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Lizzy stood motionless, her thoughts frantic. Mr Bingley appeared equally astonished, the rest of her family frozen in place whilst all others looked on in avid curiosity. What could she do? Nothing better came to her mind than to begin a scream that might drown his ugly words, and she opened her mouth to try it.
“Enough!” roared a voice from the dining parlour door, a voice absent these two long months, a voice she had longed for every day since she’d heard it last. But something was different in it now, and it was not simply his anger.
But there was plenty of that—anger, and command, too, his coat of black superfine emphasising the breadth of his shoulders, stone-coloured kerseymere breeches and silk stockings of the same colour showing off long, muscular limbs. He strode into the dining parlour as if he owned it, coming face-to-face with her father from across the table.
“Sit!” he ordered as if Thomas Bennet was a mongrel cur.
Mr Bennet blinked rapidly, as if suddenly waking to find himself in an ill dream. But it was Mr Bingley who arose at that moment.
“Darcy, my friend!” He beamed, and Lizzy was fairly certain that only she—and probably Jane—could tell that it was not his normal bonhomie. “You have arrived! And Uncle Gardiner with you!”
For the first time, Lizzy saw that her aunt and uncle were several steps behind Darcy. She hurried around the table to greet them, then a flurry of introductions followed. There were faces who looked curiously at Mr Bennet, waiting for him to greet his brother-in-law or respond to Mr Darcy. He only slunk down into his chair.
Mr Bingley laughed. “I say, is it time to water down the wine for this side of the table? ’Tis early for tipsy displays!”
Sir William loudly protested this course of action, and normal chatter quickly resumed. Lizzy was not mistaken, she was sure, at the continued curiosity on a few faces, but most only seemed a bit puzzled and not much concerned.
“Greetings, Mr Bingley, Mrs Bingley,” Uncle Gardiner said in a carrying voice that drew the attention of everyone except Mr Bennet—who only stared intently at his plate. “I see many faces I recognise and some which are new to me. My apologies for our tardiness.”
“Uncle Gardiner, Aunt Gardiner, we are only happy you have arrived at last,” Bingley assured.
He bowed. “Please, do not allow me to interrupt your meal. It is only that I have brought a birthday gift for Elizabeth, and I hope you will indulge me in its presentation.” With the exception of Mr Bennet, not a single eye looked away.
Lizzy, surprised, turned to her aunt, who only smiled and took her hand, squeezing it encouragingly.
Her uncle gave a nod to someone behind him, and a liveried footman entered carrying a rectangular package, not too large but rather unwieldy, swathed in coverings. Carefully, it was unwrapped whilst Lizzy stood behind it—she could see it was a framed picture, but had no idea of what. Murmurs circled the room; Jane covered her mouth, and Mrs Bennet frowned. Her uncle turned to her, smiling kindly, and her aunt relinquished Lizzy’s hand to his. He led her around to view it for herself.
And that was who it was—herself, right down to the bright-green eyes—except that she was dressed in the style of one-hundred fifty years past. Lizzy looked at him with puzzled incomprehension.
“Here we have a portrait of Lady Sarah Ashley, a woman of the bedchamber to Catherine of Braganza, Queen of England and wife of King Charles II,” her uncle explained. “She was painted by Sir Peter Lely—a well-known portraitist and court favourite at the time—just before her marriage to the Earl of Montclair. She bore the earl three children, one of whom, Genevieve, subsequently married a gentleman, Percival Thomas Bennet, who sired six children himself, the eldest of whom was Percival Earnest Bennet, born in 1689. Frances, is Percy’s portrait yet hanging in Longbourn’s back parlour? What a sour face he had!”
Amongst the general laughter, Lizzy noticed her mother smiling faintly. Mr Bennet now had eyes only for the picture before them.
“Percy’s eldest son was Thomas William Bennet, father to Franklin Percival Bennet. And of course, Franklin Percival is father to Frances’s own Thomas Franklin Bennet of Longbourn estate.”
Uncle Gardiner seemed to study the framed face for a few moments before he continued. “This portrait, until recently, hung in St James. It was rescued from the fire of ’09, after which it was moved to Carleton House. Elizabeth, meet Lady Sarah, the grandmother of your father’s great-great-grandfather. She is yours now, as seems only fitting—you were made in her image.”
There was a pause, a moment of silence. Then Lydia, of all people, began clapping noisily. “What fun!” she exclaimed, laughing, with Kitty’s immediate support. The rest of the room followed, and finally all eyes turned appreciatively to Thomas Bennet as he stood. He looked at the portrait, then at Lizzy. Without a word, he turned away and stalked out.
It might have hurt, once. Instead, Lizzy felt a nearly irrepressible urge to laugh.
“I see my brother is overcome with emotion,” Uncle Gardiner said mildly, unperturbed. “We shall give him time to recover. Now, Mr Bingley, do we not have a ball to attend?”
* * *
Darcy knew he ought to follow Gardiner and his wife, who were being led out by Sir William and Lady Lucas. Certainly, it had been plain that Caroline wished him to—he’d been required to blatantly ignore her hints that her first set was not yet spoken for. She finally gave up, following the rest of the guests exiting en masse for the ballroom.
He, however, could not help but stay to watch Elizabeth a moment longer, the sight of her a feast for starving eyes. She had been lovely in her ugly dresses and linen caps, but now, wearing some delicate blue gown that showed her figure to great advantage, her glorious hair revealed, she appeared nearly overwhelmingly beautiful. She was surrounded by her sisters, all of whom openly marvelled at her resemblance to the portrait. But as the last of the other guests abandoned the dining room, she slipped away from them to approach her mother, who had remained seated, clearly dazed.
“Mama,” she said with a light hand upon her shoulder. “Are you well?”
Mrs Bennet’s voice was as quiet as he had ever heard it. “All this time…all this time…” she muttered. “It was so very unjust.” She fumbled for a handkerchief, found one, and dabbed at her eyes. She finally looked up at Elizabeth. “So many times, I searched your face for something, anything of your father in you. I could not see either of us, as if you were a changeling come to curse me. I-I blamed you for what wasn’t there. I blamed you.”
“I know, Mama. I searched too.”
“I’m not clever like you. Always two steps behind. And I blamed you for it. I used to tell Edward that I only needed to be as clever as it took to fetch a fine husband.” She shook her head, as if in disbelief at her own words. “I blamed you,” she repeated.
“I know, Mama,” Elizabeth said again. “But if I ever blamed you, I stopped some time ago. As you said, it was all unjust. Let us put the past behind us.”
