Elizabeth, who felt herself being assessed with uncomfortable thoroughness.
“Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Bingley continued, “or should I say, Miss Darcy? I have heard the most extraordinary reports.”
Elizabeth smiled. “As the matter remains legally unresolved, Miss Bennet will suffice for the present, Mrs. Bingley.”
“Such commendable modesty,” the older woman observed, though whether she meant it as a compliment or criticism remained unclear.
A flurry of introductions followed as Mrs. Bennet practically vibrated with eagerness to establish her connection to this new arrival.
“I am Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire, mother to Elizabeth—though of course we now know she is actually the daughter of Rose Bennet Darcy, my husband’s sister. ”
Mrs. Bingley’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Indeed? How fascinating. I look forward to hearing the full account.”
The footmen hastily rearranged place settings to accommodate their unexpected guest, with the result that Elizabeth found herself flanked by Charles Bingley and his mother.
“I must say, Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Bingley began once the soup course was served, “you bear a striking resemblance to your mother. Rose had the same expressive eyes.”
Elizabeth’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “You knew my mother, Mrs. Bingley?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Bingley replied with a casual wave of her hand. “Our husbands were great friends, after all. Rose was a delightful woman—so spirited and unconventional. Not everyone appreciated her directness, but I found it refreshing.”
“What a blessing that you knew my sister Rose,” Mrs. Bennet interjected. “She was always the clever one in the family. Mr. Bennet’s father had her educated almost like a son—Latin, mathematics, and all manner of unusual subjects.”
Mrs. Bingley’s smile tightened. “Indeed. Rose had a remarkable mind. Such a tragic loss when she died so young.”
“But at least her daughter survived,” Charles offered, turning toward Elizabeth with a warmth that he used to reserve for Jane.
“Charles has always been close to the Darcys, as was my husband, who was well acquainted with both Mr. John and Mr. William. We vacationed here often,” Mrs. Bingley said, her eyes shrewd beneath her pleasant expression.
“As a friend of Rose, I was so relieved to hear that her daughter had survived.”
“How gratifying to know my mother is remembered so fondly,” Elizabeth replied, meeting Mrs. Bingley’s gaze with equal shrewdness. “Were you present when the fire started?”
Mrs. Bingley hesitated, her composure faltering. “I—well, that was quite some time ago, my dear. Memory grows imprecise with the passing years.”
“And yet, you must have heard about it,” Elizabeth suggested, noting the woman’s discomfort.
“I believe—yes, I recall now. I was taking tea with Lady Anne in the blue drawing room.” Mrs. Bingley’s confidence seemed to return. “Such a dreadful shock. The messenger came running from the cottage, quite beside himself. We couldn’t believe it at first.”
“So, your entire family was visiting Pemberley at the time?” Elizabeth drilled deeper, noting that Lady Anne was no longer around to verify Mrs. Bingley’s story.
“Of course, none of us saw the fire,” Mrs. Bingley said with a nervous flicker of her eyes at Charles. “It was put out quite successfully.”
Elizabeth noticed the subtle inconsistency immediately. Put out successfully? Yet, reportedly claiming three lives?
“With Rose being such a close friend of yours,” Elizabeth changed tactics, “Were you often at Rose Cottage?”
“Only occasionally,” Mrs. Bingley replied vaguely. “Business matters frequently brought my husband to Pemberley, and I sometimes accompanied him. Rose was always a gracious hostess.”
“What sort of business engaged Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth pressed.
Mrs. Bingley’s eyes flickered briefly to Darcy. “Textile manufacturing, primarily. Benjamin owned mills in Yorkshire, and the Darcy estates produced significant wool. It was a natural partnership, though not without its… complexities.”
“However, after Mr. John Darcy passed,” Elizabeth commented casually, “wouldn’t you say your husband’s loyalty went to Mr. William?”
Mrs. Bingley waved a dismissive hand, flashing her jeweled rings. “My husband was a devoted friend of both Darcy brothers. Mr. William was never quite the same after his brother’s death. Lady Anne and I lost Rose’s cheerful companionship, too.”
“However, was there no mention of their baby? That everyone was sure she had died?”
Mrs. Bingley’s eyes darted around the table like a trapped creature.
“Mrs. Wickham, the baby’s nurse, testified that she had died, but as you are aware, she has now recanted her testimony.
When Caroline wrote me that you had been found, imagine my excitement at beholding my dear friend’s daughter.
You, darling, resemble her in so many ways. ”
The endearment sounded hollow, almost rehearsed—a social performance rather than genuine affection. Elizabeth resisted the urge to challenge it directly.
“While the resemblance is indeed striking,” Darcy interjected, “Miss Bennet’s claims have not been legally substantiated. Unless, Mrs. Bingley, you are willing to provide sworn testimony regarding her identity?”
The challenge hung in the air. Mrs. Bingley’s smile remained fixed, but Elizabeth detected an uneasiness in her eyes.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly claim any certainty after so many years,” Mrs. Bingley replied with a delicate laugh. “I am merely repeating what dear Mrs. Wickham has told us all. One does hope it’s true, of course, for everyone’s sake.”
Her gaze lingered meaningfully on Charles before returning to Elizabeth. “Family connections are so important, don’t you agree, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth understood the implication perfectly. Mrs. Bingley would support her claim—for a price. That price was an alliance with Charles that would procure Pemberley for the Bingleys.
She picked up her wine glass and stared into it. “Interesting, as Mrs. Wickham offers the same strategem. Have you two perhaps been in conference?”