Chapter 14
The morning air carried winter's sharp bite as Darcy accompanied his sister along the familiar path from Lucas Lodge to Longbourn, each step bringing him closer to a destination he had found himself anticipating with entirely inappropriate eagerness during his two-day absence.
“You seem unusually contemplative this morning, Brother,” Georgiana observed, adjusting her muff against the penetrating cold whilst casting sideways glances at his preoccupied countenance. “I trust your London affairs concluded satisfactorily?”
“Indeed, they did,” Darcy replied, unconsciously quickening his pace. The small package nestled within his coat pocket seemed to burn against his ribs. “I confess myself eager to resume our educational observations.”
Georgiana's knowing smile suggested she perceived more than she voiced. “Of course. Moira's progress in French has been remarkable. Though I suspect Miss Elizabeth's agreeable company provides equal motivation for our frequent visits.”
Darcy did not reply.
As usual, Mrs Hill accompanied them to the morning room where Georgiana’s pupil awaited. The sight that greeted Darcy upon crossing the threshold nearly undid his carefully maintained composure entirely.
Elizabeth stood beside the window, pale winter light creating an almost ethereal illumination around her figure as she assisted young Moira with some vocabulary cards.
When her gaze lifted to meet his across the room, her entire countenance underwent a transformation that took his breath away.
Her dark eyes brightened with unmistakable delight at his return.
“Mr Darcy!” she exclaimed, rising gracefully with fluid elegance that never failed to captivate him entirely. “How wonderful to have you returned safely to Hertfordshire. I trust London treated you with appropriate kindness?”
“London proved adequate for my purposes,” he replied, conscious that his own expression had likely undergone a similarly revealing transformation at the sight of her obvious pleasure in his presence.
“Though I confess the countryside holds infinitely greater appeal, particularly when it offers such exceptionally agreeable company.”
Elizabeth's cheeks acquired a becoming flush of rose at this gentle but unmistakable compliment.
“You flatter our humble establishment most outrageously, sir. Though I suspect young Moira has missed your presence during her lessons considerably. She has been most diligent in preparing French phrases specifically for your return.”
“Indeed, I have, Mr Darcy!” Moira interjected with the charming enthusiasm that characterized her approach to learning. “Listen carefully. Bonjour, monsieur, comment vous portez-vous aujourd'hui? Was my pronunciation acceptable, Miss Georgiana?”
“Perfectly executed, dear child,” Georgiana confirmed with evident pride in her pupil's progress, settling herself at the desk. “Your dedication to mastering the language does you considerable credit.”
As Georgiana commenced the French lesson in earnest, Darcy found himself alone with Elizabeth in their customary corner of the morning room.
Hill had positioned herself discreetly near the door, providing entirely appropriate chaperoning whilst maintaining the tactful distance that allowed for private conversation.
“I have brought you something from London,” Darcy said quietly, producing a slim volume from his coat. “A small token only. I thought Miss Darcy might present it to you as a mark of gratitude for your kindness to Moira, but in the event she forgot it entirely, so I find myself the messenger.”
Elizabeth accepted it with a look of surprise.
It was a slim collection of essays on landscape and natural history, the kind of volume one might leave upon a drawing room table without remark.
Not intimate. Not costly. And yet he had remembered the subject she had mentioned during one of their conversations about the Longbourn tenants and their use of the common land.
“You are very thoughtful, sir,” she said, turning the volume over in her hands. “I recall mentioning the subject only in passing.”
“I have an alarmingly retentive memory for certain subjects,” Darcy replied, and something in his tone made the observation carry a degree more weight than the words themselves required.
“Shameless flatterer! Though I confess myself growing curious about these mysterious business affairs that required your urgent attention in the metropolis. Nothing too tediously commercial, I hope?”
Darcy's expression grew momentarily serious, shadows crossing his features like clouds over sunlight.
“Property matters, largely. Questions of inheritance documentation and legal verification that proved considerably more complex than initially anticipated.” The half-truth served to conceal his real purpose.
“How vexing such legal complexities can prove,” Elizabeth sympathized with genuine concern. “Though I imagine your tenants and dependents benefit greatly from having a landlord who attends personally to such intricate details rather than delegating everything to stewards and solicitors.”
“You accord me more credit than I truly deserve for such mundane responsibilities,” Darcy replied with self-deprecating modesty. “Though I confess your good opinion provides powerful motivation for striving to deserve such generous praise in future endeavours.”
Their eyes met and held across the small space between them for a moment longer than strict propriety warranted. Elizabeth was the first to look away.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, her tone resuming its familiar arch quality, though something less easy lay beneath it, “I ought to confess that Moira has been quite diligent in your absence. She has practised every phrase you heard today at least a dozen times, determined to do justice to the instruction.”
“I am gratified to hear it,” he replied, steadying his voice with some effort. “Though I suspect she is more motivated by Miss Darcy’s approval than by any desire to impress me.”
“You underestimate yourself.” The words were simple and direct, and perhaps for that reason they struck him more forcibly than any arch remark might have done. He looked at her. She was already looking away, her colour a little heightened.
“I confess,” she continued, her gaze fixed upon Moira’s bent head across the room, “that the man before me bears little resemblance to the proud gentleman I first encountered at the Meryton assembly. Or the man who delivered that disastrous proposal,” she added, with a small smile that took the sting from the words.
“That man was not worthy of the name,” Darcy replied quietly. “I have had occasion to reflect upon it a great deal.”
The acknowledgement lay between them, neither comfortable nor entirely uncomfortable.
Something had altered in the quality of their silence, and both of them were sufficiently sensible to feel it without naming it aloud.
“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said at last, with the careful tone of someone who knows they have come to the edge of something, “I think we are perhaps...”
Before she could complete her thought, the sound of an approaching carriage shattered their private world with the violence of cannon fire. The spell broke instantly, both participants startling back to awareness of their surroundings and the shocking impropriety of their behaviour.
But this interruption proved far more devastating than any ordinary social call. Through the window, Darcy observed a magnificent travelling coach drawing up before Longbourn's entrance with considerable ceremony. It was a vehicle he recognised with growing horror and absolute dread.
“Good God,” he muttered, his voice hollow with shock and dawning comprehension of the catastrophe about to unfold.
“Mr Darcy? Whatever is the matter?” Elizabeth's concerned tone seemed to reach him from an enormous distance as the blood drained from his face.
“My aunt,” he replied grimly, watching with sick fascination as Lady Catherine de Bourgh descended from her elaborate carriage with unmistakable imperial dignity and obvious hostile intent. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh has come calling.”
The morning room emptied of every easy thing at once.
Elizabeth's expression shifted rapidly from confused concern to dawning apprehension as she absorbed the implications of such an unexpected and potentially disastrous visitation. “Your aunt? But what could possibly bring such a distinguished personage to our modest establishment?”
Before Darcy could formulate any coherent explanation for this catastrophically unwelcome development, Hill appeared in the doorway to announce the visitor with the careful neutrality befitting such an august personage.
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh to see Mrs Bennet and her daughters,” the housekeeper proclaimed with admirable composure despite the obvious magnitude of receiving such elevated and intimidating company.
Lady Catherine swept into the morning room like an advancing squall, her imposing figure garbed in travelling dress of the finest materials money could procure, her expression conveying the particular displeasure of someone accustomed to finding the world arranged to her satisfaction and recently disappointed in this expectation.
Her notoriously piercing gaze swept the room, catalogued every occupant with predatory precision, and settled upon Elizabeth and Darcy with unmistakable hostility.
“I have come,” she announced, without any preliminary courtesy, “to offer my personal condolences to Mrs Bennet regarding her recent tragic loss. Though I understand that congratulations may also be appropriate regarding certain recent domestic developments of considerable interest to myself.”
Mrs Bennet appeared in the doorway moments later, breathless, followed by Kitty and Lydia. Mary and Jane arrived seconds after. The room, so recently intimate, had become a theatre, and Lady Catherine its reluctant audience.