“Darcy,” a voice snapped.
Elizabeth turned to see Lady Catherine de Bourgh, trailed by two other women, one young and one older.
“I am desperate for a cup of drinking chocolate,” Georgiana declared and fled with Mrs. Annesley.
Elizabeth did not blame her. Lady Catherine barreled in their direction, practically shouldering people out of the way, her face already an unhealthy shade of red. With a sigh, Elizabeth plastered on a smile and squared her shoulders.
Lady Catherine didn’t halt until her face was uncomfortably near Fitzwilliam’s.
Elizabeth’s new husband did not give an inch. “Aunt Catherine. Anne. Mrs. Jenkinson. May I present my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy? Elizabeth, I believe you have met my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. This is my cousin, Anne de Bourgh, and her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson.”
Hoping she hid the relief she felt at the excuse to release Fitzwilliam’s arm, so she could move away from Lady Catherine, Elizabeth curtsied. “Lady Catherine. How fine to see you again, and Miss de Bourgh, I am so happy to finally meet you. It was with sorrow that we read of your inability to attend our wedding due to being ill. I hope you are feeling well now.”
“Anne is always well.” Lady Catherine stared down her nose at Elizabeth. “I use her health as an excuse when I am tendered invitations that are beneath me.” She returned her attention to Fitzwilliam. “Darcy, a word.”
“Very well,” he said, resignation etched into his features and suffusing his voice. “Would you care to have our row in public or in private?”
Her ladyship drew her shoulders back. “I do not have rows.”
“We are beginning, then?”
Rather than answer, Lady Catherine cocked her chin in the air and marched away, moving to a pair of chairs set under an arch crafted of pink and white blossoms.
Fitzwilliam turned to Elizabeth. “I do not believe this will take long.” Despite being in public, he dropped a light kiss to her lips, his own tipping up at the corners as his gaze lingered on her. Then, drawing in a fortifying breath he added, “Anne. Mrs. Jenkinson,” and strode after his aunt.
Elizabeth turned to the woman who must have thought she would marry Fitzwilliam, battling the tension that longed to fill her frame. “Miss de Bourgh, we truly did miss you at our wedding.” Elizabeth had hoped inviting Lady Catherine and her daughter would prove an olive branch of sorts. Especially when they had invited so few people, despite Mrs. Bennet’s urgings.
“I very much wanted to attend.” Miss de Bourgh radiated sincerity. “I have longed to meet you. Georgiana, Richard, and Fitzwilliam have all mentioned you in their letters.”
Elizabeth hadn’t realized her husband corresponded with Miss de Bourgh. A glance showed Fitzwilliam and Lady Catherine standing before the two chairs under the flower-arch, the latter clearly railing at Elizabeth’s husband. “And I have longed to meet you as well. It is my deepest hope that we can put aside any awkwardness and be friends.”
“Awkwardness?” Miss de Bourgh frowned, lines creasing a narrow brow. Behind her, Mrs. Jenkinson echoed the look. Then Miss de Bourgh’s exceedingly light blue eyes flew wide. “Oh. The betrothal.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, the very awkwardness she sought to avoid threatening a blush. “I know you must have had certain hopes, and I want to assure you that—”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Miss de Bourgh cut in. She waved a hand, as if brushing aside Elizabeth’s worries. “Please, do not torment yourself apologizing for marrying Fitzwilliam. He and Inever had any agreement. We never suited and never planned to wed. We both knew as much, but my mother would not permit the idea to die.” Miss de Bourgh leaned closer, causing Mrs. Jenkinson to do the same, and lowered her voice to add, “I am so relieved that Fitzwilliam finally married, and Richard as well. Now that both of her choices are taken, I am hoping my mother will permit me a Season, and to be courted by a man of my choosing.”
Elizabeth blinked, reordering her thoughts. She had expected Miss de Bourgh to echo her mother’s hauteur and anger. To look like Lady Catherine as well. Instead, here was a small, slender, pleasant creature with no designs on Fitzwilliam at all.
“You have no notion what a relief that is,” Elizabeth said. “I quite expected you to hate me.”
“Oh no, please do not think that.”
With a glance Lady Catherine’s way, Mrs. Jenkinson spoke in rapid, low words, saying, “If your mother will not give you a Season, perhaps Mrs. Darcy will assist you.”
“That is a lovely idea, Hildie.” Miss de Bourgh smiled happily.
Knowing Fitzwilliam would agree, Elizabeth said, “You are my cousin and I am pleased to aid you in any way I can.”
“It would make my mother very angry.”
Elizabeth, too, looked to where Lady Catherine continued to rant, while Fitzwilliam stood in stoic silence. “Is she ever not angry?”
Miss de Bourgh laughed.
Lady Catherine’s head snapped around, her eyes narrowing as she looked at them. She said something more to Fitzwilliam, and Elizabeth made no effort to read her lips as she felt certain she did not want to know what her ladyship thought. In a swirl of oversized skirts and expensive fabric, Lady Catherine started back to where Elizabeth, Miss de Bourgh, and Mrs. Jenkinson stood.
“You should call me Anne,” Miss de Bourgh whispered quickly. “And I would be ever so pleased if we could correspond, but you may want to address any letters you send to Hildie. She will give them to me.”
