3. An Inconvenient Woman
CHAPTER THREE
AN INCONVENIENT WOMAN
Elizabeth did not believe in manna falling from heaven, and she certainly didn’t believe in it being hand-delivered by the most disagreeable man in England.
Daughters of dukes did not scatter their worldly goods upon country nobodies without a clause or obligation.
The papers were with her father, so she fled up the stairs to elude her mother’s loud and possibly premature celebration.
Her father remained skeptical, and Elizabeth shared his caution.
She would not believe in London townhouses or Derbyshire estates until she had smelled the soot of the one and walked the boundaries of the other.
The entire affair felt like an elaborate jest, yet Darcy’s participation suggested a grim reality.
Surely, the man was too serious and reserved for theatrical pranks.
Downstairs, Mrs. Bennet’s voice continued its ascent through the floorboards like damp through old plaster.
“Fifteen thousand a year. Hill, did you hear? And a house on Grosvenor Street. An estate in Derbyshire. Bellwood Park, was it? Oh, I am beside myself with pleasure. Thank God, Lizzy did not marry that dour Mr. Darcy and his pittance of only ten thousand. Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bennet! We must strike for London before the woman recovers her senses! Hill! My salts!”
Elizabeth closed her bedroom door, leaning against it with her back. Nettle hopped onto the quilt, tilting her head with a look of pointed inquiry.
“Nettle, this is mad,” she said aloud, and the terrier’s tail wagged in sympathy. “A stranger has decided to bankrupt herself in favor of a woman she has never met, based on a family line so remote it borders on the mythological. It is either a miracle or a very expensive trap.”
The dog offered no insight.
She stared at the stranger in the mirror—the sole beneficiary of an inter vivos gift. Her hands were shaking, her pallor was pale, her thoughts in a tangle. Darcy had not looked pleased with his errand of distributing the news. And Nettle had bitten him.
Plucking the pins from her hair, she shook her curls loose.
The news was too heavy to carry in a formal coiffure.
No doubt her father was already huddled with Uncle Philips, dissecting the documents for the inevitable catch.
By the next day, this entire scheme could be exposed as either an elaborate hoax or a scheme designed to lure her family to London.
Or it could be a plot to kidnap ladies of good breeding by using sudden wealth as bait. But why would Mr. Darcy be involved in such a thing? It made no sense.
His explanatory letter was securely tucked into her pocket. She knew the opening by heart: Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you.
Could Darcy have enlisted this fictional Lady Sophia Mottistone to test her? To see if her disgust for his character had a price?
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. “Lizzy? May I come in?”
Her sister Jane was always welcome, but only if she were alone.
“One moment.” Elizabeth dropped to her knees and peered under the bedframe. Nettle bounced off the bed and thrust her nose under the space, sniffing it thoroughly. Elizabeth checked behind the curtains while Nettle trotted to the wardrobe, squeezing underneath for any eavesdropping sisters.
“We are clear.” She opened the door, and Jane slipped inside.
“Lydia is in Mamma’s room, showering her with smelling salts, lavender water, and draughts while extracting promises of new dresses, ribbons, parasols, slippers…
and Kitty asked for a new carriage. Mamma has revised her account of your genius in refusing Mr. Darcy to suggest she always privately supported you, as you are now free to attract a duke. ”
“If only she hadn’t heard me tell you about Darcy’s insulting proposal,” Elizabeth lamented. “Through Lydia, no doubt.”
“I didn’t believe Lydia could curl up underneath the bed.”
“Her long legs might have stuck out, but we didn’t notice.
It’s a wonder she didn’t giggle, and then she wasted no time telling Mamma everything.
” Elizabeth felt a cold spike of gratitude that she had never mentioned the letter to Jane—only the insult of the offer itself.
If Lydia knew of Wickham and Georgiana, the scandal would have circulated from Hertfordshire to Derbyshire, and Darcy would never forgive her for destroying his sister’s reputation.
As it stood, he most likely regretted sharing that excruciating detail.
“Oh, Lizzy. I’m so sorry.” Jane said, her fingers twisting a stray thread on her sleeve, “What do you make of this… this gift. Darcy did not seem pleased to deliver it. He did not look at me even once. Do you suppose Bingley told him why he abandoned Netherfield? Was I the cause? His brow seemed to indicate that he knew precisely why I was unhappy.”
She knew the reason—that he and Caroline Bingley had conspired to prune my angelic sister from their social garden as if she were a common weed. But telling Jane would only reopen wounds.
Instead, she forced a small, hollow smile. “No one truly knows what moves behind Mr. Darcy’s brow. His countenance is a permanent fog bank portending rain.”
A flicker of hope warmed her sweet sister’s face. “Do you think this is real? Are we truly to go to London under Lady Sophia’s wing? It feels like a fairy tale.”
“I suppose we shall find out soon enough.” Elizabeth kept her voice more neutral than her thudding heart.
Jane hesitated. “And if we are to go… how will you manage if you have to speak to Mr. Darcy? If he were to stand before you tomorrow—if he offered his hand a second time—would you accept him?”
The question struck like a bell, and Elizabeth felt the vibration in her teeth.
“No,” she said, too quickly. “He is still proud. He is still… Did you see how he scowled at Nettle?”
Jane looked thoughtful. “But Lizzy, perhaps his pride is not as immovable as you think. He did come here, after all, to deliver news that must have been difficult for him. And Nettle did bite him.”
“One of the smaller satisfactions of this strange day.” She suppressed a chuckle.
“I do not regret refusing him. I will not be loved as a punishment, despite his better judgment. Whether he is Lady Sophia’s trusted envoy or not, he has not given me the slightest indication that his character has altered. ”
“He rode twenty-four miles to bring you a fortune,” Jane said, always eager to see the good in every person.
“Because Lady Sophia asked him to. It was an errand, not a declaration.”
“And when Nettle bit him,” Jane said, with absolute seriousness, “he did not kick her.”
Elizabeth tried not to look at her with exasperation. “The bar for acceptable masculine conduct cannot possibly be as low as ‘did not kick the dog,’ Jane.”
“No. But it is worth noting that he did not.” Jane managed a smile so knowing that Elizabeth squirmed, unable to admit what she was willing to reconsider.
A firm knock interrupted whatever Elizabeth was about to say to that, which was perhaps fortunate.
“Miss Elizabeth? An express, ma’am. From London.”
Elizabeth exchanged a meaningful glance with Jane, her heart beginning to race as she opened the door and accepted the letter. This was no ordinary correspondence, as evidenced by the expensive stationery and the seal with a fanciful ‘M’ over a round stone, for Mottistone.
Jane crowded close to read, while Nettle circled her ankles in the unfounded hope that an express letter might contain something edible.
My dear Miss Bennet,
You will think it strange to receive so warm a letter from a woman you have never met, and you will be right, for it is strange, and I see no reason to pretend otherwise.
I am sixty-three; I have outlived my patience for pretense, and false formality between strangers strikes me as a considerable waste of everyone’s time.
Your father’s mother was a distant branch, but the connection is real, and I have maintained an interest in remote branches of my family.
Friends in your neighborhood have written to me of you over the years, and what they have described is a young woman of uncommon intelligence, sharp wit, and the sort of moral courage that does not flinch from making itself inconvenient.
I like inconvenient women. I have been one all my life.
Come to London. Bring your family—your father, your mother, and your sisters.
There is room for all of you. The house has fourteen bedrooms, a garden that is lovely in spring, a library I think you will find worth the journey alone, and a Broadwood pianoforte that has not been played well in twenty years and would welcome capable hands.
I make no demands and impose no conditions. The fortune is yours regardless of whether you come. But I am an old woman with a large house and a great deal of curiosity, and I should very much like to meet the young woman described to me as the cleverest person in Hertfordshire.
I suspect the competition was not fierce, but the distinction is yours, nonetheless.
With warmest regards,
Lady Sophia Mottistone
P.S. I understand you have a dog. She is welcome. I have always preferred the company of dogs to most humans, and I trust her judgment implicitly.
She read the letter twice, the second time silently, scanning the page for hidden meanings, but Jane was already delighted.
Pressing her hand to her mouth, she exclaimed, “Oh, Lizzy. She sounds wonderful. I do believe I shall adore her. She almost sounds like you!”
Elizabeth read the letter again, waiting for its warmth to rearrange itself into something more suspicious.
It did not. Lady Sophia wrote as she apparently lived—with directness, intelligence, as if she had decided that being liked was far less important than being clear—exactly as Elizabeth preferred.