by Meg Osborne
My dear Fitzwilliam, she wrote. Nobody else alive referred to Darcy as “Fitzwilliam”, unless they wished to tease him, and even then there were few who dared. His cousin, Richard, was perhaps the only one to do so with any frequency, and even then it was because he found idiotic amusement in a conversation between two “Fitzwilliams”. His Aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, on the other hand, could always be relied upon to keep to given names, ensuring a formality even amongst family members. Darcy glowered and read on.
I hear you are no longer to be found in Hertfordshire, and I rejoice at such a turn of events, for I do not know why you ever wished to remain there amongst strangers when you might instead visit a while with your own family. It is for this particular reason I write: to invite you to stay with us at Rosings. Anne misses her cousins dreadfully and remarks often how dull life is without the joy of your company. I have just heard in the affirmative that Richard will spare some of his leave to spend it with us here at Rosings, and so I implore you to join us. As you know I am not as young as I once was, and at times like this, it becomes so very important to have my family around me...
Darcy snorted, incredulously. His aunt was no spring chicken but he had never known her to be anything less than rigorous in energy and robust in health. The notion that she was a frail old lady who desired company in her loneliness was a fiction, and not a very good one. She demanded his presence and fearing request alone would not succeed, sought to sweeten the pot with the threat of ill-health.
He was about to cast the letter aside, not in any frame of mind to reply at present, when the convenience of the note’s arrival struck him. He might know that his aunt was hale and hearty as a woman half her age, but his friends would not. And, certainly, going to stay at Rosings was hardly comparable with going home to Pemberley, but it was certainly a more enjoyable prospect than remaining indefinitely in London, at the behest of his friends. Even Caroline Bingley could not object to his fleeing to his ailing aunt’s side, even if that did involve him leaving theirs.
Unable to keep a sly smile from tugging at the corners of his lips, he dashed off a reply, taking care to keep his words neat and legible, for if they were not, his aunt would certainly comment on it. Sealing the note, he stood, striding towards the door and summoning his butler as he did so.
“Send this to Rosings with all haste, won’t you? Good man. I am out to dine this evening with Mr and Miss Bingley, but you might as well warn the household that I shall be removing to Kent before the week is out.”
His orders undertaken, he walked with a jig in his step towards Bingley’s house, pausing to take a turn of one of the parks as he did so. After all, he would be leaving London soon. He ought to bid it a proper farewell!
MY DEAR -
“Lizzy!”
Elizabeth Bennet had scanned barely a word of Charlotte’s letter before her reading was interrupted by a plaintive wail from somewhere overhead. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she leaned back further into her window seat, allowing the curtains to fold around her and obscure her from view. Since Jane’s departure for London in the company of the Gardiners, Mrs Bennet had clung ever more tightly to her second-eldest daughter. Alas, unlike her sister, Lizzy lacked the patience and interest in the myriad of feminine delights Mrs Bennet longed to debate at length. She had taken to being often out of doors, or, as she was at present, discovering a tiny corner of Longbourn uninhabited by her mother and seeking refuge. She turned her attention back to her friend’s words, eager to learn the news of Hunsford from the pen of the new Mrs Collins herself. Mrs Collins! She still struggled to imagine Charlotte married to anyone, but to picture her matched for all time with Mr Collins? Lizzy pursed her lips in distaste. Still, her friend could hardly claim ignorance prior to their union. She had seen Mr Collins in action and knew enough of his foibles that she ought to have been inoculated against any charm offensive he might have launched. For there must have been something, some spell or incantation or persuasion deployed to ensnare her sensible friend. The vague thought of a fortune skittered through Elizabeth’s mind, but she batted it away just as quickly. Charlotte might be more pragmatic than Lizzy had ever fully credited but she was no mercenary. And Mr Collins no prize. Lizzy bit her lip, quieting her own thoughts such that she might attend once more to her letter and try to determine, from all that Charlotte did not say, as much as all she did, how well her friend fared in her new life.
She had progressed a little further when the door to the study flew open. Lizzy held her breath, confident that whilst her father’s heavy damask drapes hid her from view, the smallest sound might betray her hiding place. It was a suspicion, then, that it was her father’s own flat, heavy tread she detected in the doorway and not her mother’s or sister’s dainty step. That her father would be the one to find her and not one of the ladies of the house made her relax a little and the ensuing exhalation must have been enough to catch Mr Bennet’s ear, for there was a muttered “harrumph” followed by the quiet close of the door and two strides towards Lizzy’s window sanctuary. The curtain twitched and pulled aside, and Lizzy glanced up, guiltily, into the frowning features of her father.
“Good morning!” she whispered as if there was nothing unusual at being discovered playing hide and seek in her father’s study when she was at least a decade too old for such mischief.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” Mr Bennet said, with a formal bow. He sighed, his frown relaxing into the vague smile of resignation most frequently worn by the gentleman of a house dominated by ladies.
Mrs Bennet’s voice screeched overhead, causing both father and daughter to flinch.
“Your mother is looking for you,” Mr Bennet said, unnecessarily. “Quite energetically. She wishes to discuss a matter of great importance with you, pertaining to...” his lips turned down into a grimace of distaste. “Lacemaking.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth strove to conceal her laughter. “I was not aware I was wanted.”
Another screech forced her further into the window and betrayed her feigned innocence.
“She has even pressed me into service this day, begging me to help to find you.” An amused smile lit up Mr Bennet’s features, making him appear momentarily younger than his years. “Ought I to?”
Lizzy hesitated, but she had found an ally in her father, who peered out of the window, cleared his throat and called, loud enough that his wife might hear.
“The weather is quite fine this morning, my dear, I think it entirely probable that Elizabeth has found her way out of doors. Let us cease our searching for an hour or two. I assume she will present herself within that time.”
Lizzy mouthed a silent thank you and smiled as her father pulled a chair into the light of the window, reaching for his own book and affecting to read.
They sat in stolen silence for a few moments, both father and daughter enjoying the peace and quiet and never minding the sight deception they had gone through to secure it.
“Who is your letter from?” Mr Bennet enquired, not lifting his eyes from his book.
“Charlotte,” Lizzy said, reaching the short letter’s conclusion and turning back to its start.
“And how is Miss Lucas?”
“Mrs Collins,” Lizzy corrected him.
“Indeed!” Mr Bennet smirked. “How does married life suit her?”
“Well enough,” Lizzy said, not entirely believing her own words, for, despite the appearance of contentment that dripped from every word of Charlotte’s correspondence, Lizzy could not help but detect a small thread of sadness, of loneliness. Hunsford might be comfortable for Mr Collins and his new wife, but it could surely not feel like home for bright, amiable Charlotte. How could it, when she was so far from family and friends?
“Actually, Papa, she writes to ask me a question, as well as to share her news. She wishes to invite me to stay a short while with her and Mr Collins at Hunsford. I may go, mayn’t I?”
Mr Bennet leaned back leaned back in his chair, regarding his daughter cur
iously.
“Do you wish to? I was under the impression that you, like several of your sisters, could not be more delighted by the news of Mr Collins’ return to Hunsford. Do you miss your cousin so much that you long to undertake such a journey yourself to see him again?” Mr Bennet’s lips quirked as if he were concealing a sly smile at such a notion.
“Oh, I have no desire to see him!” Lizzy began, before pausing and reframing her response into something a little more agreeable. “That is, I will be pleased to see the home that he spoke of so often, to know how well he is settled into married life, and to see him in his own habitat.”
She bit her lip, her choice of words having the unfortunate effect of casting Mr Collins as some kind of foreign specimen, an animal best observed in nature, not brought into one’s home at an attempt at domesticity. She shook off the idea. “I am more eager to see Charlotte again, and who knows, perhaps I will be permitted to meet his patroness. I have long been curious as to the character of Lady Catherine.”
“Have you?” This was a surprise indeed, and Mr Bennet’s curiosity became suspicion.
“He spoke of her so often, Papa! Where you not at all curious as to whether his recollections were accurate? And, you know, she is an aunt to Mr Darcy. It will be amusing to see if I can trace some likeness between them.”
This last she uttered with such a studied affectation of calm that she congratulated herself at its execution. It suddenly seemed quite important to her that Mr Bennet not scrutinise her too closely, for she felt strangely aware of her own body as she spoke the name Mr Darcy and fancied her cheeks warmed, though there ought to be no reason for such a reaction. She swallowed.
“It is for Charlotte that I wish to go, Papa, and if Jane is gone to London, surely you can not begrudge me this small treat?”
Mr Bennet rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
“I see I have no choice in the matter, and truly I do not wish to keep you here against your will. But with Jane gone, and you following after, I see I shall have to carefully guard what remains of my wits. However will I manage with the loss of both my sensible girls?”
This was all the permission she needed, and with a grateful kiss to her father’s thin cheek, Lizzy slid to her feet, bidding him goodbye with a hearty, mischievous wink.
“Mama!” she called. “Did you call? Now, tell me all about this lace and I shall see if I may be of some assistance...”
Chapter Three
The road to Rosings was a familiar one to Darcy, although it had been some months since he had last traversed it. He paused. It had a year or more, not merely months! How time proceeded to fly when he was kept busy and away from his familial responsibilities. It pained him, then, to acknowledge how lax he had been in visiting his aunt. Lady Catherine might not appear frail, but surely she must feel his absence. His and Richard’s both, if she now sought to summon them hence.
The memory that his cousin would be at Rosings as well cheered him. And Anne, too! It would be just as it had been when they were as children. Another thought assailed him and he grimaced. It would not be entirely as it had been when they were as children. He remembered, now, why he had been so eager to avoid visiting Rosings alone, and why it had been easy to find reasons to remain absent from his aunt’s direct circle. Lady Catherine had made no secret of her intention to match Darcy with her own daughter, and whilst Darcy thought fondly of his cousin Anne he was in no hurry to marry her. Nor to marry anyone! Another memory teased him, but he ignored it, refusing to be drawn on the flash of dark hair and bright eyes that persistently seemed, to him, to find some amusement in any situation.
The carriage drew within sight of the great house at Rosings, and he forced his attention back to the present. It would serve him ill not to greet his aunt with his wits about him, and he hurried down from his seat, barely allowing the carriage to slow sufficiently for him to disembark. He did not pause to greet the de Bourgh staff, either, suddenly feeling the energy to meet his aunt and get it over with, even if in other circumstances he might be considered rude for doing so. He slowed only to listen, and the sound of his aunt’s voice was easily discernible within, so he traced the quickest route to her parlour. At the doorway, he paused, rearranging his features into an approximation of a smile and drew a preparatory breath, before rapping lightly on the door and pushing it open.
“Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine was rarely surprised, and it gave Darcy a perverse flash of pleasure to see her momentarily ill at ease. She recovered herself quickly, though, and lifted a stern glance to some point over his right shoulder. “Were you not met? How came it that you were able to simply stroll into my home without being announced? I ought to -”
“Be calm, Aunt,” he said, dropping a penitent kiss on her cheek. “The fault is mine. Your staff hurried to greet me, but I quite overtook them, in my eagerness to be indoors. I fear I have left them to my luggage, but I wished to see you and Anne, and had already driven such a distance I could not be prevailed upon to wait still longer, for the sake of politeness.”
This was uttered in such a state of mannerly contriteness that Lady Catherine was suitably mollified, and swatted at his head as if he was still a child and not a grown gentleman.
“Oh, you! Stand back, and let me look at you. It has been so long since last I laid eyes on you that I am surprised to recognise you at all!”
There was an unmissable note of criticism in these words, but as it was not unwarranted, Darcy let the barb pass with no comment but a contrite bow.
“I am here now, Aunt, and pray you will forgive my not coming sooner. There has been much to contend with in settling Georgiana, and -”
“Yes, and running around the countryside with that dreadful Mr Bingley!” Lady Catherine’s eyes flashed. “Do not think I am so easily deceived, Fitzwilliam. I have been well informed of your doings of late.”
Darcy frowned, wondering who had been quick to tell tales, and, sensing his befuddlement, Lady Catherine quite rejoiced in informing him of the identity of her spy.
“I believe you met my Curate, Mr Collins, during your stay in Hertfordshire.”
Mr Collins! Of course. Darcy had quite forgotten the odious little fellow resided on the very outskirts of Rosings and would, doubtless, have been eager to speak to Lady Catherine of their shared connection. Apprehension rested in his chest. What else might the man have told his aunt? His mind turned, constructing a sentence that might best determine his aunt’s opinion of a certain family without raising her suspicions as to why Darcy himself cared to know it. They were strangers to him, after all, or as good as. What did it matter to him what opinion his aunt had formed of them when he had no plans to see them again, alone or in a group!
“He has returned to us married, William,” Anne said, her delicate voice reaching Darcy’s ears at last and reminding him of her presence. At her use of his shortened name, he relaxed, for Lady Catherine’s Fitzwilliam always kept him on edge. He was not fond of his name, other than it had been selected by his dear departed mother, and it was a true mark of friendship when those closest to him referred to him by another. Darcy, most often. William, for a select few. Only Lady Catherine clung to Fitzwilliam, but for the sake of her age and position, he would bear it.
“So I hear,” he said, shortly, possessing no great desire to hear tell of Mr Collins’ matrimonial adventures, having but recently extracted his own friend from just such a threat.
“Yes, and quite a peculiar business it has been.” Lady Catherine frowned, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from her skirts, and summoning a tea tray with a single gesture. “He departed planning on proposing to some family he has there. Five daughters, if you can credit such a thing, and poor as church mice yet not one of them married!” She shook her head. “Quite careless for their parents to neglect their responsibility. And then, despite the propitious arrival of an eligible husband quite willing to marry any of the daughters as was seen fit, they all but refused him! I dare say he did not take the slight t
oo much to heart, for as I say, he wished, out of the goodness of Christian charity, to do right by his relatives, but I call it foolishness indeed for them to cast such an opportunity aside. Yes, foolish, and I would go so far as to say proud! Still, it does not appear to have dented him too greatly, for he returned to us married to another young lady from the environs of Hertfordshire, a Miss -” she paused, glancing to her daughter for assistance. “Pray, what was dear Mrs Collins maiden name? Logan, or Lewis, or some such. I dare say there are dozens of them up and down the country.”
“Lucas,” Anne put in, quietly. “Her father is a knight.”
“Indeed!” Lady Catherine showed no partiality on account of this less than ancestral position and sniffed.
“I hope they are happy together, at least,” Darcy said, after a moment of silence, and before the subject was entirely forgotten in the arrival of the tea things.
“Who? Oh - oh yes. That is, I dare say they will be. She is a sensible young lady, although a little plain.” Lady Catherine cast a doting glance upon he daughter. “We cannot all be beauties, alas, but she seems accomplished enough and well able to run a tidy little house. You will meet her, I expect, while you are here, for we have them to dine quite often.” She lifted her nose into the air in an affectation of pride. “There are responsibilities to be considered for one’s estate, after all. And as you and Mr Collins are friends.”
“I would not call us friends -” Darcy put in, recalling with dismay how little he had spoken to Mr Collins before that day, and how much he had grown to dislike the man even so.