1. The Fortunate Elizabeth #2
Elizabeth had never heard the name before. From the blank look on her mother’s face, neither had she. But Mrs. Bennet sensed advantage as surely as a hound scented a fox. She rose from the sofa with the speed of a woman suddenly revived.
“Lady Sophia Mottistone, you say? How very interesting. Hill, do bring us some tea—the good china, mind you. Mr. Darcy, pray make yourself comfortable. We are most eager to hear about this urgent matter.”
“My errand is brief,” Darcy said, remaining standing. “It concerns Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“What could you possibly want with me?” She had not yet recovered her composure, not with his words from six weeks ago still echoing in her ears.
“This is a professional matter, Miss Bennet.” He did not look at her; his entire focus was on opening a leather portfolio and withdrawing several sheaves of paper.
“Lady Sophia Mottistone is the daughter of the Duke of Lennox. She was also my late mother’s dearest friend, and I have served as her trustee for the past ten years.
Lady Sophia has recently executed a legal conveyance naming Miss Elizabeth Bennet as the sole beneficiary of an inter vivos gift, that is, a gift made during the donor’s lifetime, as distinct from a bequest.”
“A gift?” Mrs. Bennet’s voice climbed a register. “But we have never heard of any Lady Mottistone. Elizabeth has no?—”
“The connection exists through your husband’s mother’s family.
” He extended the documents to Mr. Bennet, who accepted them with the calm of a man watching a firework descend toward a powder magazine.
“The gift comprises an annual income of fifteen thousand pounds, derived from investments in the five per cents, canal shares, and other securities. It also includes a London townhouse at Number Thirty-Three Grosvenor Street, fully staffed and furnished, and Bellwood Park, a country estate in Derbyshire.”
The silence that settled over the room was of a type never before heard at Longbourn—vast, astonished, and faintly deranged. Even Nettle had settled on a hambone, gnawing quietly.
“Fifteen thousand a year,” Mr. Bennet repeated, adjusting his spectacles to examine the documents. “My dear Lizzy, you are now officially too expensive for any man I might have approved of, and expensive enough for every man I wouldn’t.”
“But… fifteen… that is more than…” Mrs. Bennet’s gaze darted from the documents to Darcy and back again.
“Lady Sophia also extends a personal invitation,” Darcy continued, and Elizabeth caught a rough edge to his voice.
“She invites Miss Elizabeth Bennet to reside with her at her Grosvenor Street House for the Season, to be introduced to London society under her patronage. The gift is entirely without condition. There are no stipulations regarding Miss Bennet’s conduct, no requirements of marriage, no encumbrances of any kind.
The fortune is hers, absolutely and irrevocably. ”
He closed the portfolio without expression, as if ushering a country nobody into the highest circles of London were a matter scarcely worth the effort of a raised eyebrow.
Footsteps thundered on the stairs. Lydia burst into the parlor in her dressing gown, her hair in curl papers, her expression pure outraged curiosity.
“Hill said Mr. Darcy is here! Is it true? Has he come to propose again? Oh, let me see!” She skidded to a halt at the sight of Darcy, executed something between a curtsy and a stumble, and declared, with the absolute fearlessness of a girl who had never in her life met a thought she did not immediately share, “Lord, he is handsome. I had forgotten how handsome. Lizzy, you are mad. I would have married him in a heartbeat and endured the scowling, for a scowl is a very charming thing on a man with ten thousand a year, especially with that particular jawline.”
“Lydia!” Mrs. Bennet gasped, though it was impossible to determine whether in horror or agreement.
Darcy’s jaw tightened by exactly the fraction of a degree that indicated he had heard, processed, and elected to survive Lydia Bennet by pretending she did not exist.
“I have discharged my commission,” he said, addressing her father. “Lady Sophia’s solicitor will attend to yours to address the legal particulars.” He bowed to the room collectively and to Elizabeth with a curt nod, then turned toward the door.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said.
He paused, though he did not turn, his shoulders tightening in a way that suggested he was bracing for another blow.
“You are not a man who refuses obligations,” she said to his back. “Even disagreeable ones.”
“No, I am not.”
The front door closed with the finality of a man who had no intention of lingering. He departed with alacrity, mounted his horse, and left only the sound of sharp hoofbeats fading amongst the distant bleating of sheep.
The room erupted like a nest of disturbed magpies.
Mrs. Bennet grabbed Kitty’s arm and danced a jig, crowing, “Fifteen thousand, fifteen thousand,” at the top of her lungs.
Mary, still at the pianoforte, began playing—not Clementi or Bach, but a soft, wandering country air.
Jane blinked at the commotion, and Lydia imitated Mamma, spinning in her dressing gown with glee and demands.
“Lizzy, you shall take me to London and buy me new ribbons and introduce me to officers—London officers, who are far superior to Meryton officers—and we shall go to balls every night!”
“Mary,” Elizabeth said, because ignoring Lydia was the only response that didn’t encourage her, “are there music masters in London?”
Mary’s hands stilled on the keys. She looked up with an expression so startled, so unguardedly hopeful, that Elizabeth’s heart twinged.
“I… I believe there must be,” Mary said. “Very fine ones.”
“Then we shall find you the finest.”
Mr. Bennet paused in his retreat, documents in hand. “Read the terms carefully, Lizzy,” he said, and beneath his habitual dryness, there was something graver. “Gifts of this magnitude seldom arrive without expectations.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Jane appeared at her side. “Lizzy, you are trembling. Are you well?”
Elizabeth tucked her hands into her skirts, where the worn folds of Darcy’s letter—the one he had written after his ill-fated proposal—pressed against her fingers.
“It is only the surprise,” she said. “I shall be perfectly steady in a moment.”
But she was not steady, not at all, and she suspected her life had been upended—again, by Mr. Darcy.
Fifteen thousand a year. Properties, bonds, and securities. And a benefactor she had yet to meet.
Who was Lady Sophia Mottistone? And more pressingly—how did a woman Elizabeth had never heard of suddenly own her future?