Chapter Three
'Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even by mentioned by any of us.'
— Lady Catherine de Bourgh to Elizabeth Bennet, 1812
'The storm is dying down,' said Elizabeth. 'We could go for a walk.'
Darcy glanced out the window, and only said 'I hope you have strong boots' before Elizabeth vanished. She had spent the last several days receiving a long line of callers, most courteous and none interesting, and after the unrelentingly well-bred questions, the constant curious glances, the many-layered conversations, she longed to escape the confines of the house. Prepared with boots, scarves, and a thick, heavy cloak, Elizabeth cheerfully met her husband at the foot of the stairs and walked outside with him.
The wind whipped at their hair and clothes, sending Elizabeth into fits of laughter. 'I want to see the wood,' she cried, turning away from the manor.
'No, the other way,' said Darcy, and taking her hand, led her down the correct path. For awhile, they were silent, enjoying the simple, quiet sounds of the breeze attacking the branches overheard, the crunch of their boots against the earth, their own ragged breaths. Elizabeth, growing up amid constant chaos and conflict, with a natural preference for society and wit, had rarely felt so at peace.
'I like it better,' she said aloud.
'I beg your pardon?'
Elizabeth smiled up at him. Against the cold delicate whiteness of the wood, he no longer appeared the Mr Darcy whose colourless, forbidding beauty would have suited a statue better than a human being. At this moment, he seemed not any of the different things he was to different people, but only a living breathing man.
'Elizabeth?' Darcy blinked snow out of his lashes. 'Is something wrong?'
'No!' She grinned, then remembered her response to his reprobate cousin. 'I was just thinking that . . . that I like Derbyshire better than Hertfordshire.'
'I am delighted,' said he, in his usual formal, self-conscious way, which had somehow, somewhere — somewhen, she thought whimsically — become endearing.
'Or perhaps it is only Pemberley and Longbourn.' She shrugged. 'Gracechurch Street was always much more home.'
Darcy gave her a rather odd look. She supposed the idea must seem strange to him — that a small house with no history could be more to her than a family estate — and hurriedly said, 'It is not large, and I could never walk very far without a servant, but it was always a great relief, my uncle and aunt are such sensible people . . .'
'I understand.' His brows drew together. 'I was only startled; at your age, I would not have called Pemberley home, either.'
'At my age?' She laughed up at him. 'You need not make yourself sound an antediluvian, Fitzwilliam, you are only a little older than I am.'
'Seven years,' he said. 'A great deal can happen in seven years.'
'A great deal,' replied Elizabeth, smiling, 'can happen in seven days. So what did you call home, seven years ago? Cambridge?'
'Of course not,' he said indignantly. 'I was at Oxford.'
She stared at him. His expression was perfectly grave, the set of his mouth bordering on the severe. 'I did not mean — ' she began, with a touch of impatience, then stopped, meeting his amused eyes. 'Fitzwilliam Darcy! Are you teasing me?'
'Apparently so; you are a bad influence on me. I usually only torment people I dislike.'
Her mind flashed back to the previous year — Darcy's dark head flinging back — a pointed glance at Elizabeth's book — his voice at once sharp and self-satisfied as he said, To all of this, she must yet add something still more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading —
She declared, 'I shall flatter myself that I am not one of them.'
Darcy only glanced at her before continuing on his way, sedate as ever. 'The answer to your question, incidentally, is Houghton.'
'Houghton?' She was puzzled for a moment, then recalled their earlier topic of conversation. 'Oh, I see. Lord Ancaster's estate.'
'Yes.' Darcy added with emphasis, 'He is my mother's brother.'
'Like my uncle Gardiner,' she said, instantly understanding. 'That is a coincidence . . . were you often at Houghton?'
'Yes.' At Elizabeth's quizzical look, he explained, 'I was sent to live with my grandparents when I was eight years old.'
'Oh! Were they fond of you?'
'My grandmother, I hope, remains so.—She is quite old, but very much in her right mind. Grandfather, also, was kind.'
'I see.' And your uncle, was he kind? she wanted to ask, but did not need to. If Houghton remained 'home' by his twenty-first year, long after the late Lord Ancaster's death, Darcy had clearly retained close ties to the present earl.
After a moment of silence, Elizabeth set her jaw and said, 'You told me that your uncle wrote you a letter. What did he say?'
Darcy only shook his head, the half-strange, half-familiar look of sharp displeasure flashing over his face.
'It could not compare with Lady Catherine's, could it?' She tightened her fingers around his.
'Lady Catherine's letter,' said he, 'was . . . incomparable.'
Elizabeth burst out laughing. 'Come, Fitzwilliam, it cannot be too horrible. What did it say?'
To her surprise, he reached inside his coat and withdrew a folded letter. 'You can read it for yourself, if you would like.'
'Yes, thank you.'
Written in a cramped hand on fine, pressed paper, the letter began unceremoniously with her husband's Christian name. Elizabeth bit her lip. Even now, it was difficult to think that there was more to him than what she saw; that the name she used conscientously, but was only now growing accustomed to, could be so easy and familiar to a perfect stranger. It was unjust, she knew, but still, she resented the very idea that others had a knowledge of him which, in some ways, ran far deeper than her own. She shook her head at her own folly and fixed her eyes on the letter.
Fitzwilliam,
I must admit that my first impulse was to insist that you had taken leave of your senses to offer for this girl, but Catherine's and Richard's amusingly disparate accounts of your wife have given me reason to doubt my initial judgment. I certainly do not see the necessity for another dramatic estrangement; Catherine may have enough nephews that she can cast them off with impunity, but I do not enjoy that luxury. I will assume that Mrs Darcy's beauties of mind and character outweigh the other disadvantages attending her and that you know perfectly well what you are doing. I hope it is so, for your sake. Naturally, I will not tolerate any disrespect towards your wife, whatever her antecedents.
I remain your affectionate uncle,
Ancaster
She glanced up at Darcy, who seemed scarcely able to meet her eyes.
'From this letter,' said Elizabeth, 'I should think that he is very fond of you.'
Darcy actually started. 'I beg your pardon?'
'My father said almost exactly the same thing — that I must be mad, to accept you. I think he even used the same phrase.' She smiled, quickening her steps to keep up with him. 'I could not blame him, but I was upset that he should think such things of you, and still more, that I, his favourite, was causing him so much misery. If you are . . . distressed, over this, I shall not blame you.'
'I am not distressed, not over. . .' He waved his hand inarticulately.
'Fitzwilliam,' said Elizabeth, 'I was distressed over what my mother thought. There is no reason you should not care about your family's disapproval. This is not Lady Catherine, so full of pride and conceit that there is scarcely room for anything else. Your uncle does not know me, he has every reason to suppose me the worst sort of fortune-hunter, yet he is at great pains to remain on good terms with you.' Looking up at his grim face, she gave him a warm, affectionate smile, pushing some wayward hair out of his eyes. 'He as much as says that he will believe whatever you tell him to believe, that he will honour your choice for no other reason than that I am your choice. He seems the sort of dignified, reserved kind of man who never says quite what he means and yet expects to be understood all the same.' She tapped her cheek thoughtfully. 'Now, who does that sound like?'
'Very subtle, Elizabeth.' He held out his hand, and she returned the letter. They did not speak for a short distance; then he sighed and said, 'I have replied to him. Civilly.'
'You are always — almost always — civil, Fitzwilliam.' She threw him a pointed glance.
'It is done, and done for the best, Elizabeth.'
'Very well.' She cleared her throat, eager to change the subject. 'Is this the hanging-wood? It looks so different from the sum — ' A sudden sharp breeze sent piles of snow rushing down upon their heads. Darcy made a muffled sound of irritation; Elizabeth giggled, then pushed the hood of her cloak back. 'Well! That seems an affirmative. Are you certain there are no mischievous shades about?'
'Every house has its legends, of course,' he replied austerely.
Elizabeth stopped in her tracks. 'Legends? Legends of what?' She seated herself on a wide log, staring up at him with wide, excited eyes. 'I want to hear all about it.'
'They are only old stories,' he said, leaning against a nearby tree and flicking snow off of his shoulders. 'Nothing probable or real . . .'
'Fitzwilliam.' She crossed her arms and scowled. Darcy only smiled.
'My father might, perhaps, have mentioned . . . something about an uncle who forever haunted the place of his murder.'
'Murder!' Elizabeth gasped, thoroughly enjoying herself. 'What happened?'
Darcy shrugged. 'One of my predecessors was a vicious, wicked man, by all accounts without morals or conscience. If any depravity presented itself, he was the first to throw himself into it. However, his twin brother, younger by some few minutes, was just the opposite — a gentleman of integrity, honour, virtue — '
'A veritable saint,' Elizabeth surmised.
'Precisely. Edmond, this younger brother, intended to become a monk; he had, I believe, already joined the priesthood. Presumably he would have been an excellent one.' Quite cheerfully, he went on, 'However, a jealous husband tragically mistook him for his twin, and stabbed him to death.'
'Oh!' She considered. 'Which part of the house did he die in?'
Darcy actually grinned. 'It did not happen in the house, Elizabeth.' He pointed just behind her. 'It was right there . . . according to the legend, which, as I intimated, is almost certainly untrue.'
'Of course.' Nevertheless, she cast a suspicious glance over her shoulder, and quickly stepped away from the log. Taking his arm, she asked with a bright smile, 'Are there any other tales of grisly and untimely deaths?'
'Naturally,' he said, perfectly serene. 'Robert Darcy was executed in the courtyard, that was during Cromwell's time . . . Lady Margaret Darcy hung herself in the long gallery . . . and there is always Aunt Helen, she was guillotined . . .'
Only three days later, the Fitzwilliams descended en masse, ostensibly to deliver Miss Darcy. Thanks to Georgiana, the expected awkwardness, doubt, anxiety, were all forestalled — before Elizabeth caught more than a glimpse of her husband's family, his sister rushed ahead with a glad cry.
'Fitzwilliam!'
Darcy clasped Georgiana's outstretched hands with an expression of such open, unaffected delight that Elizabeth almost started. She had rarely seen anything quite like it in him, nor had she ever considered him to be, beyond herself, enmeshed in all the usual depth and complexity of human attachment; she suffered a twinge of discomfort even as an affectionate smile crept over her face. Though Elizabeth did not notice, two gentlemen and a lady glanced her way, their expressions softening infinitesimally.
The siblings kissed one another with all due decorum, and Darcy drew Georgiana to his side, threading her arm through his as her brief irradiating fervour seemed to collapse upon itself.
'You remember Elizabeth, of course,' he said gently. Elizabeth greeted her warmly, then turned to face the multitude of relations.
No, she corrected herself, not a multitude — though the room seemed crowded, it was more than large enough for the company. Apparently immense force of personality was as much a family trait as dark hair. The Fitzwilliams might be many things, but insipid was not among them.
A gentleman of perhaps fifty or sixty years stepped forward. He was very tall, towering over everyone but Darcy, with thick black hair liberally streaked with silver, fierce grey eyes, and handsome features grown deep and carven with age. Elizabeth knew him for her husband's uncle without a word of introduction, for he looked exactly as Darcy would in twenty or thirty years.
'Uncle,' said Darcy, 'may I present to you my wife? Elizabeth, my uncle, the Earl of Ancaster.'
Lord Ancaster gave her a searching glance decidedly reminiscent of his nephew, then extended his hand and said, 'Mrs Darcy, please allow me to welcome you to our family.'
From behind him, another voice exclaimed, 'And let us hope we do not frighten you away from it!'
'Colonel Fitzwilliam?' Elizabeth's face lit up. Amidst the dark, handsome Fitzwilliams, he stood out like a weed in a bed of roses, but she had scarcely ever been so pleased to see a familiar face. The earl's eyebrows shot up.
'Darcy, Mrs Darcy, my congratulations to you both.' He smiled as warmly as ever he had done, but watched her with a trace of uncertainty in his expression. Elizabeth was very glad indeed when Darcy took three steps forward and stood firmly at her side, his hand resting lightly and protectively against her back as he threw a meaningful glance at his relations.
A deluge of introductions followed, beginning with the colonel's mother, Lady Ancaster. She had all of her younger son's looks and none of his charm, to all appearances one of that numerous class of females whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at their being any men in the world who can like them well enough to marry them. Thankfully, she said very little, and that in such a low murmur that Elizabeth caught only the word 'pug.'
'My daughter Lady Northbrook,' announced Lord Ancaster, gesturing towards a woman on his left, 'and her husband Lord Northbrook.'
The former instantly captured Elizabeth's attention, and not for the last time, due to the extraordinary resemblance she bore her father and his nephew. The cold, proud reserve of her manners, however, could not have endeared her to anybody, let alone Elizabeth, who found herself struggling against an instinctive repulsion that even she recognised as somewhat irrational.
'I hope you will be very happy,' Lady Northbrook said stiffly.
'Thank you, so do I.'
'I understand your father owns a small estate in Hertfordshire?'
'Yes,' Elizabeth replied, 'it is very small.'
'I suppose you met my cousin through Mr — Bingham?'
'Bingley,' said Elizabeth through clenched teeth. 'He is my brother-in-law.'
'Oh, how lovely.'
Lord Ancaster took it upon himself to interfere. 'You already know my eldest son Lord Milton, I understand, but this is his wife, Lady Diana Fitzwilliam, and my cousin Mr Fitzwilliam.'
Lady Diana was less handsome and more brusque than her husband, but Elizabeth could not help preferring her to the other Fitzwilliams. 'It is an honour, Mrs Darcy. I do hope we shall see a great deal of you — Darcy, you cannot hide her away, she deserves to be seen. We will not permit it. Mrs Darcy, you like society, do you not?'
'Yes, I do,' replied Elizabeth. 'I am certain my husband has no intentions of that sort, do you, dear?'
Darcy threw her a rueful look and said, 'Of course not.'
'Then I imagine that we shall know each other quite well before long.'
'Well, I am delighted to hear it,' said Lady Diana, pressing Elizabeth's hands. 'I shall look forward to seeing you often, Mrs Darcy.'
Elizabeth gave her a warm smile, trying to ignore Lady Northbrook's cold gaze. 'As will I.'
