Page 66 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

“You silly, silly woman,” he murmured. I kissed his cheek—surely, a sister comforting her brother was proper enough.

‘That was beautiful, Lizzy,’ said Mary. ‘Oh, I so wish I could play as well as you.’

* * *

“You sing very well, Miss Eliza. But pardon my presumption, you could benefit from having a master—my sister and I were taught by Domenico Corri, the famed Italian maestro.” Miss Bingley moved to sit opposite Darcy.

“Indeed, Mrs. Hurst sings well,” I replied carefully.

“Do you treat your summer marks?” the lady continued. “While Miss Crawley has a clear brown complexion—quite the fashion in Town—yours has become overly tanned and coarse. Did I not warn you of it when we met in Hertfordshire?”

Darcy glanced down at me, giving my face a mock examination. “Dear me, Elizabeth, there is one more freckle than the other night!” He turned to Miss Bingley. “Extremely observant of you, ma’am. It certainly mars Miss Elizabeth’s beauty.”

The lady flushed. “I only meant that Miss Eliza should take care of her complexion. I myself use Unction de Maintenon, which has proven most efficacious.”

We did not answer; the Crawleys took that moment to thank Mrs. Bennet and Mr. Darcy for their hospitality, then retired to their rooms. Marianne raised an eyebrow as she passed, hiding a smirk behind her hand.

“You show unexpected taste, Miss Bingless, for a person from trade,” declared Lady Catherine abruptly. “Miss Bennet’s skin, both in tone and coarseness, is certainly that of the lower classes, unlike Anne’s pale-lily complexion, which is much admired. Miss Bennet inherits from her mother in trade, no doubt. I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome.”

“Ma’am, if I may concur,” I said, smiling sweetly. “In addition, my nose wants character, my teeth are merely tolerable, and my eyes, though I should wish them to be called fine, have a sharp, shrewish look. What think you, Fitzwilliam? Certainly, it is not only my freckles that mar my beauty.”

“Good God! You, Miss Bennet, a beauty!—I would rather call your mother a wit.” Lady Catherine glared at me.

“Yes,” interjected Mr. Darcy, who could contain himself no longer. “Mrs. Bennet possesses sense, good humour, and kindliness—quite beyond your understanding, Catherine. I have long considered both she and Elizabeth the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”

Lady Catherine’s lips pursed so tightly they seemed to vanish altogether. It was foolish of her to have forced George Darcy to say what gave no one any pain but herself.

Though Miss Bingley seemed not to care. “Such gallantry, Mr. Darcy! You always did hold unconventional opinions. I remember well your attentions to me in London. At least my dowry is respectable—why, Mrs. Bennet has less than five thousand pounds from her jointure, and Miss Eliza only fifty pounds a year.”

“You are remarkably misinformed, Miss Bingley.” Mr. Darcy chuckled, though his tone was blunt. “Did not your brother, Bingley, inform you of his wife’s portion and Mrs. Bennet’s inheritance? It is not held private. If I may, Fanny?” He gave Mama an enquiring look; she nodded, entirely at ease.

“Each of her daughters has a dowry of five thousand pounds—likely more, invested at the five percents. Mrs. Bennet inherited Hathaway House, returning fifteen hundred pounds a year; her own portion was grown by Mr. Bennet—God rest his soul—to over ten thousand. My calculation—Elizabeth will surely correct me if I am wrong—gives a total estate exceeding fifty thousand. Mrs. Bennet is one of the wealthiest women in England.”

“That may be, George,” interjected Lady Catherine, “but what of her blood, her ancestry? The daughter of a solicitor!”

“She is the widow of a gentleman. I am a gentleman widower; so far, we are equal. As Elizabeth is the equal of Fitzwilliam.”

I started. Whatever could he mean?—ah, we were brother and sister… certainly of equal rank in society.

My impertinence once more overcame my good breeding. “I recall talking with Colonel Fitzwilliam when at the Salutation Hotel. He confided that his rank, that of the second son of an earl, ill afforded him to marry without some attention to money; he spoke of fifty thousand pounds. Perhaps it is he who should court Mrs. Bennet; and if I were to inherit, mayhap he should court me instead—I found him an exceedingly amiable fellow.”

“NO!” both Mr. George Darcy and Fitzwilliam growled. What had I done? Mama was blushing; and Fitzwilliam grasped my hand so strongly I thought my fingers would be crushed by his grip.

“I do not wish for another cousin!” He held my hand even tighter.

“Nor I a niece,” muttered Mr. Darcy, taking Mrs. Bennet’s hand in his. “Elizabeth, your razor-sharp wit cuts too thin, too thin indeed.”

Abruptly he stood. “Catherine, we should retire early. Your brother Henry and Susan arrive tomorrow. It is too long since all the Fitzwilliam family were together.” He turned to Mrs. Bennet. “There will be time enough in the morning, Fanny, to have their rooms prepared.” He offered her his arm. “Shall I assist you upstairs?”

I saw realisation cross Miss Bingley’s face—that she would never be mistress of Pemberley: Mama’s fortune was twice hers; she was attractive in that mature way only older women are; she was an accomplished hostess; there already was an heir. And Fitzwilliam? Perhaps she could work on him, even though rebuffed at Lady Matlock’s ball. But to what purpose—to wait twenty years for him to inherit Pemberley? She gave me a pitying look, then swept from the room. After Lady Catherine, Anne, and Mr. Collins had left, Georgiana came to sit with us.

“Aunt Susan, Uncle Henry? I do hope Harry comes!”

I gave her a questioning look. “Oh, forgive me, Lizzy. Lady and Lord Matlock, and their son, Viscount Milton—both Fitzwilliam and I call him Harry.” She paused, her brow furrowed. “I wonder why they are visiting—do you know why, Fitzwilliam?”

“I am sure Father will tell us tomorrow, sweetling. Now, kiss Elizabeth goodnight, and retire. Matlock is an early riser; his estate is just twelve miles from Pemberley—he is sure to arrive early enough to take breakfast with us.”

* * *