The doorbell rang before Elizabeth could respond, and Charles and Jane’s living room was soon filled with people. Richard Fitzwilliam entered, all confident smiles and firm handshakes. Within moments he’d introduced himself, charmed Jane, complimented Charles on the house, and was scratching Waffles behind the ears while her dog’s tail wagged at the speed of a helicopter rotor.
Malcolm was quieter but no less impressive, darker-haired and sharp-eyed, all understated elegance. He presented Jane with a bottle of wine and complimented her on the Christmas decorations.
“You must be Elizabeth.” Richard turned his considerable charm in her direction. “We’ve heard almost nothing about you from him, which means William’s being protective. Always a good sign.”
“Richard,” Darcy said, and Elizabeth caught the warning note in his voice.
“What? It’s true.” Richard grinned at Elizabeth conspiratorially. “Has he shown you his terrible poetry from university yet? Because I’ve got copies.”
“There is no poetry,” Darcy said warningly.
“There is definitely poetry,” Malcolm added with a small smile. “Lots of it. All very earnest and romantic and rhyming.”
Elizabeth found herself laughing despite her nerves. “I’ll have to ask Georgiana about that.”
“Georgiana’s discreet,” Richard said. “Unlike us.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Elizabeth laughed. “I’m guessing she’s your source about me.”
“She has you there, Rich,” Malcolm said with a grin.
“I’m pretty sure I can get her to talk.” Elizabeth smiled at Darcy. He looked up at the ceiling.
Caroline Bingley swept in behind the men in bright red lipstick and head-to-toe designer black, air-kissed everyone within reach, and began making pointed observations about the “charming” cottage atmosphere.
“How wonderfully cosy.” She surveyed Charles and Jane’s lounge with a smile that suggested she found cosiness quaint in an outdated way. “Like something from a magazine about country living.”
“Thank you,” Jane said, though Elizabeth caught the slight stiffness in her sister’s voice.
Then Elizabeth’s younger sisters arrived in their usual whirlwind.
Lydia burst through the door first, gravitating toward the attractive single men in the room with an unerring instinct. “Oh my God, you’re the cousins! I’m Lydia.”
“Lydia,” Elizabeth warned.
“What? You can’t expect me to ignore two gorgeous men just because it’s Christmas.”
Kitty followed close behind taking selfies, while Mary appeared with an armload of books and a determined expression. Elizabeth recognised the look. Mary was prepared to discuss moral philosophy over Christmas pudding.
The sitting room, which had felt snug but reasonable with eight people, now resembled a crowded Tube carriage.
“We’re all here,” Charles announced. “Shall we move to the dining room?”
Charles and Jane’s dining room was lovely; Elizabeth had always thought so. Warm and welcoming, with windows overlooking the back garden. But with eleven people squeezed around a table meant for eight, it felt a bit like the Island Game which she’d played as a girl.
Elizabeth found herself sat between Malcolm Fitzwilliam and Mary, directly across from Caroline, who had somehow claimed the seat next to Darcy. This arrangement, Elizabeth suspected, was not accidental.
“What a delightful mixture of guests.” Caroline eyed the table with condescending amusement. “So wonderfully . . . eclectic.”
The first course passed without major incident, though Elizabeth noticed how Richard and Malcolm naturally fell into conversation with Darcy about mutual friends and shared references that excluded everyone else at the table. Not deliberately, she didn’t think, but inevitably. When you moved in the same circles, attended the same schools, knew the same people, it was easy to forget that not everyone shared your references.
“Did you hear about Harold Benton?” Richard asked Darcy. “Just got engaged to that Russian oligarch’s daughter. Absolute catastrophe of a wedding planned.”
“Remember his twenty-first?” Malcolm asked with a shake of his head. “Three counties’ worth of police called in.”
Elizabeth watched Darcy nod along to stories about people she’d never heard of and felt a pang of displacement.
“Elizabeth writes novels,” Caroline announced, her voice carrying across the table like cut glass. “Crime fiction, isn’t that right?”
