“I am sorry my mother was ill,” Anne offered, her voice small but steady. “Papa says she was very brave.”
Lady Catherine’s head turned sharply towards Darcy.
“Brave,” she repeated. “Yes. I suppose she was brave. She bore her circumstances with more dignity than I credited her for. She married where she was told, she carried her child, and died without complaint.” Her voice hardened. “Bravery and obedience look remarkably similar, Fitzwilliam, when a woman has no other choice.”
Darcy said nothing. There was nothing to say. His aunt was not wrong.
Lady Catherine turned back to Anne and studied the child silently again.
“You have a ring,” Anne said, pointing to Lady Catherine’s hand. “It has a picture on it.”
Lady Catherine glanced down at her own finger, as though she had forgotten what she wore. The ring was heavy, gold, set with a garnet carved with the de Bourgh arms. She had worn it since her marriage, since she had become the mistress of Rosings Park and the keeper of a legacy that now rested on the shoulders of a child who did not share her features.
“It is a crest,” Lady Catherine explained. “The de Bourgh crest. This ring belonged to my husband’s mother, and her mother-in-law before her.”
“It is very beautiful.” Anne leaned closer, examining the carved stone with genuine interest. “The lion is roaring. Is he angry?”
“He is proud. Lions are always proud. It is their nature.”
“Muffin is proud too. He is my horse. He is made of wood, but he has a very proud expression. Papa carved him.”
Lady Catherine’s gaze lifted to Darcy again. This time there was no accusation in it, only a weariness that sat strangely on her imperious features.
“Your father,” she said slowly, “carved you a horse.”
“When I was a baby, before I could remember. But Papa tells me the story. He says he did not know what else to do with his hands while he waited, so he carved. Muffin was the result.” Anne’s face brightened. “Would you like to meet him? Muffin, I mean. He is very well-mannered. He does not bite.”
Lady Catherine stared at the child.
Then, so quietly that Darcy almost missed it, she said: “Yes. I should like to meet him.”
Anne beamed. She slid off the window seat, took her grandmother’s hand and tugged her to the corner where Muffin stood guard over a fortress of blocks.
Darcy remained by the door. He watched his aunt lower herself onto the floor, her black silk pooling around her, her dignity set aside with visible effort. He watched Anne introduce Muffin with the solemnity of a formal presentation, explaining his history, his temperament, his preference for apples over carrots despite being made of oak.
He watched Lady Catherine listening with rapt attention. Her hand rested on the wooden horse’s mane, and her face held an expression Darcy had never seen before. One of grief and loss. And beneath it, fragile and uncertain, the first tentative stirrings of affection for a child who was not what she had expected, but who was all she had left.
Darcy turned away. Some moments were not meant to be witnessed, some griefs too private for even a nephew’s eyes. He stepped into the corridor and closed the door softly behind him, leaving his aunt and his daughter alone with a wooden horse and the ghosts of everyone they had lost.
Dinner was a performance, and Darcy performed it badly.
The table was set for four: himself, Lady Catherine, Georgiana, and Richard, who had arrived in the late afternoon with the evident purpose of providing reinforcement. The empty chair at Darcy’s left satconspicuously vacant, and he found his eyes returning to it with a frequency that bordered on compulsive.
Elizabeth had excused herself with a note, delivered via Alice, explaining that she thought it best to dine in her room given Lady Catherine’s presence. She did not wish to raise questions or cause difficulty. She was thinking of the household, of propriety, of all the sensible considerations that a governess ought to think of.
He had allowed it, because she was right. And still the empty chair accused him with every course that was served and cleared.
“The soup is adequate,” Lady Catherine pronounced, setting down her spoon. “Though the seasoning is timid. Your cook requires firmer direction, Fitzwilliam.”
“I shall convey your assessment, Aunt.”
“A household reflects its master. Timidity in the kitchen suggests timidity elsewhere.”
Georgiana caught Darcy’s eye across the table, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes bright with suppressed amusement. Richard, beside her, was studying his wine glass, determined not to laugh.
The meal continued. Lady Catherine held forth on the wedding preparations. The flowers were acceptable, the music selections adequate, the guest list longer than strictly necessary but not offensively so. She had opinions on Georgiana’s gown, on Lord Lofton’s family, on the sermon the rector ought to deliver.
Darcy listened and responded where a response was required. He performed the role of dutiful nephew, butbeneath the performance his mind was going through the same fixed point: Elizabeth in her room, eating alone.