Chapter Text
Pemberley, 7th April 1817
It was a mild morning at Pemberley, the kind that promised a full, golden spring. The drawing room was quiet save for the flick of paper and the soft, rapid padding of small feet fading down the corridor, followed by an echoing peal of laughter, distant and then near again.
Elizabeth Darcy barely looked up as she reached for her tea, her fingers brushing the porcelain with practiced ease, though her eyes were focused elsewhere, precisely on the letter she’d just broken open.
Across the room, Fitzwilliam Darcy lowered The Times with narrowed brows, his tall frame at ease but never quite lax.
“Bad news, my love?” he asked, tone light, but his glance sharpened nonetheless as he noted her pursed lips.
Elizabeth, seated near the wide window that opened to the budding garden, offered no immediate answer. Instead, she reread the missive slowly, and a twitch of amusement stirred the corners of her mouth. Her eyes, dark and luminous as ever, flicked up to him.
“No. Not bad. I'd say... Surprising.”
Darcy grunted.
“That often does mean bad.”
She passed the letter over, tilting her head in mock gravity.
“It seems we are invited to Rosings.”
A pause. Then:
“…What?”
“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she said with a laugh that sparkled in the room like the morning sun, “do not sound as though you have been summoned to the gallows.”
“It is not so unlike it,” he muttered, unfolding the letter. “And a fortnight, no less.”
The last time Lady Catherine de Bourgh had darkened Pemberley’s threshold was nearly two years ago. That particular spring had bloomed slowly, as though nature itself had been wary of the tension brewing within the estate. At the time, young William - barely ten months old - had just begun to walk, tottering through the halls on stout little legs, black, fierce curls bouncing, eyes round with curiosity. Elizabeth, glowing with new motherhood, had worn her grace like armor, every smile carefully placed, every word chosen with care.
Lady Catherine, in turn, had worn her feathers like a battle standard, both literal and figurative. She had scrutinized Pemberley’s every corner and criticized every possible deviation from what she considered proper. She had even dared to remark on the “unbecoming” sweetness of Mr. Darcy’s attentions toward his son: “it is quite improper for a gentleman of your station to behave as a nursemaid,” she had announced, affronted at the sight of him crouching to kiss William’s brow.
And yet - despite her rigid disapproval - she had lingered too long by the nursery door. She had concealed a start when Will, waving a pudgy hand, had chirped a “Ladii Cathin!” with cheerful reverence. It had been, Elizabeth recalled, the only moment in which her formidable ladyship’s face had shown any sign of softening. Brief, almost imperceptible. But Elizabeth had seen it.
Now, Fitzwilliam scowled at the letter as though it might catch fire from his gaze.
“She signs it ‘Your aunt in fond anticipation’. Either she is mellowing, or the ink is forged.”
“She is your aunt, dearest,” Elizabeth murmured, rising to pluck the letter from his hands and press a kiss to his temple. “And I believe even Lady Catherine can find charm in your offspring. Will is not so easily withstood.”
“Will is three. That is an age of unpredictable powers.”
“Indeed. He has already managed to melt you.” She gave him a teasing glance.
“Because, unlike Her Ladyship, I am not made of iron.”
“No indeed, you are not” She laughed as she stepped away.
Outside, beyond the window, the sound of little boots on gravel could be heard, followed by the crisp voice of Mrs Reynolds attempting to redirect the small lordling from what must be his latest misadventure.
Elizabeth smiled to herself.
This visit would be… interesting.