Chapter Three #2
“I haven’t . . . we haven’t discussed . . .”
“Christmas is in three weeks, Elizabeth. If this man is serious about you, he should want to meet your family. And if he doesn’t want to meet your family, then he’s not serious about you, and you’re wasting your time.”
Elizabeth stared at the ceiling, feeling the familiar sensation of being outmanoeuvred by maternal logic. “It’s complicated, Mum.”
“What’s complicated about a family dinner? I’ll make the good roast. Your father will dust off his charming anecdotes. The girls will be on their best behaviour.”
Elizabeth tried to imagine Darcy sitting at the Bennet family table while Lydia flirted outrageously, Kitty giggled at everything, Mary delivered unwanted lectures on social etiquette, and her mother interrogated him about his intentions.
Her father would spend the entire evening making dry observations designed to unsettle him, just for entertainment value.
“Mum, I don’t think—”
“Elizabeth Madeline Bennet, are you ashamed of your family?”
“Of course not.” She blew out a breath. It was impossible to put Mum off the scent once she had it.
“Then what’s the problem? Unless . . .” Mum’s voice took on a dangerous edge. “Unless he’s the one who’s ashamed. Is that it? Is this William person too good for us?”
“He’s not like that.” Elizabeth ran a hand through her hair, making it even messier than usual. “It’s just . . . we’re a lot, Mum, all of us together. We’re loud and messy and we interrupt each other and Lydia will ask him inappropriate questions about his income.”
“We are not loud,” her mother said with enough volume to be heard in the next county.
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “Mum.”
“Fine. We’re enthusiastic. But that’s what families are, darling. If this man can’t handle a little energetic affection, then perhaps he’s not the right man for you.”
“He can handle it. He’s just . . . he’s quite reserved. Quiet. He’s not used to families like ours.”
“What sort of family is he used to?”
Elizabeth thought about what little Darcy had told her about his background. Old money, older traditions. A sister just out of university, parents who’d died young, a world of measured conversations and careful manners.
“Smaller ones."
“Well, then it’s time he learned how the other half lives. Besides, if you’re serious about him, we’ll have to meet him eventually. Do it while everyone’s in a good mood for Christmas.”
Elizabeth glanced at her phone, where the group chat was still pinging with increasingly ridiculous photos from Lydia’s night out.
“Alright,” she heard herself saying. “I’ll ask him.”
“Wonderful! How about this Sunday? No, wait, that’s too soon. I need time to plan the menu. Next Sunday? Or perhaps the Sunday after? We could do Christmas Eve, make it special . . .”
“Mum, slow down. I’ll ask him what works and get back to you.”
“Don’t tarry, dear. Good men get snapped up, especially this time of year.”
After her mother ended the call, Elizabeth sat on her sofa, phone in one hand, the disastrous scarf in the other, and contemplated the magnitude of what she’d just agreed to. Clever, careful, private Darcy was going to meet the Bennet family. All of them. At once.
Waffles padded over and rested his head on her knee, looking up at her with a sympathetic expression indicating he understood the gravity of the situation. Or maybe he just wanted a treat.
“What have I done, Waffles?”
He whined and settled himself against her legs, a warm, heavy golden anchor in the storm of her panic.
Her phone buzzed again. The group chat had continued without her and Lydia had changed her name at least once.
Jane: Lizzy, are you alright? You went quiet.
Elizabeth: Just got off the phone with Mum. I may have made a terrible mistake.
Lydia (scene_steelr): What mistake??? Did you tell her about the biscuit tin???
Elizabeth: Worse. I told her I have a boyfriend.
Kitty: YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND???
Lydia (scene_steelr): DETAILS. NOW. NAME, OCCUPATION, AGE. SNAP?
Elizabeth: His name is Darcy and I think I just agreed to bring him home for dinner.
Jane: Oh, Lizzy. How do you feel about that?
Elizabeth looked around her flat—at the manuscript pages scattered across her coffee table, at Waffles now snoring against her leg, at the scarf.
Elizabeth: Ask me again after I’ve figured out how to tell him.
Lydia (scene_steelr): Bring him out tonight!!
Elizabeth: Not the smallest chance.
Kitty: Come on Lizzy!! We promise to be good!!
Mary: I could prepare a list of appropriate conversation topics.
Elizabeth: As tempting as that sounds . . .
Jane: Would you like me to come over? We could talk.
Elizabeth smiled, feeling some of the panic ease. Even though it was late, she knew Jane would take the train into the city with a bottle of wine, some sensible advice, and a calm presence that made everything seem manageable.
Elizabeth: Thanks, but I think I need to sort this out on my own. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Lydia (scene_steelr): We’re going to meet him though, right?? Soon??
Elizabeth: Eventually. If he agrees.
Kitty: He’ll love us!! Everyone loves us!!
Mary: That is statistically inaccurate, Kitty.
Lydia (scene_steelr): MARY
Jane: We’ll be on our best behaviour, Lizzy. Right girls?
Elizabeth grinned despite herself. Jane’s best behaviour was exemplary. Everyone else’s . . . well, everyone else’s best behaviour was still likely to be several decibels louder and considerably wilder than anything Darcy was used to.
She picked up her knitting needles again, this time with something approaching determination. If she was going to give him a present that represented who she really was, it might as well be something beautifully, hopelessly imperfect.
Just like the family he was going to meet.
Elizabeth lasted exactly twelve minutes before texting the man in question: Any chance you and Athena want a walk? Waffles is vibrating.
Darcy called instead of replying. “We are always in favour of vibrational management. Vincent Square in fifteen?”
It was approaching dusk when they met by the railings, breath fogging in the cold. Waffles pulled Elizabeth relentlessly towards Athena. Athena sidestepped with dignity and pretended not to know him.
“Hi.” Darcy tucked his free hand into his coat pocket. “You look purposeful.”
“I am purpose itself.” Elizabeth smiled. “Also terror. But mainly purpose.”
They set off around the green. Traffic hummed beyond the plane trees. Elizabeth cleared her throat. “So.”
“Yes?” He glanced over, attentive in that calm, steady way of his.
“I— my mum . . .” She paused before saying, in a rush, “My mum may have invited you to dinner.” She closed her eyes and then squinted up at him.
“That makes it sound like she rang you directly, which is terrifyingly within the realm of possibility, but no, she rang me. And I might have said I’d ask you. And I am now . . . asking you.”
A beat. Then the corner of his mouth tilted. “That was the most Elizabeth Bennet invitation I can imagine.”
She blinked up at him. “What does that mean? Charming? Muddled? Poorly presented but heartfelt?”
“Yes,” he said, amused. “All three.”
She pushed on before she could back out.
“It’s just dinner. Well, it’s dinner at my parents’, which is like dinner plus a live studio audience and the occasional flying vegetable.
They’re lovely. Loud. Lydia will almost certainly interrogate you about your bank statements, and Mary will give a TED Talk on late-stage capitalism.
You may leave with a pamphlet. And a photo on my sister Kitty’s Instagram page. ”
He sounded amused. “I’ve endured many shareholder meetings. And Charles’s sisters. I expect I shall survive.”
Elizabeth had met Charles’s sisters and found them snobbish and condescending. And that was before she’d been dating Darcy. They were sure to despise her now. “Are you sure? Because I can also run away to Scotland tonight and change my name to Elsie MacPie. I’ve got the wild hair for it.”
“Elizabeth.” He slowed them to a stop beneath a streetlamp. “I would like to meet your family.” Then, gentler, “But only if you want me there.”
She exhaled, surprised by how much the question eased the tightness in her chest. “I do, or I wouldn’t ask.”
“Then I’ll come,” he said. “What may I bring that will neither inflame your mother’s expectations nor trigger a Marxist lecture from Mary?”
Elizabeth laughed, the sound coming out a little wobbly. “Flowers for Mum—cheerful ones, not posh—and a bottle of something that pairs well with turmoil.”
“Cheerful flowers. Bottle of wine. Noted.” He hesitated. “Dress code?”
“Elasticated waistbands.” She sobered, suddenly earnest. “Darcy—thank you. Truly.”
He reached for her gloved hand, warm through the wool. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice softer, “I’m nervous too.”
“About my family?” she teased.
“About wanting to do this right.” His thumb traced a line over the back of her glove, as though reassurances could be smoothed in. “Tell me if I misstep.”
“You’ll be perfect.” She groaned. “No, not perfect—agh, wrong word—you will be you, which is what I like. Sunday next?”
“Sound advice.” His smile went crooked. “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?”
“I’ll meet you at yours,” she said.
“It’s a date.” He squeezed her hand once and let it go. “Shall we rescue Athena from her admirer before she applies for a non-molestation order?”
Waffles, catching his name, tripped over his own paws and face-planted in a drift of leaves. Elizabeth groaned. Darcy’s laugh—rare and unguarded—bloomed in the cold air.
“Right,” she said, heart tripping. “So. Sunday next. You, with my family.”
“And you,” he replied.
“And me,” she echoed, and tried not to grin like an idiot all the way home.