Page 87 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“Elizabeth loves a man who no longer exists.” Darcy’s words tasted bitter. “She fell in love with the master of Pemberley, the heir to⁠—”

“She loves the man who tumbled face-first into a muddy pond,” Bingley countered, a hint of his old humor returning, “the man who climbed a tree after a cat and emerged with forty-seven thorns for his trouble, and who graciously allowed her sister to shove a yardstick down his back.”

“Who told you?”

“Elizabeth has four sisters, and you have one. I shall not inform you on the squeaker.”

“I can guess.” Darcy shrugged, although, truth be told, he did not have any idea. “What matters, Bingley, is that for the first time in my life, I do not know who I am or what I am meant to be.”

Bingley fell silent, thinking, then reached out and gripped Darcy’s shoulder—a solid, unwavering presence, just as he had in the parlor at Longbourn.

“Come,” Bingley said. “We are standing in the middle of the Strand like two men who have lost their way. Let us find somewhere warm and quiet, and you can tell me again all the reasons I should be furious with you for trying to give me Pemberley, and I can tell you again all the reasons I do not want it.”

“I am not trying to give you Pemberley.”

“Excellent. Remember that.” Bingley’s shoulder bumped against his. An accident, perhaps, or meant to look like one, as he steered Darcy toward a coffee house, grinning and letting Darcy know he was not alone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

EXIT THE DRAGON

Elizabeth seized Charlotte’s arm and drew her from the lane as a sleek, black barouche raced around the final curve with four powerful greys straining at their traces and the coachman’s whip urging them faster, the two footmen barely hanging on as they perched on the footboards.

“Some people,” Elizabeth muttered, watching the mud spray across the frozen ruts, “ought to be restricted to private roads or very large ballrooms where the collateral damage is limited to broken china.”

“Good heavens,” Charlotte blew out a breath, her hand flying to her bonnet. “Is that the de Bourgh crest?”

“If it is,” Elizabeth said, her eyes narrowing as the carriage hurtled toward Longbourn, “it can only mean that Rosings Park has run out of targets for her ladyship’s unsolicited condescension, and she has migrated north to inspect our chimneys.”

“I have never met her ladyship,” Charlotte’s expression tightened. “As to why she is throwing her weight of consequence here in Hertfordshire, I have no idea.”

“Oh, that is easily solved,” Elizabeth retorted with an arch lift of her brow. “She is either hunting stray nephews to interrogate, or she requires someone immediately to squash. My mother’s drawing room is currently the most heavily stocked aviary of unsuspecting victims in three counties; she will feel right at home.”

“Heaven help us,” Charlotte murmured, her steps faltering as she considered the domestic battlefield ahead. “Mamma and Maria are already inside calling on your mother. I can only imagine how ill-prepared Mamma is to encounter a magnate of Lady Catherine’s magnitude without at least twenty minutes’ warning to adjust her cap and her opinions.”

“Do not worry,” Elizabeth replied dryly. “Lady Catherine will undoubtedly inform your mother within two sentences precisely how her caps are deficient and her opinions superfluous.” She frowned slightly, a sudden thought checking her stride. “Though if her ladyship is scouring the county, could she have come to fetch stray nieces, too? Georgiana is currently shut in the parlor with Lydia and Kitty. I trust she will be warned by my mother’s loud proclamations for the good tea—the very best tea of the Empire.”

Elizabeth glanced at the lane and saw movement, Charlotte’s father standing by the hedge, ostensibly examining a rosebush with tremendous interest. Mrs. Long’s chaise had turned in the lane, its occupant craning her neck toward the house. The Phillips’s gig was visible further back, and Elizabeth suspected that by sunset, every household in the county would know that Lady Catherine de Bourgh had descended upon Longbourn quite unexpectedly.

The two friends continued their walk at a pace that was neither hurried nor leisurely. Elizabeth would not run from Lady Catherine, but neither would she rush to meet her. Let the woman wait in the drawing room and wonder why her arrival had not produced the immediate genuflection she expected.

By the time Elizabeth and Charlotte reached the house, half of Meryton hovered in the vicinity of Longbourn’s gates. Sir William Lucas had hurried his steps and was already on the drive, smoothing his waistcoat and clearing his throat. Mrs. Long was stepping from her chaise, and Aunt and Uncle Philips were halting their horse.

“They must have followed the grand equipage like the Pied Piper leading a trail of gossip-starved rats,” Elizabeth observed, eyeing the growing assembly with a dry smile. “One more spectator and we shall need to charge for admission.”

She and Charlotte entered the drawing room through the side door while Lady Catherine’s footmen were still struggling with the folding steps that came down from the carriage.

Lady Lucas was already inside, taking tea and gossip, and Mrs. Bennet stood, mid-flutter, holding a tea towel and a spray of winter jasmine, unable to decide where to place either to advantage. Jane, of course, sat at her window seat, dreamily embroidering, entirely unconcerned while Kitty and Lydia had retreated to the doorway, where they hovered like spectators at a public hanging. Mary, meanwhile, marched self-importantly into the drawing room with a stack of sheet music, preparing to provide accompanying music for whatever drama was about to unfold.

“Good heavens,” said Lady Lucas. “Whose carriage is that?”

“It is Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said, tossing her pelisse over a chair. “She drives at a speed that nearly reduced poor Charlotte to an ornament upon the carriage wheels before she even reached the front step.”

The front door opened, and Hill’s deferential voice was overshadowed by an imperious one, accustomed to universal obedience. Elizabeth had never met the lady herself, but she had heard enough from the voluble Mr. Collins when he spent all of two days courting her with disastrous results; may his departed soul find peace.

She was, to the letter, as Mr. Collins had described: tall, angular, sharp of feature, and arrayed in a traveling pelisse of dark green whose price would have funded the Longbourn chimneypiece and perhaps a new grate besides. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, swept the room with undisguised contempt, surveying the furnishings, the company, and the general insufficiency of all that dared not aspire to Rosings Park.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Lady Catherine’s voice was a cannon shot with the emphasis on Elizabeth’s Christian name. “I am here on a matter of urgent importance.”