Chapter 4
Derbyshire, England
July 1900
GreatScott!
Elizabeth swallowed and put a trembling hand to the window. How did one form an oath in British? For if anything could be found to inspire such an impolite ejaculation, the sight before her was surely it.
“Good heavens!” Jane breathed, and Elizabeth could see her sister counting the windows on the front of the house. “Are you sure this is not part of some tour? This cannot be the house we are to stay in.”
“The main house was originally built by the Earl of Sanbury in the time of Oliver Cromwell, upon the site of the ruins of the first house which was dated as far back as the reign of Mary I. The western wing, which you see there, was added during the reign of James II by the first Darcy to call Pemberley his seat, a Mr Edward Merewether Darcy. The entire house was updated with running water two decades ago and, most recently, with electricity by the present Mr Darcy.”
Jane and Elizabeth both turned to stare at their cousin.
“When did you become such an expert on English houses?” Jane demanded.
“I have always been fascinated by English history,” Billy huffed defensively.
“It’s true. I have caught you reading books on the peerage often enough when you were supposed to be working,” Elizabeth agreed.
Billy ignored Elizabeth’s slight, more intent upon the imposing edifice before them. “Mr Darcy may be modest, but he is proud enough of his homes that all in his employ are well schooled. It was quite easy to induce the maid to tell me all she knew about the Darcys’ house in Derbyshire.”
“Did she tell you anything of our hostess, the esteemed and regal Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth shivered. Richard had described Georgiana Darcy as a sweet and adventurous young woman, but then, he had praised his other cousin just as highly. Mr Darcy’s formality had taken her aback. Perhaps it was only the way they all were, but she had not been prepared for it after Richard’s ease and warmth. And now she was to live in the same house as a properly brought up English girl.
From an extraordinarily wealthy family.
In a house at least three times as old as her own home country.
Howboring.
“She only declared that Miss Darcy was as kind and beautiful as her mother, Lady Anne,néeFitzwilliam.”
Well, that was something. Perhaps some of Richard’s affability was a family trait.
“MrsFitzwilliam,MissBennet,and—” the lady blinked slowly—“Mr Collins. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Elizabeth felt her teeth baring in an uncomfortable, forced grin. If the lady was “pleased” to meet her, she hoped never to see her “displeased.” Or perhaps she was one of those people whose faces never altered with genuine emotion, which would make her all the more forbidding than she appeared already.
Elizabeth stumbled her way through what she supposed was a proper greeting, then tried not to look like a simpleton when their hostess led them into the house. She failed utterly.
Miss Darcy had proceeded her stately way into some grand hall and then paused. She turned, her shoulders drawn back, and her chin set high and aloof. “You will wish to refresh yourselves after your journey. I have ordered tea for your rooms, and dinner will be served at half-past seven. Margaret will see that you have everything you need.” With that, she gestured to the maid and left them.
Elizabeth bit back a sigh and rolled her eyes towards Jane. At the very least, Margaret had travelled from London with them. She had refused to ride in their carriage—had even seemed offended that Elizabeth would ask her to, but she was one somewhat familiar face in a sea of strangers. She was inviting them to follow her now, and with little alternative, they did.
GeorgianaDarcyappeareduponfirst glance to be an unusually tall girl, but Elizabeth discovered at dinner that it was merely an illusion—the effect of her willowy form and the graceful way she moved. In fact, when Elizabeth stood beside her, their shoulders appeared almost the same height, but Miss Darcy possessed an air, a certain poise, that had probably been bred into her by centuries of nobility and cultivated by the most expensive finishing school in the country. That must have been where she learned her hostessing skills as well, because every inflexion and every movement was calculated to be inoffensive and proper. It was as if every nuance of her conversation and each element of the meal followed a prescribed script—one Elizabeth had not read.
“I trust you found London to your liking, Miss Bennet?” Miss Darcy enquired as the footmen carried away the soup course.
“Very much so,” Jane answered demurely. “I was surprised at how large it was, and it was a pleasure to watch all the people.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at her sister. It seemed their hostess was already having her influence over Jane, for her sister had been pleased throughout the meal to respond in trivialities.
“And you, Mrs Fitzwilliam?”
“Oh, it was remarkable! One afternoon we toured a bookstore called Hatchard’s. Have you ever heard of it?”
Miss Darcy blinked slowly again—a mannerism Elizabeth had come to think of as condescension restrained by odiously good manners. “I have.”
