Page 67 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
Instead, she chided herself for not having listened to Jane when she advised her to be honest.
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Lady Catherine’s manor house appeared against the darkening sky, its sharp silhouette stark and imposing. The formal gardens stretched in precise lines and angles, reflecting their mistress more clearly than any portrait.
“Rosings,” Darcy murmured unnecessarily. “My aunt will be watching from the upstairs parlour. She stands guard whenever visitors are expected.”
Elizabeth smoothed her wrinkled travelling dress. “I’m afraid I’ll make a poor impression.”
“Lady Catherine would find fault regardless. It’s her favourite pastime.”
As predicted, Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood waiting in the entrance hall, ramrod straight, disapproval etched into every line of her face. Beside her stood a gentleman of similar age—Lord Matlock, Darcy’s uncle. Lady Matlock had not accompanied him on the journey.
“Nephew,” Lady Catherine pronounced, her gaze sliding past Elizabeth as if she were invisible. “You’re late. Dinner approaches.”
“I beg your pardon; the roads were busier than anticipated. Aunt Catherine,” Darcy bowed. “May I present my wife, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy? Elizabeth, my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and my uncle, Cecil Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Matlock.”
Elizabeth curtsied, her chin lifted. “Lady Catherine, Lord Matlock. I’m honoured.”
Lady Catherine’s lips pinched tight. “Indeed. Mrs Jenkins will show you to your chambers. Dinner is at seven precisely. We do not tolerate tardiness at Rosings.”
With that, she swept from the hall, Lord Matlock following with barely a nod towards Elizabeth. She stood, utterly perplexed. She had not expected to be welcomed with fanfarebut a brief conversation? Some civil whiskers? Nothing at all? A cold shiver ran down her back.
“I did warn you,” Darcy murmured as they climbed the stairs. “Though I’d hoped my uncle might show more civility.”
“I’m not offended,” Elizabeth lied. “One can’t expect immediate acceptance when one has married against family wishes.”
Something flashed across Darcy’s face—guilt? —before vanishing. “Their behaviour falls short of common courtesy. I’ll speak with my uncle.”
“Please don’t. It would only create more discord.”
Before he could answer, a joyful voice called his name. A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs; her face bright with happiness as she rushed down to meet them.
“Fitzwilliam! Mrs Darcy!” She embraced her brother, then turned to Elizabeth with genuine warmth. “Mrs Darcy, I’ve so looked forward to meeting you!”
Elizabeth felt the knot in her chest loosen at Georgiana’s welcome. “Miss Darcy, the pleasure is mine. Your brother speaks of you with such affection that I feel we’re already acquainted.”
“Please, call me Georgiana. We’re sisters now.”
“Then you must call me Elizabeth.”
Darcy watched this exchange with the first genuine smile Elizabeth had seen all day. “Is Richard here too?”
“He arrived yesterday,” Georgiana nodded. “He’s in the library.”
As if summoned by his name, Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared at the top of the staircase, descending with easy grace. Elizabeth’s shoulders relaxed at once. Richard’s presence put her at ease, for it was good to have an ally of sorts. And with Georgiana, perhaps she might find another.
“Darcy! Elizabeth! Thank heavens you’re here—I was about to drown in Lady Catherine’s opinions on chimney sweeps.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she curtsied. “We meet again.”
“I thought we settled on Richard. There is no need for formality on Georgie’s account.”
“Richard, then,” she replied as Georgiana looked on with a bright smile.
Just then, the housekeeper appeared. “Shall I show you to your rooms?” she offered, but Georgiana stepped forward.
“Let me take Elizabeth,” she said. “That way, I can get to know my new sister better.”
