Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth had imagined Charles and Jane’s first Christmas dinner as a cosy affair. Perhaps six people around their new dining table, civilised conversation about books and the weather, Waffles behaving himself for once, and everyone getting along splendidly.
She had not imagined this.
“Is that Richard Fitzwilliam’s car?” Jane asked, peering through the front window as a sleek BMW pulled up behind Darcy’s Aston Martin. She’d known the Fitzwilliam cousins were coming but hadn’t yet met them. “And who’s in the Range Rover?”
Elizabeth watched two men emerge from the BMW—both tall, though not as tall as Darcy, both carrying themselves with an unconscious authority that spoke of good breeding and expensive schools. She recognized them from the photos Darcy had in his flat.
“The one with lighter hair is Richard, the retired army officer who’s a barrister now. Malcolm is the shorter one. He does something with politics in the City.”
“They’re very . . .” Jane paused.
“Posh?” Elizabeth supplied. “Yes. Incredibly.” She was abruptly aware that her green jumper and black trousers, while flattering, were from Selfridge’s rather than somewhere that required an appointment.
“Caroline’s in the other car.” The women did not get out, but rather pulled down visors and peered into mirrors as they applied more makeup.
Jane turned to Elizabeth, her eyes wide. “That’s a new car. Charles told her he won’t be bailing her out again, so I hope she’s not expecting him to help pay for it.”
The doorbell rang before Elizabeth could respond, and Charles and Jane’s living room was soon filled with people.
Richard Fitzwilliam entered, all confident smiles and firm handshakes.
Within moments he’d introduced himself, charmed Jane, complimented Charles on the house, and was scratching Waffles behind the ears while her dog’s tail wagged at the speed of a helicopter rotor.
Malcolm was quieter but no less impressive, darker-haired and sharp-eyed, all understated elegance. He presented Jane with a bottle of wine and complimented her on the Christmas decorations.
“You must be Elizabeth.” Richard turned his considerable charm in her direction. “We’ve heard almost nothing about you from him, which means William’s being protective. Always a good sign.”
“Richard,” Darcy said, and Elizabeth caught the warning note in his voice.
“What? It’s true.” Richard grinned at Elizabeth conspiratorially. “Has he shown you his terrible poetry from university yet? Because I’ve got copies.”
“There is no poetry,” Darcy said warningly.
“There is definitely poetry,” Malcolm added with a small smile. “Lots of it. All very earnest and romantic and rhyming.”
Elizabeth found herself laughing despite her nerves. “I’ll have to ask Georgiana about that.”
“Georgiana’s discreet,” Richard said. “Unlike us.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Elizabeth laughed. “I’m guessing she’s your source about me.”
“She has you there, Rich,” Malcolm said with a grin.
“I’m pretty sure I can get her to talk.” Elizabeth smiled at Darcy. He looked up at the ceiling.
Caroline Bingley swept in behind the men in bright red lipstick and head-to-toe designer black, air-kissed everyone within reach, and began making pointed observations about the “charming” cottage atmosphere.
“How wonderfully cosy.” She surveyed Charles and Jane’s lounge with a smile that suggested she found cosiness quaint in an outdated way. “Like something from a magazine about country living.”
“Thank you,” Jane said, though Elizabeth caught the slight stiffness in her sister’s voice.
Then Elizabeth’s younger sisters arrived in their usual whirlwind.
Lydia burst through the door first, gravitating toward the attractive single men in the room with an unerring instinct. “Oh my God, you’re the cousins! I’m Lydia.”
“Lydia,” Elizabeth warned.
“What? You can’t expect me to ignore two gorgeous men just because it’s Christmas.”
Kitty followed close behind taking selfies, while Mary appeared with an armload of books and a determined expression. Elizabeth recognised the look. Mary was prepared to discuss moral philosophy over Christmas pudding.
The sitting room, which had felt snug but reasonable with eight people, now resembled a crowded Tube carriage.
“We’re all here,” Charles announced. “Shall we move to the dining room?”
Charles and Jane’s dining room was lovely; Elizabeth had always thought so. Warm and welcoming, with windows overlooking the back garden. But with eleven people squeezed around a table meant for eight, it felt a bit like the Island Game which she’d played as a girl.
Elizabeth found herself sat between Malcolm Fitzwilliam and Mary, directly across from Caroline, who had somehow claimed the seat next to Darcy. This arrangement, Elizabeth suspected, was not accidental.
“What a delightful mixture of guests.” Caroline eyed the table with condescending amusement. “So wonderfully . . . eclectic.”
The first course passed without major incident, though Elizabeth noticed how Richard and Malcolm naturally fell into conversation with Darcy about mutual friends and shared references that excluded everyone else at the table.
Not deliberately, she didn’t think, but inevitably.
When you moved in the same circles, attended the same schools, knew the same people, it was easy to forget that not everyone shared your references.
“Did you hear about Harold Benton?” Richard asked Darcy. “Just got engaged to that Russian oligarch’s daughter. Absolute catastrophe of a wedding planned.”
“Remember his twenty-first?” Malcolm asked with a shake of his head. “Three counties’ worth of police called in.”
Elizabeth watched Darcy nod along to stories about people she’d never heard of and felt a pang of displacement.
“Elizabeth writes novels,” Caroline announced, her voice carrying across the table like cut glass. “Crime fiction, isn’t that right?”
All conversation stopped. Elizabeth felt ten pairs of eyes turn toward her and wanted to disappear into her chair.
“Yes,” she managed. “Mysteries, mainly.”
“That’s brilliant,” Richard said with genuine interest. “Have I read anything of yours?”
“Likely not,” Elizabeth replied. “They’re quite commercial.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” The pride in Darcy's voice made Elizabeth’s heart pound despite her discomfort. “Elizabeth won the Brock’s Hall Award for her first book.”
“She was also a finalist for the Conan Doyle Prize for her third book and is listed for her fourth,” Jane added.
“I didn’t know you’d been nominated again.” Darcy turned to her. “Congratulations. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “It’s very early days. I didn’t even tell Jane, but she’s always trolling the Internet for things like that.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re very entertaining little books,” Caroline continued with a smile. “Perfect for airports and holiday reading and the like.”
“Well, yes,” Elizabeth agreed. Kill them with kindness. “Murder does travel well.”
Kitty beamed. “Fiona Quinn is the cleverest detective. Lizzy, you should write one about how to prove who ate the last piece of Mum’s pie!” She took a picture of Lydia. “Never mind. Found her.”
Lydia posed for the photo and added brightly, “I love that Lizzy always comes up with such fun plots. A scarecrow stuffed with letters, the bell-ringing team ringing out a code. Mum wouldn’t let me even read them until I turned eighteen! I did anyway, of course.”
Mary frowned. “I do sometimes question whether the moral lessons are sound, though, Lizzy. In your third book the culprit went unpunished until the very last chapter.”
Elizabeth nodded once, mortified but not wanting to admit it. How had she become the subject of conversation?
But Jane, serene and steady, was there for the rescue. “Elizabeth writes novels,” she declared, her voice carrying. “Good novels. Prize-winning novels. And we’re very proud of her.”
The conversation moved on, but Elizabeth found herself acutely aware of every word she spoke, every gesture she made.
When Lydia launched into a story about her university exploits that featured rather too much detail about drinking games, Elizabeth cringed.
When Mary began expounding on the socioeconomic implications of Christmas present-giving, Elizabeth wanted to crawl under the table.
Caroline held court from her position beside Darcy, sprinkling the table with elegant references to art exhibitions, skiing holidays, and restaurants so exclusive they didn’t bother listing prices.
She was perfectly charming, perfectly appropriate, and perfectly the sort of person Elizabeth longed to throttle.
Darcy, across the table, caught her eye when Caroline mentioned “helicopter wine tours.” His lips twitched just enough to make her nearly inhale her water.
The conversation shifted to travel disasters, then the yearly battlefield of Christmas shopping. Caroline lifted one arm, bracelet flashing.
“Speaking of presents,” she said, “I do hope everyone was pleased with theirs. Mine was a bracelet from Cartier.”
It was Darcy’s turn to inhale sharply and then cough. She would have to ask him about that later.
Jane, ever the peacemaker, smiled as she cleared plates. “That’s beautiful. I adore the painting Charles bought me. He remembered that I liked it and went back to the gallery to see if it was still available. I love the painting, but even more, I love that he remembered.”
“It’s personal. Like Lizzy making a scarf for Darcy,” Kitty said. “Much nicer than socks. Socks are the laziest present.”
“I like socks,” Elizabeth protested, glancing at Darcy, hoping he wouldn’t be offended on Georgiana’s behalf. His shoulders moved in the faintest shake, as if the words were vastly more amusing than she’d intended.
“I bet Lizzy’s next murderer uses knitting needles,” Lydia put in. “It’d be one hundred percent on brand.”
Elizabeth didn’t admit she had already begun an outline for that story.