Chapter Twenty-Eight
The note arrived just after breakfast. Elizabeth had not expected one so early, though she had anticipated its arrival. Darcy had called many times since they reached their understanding, and she cherished every moment in his company.
Upon awaking, there had been a restlessness in her, a sense that events long awaited had at last begun to move toward their conclusion. Still, when the folded paper was placed upon the tray beside her, she felt a quickening in her pulse that she could not quite disguise.
She waited until she was alone before opening it. The hand was familiar.
Miss Bennet,
I am to call at Matlock House this afternoon, at Lady Bramley’s kind invitation to tea. It is my intention, at that time, to address the family and to make known what has long been concealed. I trust you will be present.
F. D.
Elizabeth read it twice. The tension she had carried for so long eased. It was time.
Today. The word seemed to echo within her, carrying with it the weight of all that had passed and all that must now follow. If he meant to speak, to reveal himself openly, then the matter of Hargrave and Langford could no longer stand in the way. It must be done. It must be finished.
A warmth rose within her, sharp and bright. A future… She pressed the letter lightly against her palm. A future with him is no longer a dream.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, allowing the thought to settle fully. The years that had stretched between them, the uncertainty, the grief, the endurance of a love she had never relinquished—all of it seemed to draw together into this single, decisive point.
When she opened her eyes again, there was a steadfastness in her that had not been present before. She rose at once. There was much to be done.
She decided to change her gown, dressing with care.
She chose not with ostentation, nor with any thought of display, but with a deliberate attention to detail that reflected the importance of the day.
Her gown was of a blue that Jane had once declared particularly suited to her, the fabric falling in graceful lines that moved easily with her step.
The ribbons were chosen with equal thought, the arrangement of her hair attended to with a precision that she seldom allowed herself.
The shell would rest at her throat, as it always did. She fastened it with confident hands. Darcy’s expression always lightened upon noting it. The thought brought with it a warmth that lingered even as she turned from the mirror.
Jane was waiting for her in the smaller drawing room. “My dear Lizzy,” she said, her eyes bright with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “You have received the news, I suppose?”
Elizabeth inclined her head, schooling her expression into a semblance of composure. “I have received a note,” she said.
“Your connection with the count has progressed so much?” Jane smiled. “Yes, the Count of Vendicarsi is to join us for tea,” she replied, her tone carrying a lightness that did not entirely conceal her interest. “Bramley was most pleased to hear I extended the invitation.”
Elizabeth allowed the faintest curve of her lips. “Was he?”
“He was,” Jane confirmed. “And I confess, I am not without anticipation myself. Our neighbor grows more interesting with each appearance.” Her sister raised an appraising eyebrow, her expression more knowing than curious.
Elizabeth suppressed the urge to laugh. It is you who will be surprised, my dear Jane. Aloud, she said only, “Will the Earl and Countess be present?”
“Yes,” Jane replied. “My father-in-law wishes to know the count better and seemed eager to attend.”
Elizabeth nodded. “And Bramley himself?” She knew, of course, that her brother by marriage would be there, but took pleasure in returning Jane’s teasing.
Her sister gave her a look of gentle reproach. “Of course. He would not absent himself when we are to receive such a guest. You take such delight in vexing me, Lizzy.” Jane chuckled and shook her head.
Elizabeth inclined her head once more, her composure holding, though the anticipation was building within her and she could not entirely still.
She made some attempt, through the hours that followed, to occupy her thoughts.
She read, though she retained little of what passed before her eyes.
Elizabeth walked briefly in the garden, though she scarcely noticed the blooms that she had so recently delighted in observing.
She spoke with Jane, with the children, and her mind returned always to the same point.
He will come. He will speak. It will be known.
At last, the hour arrived. The family gathered in the larger drawing room, the one reserved for more formal occasions, its arrangement both elegant and imposing.
The furnishings were placed with careful symmetry, the chairs and settees positioned to encourage conversation, the light falling through the tall windows to illuminate the room without harshness.
Elizabeth took her place beside Jane. She felt the presence of the others keenly.
The Earl sat with an air of unassuming authority, his posture composed, his expression thoughtful.
The Countess, though less severe in manner, carried a dignity that spoke of long habit and careful observance.
Bramley stood near the mantel, his attention divided between his family and the door, his curiosity not entirely concealed.
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap. Soon.
The butler entered. “The Count of Vendicarsi.” A subtle tension in his tone drew Elizabeth’s attention at once.
She looked up.
Darcy entered.
For an exhilarating second, she did not breathe.
The beard was gone. The careful alteration that had once obscured his features had been removed, leaving his countenance fully revealed, unchanged in all that mattered.
The years had touched him, yes, refining and deepening the lines of his face, but there was no mistaking him now.
He was Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth felt the world shift. She had known. She had always known. To see him thus, without concealment and without the barrier he had so carefully maintained, was altogether different.
Bramley swore. The Countess gave a cry and fell back in her chair. Chaos followed.
The Earl rose at once, moving to his wife’s side, while Jane exclaimed in confusion, her gaze darting between Darcy and the others as she sought some explanation that had not been offered.
Elizabeth did not move. She could not. Her gaze remained fixed upon Darcy, upon the face she had carried in memory for so long, now present before her in undeniable truth.
Richard entered behind him, Anne upon his arm. “Close the door,” he said.
The butler obeyed, bowing and withdrawing quickly. Richard himself turned the key. The room settled, though not into calm.
The Countess was revived, her color returning gradually, though her expression remained one of profound astonishment. Anne, seeing Darcy clearly for the first time, broke from Richard’s side and threw her arms around him.
“Fitzwilliam!”
Darcy returned the embrace, though gently, his composure holding even as emotion flickered briefly across his features.
The Countess struggled to sit upright.
The Earl turned, his expression grave. “This requires explanation.”
Richard stepped forward. “It does,” he said. “And it shall be given. Pray, be seated. It is a long story.”
Elizabeth rose. She crossed the room without hesitation and went to Darcy’s side. Her hand found his, her fingers slipping into his grasp with silent confidence. He looked at her, and, briefly, the room, the others, and the entire world seemed to fall away.
He raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. The gesture, simple as it was, steadied her. She led him to the settee and they sat.
Richard spoke first, offering the bare outline of what must be understood before Darcy himself continued. Then Darcy began, his voice calm as he recounted the events that had led to his disappearance, his imprisonment, the years he had endured in silence.
Elizabeth watched. She did not need to hear the details again to know their value.
She had seen enough, understood enough, to grasp the extent of what had been taken from him—from all of them.
As he spoke, she became aware of the others—their reactions, their shifting expressions, the gradual transformation of disbelief into comprehension.
The earl listened intently, his features set in a stern line, though there was a depth of feeling beneath it that he did not entirely conceal.
The countess, now recovered, watched with a mixture of shock and sorrow, her gaze never leaving Darcy’s face.
Jane sat very still, her confusion giving way to dawning understanding, her eyes moving between Elizabeth and Darcy with increasing clarity.
Bramley stood apart, his posture rigid, his attention fixed upon his cousin with an intensity that spoke of both astonishment and relief.
When Darcy spoke of Lucien, there was a brief pause.
“Where is Mr. Dantès?” the earl asked. “If that is indeed his name.”
Darcy inclined his head.
“Lucien thought it best that the family have this moment without him,” he said. “He is, however, a man of the highest character, and I claim him as a brother in all but blood.”
Richard nodded in agreement.
The countess spoke next. “And Georgiana?” she asked. “Have you told her?”
Darcy’s expression softened. “I have not,” he said. “Not yet.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Will you accompany me?” he asked.
She agreed at once. “Yes.”
The earl spoke again, his tone thoughtful. “You have considered the implications of your return?” he said. “The questions that will be raised? The potential for scandal?”
Darcy met his gaze. “I have,” he said. “And I have made provision for it. There is a means by which I may reclaim what is mine without inviting undue scrutiny, though I am not ready to provide more information than that.”
The earl inclined his head, accepting the answer for the moment.