If he was discomposed, he did not show it. Instead, he rose and bowed to her mother with perfect civility, as though he had heard nothing amiss. “Might I introduce you to my sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy, and her companion, Mrs Annesley?”
“Oh!” her mother cried, already producing her handkerchief and fluttering it with dramatic agitation, to Elizabeth’s increasing horror.
She knew that flutter. Nothing good had ever followed it.
What came next made Elizabeth’s eyes fall closed in instant misery.
“Is this the sister Mr Bingley has taken to courting instead, after paying such very particular attention to my dear Jane last autumn?” Mrs Bennet demanded, peering about the room. “Oh! Jane, my love, how difficult this must be for you! I recall when Miss Bingley wrote to you and told you that her brother was courting Miss Darcy, but I had not believed it.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes at once upon hearing these words spoken aloud. Jane had gone perfectly pale and sat there, her eyes fixed on the hands in her lap.
A glance towards Miss Darcy revealed cheeks nearly as rosy as her own, the poor girl shrinking beside her companion. Elizabeth longed to move, to speak, to do something, but she felt rooted to her seat, as though any motion might only worsen the catastrophe.
Her gaze flew helplessly back to Fitzwilliam, who was now standing as he faced her mother.
For one dreadful second, she feared he must regret every feeling he had ever professed. Surely he wished he were not here with them now, not in this room with her mother acting and speaking without thought.
Instead, he drew himself up with calm dignity, and when his eyes met hers, there was something in them that steadied her. Whether it was reassurance, resolve, or, she wondered, merely the smallest plea that she trust him in this, she was uncertain. She stood to offer some support, but his voice stopped her.
“I assure you,” he said, his voice firm but controlled, “that Mr Bingley has never courted my sister. She is but sixteen and not yet out in society. It is my hope that he will soon return to the neighbourhood; however, I have brought Georgiana today because I wished her to meet the family of my intended.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a violent leap at his confession. She had not expected him to speak so openly of their understanding before speaking to her father, but, she supposed, it would explain his being there.
“Mrs Bennet,” he continued, “I have not yet had the honour of speaking with your husband, but Miss Elizabeth and I renewed our acquaintance during her visit to Pemberley, and I have asked her to be my wife.”
Time seemed to falter for several moments upon this admission.
Elizabeth watched comprehension dawn upon her mother’s face—and then, to her astonishment, every trace of colour fled it, leaving her nearly ghostly white.
She barely had time to think,Oh, no,before her mother swayed.
Fitzwilliam was already in motion. Thank heaven he had been standing; he caught Mrs Bennet before she reached the floor and laid her on a nearby sofa.
The room erupted into chaos.
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her burning cheeks, torn between relief, humiliation, gratitude, and a hysterical desire to laugh at the impossibility of it all.
And then—as though matters were not already beyond bearing—the door, which had never properly latched behind her mother, moved again.
Elizabeth turned at the faint creak of hinges and felt her stomach drop.
Her father stood upon the threshold.
He made no comment nor did anything to intrude upon the scene; he was simply there, still and grave, and unmistakably a man who had heard far more than she could wish. His gaze travelled the room in measured silence, noting the confusion: Fitzwilliam standing next to her mother upon the sofa, Jane in visible distress, Georgiana flushed with mortification, and finally, Elizabeth herself.
“What do you mean,” he asked, his voice dangerously calm, “that you have asked Elizabeth to be your wife, Mr Darcy?”
At the sound of her husband’s voice, Mrs Bennet sat up with remarkable alacrity, betraying the theatrical nature of the faint she had displayed not a moment earlier. Elizabeth, who had nearly credited it as genuine, stared at her mother’s recovery with mingled relief and exasperation.
But she had no leisure to dwell upon that at the moment. She would consider her mother’s theatrics later.
Instead, she crossed at once to her intended and slipped her hand through his arm, gaining strength from the steadiness of him. Drawing a deep breath, in which she attempted to restore her composure, she turned towards her father.
“Mr Darcy wishes to speak with you privately, Papa, but we had hoped first to learn more of what has occurred here while we were away,” Elizabeth said, meeting her father’s eyes with determination. “I have now heard twice that you have informed my youngest sisters they are no longer out, but tell me—what has been done regarding Lydia? Has any injury been done to her reputation, or have you managed to keep news of her planned elopement with Mr Wickham confined to the family?”
“How dare you address me in such a manner, Elizabeth?” her father replied sharply. “And if you are so concerned for our reputation, why speak of it so freely before this haughty man and his equally haughty sister?”
“Mr and Miss Darcy are already aware of what has taken place—or at least of as much as I have learnt from Jane’s letter, since we received no word from you,” Elizabeth returned. “They have come to offer their assistance, Papa.”
