Page 81 of Stuck

We set off across the patchy verge that was more dirt than grass, each of us quiet. I knew anxiety about introducing me to Pamela Bennet was what distracted her. We’d only been officially together for a week, and perhaps that was too soon to be meeting the parents, but this lunch was a prior engagement that I’d somewhat selfishly invited myself along to rather than miss a single moment of Elizabeth’s company. She’d baulked at the idea initially but caved when I reminded her that I was already intimately acquainted with her father. If I got my way, Pam would become a permanent fixture in my life, so as far as I was concerned, the sooner we got to know each other the better.

My mind was more agreeably engaged, my own silence stemming from thoughts of showing Elizabeth Pemberley. She was visiting next weekend, and I couldn’t remember ever being more eager to show my home to anyone. I’d given a lot of thought to what she’d told me about her upbringing, and her remarks just now drummed it home that, since the Bennets lost their family home, Elizabeth had never truly had anything of permanence in her life. From that moment to the present, subletting her sister’s spare room and working a fixed-term contract, every place she’d found for herself in the world had been temporary.

I could make Pemberley her home. In my mind, it was already hers, but I kept the thought to myself. I might have convinced her to let me meet her mother, but unless I wanted to scare her off, it was definitely too soon to begin talking about future living arrangements.

Elizabeth grew stiffer and more jittery the closer we got to her mother’s front door, beginning to make excuses as we hit the exterior concrete stairs.

“She’s a bit of a hoarder, so don’t be surprised if the flat’s a mess. And she might ask you inappropriate questions. That’s not because of her nerves—she’s always been like that. You don’t have to answer. And I apologise in advance if she asks how much you earn. That is the trauma talking—she’s paranoid about any of us ending up in her shoes. She doesn’t understand that we’re all self-sufficient. Pretend like you didn’t hear the question.”

I wrapped a hand around her wrist and held on until she got the message and stopped climbing. I came to stand two steps down from her, putting us at eye level. “Have you given her a crib sheet of all the social faux pas I’m likely to make over the next few hours?”

Her guilty expression drew a loud burst of laughter from me—I hadn’t expected the answer to be yes. “Well then, you can stop worrying, we’re all fully prepped. What could possibly go wrong?” I kissed her soundly, no tongues but plenty of fire, then turned her towards the landing and tapped her luscious behind to spur her back into motion.

She didn’t knock on the door, instead letting herself in with her own key and calling out to let Pam know we’d arrived. She hadn’t been exaggerating about the mess—the hallway was congested with stack upon stack of boxes and bags. We were barely two steps over the threshold when she tripped over one and almost knocked the nearest tower over. I’m not sure she even noticed that I prevented her fall with a hastily thrust out arm; she was too focused on, too obviously dismayed by, the clutter.

The hallway opened out onto a light-filled living area that was only marginally less chaotic. Pamela Bennet was sitting at a large, bright blue laminated dining table in front of the window, painting her nails. She said hello then blew on the splayed fingers of one hand.

“I can’t give you a hug until these are dry. Sorry, I thought I’d pass the time waiting for you to arrive. Trust you to turn up right in the middle, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth approached Pam, laying the flowers she’d bought for her on the table before bending to kiss her on the cheek. “Sorry we’re late.”

We weren’t late.

More quietly, she added, “You’ve bought more stuff since I was here last.”

Pam tutted. “Don’t start on at me the moment you walk in the door. Are you going to introduce me to your young man?”

Elizabeth’s answering smile detonated something inside me. She looked happy. Proud. “Mum, this is Darcy. Darcy, this is my mum, Pam.”

I was glad for the excuse not to hug her—I was not a naturally tactile person unless the person I was touching was Elizabeth. Instead I inclined my head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pam.”

Her gaze wandered over me with a poignant combination of calculation and bravado. As though she were simultaneously trying to look out for her daughter and protect herself. “Isn’t Darcy a girl’s name?”

Elizabeth’s eyes swept closed, and her chin dropped to her chest. I could practically hear her chagrin.

“It can be, when it’s used as a first name. Darcy is my surname,” I replied calmly.

“Why do you go by your surname?”

“Mum,” Elizabeth hissed.

I was rather enjoying Pam’s frankness, truth be told. At least it wasn’t insipid small talk about trivialities neither of us truly cared about. And it was infinitely preferable to the feigned interest strangers often employed to ingratiate themselves into my notice. She was asking because she loved her daughter. I would answer, because so did I.

“Habit. Tradition,” I explained. “The first-born men in my family have always gone by it. Plus surnames were the norm at boarding school.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Fitzwilliam.”

Her features contracted in a way that made it clear she didn’t think this was an acceptable answer. In her defence, it wasn’t a common name. She opened her mouth to reply, but Elizabeth obviously anticipated that whatever she was about to say would be offensive, because she grabbed the bottle of wine I’d brought for Pam out of my hand and blurted, “We brought wine! Would you like a glass, Mum? Darcy, will you help me find the bottle opener?”

“It’s in the drawer where it always is,” Pam said, ruining her daughter’s rescue attempt. “You can see to that while Fitzwilliam and I have a chat. And put these flowers in water while you’re at it.”

Elizabeth mouthed “sorry” before disappearing into the kitchen with all our gifts. I took a seat at the table opposite Pam. She’d resumed painting her nails and was making a hash of her left hand.

“Would you like me to do that for you?”

She looked up at me in disbelief. “You want to paint my nails?”