Longbourn did not exist anymore, not for her, but the Colonel either did not know or did not care, and the kindness of it pressed against her chest.
“Darcy tells me you are governess to little Anne,” he said, as the carriage turned north. “How do you find her?”
“She is remarkable. She has the curiosity of a scholar and the negotiating skills of a diplomat. I am frequently outwitted.”
The Colonel laughed. “That sounds about right. She had me in full retreat within ten minutes of my arrival this afternoon. Asked me why soldiers carry swords instead of talking, and I had no answer that would satisfy a six-year-old philosopher.”
“You would not be the first grown man she has defeated, Colonel.”
“No, I rather suspect that honour belongs to my cousin.” His smile shifted, a degree warmer, a degree more knowing. “Darcy is devoted to that child. I have never seen a man so thoroughly conquered by someone under three feet tall.”
Elizabeth said nothing to this. She turned her face to the window and watched the streets pass, the lamplighters beginning their rounds, the city softening into dusk.
The carriage delivered them to Grosvenor Street. The Colonel handed her down and offered his arm up the steps. Barton opened the door, and the house received them in its usual quiet warmth. Elizabeth heard voices from the dining room and understood that the evening had been arranged without her.
The table was set for five.
Georgiana was at her usual place, radiant in cream silk. Beside her sat a young man Elizabeth had not met before, tall, fair, and attentive. He rose when she entered and was introduced as Lord Lofton, Georgiana’s betrothed. Hebowed over her hand with easy courtesy and a pleasant smile that reached his eyes.
Mr Darcy was at the head of the table. He rose when she entered and pulled out the chair at his left, the one she had occupied every evening for a week, and said nothing.
The Colonel took the seat opposite her and Lord Lofton immediately asked about his military duties. The conversation flowed, warm and quick, the comfortable hum of people who knew each other well and were glad to be together.
Elizabeth sat among them and felt the distance.
She was neither family nor a guest. She was the governess who happened to eat at the master’s table. Tonight, the table was full of people who belonged to each other. This was visible in every glance, every shared reference, every laugh that carried the weight of years. Georgiana touched Lord Lofton’s arm. The Colonel called Mr Darcy by his Christian name. Georgiana teased her brother about a childhood incident involving a pony and a lake. They were a constellation, bright and interconnected, and Elizabeth was the dark space between the stars.
She smiled when spoken to. She answered questions about Anne. She laughed at the Colonel’s anecdote about the mule, which he told again for Georgiana’s benefit with additional embellishments. She performed the evening competently, graciously, and with the composure she had spent years perfecting.
At nine o’clock, she set down her napkin.
“If you will excuse me, I find I am rather fatigued from the day. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Lofton. And Colonel, I am very glad to see you well.”
Georgiana’s face fell, briefly. The Colonel half-rose from his chair. Mr Darcy’s hand stilled on his glass.
Elizabeth smiled, thanked them for a lovely evening, and climbed the stairs to her room. She closed the door and leaned against it, her palms flat on the wood.
The house hummed below her. Laughter drifted up through the floor, muffled by the carpet and the distance. She pressed her back against the door and breathed. She did not cry. Crying was a luxury she had given up along with everything else, and she was not about to reclaim it now.
Seven
Lady Matlock arrived at half past two, unannounced and impeccably dressed, which was her preferred method of visiting and her family’s preferred method of being ambushed.
Darcy heard the carriage from his study and was on his feet before Barton reached the door. His aunt did not send cards ahead nor require invitations. She was the Countess of Matlock, and she entered rooms the way the tide entered harbours: on her own schedule, with absolute certainty, and with the general expectation that everything in her path would rearrange itself accordingly.
“Fitzwilliam.” She offered her cheek in the entrance hall and he leaned to kiss it. “You are thinner. Are you eating?”
“I am well, Aunt.”
“That was not my question.” She handed her gloves to Barton, who received them with the reverence due to sacred relics, and swept into the drawing room. Richard was already there, sprawled in a chair with the boneless ease of a soldier on leave. Georgiana was at the writing desk, correspondence spread before her, and she rose with a smile that suggestedshe had known her aunt was coming and had chosen not to warn anyone.
“Mother.” Richard stood and kissed his mother’s hand. “You look terrifying, as always.”
“And you are looking brown, Richard. When will this idiotic tan leave your complexion?” She settled into the best chair as though it had been reserved for her since the house was built. Her eyes moved across the room in one efficient sweep—furniture, flowers, the state of the curtains—and Darcy recognised the inventory. Lady Matlock assessed rooms the way generals assessed terrain. By the time she accepted a cup of tea, she had already formed three opinions and was keeping them in reserve.
“Now.” She set her cup on its saucer. “I understand there is a new governess. Georgiana has told me she is a genteel young lady in difficult circumstances. I should like to meet her.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, a fraction, enough that Richard would not have noticed but his aunt certainly did. “Miss Bennet is occupied with Anne’s lessons at present. I shall ask whether—”