by Pamela Aidan
Well done? Was it truly? Darcy frowned, his thoughts and emotions caught in a web of contention. His words to Fitzwilliam had not been hollow. Miss Bennet, he was still prepared to swear, did not suffer that most tender of emotions in regard to Bingley. Had he not observed her closely to discover just that? But neither, it was equally true, did she present the appearance of a fortune huntress. No, he would swear to that as well. Miss Bennet, quite frankly, was an enigma. An enigma that Bingley had pierced and he had not? Bingley had been adamant that she loved him! Darcy crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the coach window at the rolling hillocks and fields just come into their spring green. No, that chain of thought was unprofitable; the last link in the affair had been forged. He clenched his jaw as consternation seized him. That last link had been the one that bound him to Miss Bingley in a distasteful conspiracy of silence against his own friend. How he hated such disguise! How he despised the whispered fears of discovery Caroline Bingley never ceased to pour into his ear until Miss Bennet was safely gone from Town. However he might bow to its necessity or congratulate himself on Bingley’s escape from the perils of such a family, the odium of the measures he had employed would remain a blot upon Darcy’s conscience.
His conscience! Darcy closed his eyes against the cheery March sunlight slanting across the coach’s seats. That staid organ of guidance and reproof had been of no comfort to him for quite some time. In his solitary moments, it churned up the dark anger he’d been forced to acknowledge at Norwycke, and it delivered him a sharp pang every time he surprised that expression on Bingley’s face. Bingley was still pluck to the bone and ready with a smile, but behind it lay a shadow that Darcy had been confident would fade upon their return to Town and its many diversions. It had not, and Darcy knew his friend to be struggling to regain his former state by that private, reflective look of his, which spoke of the presence in his body of only half a heart. Bingley maintained his social life with determination but only a portion of his former eagerness. No lady’s name had been associated with his own, although more than a few had been the recipient’s of some small attention. Bingley read more and spoke less, exhibiting the reserve Darcy had formerly accused him of lacking, in the hope, Bingley once told him, of setting himself to rights again. It was likely a lost cause, for how did one regain innocence of heart or forget the sweetness of love? Darcy had been wrong about him. Miss Bennet’s heart may not have been touched, but Bingley’s truly had, and he would ever carry the wound. What other course had been open to him? None — and still act the part of a true friend and mentor. But, Darcy’s conscience pressed him, was it well done?
Then there was Elizabeth. Had he done well with her? His characterization of her family had been unmercifully accurate, save for her and her elder sister. In that, he had done them a discourtesy in his recital to his cousin. Heaven forfend that she should ever hear of his words or that they should ever be associated with her. It was true that the unsuitable circumstances and temper of the Bennet family were impediments for Bingley. It was doubly so for himself. Although lack of fortune was not of paramount concern to Darcy, the insurmountable difficulty lay in the degradation of such a connection and the unending embarrassment the behavior of its members would invariably visit upon him and his family. “…surely, if the lady were otherwise desirable,” Richard had opined, blithely multiplying the beneficial effects of distance. Although the lady was more than desirable, the moon was not distance enough to belie the difficulties! Yet did he not continue to rack himself with thoughts of her, dreams of her, and these blasted, entangling strands of silk that corded him up and bound him to her?
Darcy’s fingers went unerringly to his waistcoat pocket, but a rustle of newspaper gave him pause. Looking up from under his brows, he watched his cousin, waiting for assurance that he was well engrossed in his reading. A disdainful snort and a “Well, I should hope so! Idiot!” proved Richard’s attention to be engaged. Darcy slowly drew them out, the threads that had both served and tormented him. “Perhaps…if it were proved that the lady was devoted to the gentleman…” He had said that, traitorously holding out the exception to himself, knowing it impossible. She was in Hertfordshire; he was in Kent, or London, or Derbyshire — it did not matter where. They would never meet again unless he proposed it, nor should they. More than mere miles were involved. To attempt to engage her affection would be the act of a libertine, for nothing honorable could come of it. She would always be her mother’s daughter; he would always be the son of his father — Darcy of Pemberley.
His fingers closed around the threads. Drawing himself up, he turned to the coach window and quickly released the catches, letting the upper pane slide down. It came to rest with a soft thud. The rattle of the harness chains and the sound of the horses’ hooves upon the road were suddenly louder, catching Fitzwilliam’s attention away from his paper. “Ah, fresh country air!” He grinned at Darcy and then went back to his reading. Darcy looked down into his gloved palm at the dulled, tattered silks. Then, closing his eyes against them, he leaned out the window and let them fall. Caught by a spring breeze, they drifted away, coming to rest by the side of the road.
“Who is that man, do you suppose, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam’s face was full of amused incredulity. He cocked his head toward the window as the coach came up upon a short lane that led to a modest home. “By the look of him, he must be a clergyman; but a more queer bird I challenge you to find. Look at him!” Darcy roused himself to glance in the recommended direction and was brought up straight with a start of recognition. “He keeps bowing and…Here!” Fitzwilliam was out of his seat and had the window down and was now leaning out of it.
“For Heaven’s sake, Richard, do not —”
“Greetings, my good man!” Fitzwilliam bellowed out the window as they passed and then sat down with a laugh. “Can that be our aunt’s new clergyman, come to replace old Satherthwaite?”
“Mr. Collins,” Darcy informed his cousin through gritted teeth. How could he have forgotten that that tedious little man, who on the merit of his collar had claimed such undue familiarity with him at Bingley’s ball, would be here.
“Collins? You have met him, then?” Fitzwilliam asked in surprise.
Darcy nodded. “In Hertfordshire last autumn, when I accompanied Bingley on his ill-fated hunt for a suitable piece of property. Collins is related to one of the families in the neighborhood.”
“How is he, then? As good at bowing and scraping as old Satherthwaite? Lord, what a sycophant he was! But it still made me cringe to see the way Her Ladyship led him about his own business.”
“I suspect our aunt would have more of the same in any parson whose living depended upon her, but whether he meets or exceeds Satherthwaite, I cannot say. I can say this.” Darcy’s mouth twisted in wry humor. “I suspect that Mr. Collins is something of a bantam cock beneath his clerical collar.” He paused, enjoying Fitzwilliam’s incredulity. “He introduced himself to me at Bingley’s ball.”
“Introduced himself?” Fitzwilliam’s astonishment was complete. “Why, the cheeky fellow! Aunt Catherine would not like to hear of that! I suppose when we meet I should expect to be greeted with my Christian name!”
Darcy snorted inelegantly in reply but lapsed into silence as memories of that occasion claimed him. The man had first intruded on his notice during his awkward attempt to lead Elizabeth through a country dance. Initially, Collins’s ineptitude had seemed humorous, but the lady’s mounting humiliation at her partner’s want of skill and proper courtesy had nearly moved him to intervene. He had resisted the temptation and then, when Elizabeth’s ruffled emotions had calmed, surprised her and the entirety of the room with the offer of his hand for the next set. What had followed had been of equal parts pleasure and pain. Like the threads he had finally put away from him. Like the memories he had not yet succeeded in sending after them.
The coach rolled on the short distance to Rosings, the seat of the de Bourgh family and home of their widowed Aunt Catheri
ne. Darcy could see by a sudden display of restless attention to his neckcloth and the disposition of his coat and waistcoat that his cousin had begun marshaling his reserves of good humor and gallantry in final preparation for their reception and stay. Lady Catherine had terrified Richard when they were boys, but as he had matured and discovered the byways that led to female sensibilities, he had put that knowledge to good use with their aunt. For years now he’d turned her up sweet, as sweet as a woman of their aunt’s disposition was ever likely to become; but it was an achievement, he always insisted, that required careful, yearly cultivation.
They passed the gates and began the sweep through the park. The horses under James’s easy rein quickened their pace, scenting that their labors were nearly done. As they rounded a curve that took them near the open grove Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s grandfather had cleared, Darcy’s thoughts were interrupted by a flash of color, like that of a lady’s gown or pelisse. Frowning slightly, he twisted about, trying to satisfy himself with what it might be, but the density of trees and the swiftness of the coach made it impossible.
“See something?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“Nothing…a servant on her way to the village, I suppose.” Darcy shrugged and then added with a teasing smile, “And no, I do not know whether she is beautiful.”
“Darcy, you know I do not trifle with servant girls!” Fitzwilliam looked at him, affronted. “His Lordship would have nailed my hide to the stable door if I ever had and is perfectly capable of doing so still!” Fitzwilliam shuddered as he elaborated on the lengths to which he believed his parent capable of going in show of his disapprobation of such a pastime. “And Her Ladyship! Mater would hand him the nails!” The more heated his protestations became, the wider Darcy’s grin spread until it finally caught Fitzwilliam’s attention. Realizing he had been led on, he stopped short and glared at Darcy before he joined in his cousin’s amusement.
By the time James had brought the coach beneath Rosings’s portico, they were once more the sober gentlemen their aunt expected to descend from it. And expected they most certainly were. A retinue of servants lined the stairway to the door, all at exquisite attention, ready to unload the coach and conduct the visitors into Her Ladyship’s presence.
“And so it begins.” Fitzwilliam gave one more tug to his waistcoat and checked the line of his trousers. “If she complains that we are not in breeches, I shall hold you eternally responsible!” he assured Darcy as the coach stopped and the door immediately sprang open. The manservant at the door was the same long-suffering soul who had performed this office for as many years as Darcy could remember. He nodded to the man’s “Welcome to Rosings, sir,” and started up the stairs after him as soon as Fitzwilliam had descended from the coach. They both knew the way, of course, but Lady Catherine was a fiend when it came to observance of the proper formalities; therefore, both gentlemen followed sedately behind the slow-moving servant until they reached the doors of the Rose Salon.
“Darcy…Fitzwilliam. You are arrived at last!” The irritation in their aunt’s penetrating voice was unmistakable. Doubtless, she had expected them hours earlier. Darcy gave his cousin a face that clearly communicated who was to take the blame for their lateness. Fitzwilliam sighed; then, both of them advanced into the salon to make their bows to the lady who sat in regal command of all within her purview.
“Your Ladyship.” Darcy bowed and kissed the hand his aunt extended. Fitzwilliam did likewise a moment later.
Lady Catherine sniffed as her eyes roamed up and down her two nephews. “Neither of you dressed properly! Breeches and stockings, sirs, are the correct attire for paying visits. I may lay this laxity at Fitzwilliam’s door, I have no doubt.”
Richard shot a murderous look at his cousin before beginning his campaign. “Your Ladyship, it was D —”
“Come,” Lady Catherine interrupted him, “greet your cousin.” Both men obediently turned to the pale creature on the settee at a right angle to Lady Catherine’s and bowed. Anne de Bourgh’s thin frame was completely obscured by the voluminous shawls deemed necessary to protect her health from the slightest inclemency. In most young women, this swaddling should have resulted in a complexion high with color, but Anne’s wan face was mute testimony to her continued delicacy.
Darcy stepped forward and formally extended his hand. “Cousin,” he murmured as Anne removed hers from beneath the shawls and placed it languidly in his. For all her wraps, his cousin’s fingers remained cold; and as he raised them to his lips, he wondered anew how she could support her life, caught as it was between ill health and her mother’s domineering officiousness.
“Cousin,” she offered him listlessly in return. He stepped back in Fitzwilliam’s favor and observed her as she received his cousin’s attention and repeated her single-word greeting. There was no change in her pallid countenance, nor any spark of interest at their arrival in her eyes. Instead, she seemed relieved to have done with the formality, retreating inward as she slipped her hand once more beneath the shawls.
“Does not your cousin look in health?” Lady Catherine’s question demanded their agreement, and neither of her nephews disappointed her. “We have engaged in a new regimen recommended me by one of the Regent’s own doctors; therefore, it cannot but be beneficial. Within a year, I expect, Anne will be entirely able to take her rightful place.” She turned a knowing smile upon Darcy. “An eventuality for which we have all waited with anticipation.”
Only his careful reserve prevented Darcy from giving evidence of the contumacy that unexpectedly gripped him. Lady Catherine alluded, of course, to her expectation of nuptials between his cousin and himself. He flicked a glance at Anne, confirming his opinion that she believed in its “eventuality” no more than he did, and then looked away. It was an old theme, the tune of which he had long since learned to ignore without incurring open antagonism with Her Ladyship. But this time her insinuations had conjured up in him an exceedingly visceral response. Of a certainty, he wished his cousin any increase in vitality and health. Who would not? But no increase in those qualities would make her a fit wife for him. This, too, he had long known. Why, then, this tumbling of his equanimity? You well know why, his conscience intruded, but he pushed it away and concentrated on his next words to his aunt.
“All her relations will, indeed, rejoice, Ma’am.”
Lady Catherine’s smile hesitated at his response, but she did not press him, choosing instead to direct them to seat themselves and partake of some refreshment to relieve the depredations of their journey.
“You are inexcusably late, Nephews.” She returned to her original subject when they had settled back into their chairs with their tea. “I expected you some hours ago and had prepared myself to hear of a serious accident. Since you are both in health, it must have been a problem with a horse or the coach.”
“No, Ma’am,” Darcy volunteered, deciding to spare Fitzwilliam his aunt’s inevitable lecture. “We were late setting out.”
“Late setting out! What could have prevented your leaving, I wonder. Surely that man of yours knows the clock!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Darcy replied carefully, “Fletcher is in nowise to blame.”
Lady Catherine’s piercing regard shifted to his cousin. Knowing he was about to be called to account, Fitzwilliam launched a flanking maneuver. “An old friend of Darcy’s, the Earl of Westmarch, came by for a visit, Ma’am, and practically settled in for the night. We could not very well chuck him into the street —”
“The Earl of Westmarch?” Her Ladyship turned back to Darcy. “I am astonished that you should keep company with him, Darcy! I knew his father, you know; and what a disappointment his son would be to him if he were still alive. Now there was perfection in a gentleman. Twice I danced with him during my Season, and I do not deceive myself when I say that I would have been Lady Westmarch had not the scandal, which I am certain that woman started apurpose, forced him into marriage prematurely. I have heard only the most shocking things about the son and
advise you to cut the connection or at least refuse to receive him at Erewile House when Georgiana is at home. You cannot be too circumspect in the care of young ladies. Their heads may be turned with the least attention by a practiced flirt. Her new governess keeps a close watch on her, I trust?”
Lady Catherine’s trust was confirmed with a clipped “Yes, Ma’am” as Darcy rose from his seat and stalked to the tea table. His aunt’s persistence in her delusion that he would take Anne to wife had sent him into a rebellious mood that was acerbated by the underlying truth that, if it were not Anne, it would be some other female equally equipped to defraud him of true companionship of heart and mind. His aunt’s libel of Brougham and directions concerning his private conduct were not without years of precedent, but today they were fuel for the fire of Darcy’s discontent. Perhaps it was wise that this year’s visit be cut short.
“That is well, then,” Lady Catherine called to him. “Although, if you had engaged the woman I advised, you would be sure to have nothing to worry about on that score!” His back still turned, Darcy gritted his teeth, set his cup down on the table, and reached for the teapot. “You may apply to Lady Metcalf on my eye for the proper governess. She declares Miss Pope ‘a treasure,’ which, I have not a doubt, she is. Steady and regular instruction is what young ladies require or there will be trouble, mark my words. I have only recently become acquainted with just such a situation and expect to hear of calamity any day. Five daughters and never a governess!”
Everything around Darcy seemed to still as his aunt’s words echoed in his brain. Five daughters! His hand trembled slightly as he gripped the teapot’s handle and poured another cup, causing the steaming brew to splash over the rim and into the saucer. Was it possible that Collins had apprised Her Ladyship of events in Hertfordshire?
“No governess, Ma’am? Extraordinary!” Fitzwilliam commented, as if such things were his daily concern. Darcy knew it to be a ploy, designed to keep their aunt’s attention from once more focusing upon himself; but this time he was as desirous for more of the particulars as his aunt was to reveal them.