by Pamela Aidan
Tomorrow! Tomorrow would witness the climax of months of desire, denial, and debate. His future would be settled and in a manner most satisfactory to his hopes: a union the like of which he had observed between his parents, both sympathetic of mind and warm of heart. Wrapped in his dressing gown, with a glass of good port before the bedchamber fire, Darcy allowed his fancy full play, composing for himself a heady picture of Elizabeth by his side as he introduced her to Pemberley. It would be daunting for her at first, he had no doubt; but he was equally certain that she would soon take command of his home the way she had his heart. He could see her among his mother’s flowers making Eden her own, in the music room filling it softly with song, and in the library sharing a book or merely each other’s company through a long winter’s evening. In truth, he could envision her gracing every room of Pemberley with her lively, delightful presence. Days spent in sweet companionship followed by nights…He stopped that thought with a sigh. And the servants would adore her, of course: the Reynoldses at Pemberley, the Witchers in London. Lord, she will probably have Hinchcliffe eating out of her hand in less than a fortnight! He grinned to himself. And Georgiana! Darcy’s smile deepened. Ah, there lay the one consideration in this matter that placed second only after his own happiness! Georgiana would at last have a sister — a friend — to love and confide in, one who had his full confidence and would take her best interests to heart.
Although, he checked the pleasurable flight of his fancy, her exposure to Elizabeth’s family would have to be judiciously limited. Darcy sipped at his port as a picture of the Bennet family formed uneasily in his mind. Naturally, Elizabeth would wish to see them, at least occasionally. There would be those times, he supposed, when he would send her off to visit them; but he did not yet like to think of their being parted. That very reasonable unwillingness gave rise to the foreboding thought that he would then be obliged to accompany her on these visits. He took another sip of the port. A week or two with his Bennet in-laws? No, that was simply not possible! They would have to come to Pemberley…when he had no other guests nor was in expectation of any. The thought of the nobility and gentry of Derbyshire, or even his Matlock relations, in the same room with Elizabeth’s family was more in the nature of a nightmare than a dream! He could well envision the astonishment on his aunt’s face should he require his aunt Lady Matlock to spend an afternoon or evening in the company of Mrs. Bennet and her younger daughters. His Lordship would simply stare him out of all countenance at the mere suggestion! That is, he reminded himself, if he was even on speaking terms with them after his undistinguished marriage! Slowly, thoughtfully, he finished off the port and set the small glass down on the side table. Was he really going to do this? Was he, in truth, going to dare his family, his world, to accept a woman of no distinguished birth, without even fortune to recommend her, as one of them?
“Mr. Darcy, sir?” Fletcher’s low-pitched inquiry brought him up out of the bog of unpleasant realities in which he had become mired. “Is there anything more you wish tonight, sir?”
Darcy looked at the clock; it was very late. He should have dismissed his valet long ago. “No, Fletcher. Good Heavens, man, you should have reminded me of your attendance an hour ago!”
“Not at all, sir.” Fletcher bowed but made no motion to leave. “Are you certain, sir? Your pardon, but you seem” — he paused and appeared to be searching for the right word — “unsettled, sir. Is there nothing you might wish to better prepare yourself for rest?”
Darcy tapped the edge of his empty glass. “You have well supplied me. No, I wish nothing more to drink.”
“A book, then, sir? Something from your shelf or, perhaps, the library?” Fletcher cocked his head toward the door.
“No, I think not.” Darcy yawned. “I could not concentrate long enough to make a good beginning. Good night, Fletcher.” He dismissed the valet firmly but then relented in the face of his concern. “All is well; I promise you.”
“Good night, then, sir.” Fletcher bowed again.
The dressing room door clicked softly behind him as Darcy turned slowly back to the fire. Unsettled. His perceptive valet had described him perfectly. The formidable task of reconciling all the relevant parties in his proposed marriage loomed larger with every tick of the clock toward that hour. He knew how it would be. Lady Catherine would be outraged, Lord and Lady Matlock stunned and severe in their disapproval, and all of them would importune him with every objection known to man. His friends would be shocked, his enemies would snigger, and Bingley would never forgive him for doing himself what he had so strongly advised him against.
“Plague seize it!” Darcy’s jaw set. He would make his offer and the Devil take the hindmost! Which, knowing his relations and peers, he most certainly would — and with pleasure! Darcy closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples, where the eddy of a headache was beginning to swirl. He must redirect his thoughts, or any hope of rest this night was lost. A book, as Fletcher had suggested? No, something shorter — poetry! Arming himself with a branch of candles, he stepped to his shelf and drew out the slim volume of sonnets Fletcher had packed. Taking the book over to the bed, he set the branch down on the table and, casting aside his dressing gown, made himself as comfortable as possible among the pillows and bedclothes. Which one was it? He quickly leafed through the pages, scanning the lines until he found the one that had, the other day, brought Elizabeth so forcefully to his mind that it seemed written for her. Ah, yes! He settled back and allowed the words their nourishing sway.
“If I could write the beauty of your eyes…”
“Darcy! Darcy, do you come?” Fitzwilliam’s voice echoed through the upper corridors of Rosings outside Darcy’s suite and penetrated through the mahogany door. Fitzwilliam’s person soon followed his voice as Darcy’s door was flung open to reveal his cousin elegantly clad for a walk. Darcy’s brow hitched up as he took in the vision before him. “What?” demanded Fitzwilliam, his self-possession fading somewhat under his silent scrutiny.
“I am honored.” Darcy sketched him a mocking bow. “Such refinement disposed upon a mere walk with your cousin in a country park! I would have thought to see you in buckskin, not breeches and a coat fine enough for London! And, good Lord, is that a striped waistcoat?”
“I would have you know it is not in the least outré.” Fitzwilliam bridled under his tone. “Even if you did set Beau Brummell about his business with that fancy cravat knot of Fletcher’s! Besides,” he continued indifferently as he sauntered into the room, “I thought we might continue on and drop in at the parsonage when we were finished. After tonight, you know, there will be no more la Bennet.” He looked at Darcy from the corners of his eyes. “And I, for one, shall miss her.”
“Humph!” had been all he had deigned Richard’s first remark worthy of, but the second was quite another matter. “Shall you really?” he drawled with just enough skepticism in his tone to bring up his cousin’s chin.
“Yes, really, Fitz! Miss Bennet is quite enchanting!”
“A description you have bestowed upon every woman who has caught your fancy,” Darcy challenged him. How did Richard truly regard Elizabeth? “What woman have you not squired about whom you did not find ‘enchanting’ at one time or another, only to be bored within a month?”
“Low hit, old man,” Fitzwilliam returned with a frown.
“Bang on the mark!” Darcy shot back, then relented. “And I have no quarrel with you there. Doubtless, you are justified in your final assessment.”
“It is my initial opinion, then, that you hold in so little regard?” Fitzwilliam cocked his brow at him. “I see.” He turned away for a moment, then faced his cousin again. “Since we both likely agree that I have the greater experience in these matters, having been so often ‘enchanted’ and then disappointed,” he proposed sardonically, “we might also posit that I have learnt something along the way.”
Darcy inclined his head in agreement to the supposition. “We might.”
Fitzwilliam
nodded back. “Well then, from my vast experience, let me assure you that Miss Bennet is something out of the ordinary. Of course, she is lovely to look upon. Her modest style, in contrast to the expensive drapery we are accustomed to, only enhances her person. Oh, she lacks a bit of Town bronze for having been immersed in the country. She cannot speak of all the little inconsequentialities attendant upon life in London, nor take a part in the latest on-dits, but that is part of her charm. Those things compose the greater part of the conversation, so called, of most young ladies of our acquaintance. It is such a pleasure to converse with a woman of honest opinion on interesting subjects and to come away feeling still that you have been well entertained.”
“That is as may be here, in the country, with no other females about to offer competition,” Darcy countered. “What if there were, or you had met her at some assembly in London? Better yet, what if she were to come to London with no more to recommend her than you have seen here in Kent; would you seek her out, introduce her to your parents?”
“Would I pay a call? Unquestionably! Take her to the park or the theater? It would be a pleasure! But as to the other, I doubt that Miss Bennet would receive an invitation to any event hosted by the ton, and it would take more credit than mine to bring her to their notice. I hate to think of how she would fare among the cats and pigeons with so little, in their estimation, to support her.”
“Your parents, though, would you introduce her?” Darcy pressed him.
“I don’t know.” Fitzwilliam paused. “When could they meet? I suppose I could wring an invitation to tea from Mater, but that would appear damned odd of me unless I had very particular interests in that direction.” He looked curiously at his cousin. “Which I do not, or rather, cannot. Is that what you are hinting at, that I should be more circumspect? I know my situation, Fitz. More’s the pity!” He sighed. “I believe if her situation were different, they would be as enchanted as I, but then, it is not I who must hold up the family name. That task belongs to D’Arcy, and that privilege of first birth I gladly accord him!” He laughed. “But come, Cousin, are you ready? The dew is lifted and the grounds await!”
“I must beg your pardon, Richard.” Darcy shook his head. “Unless I am to postpone our departure yet again, I find that there are some matters that require my attention.”
“More ‘matters,’ Fitz!” Fitzwilliam whistled under his breath. “By all means, look to them, for I do not think that I can support another rapturous display from Her Ladyship. I believe that next spring I shall make arrangements to be unavailable. Would you hold a posting to Spain to engage Napoleon sufficient excuse? Yes, well, I thought not.” He grinned at Darcy’s snort of laughter. “Get about your ‘matters,’ then, while I enjoy the day. If I leave you to them now, will you be finished before Saturday?”
“I hope to have them well in hand by tonight, certainly by tomorrow,” he assured him. “Off with you!”
“Yes, sir!” Fitzwilliam saluted him with a tap of his walking stick against his brow. “And if I should meet the enchanting Miss Bennet, do you have any orders, sir?”
“Do not let your admiration run away with you!” Unable to prevent his voice from taking an edge, Darcy looked away but, after a calming breath, continued, “and extend to her my best wishes for her day.”
“Done and done, old man.” Fitzwilliam seemed not to have taken offense. “I shall make report of her reply when I am come back,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out the door. “Good luck with your ‘matters,’ Fitz, and good hunting to me!”
Darcy moved to the door Fitzwilliam had blithely neglected to pull shut and listened as the eager beat of his cousin’s boots faded into the reaches of the house. Minutes later, a heavy door slammed, and he knew that Richard was finally, safely gone. Lady Catherine had left earlier with Anne and her companion on a mission of beneficent interference in the lives of her neighbors, and he had Rosings more or less to himself, as he had hoped. A rising excitement gripped him. It was only a matter of hours! It was a matter of hours! Both perspectives contained equal portions of anticipation and dread, and preyed upon him in their turn. Richard’s words also had been of dual encouragement and warning as he had acknowledged Elizabeth’s superiority but tempered his regard with the realities of their world. It was possible his cousin might support him, but Darcy had no illusions that it would be without reservation. Why must this be so difficult? he importuned Heaven. Stopping before the French doors that opened into the garden, he stared out into it unseeing. He had been a creature of duty all his life and had met its demands without thought or complaint. It was only here, in this one, desperately important instance that he wished a reprieve. He wanted happiness — he wanted love. He wanted…Elizabeth! Instantly her image was before him, smiling in that maddeningly distracting manner, filling his mind’s eye and the deepest reaches of his heart.
“I am that sorry, Fitz! It clean escaped my mind.” Fitzwilliam pulled a penitent face at Darcy’s annoyance that he had spent an hour in Elizabeth’s company and still failed to offer her his greeting. “But we did speak of you, which is very like, is it not?” he offered in apology as they made their way to the stairs.
“Idiotish wretch! It is nothing ‘like’ in the least!” Darcy replied.
“Better a whisker than an outright Canterbury tale.” Richard grinned at him. “Oh, come round, Fitz! La Bennet will be here soon, and you can do all your wishing in person. Take warning, though; it will absolutely require you to open your mouth.” Darcy gave his cousin a withering look and proceeded down the stairs, his pace quickening as he went. She had spoken of him? He fairly burned with curiosity about what she could have said to Richard, but he dared not ask, not at this juncture. If Richard caught the least hint of what he intended this evening, he would have an audience for his every move.
It had been sufficiently unnerving under Fletcher’s anxious eye as his valet dressed him for the evening. Neither of them had spoken, an unusual enough state of affairs, but then every piece of clothing had been tugged and buttoned against his body with the utmost precision. His dark gray trousers fit smoothly tight, as did his subdued but elegant pearl-colored waistcoat. He had firmly refused another appearance of the Roquet, but the knot Fletcher had devised in its place seemed no less uncomfortable a work of art. The valet had then presented him his frock coat, easing it up his arms and over his shoulders with the utmost care to prevent a crease in the fine, jet-black fabric. Then down it had been drawn and the double breast buttoned snugly against his chest until he could barely breathe! Fletcher had passed him his watch and fobs, observing his every positioning of those accoutrements, and followed them with not one but two handkerchiefs.
“Two, Fletcher?” he had asked, breaking the unearthly silence.
“Yes, sir,” the man had replied diffidently. “One for you, sir, and one for the lady, should she require it.” Darcy had taken the holland squares without another word and quickly stuffed them into his breast pocket, wondering as he did so how on earth Fletcher knew of such things. When he was ready at last, his valet had escorted him to the door, and opening it, he had bowed him out with “My very best wishes this evening, Mr. Darcy, sir!”
“Thank you, Fletcher,” he had replied solemnly, and only then had the valet looked him briefly in the eye. “Your servant, sir,” Fletcher returned softly and, at Darcy’s grave nod, had closed the door.
Darcy reached the bottom of the stairs two steps ahead of his cousin and turned smartly to the right into the hall and then the drawing room. It was nearly time! Lady Catherine was already present, seated in her great chair at the end of the room, as were Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson on the settee nearby.
“Darcy,” called his aunt as soon as she saw him, “you must hear this, though you will hardly credit it, I am sure!”
“Your Ladyship?” He made his courtesy but did not take the seat to which she had waved him.
“One of the cottagers — Fitzwilliam, you must hear this as well — one of my cot
tagers has taken it into his head to apply to the parish! It is already common knowledge in Hunsford, evidently, that he has done so!”
“The poor man must be destitute!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed, only to receive a freezing glare from Her Ladyship.
“He cannot be destitute!” Lady Catherine passed judgment. “He is one of my cottagers, and therefore, it is impossible that he be in want. I told him as much last quarter, when my steward presented me the man’s petition to be forgiven his rents. ‘It is want of industry, not charity,’ I told him, ‘that finds you in this predicament. If I forgive you this quarter’s rents, I have no doubt I shall receive a petition for the next.’ ”
“I saw no petition, nor did your steward inform me that any had been presented,” Darcy interposed, his voice tight with displeasure. If such things were kept from his oversight, he could hardly move to relieve them before the situation of his aunt’s more precarious tenants became desperate.
“Of course you did not! Shall I suffer such a blot upon the name of de Bourgh for one man’s laziness? I shall not!” Lady Catherine pronounced heatedly.
“But it has now become unavoidable, Your Ladyship,” Darcy returned in tones of strong disapproval. “The man has been forced to apply to the parish, and it is, as you say, ‘common knowledge.’ Who is the man?”
For a full thirty seconds, as Richard was to inform him later, Darcy silently held Her Ladyship’s eye in a demand of the answer that was broken only by a cry from Mrs. Jenkinson that Miss Anne “not distress yourself and lie back a moment, miss.” At her words, Lady Catherine broke from the contest and looked to her daughter, saying tersely as she passed him, “Broadbelt, Rosings Hill,” before demanding an account from her daughter’s companion.