CHAPTER 70 #3
“We?” Lady Catherine demanded.
“Yes,” said Lord Matlock. “My wife, Richard, and I. You are not going alone into a house where your own instructions have been returned to you in another woman’s hand.”
Elizabeth, forbidden by Mr. Grant from rising and by Fitzwilliam from pretending she had not wished to, thought Lady Catherine looked less offended by the escort than by its accuracy.
“It is my house,” Lady Catherine said.
“Then,” said Elizabeth, before she could be wise enough not to, “it will be a comfort to discover who has been governing it.”
Lady Catherine turned upon her.
Fitzwilliam’s hand settled lightly on Elizabeth’s shoulder; not restraint, not warning, only presence.
Elizabeth smiled with all the innocence she did not possess.
“I am told I must not exert myself,” she said.
Richard turned away toward the window.
Lord Matlock, after a brief pause that did him credit, looked at Fitzwilliam.
“You may wish to come with us.”
For one instant, no one spoke.
Elizabeth looked at her husband.
It was not a request. She had no wish to send him away, and less wish still to seem to keep him. But she knew what Wickham’s name did to him. She knew how quickly old fear could make him stand as if the world had narrowed to a door he must hold shut alone.
Fitzwilliam’s hand remained steady upon her shoulder.
“No,” he said.
Lord Matlock’s brows lifted slightly.
“I am needed here. My father is not yet strong, the estate is not yet settled, Georgiana remains at Pemberley, and Mrs. Darcy is not travelling.”
Elizabeth looked down before the room could read too much in her face.
“Besides,” Fitzwilliam added, his voice even, “you will have it well in hand.”
Richard glanced at him, and something like approval warmed his expression before he hid it.
Lord Matlock inclined his head. “We shall do what is necessary.”
“Do more than necessary,” said Lady Catherine sharply. “It is Rosings.”
“Then we shall begin,” said Lady Matlock, “by making it yours again.”
That was perhaps the kindest thing anyone could have said to Lady Catherine. Naturally, she looked as if she resented it.
The next hour belonged to movement.
Pemberley, which had spent a week arranging itself around the unwelcome occupation, now arranged itself around departure.
Servants carried trunks down passages. Horses were ordered.
Lady Catherine’s maid was sent three times for articles her mistress had not wanted until the exact moment at which the carriage steps were set.
Richard disappeared and returned with gloves, letters, a travelling coat, and the expression of a man who had been waiting to be useful in a matter requiring speed rather than conversation.
Lady Matlock came once to Elizabeth’s sitting room before leaving.
“You must forgive the disturbance,” she said.
Elizabeth looked at the folded hands, the composed face, the worry carefully schooled into manners.
“I have begun to think disturbance is the family language.”
Lady Matlock’s mouth softened. “You have learned quickly.”
“I had excellent instruction.”
“Rest,” said Lady Matlock. “And do not let my sister make you believe every silence is disapproval. Some of us are only slower than we ought to be.”
It was not an apology. It was not quite warmth.
It was more than Elizabeth had expected.
“I shall try to remember it.”
Lady Matlock bent and kissed her cheek. Elizabeth was too surprised to do anything but receive it.
Richard was easier.
He came to the doorway, did not cross the room without permission, and bowed with just enough formality to make her laugh.
“Mrs. Darcy.”
“Colonel.”
“I leave Pemberley in your hands.”
“That seems unwise. I am under medical restrictions.”
“All the more reason. No one will expect a campaign from your sofa.”
“You underestimate me.”
“I have never done that twice.”
She smiled despite herself.
His glance moved briefly to Fitzwilliam, who stood near the writing table. “We shall send word.”
“Do,” said Fitzwilliam.
Richard’s face changed — not much, but enough. “I will.”
He left before any feeling became inconvenient.
Lady Catherine did not come to take leave of Elizabeth.
She announced from the passage that she trusted Mrs. Darcy would recover her strength and learn prudence from the occasion.
Elizabeth considered several answers and was prevented from using any of them by the inconvenient fact that the carriage was already waiting.
By three o’clock, the Matlock party had gone.
Pemberley did not become peaceful; it merely ceased to be impossible.
Elizabeth sat for some minutes after the last wheels had faded down the avenue, listening to the house settle into a quieter form of discomfort.
Somewhere below, doors opened and shut; servants restored rooms which had been made to endure Lady Catherine’s opinions; Mrs. Reynolds was no doubt reasserting order by the yard, the key, and the linen press.
But the particular pressure of rank, suspicion, and family outrage had departed southward, and the air seemed, if not lighter, at least less crowded.
She slept for an hour after the carriages departed, or at least submitted to lying still with her eyes closed while everyone pretended not to listen for movement.
By evening, only one sheet remained before her.
Jane.
Fitzwilliam stood near the window, not watching her too closely, which meant he was watching her very closely indeed.
“I am glad I did not write to her this morning,” Elizabeth said.
“So am I.”
“I could not have invited her into that.”
“No.”
“And I should like her here.”
His expression softened. “Then tell her.”
Elizabeth dipped the pen.
My dearest Jane,
I have news which I should have told you sooner, had I possessed more sense, less vanity, or a better opinion of my own discretion. Fitzwilliam and I have every reason to believe that I am with child.
She stopped, breathed once, and went on.
I am very well, and very well attended. You may tell Mr. Bingley, of course, and I hope he will receive the news with only as much joy as is compatible with not alarming you. I find that husbands, when pleased and frightened at once, become very poor judges of proportion.
Fitzwilliam made a soft sound behind her.
“That was unfair,” he said.
“It was accurate.”
This time she did not sign the letter. She looked at the remaining space, then dipped the pen again before courage could retreat.
There were rooms enough. There were servants enough. There were walks enough before the heat rose, and shaded rooms enough after it. If she must remain in Derbyshire for the winter, she saw no virtue in being lonely from principle.
If you and Mr. Bingley would not dislike a northern journey while the weather remains fair, I should be very glad to have you here.
Mary must come too, if she is still with you.
Miss Bingley, if she remains of your party, is of course included.
I cannot promise gaiety, but I can promise shade, quiet, and a sister who would like very much to see you.
She read the last sentence twice.
“It confesses need,” she said.
Fitzwilliam came to stand behind her chair, his hand settling lightly over hers.
“It invites Jane.”
Elizabeth looked at the words again. Plain, undignified, and therefore probably correct.
So she signed and sanded the letter before courage could become revision.