33. Exit the Dragon #3
Elizabeth fixed her gaze on her friends and neighbors to ensure their attention, then on Lady Catherine.
“The Darcy name, Lady Catherine,” she said slowly, but clearly, “is already Bennet blood. It has been Bennet blood since 1694 when George Darcy was born as George Bennet.”
Lady Catherine’s face locked into an expression of glacial horror, her eyes wide with disbelief, lips pressed tighter than a miser’s pursestring. She lifted her bony finger and pointed it directly at Elizabeth’s heart.
“You are not merely impertinent, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, but a wicked liar. I shall have you taken before the magistrate for witchcraft.”
“It is the recorded truth,” Elizabeth said. “George signed his own confession in ink that has outlived his parents’ deception. The nephew you are so concerned about is not merely engaged to a Bennet, Lady Catherine. He is a Bennet. He has been, in blood if not in name, since the day he was born.”
Lady Catherine swayed. For one gratifying moment, Elizabeth thought she might actually faint.
“And if your ladyship is profoundly concerned with the lawful inheritance of Pemberley,” Elizabeth continued with lethal sweetness, “I suggest you direct your inquiries toward the real Darcy line—through his sister, Mathilda, who married a tradesman named Bingley.”
“Bingley,” Lady Catherine whispered. “Charles Bingley. The tradesman’s son.”
“The very same,” Elizabeth beamed. “You might question my sister, Jane, who is engaged to Mr. Charles Bingley, who as it happens has rather more claim to Pemberley than anyone in this room. I do hope you will not find the connection too sullied.”
Lady Catherine gripped the knob of her cane until her knuckles turned the color of lard. “You will regret this.”
“I rarely regret honesty, Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth replied. “It is a habit I have recently acquired, and I find it suits me rather well.”
Lady Catherine stood locked in place, her formidable countenance sagging dangerously like loose clothing on a line.
The assembled witnesses exchanged glances of barely suppressed astonishment.
Sir William Lucas’s jaw hung lower than his waistcoat buttons; Lady Lucas was actively clawing at Charlotte’s arm; and Mrs. Long appeared to be memorizing every word for later dissemination.
And Georgiana—dear, brave Georgiana—was smiling.
“I truly believe,” Georgiana said, “that you should sit down, Aunt Catherine. You look unwell.”
“I will not sit down in this house.” Lady Catherine’s voice had regained some of its former steel, though it shook slightly at the edges. “I will not remain another moment in this—this hovel of rustics. Georgiana, you will come with me this instant.”
“No, Aunt. I shall not.”
Lady Catherine looked around the room—at the gasping witnesses, at the Bennet family, at the niece who had defied her—and the sharpness in her face collapsed.
“This is not over.” Her lips quivered. “I will not rest until this matter is properly investigated. You may have bewitched my nephew and this wretched parish, Miss Bennet, but these monstrous falsehoods will see you burning from a stake.”
“And I, too, wish you a delightfully heated eternity, since your ladyship has always preferred the chair by the fire.”
“You will regret this, Miss Bennet. You and your scheming family—”
“On the contrary, Lady Catherine.” Elizabeth smiled—a real smile, warm and unguarded. “I suspect I shall be extraordinarily happy indeed. Good day to you.”
The door slammed behind her, the carriage wheels rattled away, and Elizabeth, standing at the heart of Longbourn’s drawing room with her family and half the county spectating, felt the last coil of tightness unspool from her chest.
It was done. The truth was out. And whatever came next, she would face it with Darcy beside her.
Georgiana crossed the room and threw her arms around Elizabeth.
“That,” she whispered, “was magnificent.”
“It was necessary.” Elizabeth returned the embrace. “And rather satisfying, if I am honest.”
Charlotte appeared at her elbow, her eyes bright with unholy amusement. “Elizabeth, that was the most extraordinary takedown I have ever witnessed. My family is going to dine out on this story for years.”
“Decades, I should think.” Elizabeth released Georgiana and looked around the room—at the shocked and gleeful faces of people who were already composing the letters they would write within the hour.
“I suppose we should offer everyone refreshments. It would be rude to deliver that performance and then send them away without tea.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had remained frozen throughout the entire confrontation, suddenly came to life.
“Tea!” she shrieked. “Yes, tea. Hill! Where is Hill? Tea for everyone, and cakes, and wine, we must have wine. Oh, Sir William, Lady Lucas, you must stay. Charlotte, you must tell me everything that happened on the lane, how you avoided those carriage wheels, and oh, Jane, help me with the… oh, my nerves—”
And with that, the household erupted into its usual state of untamed commotion, and Elizabeth permitted herself, finally, to laugh.