From Admiration to Love

by Maria Grace

  “I think it a marvelous idea.” Fitzwilliam stepped forward. “A game of Move-All is just the thing to wake us up after dinner. How many shall play?”

  Elizabeth edged half a step back. “I am content to watch, thank you, but do go on and enjoy yourselves.” She moved to the sofa near the table where the tea service and biscuits awaited their leisure.

  “You may have my share in the amusement as well.” Darcy joined her, leaving Aunt Catherine glowering at them all.

  Probably just to spite them, she turned her back and continued to sit alone by the fireplace, without even a book for company. They might all pay for it later, but for now, having a little distance from her was welcome.

  He sat beside Elizabeth. Tiny, tired lines creased the edges of her eyes.

  “Perhaps you should retire early tonight. You look exhausted,” he whispered.

  “It has been rather a long afternoon. Lady Catherine decided to review all the menus until Twelfth Night. Mrs. Reynolds tried to object and sent for me—the entire production was unpleasant and unnecessary.”

  “I am so sorry—”

  “But it was nothing compared to Lady Matlock’s attempts to take over last year.” The corner of her lips lifted in a tiny bit of mischief.

  “If that is supposed to make me feel better, it does not.”

  “I should not tease you so, I know. But it always helped when dealing with Mama—”

  “So of course, it should be a good strategy in dealing with all difficult relatives.” He chuckled softly. “If you want me to suggest they leave, I will.”

  “I am not prepared to deal with the consequences of that—not just yet in any case.”

  “I am not sorry to hear it. But look, it seems like Georgiana is having a merry time.” He pointed with his chin.

  Fitzwilliam stood in the center of a circle of chairs and cried “Move all!”

  Everyone leapt to their feet and scrambled for a seat, save Wharton of course who sat nearby, sulking just a mite that he was left out of the fun. Served him right though for being so stupid about his horse. Anne and Miss Gifford dove for the same seat and ended up in an ungainly laughing heap on the floor instead. Anne gave up the seat to her friend and took the center of the circle.

  “Have you noticed that Anne is paying very little attention to Mr. Wharton and all but totally ignoring Mr. Sadler?” Elizabeth worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

  Did she know what an alluring gesture that was?

  “No, but now that you mention it, it does seem her behavior has changed.”

  “I cannot help but be glad for it, at least with regards to Mr. Sadler. I think little of him.”

  He sat up a little straighter. “Has he been paying Georgiana any attention?”

  “Fitzwilliam suggested that she is not officially out and it would be in poor taste to do so. I wonder if he made a suggestion that Anne cease her interest in him? The change in her behavior seems very abrupt.”

  “It is possible. It seems he has great influence with her.”

  The group rose and scrambled again. Anne and Fitzwilliam ran into each other, stumbling and catching one another in a tangle of arms and legs.

  “Have you ever considered the possibility—” She tipped her head toward the pair.

  “What? Of Anne and Fitzwilliam? You promised me long ago that you would not indulge in matchmaking of any sort.”

  “You know I eschew the sport. I just wonder. Watch them together, they seem to have, well, it is hard to say. Perhaps an understanding of one another that is rather uncanny.”

  “You know they are apt to fight like a fox and a hound.”

  She patted his hand, just a little condescendingly. “While that is not something you would tolerate well in your home, there are other dispositions who do not find it nearly so disagreeable.”

  “He has never made mention of any attraction toward her to me.”

  “I wonder if he is aware of it himself.”

  ∞∞∞

  December 23, 1813

  “Sir.” Fitzwilliam’s valet appeared in his room, a peculiarly somber expression on his face. The man was always serious and professional to be sure, but this was something different. And it did not bode well.

  “Out with it, man.” Fitzwilliam rose from his all-too-comfortable chair where he had been scanning the society pages to discuss with Anne later that afternoon. For better or worse, the ton had not disappointed, providing ample points to discuss—and laugh over—with her.

  Who would have thought she could have ever equated title with good behavior?

  “Lady Catherine wishes an immediate audience.”

  “Did she deign to offer a reason for the request?”

  “No sir, should I ask?” Something in the way his eyes creased at the corners suggested he would rather be asked to walk ten miles in a blizzard.

  Who could blame him?

  “Not bloody likely she would give you an answer if you did.” He tossed his paper aside and straightened his coat. “Where is her ladyship?”

  “In the sitting room near her chambers, sir.”

  He nodded at the valet and strode out. Perhaps he should not obey her orders so quickly and feed her notion that she was some sort of matriarch here. But the alternative was listening to a quarter of an hour lecture on timeliness. An even less appealing prospect.

  The corridor of the family wing, lined with portraits of the recent Darcy generations, felt far more occupied than it actually was. Uncle and Aunt Darcy looked down on him, smiling tolerantly while a very young Darcy, still in a dress, stood beside them, looking as serious then as he did now. Across the hall and several yards down, Uncle Darcy’s parents seemed to gaze at him. Uncle Darcy was the spit and image of his father, but Darcy resembled his grandmother—definitely a boon for him. Fitzwilliam snickered under his breath. What would the senior Darcys have thought of Lady Catherine? Given their expression, probably what Darcy did: ridiculous, but to be tolerated for the sake of family.

  He peeked into the sitting room. No doubt she had arranged it to her liking, with a single, large armchair, upholstered in bright blue flowers, at the top of the room, presiding over the rest of the seats, much like she arranged her favorite parlor at Rosings. Other smaller, duller seats—small chairs and a settee covered in browns and ivories deferred to her presence, looking small and insignificant in her shadow. The walls were paneled in some dark wood—oak perhaps?—giving the feeling of a court proceeding more than a conversational space. So very fitting. No wonder she chose this room.

  “Do not just stand there so stupidly, come in, and do close the door.” She waved at him without standing. Her ample skirts matched the colors on the chair—did she plan that? It would not be beyond her.

  He complied, very slowly.

  “Enough of your dawdling, sit down, I have important matters to discuss with you.” She rapped her knuckles on the wooden chair arm.

  In the far corner, almost hidden by a large globe, he spied a leather wingchair. That should do nicely. He dragged it into Lady Catherine’s courtroom and placed it as near as he dare to her dominant seat.

  Her face crumpled, like a piece of ill-used foolscap. “Are you comfortable now, nephew?”

  “Quite, thank you for your concern.” He sat and crossed his legs in as casual a pose as he could muster without his banyan and nightcap.

  “No more nonsense. This is absolutely serious.” She brandished a letter at him, waving it wildly so he could neither read any of it or take it up himself without risking tearing it out of her hands.

  “Perhaps you should tell me what is concerning you.”

  She smoothed the letter in her lap. “I have been making inquiries you see, and at last I have received a response from my solicitor in London.”

  “Is there some problem with the business of Rosings?”

  “No, something far more important.”

  “Is your health in jeopardy?”

  “Do not be ridiculous. You see
I am entirely hale.”

  “Then what is this essential matter your solicitor writes to you about.” Patience and diplomacy were qualities best left to higher ranking officers.

  “Deception, Fitzwilliam, of the most foul and dangerous kind.” She waved a pointing finger at him.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and bit back a thousand curt responses. “If you do not tell me in detail what you mean, there is little I can do to assist.”

  “Those men who came with that Gifford girl, they are not what they seem.”

  He sat up so abruptly his back pinched. “What do you mean?”

  “One of them is a de Bourgh. That Sir Jasper as he calls himself—”

  “He is not a baronet as he claims?”

  “He is indeed, but he is also a de Bourgh.” Aunt Catherine snarled the name like a curse.

  “How is that possible? His name is Pasley, is it not?”

  “It is all right here.” She shoved the letter at him.

  At last! There might be some sense to be made out of this! He scanned the neat, though somewhat over-ornamented script. In the middle of the page was a carefully drawn de Bourgh family pedigree. He traced it with his finger.

  There was Lewis de Bourgh’s line, ending, for now at least, with Anne. Following back and down several other branches of the family, things became muddled and unclear. No wonder Sir Lewis was content to leave Rosings Park to a daughter, with that much death among the male progeny, the scrambled lines and younger sons adopted into other houses as heirs. What a jumbled mess!

  “See here!” Aunt Catherine jabbed at a spot in the pedigree.

  Sir Jasper’s grandfather, a junior de Bourgh son had been adopted by a Pasley and taken that name. Got himself made a baronet—probably an interesting story there—but there was no doubt, the Pasley baronetcy were really de Bourghs.

  “There! It is exactly as I have told you! The de Bourghs are trying to retake Rosings Park, and I will not have it. I insist you put a stop to it.”

  “What do you expect me to do? He has done nothing objectionable save court your daughter whilst being distantly a de Bourgh.” He shoved the letter back toward her.

  “I never approved of him in the first place. He has no permission to even speak to her. Keep him away from her and her away from him.”

  “I am not her keeper, madam. Surely you can see the futility in the exercise.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You take great delight in vexing me, I know. But you will do your duty. You must! The family cannot fail us again. Keep that man away from my daughter.”

  “Short of marrying her myself, how might that be accomplished?”

  “How can you say such a thing? You marry Anne? That would be—”

  “Consider your words very carefully, Aunt Catherine. It is not wise to insult the man of whom you are asking a large favor.” He turned his officer’s glare upon her.

  She started and pulled back. Apparently, she had never seen that look—but perhaps she needed to again.

  “Just keep Sir Jasper from my daughter. He is not to be trusted, mark my word. That family is not to be trusted. They are devious and always seeking to get what they do not deserve and what they cannot afford.”

  “You were insulted by Sir Lewis’s parents decades ago, but that hardly condemns the entire family.”

  “You would be surprised how little one branch of such a family differs from another. They are all devious and difficult. Are you going to help me?” She shook a long, pointing finger at him.

  “I have detected nothing objectionable in the man. I just told Anne as much and can hardly go back on my word—”

  “What right have you to be giving approval to any of those men? Why would she turn to you to ask such things and not me?”

  “Do you really want an answer to that question? I would be happy to give it to you, but I do not think you will like it very much.” He stood and towered over her.

  She shrank back a mite.

  He should not be enjoying this as much as he was. “I am sorry you have put yourself in such a position with your daughter that she is more likely to do the opposite of what you would ask than to obey you. But I will not insist she bend to your will simply because it is your will. Out of respect for you, I will however, discuss the matter with Darcy and obtain his opinion on Sir Jasper. I will plan my course of action according to that. Do not ask any more of me.”

  She stammered something hardly worth listening to. He turned hard on his heel and marched from the sitting room.

  The nerve of her! The unmitigated gall! Trying to use him like some servant, all the while thinking no better of him than the rest of his family did. But for his friendship with Anne, he would wash his hands of Aunt Catherine and Rosings Park entirely.

  He stormed down the great stairs and straight for Darcy’s study, several startled maids almost tripping in their haste to get out of his way. If there were any justice at all in the world, Darcy would be alone and willing to accept his company.

  The door was closed; he raised his hand to knock and paused. It would not do to pound the door like he was ready to break it down. He drew a deep breath and knocked like a civilized gentleman. More or less.

  “Come.”

  He drew another deep breath before entering the room.

  “What happened? You look like the very devil himself!” Darcy half-rose from his chair behind the massive desk.

  “Good to see you too, Darce.” He fell into the wingback he had left near the desk the last time he had been in the room and assumed the sloppiest posture possible; just because he could.

  “Dare I ask?”

  “I assume you are intelligent enough to guess. I was called into a most unwelcome audience just now.”

  Darcy clutched his temples. “What did she want?”

  “Apparently the de Bourghs—or rather a de Bourgh—has indeed come.”

  Darcy raked his hair. “What did you tell her?”

  “That I did not give one whit for her opinion on the matter on whether he was a de Bourgh or a Smith, and I would consult with you and make my decision based on that.”

  “I do not imagine she was happy with your answer?”

  “I did not stay to find out.”

  Darcy snorted a laugh. “Nor would I. What is your opinion of Anne’s suitors?”

  “One is an idiot, another a fop who reminds me far too much of another attractive young man in our acquaintance.”

  Darcy winced, nodding. “It is a bit of a relief to know it is not just simply me seeing him at every turn.”

  “For what it is worth, I insisted Anne discourage any future interest on their part.”

  “What of Sir Jasper?”

  “Do not tell me you do not like him.” Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes—no he should not do that, it was a bad family habit, but truly, how could he be expected not to at such a moment.

  “You do?”

  “I would not go that far. But I did not find anything objectionable about him.”

  Darcy looked away.

  “No—pray you do not dislike him for being a de Bourgh!”

  “I wish that were the case. Then you could simply argue me away from it.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Darcy drummed his fingers on his desk. “I wish I could say. But I cannot quite put a finger on it. Elizabeth has noticed it, too. I have sent out some discreet inquiries—”

  “You have a network of spies?”

  Darcy did fit the picture of a spy master.

  “Mutually beneficial acquaintances. In any case, I anticipate hearing back from them in the next several days, assuming they know anything of the young baronet.”

  “What do you suspect?” Fitzwilliam leaned his elbows on the edge of Darcy’s desk.

  “I would rather not say, in case my suspicions are incorrect. I would not harm his reputation in your eyes simply because I am overcautious.”

  “I hope you are wrong for Anne’s sake. I think she may be setting
her cap for him—”

  “I would have her avoid that for now, if it were possible.” Something in Darcy’s expression made his words more command than suggestion.

  “I dread telling her that, especially after I have all but given her permission— she will think me mean-spirited and capricious.”

  “I pray that I am wrong, but if I am not, she will thank you for it.”

  “Even if her mother gloats over her victory?”

  “Yes, even then.”

  Heavens, what did Darcy suspect?

  Chapter 7

  December 24, 1813

  The next day, Elizabeth put Georgiana in charge of the evergreen gathering party. She would have liked to have gone herself, but a little time to rest and spend with her husband was too much to relinquish, even for the fun of gathering Christmastide decorations. Who knew that having even a moderate sized house party could be so exhausting?

  Darcy came to her dressing room and joined her on the small couch they had placed near the fireplace for just such a purpose. The room had been very different when she had first taken ownership of it, but they had slowly shaped it into a private sanctuary they could share, insulated from the cares of the estate. No business was allowed within, not accounts, not menus, no talk of spring planting, nor autumn harvests. He seemed to appreciate those rules as much as she.

  The walls were covered with a warm green silk, not entirely to her tastes, but tolerable enough when decorated with florals, landscapes, and the small family portraits she had pilfered from other rooms in the house. Little of the original furnishings remained; they had been heavy and fussy. But with so many rooms in the house, she soon found light and elegant pieces to take their places. Tables with smooth elegant curves, chairs with soft seats and pillows, and a marquetry writing desk near the window where all her personal correspondence was written. Several crystal bowls of dried lavender perfumed the air, just enough to be noticeable and set the room apart from the rest of the house as their special space.

  Darcy slipped his arm over her shoulder and sighed. “There has not been enough time for this.”