“I needed to speak to Mr. Collins about the banns,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, her tone calm without being subservient.
“Who is this Mr. Kendall?” Lady Catherine glared about the room, causing Mr. Collins to cringe away from her.
Darcy’s cousin, Anne, scooted forward in her chair, her expression determined. “You remember him, Mama. When his wife died two years ago, you told me to make a condolence visit.”
“A visit?” Lady Catherine’s angry look found a resting point in Anne. “You cannot expect me to believe one visit, years ago, led to this effrontery.” She flipped a vein-etched hand toward Mrs. Jenkinson.
“Of course not,” Anne said. “We’ve visited regularly since then.”
“I didn’t ask you to go there more than once.” Lady Catherine’s scowl deepened. “Why didn’t you stop going before it got out of hand?”
“I don’t see it as out of hand,” Anne said. “I see it as two people finding happiness in marriage.”
Lady Catherine glared at her daughter. Anne, to Darcy’s surprise, did not shrink or look away. She bore her mother’s wrathful expression with pursed lips and steady eyes. Around their locked gazes, a strained silence took hold of the parlor. The only sound was the slight rustling of fabric as Mr. Collins looked frantically from mother to daughter and back again.
“Mrs. Jenkinson, I hope you will be very happy,” Elizabeth said, her warm tone setting them all free. “I think it delightful that you are getting married.”
“Yes,” Richard said. He cleared his throat. “Please introduce me to Mr. Kendall when you have the opportunity. I would like to congratulate him. He’s a lucky man.”
Lady Catherine awarded the room another of her formidable scowls. “But what are you going to do without Mrs. Jenkinson?” she demanded of Anne. “I cannot believe you permitted this to happen. Are you daft? You know you can’t be alone and it’s terribly difficult to find anyone who suits you.”
What was terribly difficult, Darcy knew, was to find anyone who could tolerate life with his aunt. Anne, for her part, was easy enough to get along with.
“I am not daft, Mother,” Anne replied. She shrugged, dropping her gaze to the floor. “I’m sure we’ll find someone who suits, but until then I will simply have to be companionless.”
“You? Impossible. How will you live? What will you do with yourself?”
Darcy winced at his aunt’s incredulous tone. Anne was a grown woman, not a child of six.
“I don’t know, Mother, but I am going to find out.” The expression Anne lifted from her contemplation of the carpet was resolute, much to Darcy’s surprise.
“Impossible,” Lady Catherine snapped. “I won’t have it. Someone of your station should not be without a companion. How could you show your face anywhere?”
“We don’t go anywhere,” Anne muttered.
“This is not to be borne,” Darcy’s aunt continued over Anne’s words. “I will not have a daughter of mine belittled by people thinking she can’t find a suitable companion.” Lady Catherine pursed her lips. “I wonder . . .” Her gaze traveled the room again. Beady eyes skimmed over Elizabeth with a grimace, and Richard in a contemplative way, before reaching Darcy. “Well, there is a simple solution. We can get a special license and you and Darcy can marry before Mrs. Jenkinson does.” She reached for a bell. “I’ll write to the archbishop immediately and the two of you can be married by—”
Darcy felt a familiar anger flare up inside him, made ten times stronger than usual by the knowledge that Elizabeth was witnessing his aunt ordering him about and trying to force him to marry Anne. “No,” he said in his firmest tone.
Darcy had never considered giving in to his aunt’s wish that he marry Anne, and his opposition to the idea had only grown along with his regard for Elizabeth. He set his jaw firmly, in the way he recalled his father doing when his mind was made up. It was time to set his aunt straight, once and for all, before Lady Catherine discovered his attachment to Elizabeth and took whatever mad steps she would be driven to. “I will never, under any circumstances, for any reason, marry Anne. You will give up this idea here and now.”
His aunt’s eyes went wide. She wet her lips, appearing nervous. Darcy couldn’t recall her ever looking even a little unsure before. She must have recognized his father’s tone, for he’d been even more formidable than Lady Catherine. “You must marry Anne,” she cried in a surprisingly pleading voice. “How else can I have a Fitzwilliam inherit Rosings?”
“I’m not a Fitzwilliam, but a Darcy. Anne is as much a Fitzwilliam as I am. Besides, I don’t believe in first cousins marrying,” he added in a less strident voice, casting Anne an apologetic look as it occurred to him how insulting his vehemence was.
“No, Anne isn’t a Fitzwilliam, and she isn’t your cousin, not by blood at any rate,” Lady Catherine cried, surging to her feet. “I am to hold Rosings for her until she marries, and it will be to a Fitzwilliam. I did not endure half a lifetime wed to Sir Lewis only to lose Rosings to another family.” As quickly as she’d risen, Lady Catherine flung herself back into her chair, blinking rapidly, a sheen of unshed tears brightening her hawkish eyes.
It was the first time in Darcy’s life he could recall having to consciously close his mouth because it was hanging open. A quick glance showed similar astonishment on the other faces in the room, even Anne’s. Lady Catherine smoothed her skirts, a nervous gesture, but her expression turned hard.
“What did you just say?” Richard croaked into the silence.
“I am Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s second wife.” Lady Catherine tilted her chin to an arrogant angle. “He married beneath himself, in a hurried and quiet way, to a woman named Smith with no family or connections. She died in childbirth days after the wedding. He married me six months later.”
Darcy could only stare at his aunt in shock.
“I’ve heard the occasional rumor . . .” Richard’s low voice trailed off.
“Which I am sure you subdued.” Lady Catherine’s words were more an order than a question.
“Aggressively, if needed,” Richard said, his syllables drawn out, revealing his shock. “Because I thought they were lies. I once dueled a man over it. I left him crippled.”
“As he deserved for spreading such filth,” Lady Catherine snapped.
Darcy wrenched his gaze from his aunt to look at Richard, whose face was white and pinched.
“She’s not your daughter?” Mr. Collins blurted out.
“She is my daughter. She has known no other mother, and I have had no other child.”
“How could you keep this from me?” Anne said, her voice cracking with the strain of her emotions.
Richard turned toward her, holding out a hand, which she clasped.
“There was no point in confusing you. You are too much like your mother already. She, by all reports, was meek and ineffectual. Not even strong enough to withstand bearing a child. Not the stuff a lady is made of. Your father was lucky he escaped the union so quickly.”
Mrs. Jenkinson gasped, stifling the sound with her palm. Darcy raised his eyebrows. Had his aunt just implied it was a boon Anne’s mother had died? He glanced at Elizabeth, to weigh her reaction, but her expression was carefully blank.
“My mother, Miss Smith,” Anne repeated, sounding as stunned as Darcy felt.
“Yes, Miss Anne Smith.” A hard smile curved Lady Catherine’s lips. “People assume I named you after my sister, but your father named you after your mother. Anne is a common name and people are simpletons.” She shrugged. “You’re insecure enough being the granddaughter of an earl. Would it have helped you to know you’re really the granddaughter of a miller?”
“It might have,” Anne said. “It might explain why I could never fit.”
“A de Bourgh doesn’t need to fit,” Lady Catherine said. “The world fits itself to a de Bourgh.”
“Not to me,” Anne whispered.
Darcy shook his head. What arrogance his aunt had. To keep such things from
Anne, to applaud Richard for wounding a man for speaking the truth, as if doing so was honorable, and to expect the entirety of the world to adjust itself to fit with her wishes. It was unreasonable. It was tyrannical. It went beyond pride.
Darcy had always assumed his aunt wished him to marry Anne because she wanted to know her daughter was well cared for, but it seemed that was untrue. Did Lady Catherine even care for Anne? Was Rosings her only true love? “You want me to marry Anne not because of any pact between you and my mother, but because you want Rosings to go to your sister’s grandchild?”
“When you were born, your mother and I speculated that if I ever had a daughter, the two of you might marry. When I married Sir Lewis, she knew about his child and we took it as confirmation for our earlier speculation. I’ve worked hard to make Anne into the prefect wife for you, Darcy. Your mother may be gone, but I’ve spent my life doing this for you. It’s best for the Fitzwilliam line, for Rosings, and for you. Now that you know the truth, and that your outlandish objection to cousins wedding is moot, I’m sure you see that you must marry her.”
Anne let out a small sound, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob. Though Richard still held one of her hands, Darcy could see the other trembled where it rested on the arm of her chair. He understood the inclination, for it seemed as if his gut has been rattled out of place. Elizabeth, in contrast, sat so still, he thought the others may have forgotten she was there.
He turned back to his aunt, realizing she was watching him through narrowed, assessing eyes. “I do not see any such thing. My marrying Anne may have seemed like a possibility when you were speculating with my mother, but it is not a possibility to me.”
“But I have overcome your objections. I’m offering you Rosings, you fool. Take it.”
“Forgive me for interrupting,” Richard said before Darcy could formulate a reply through the anger her arrogance sparked in him. “If you want Rosings to be inherited by someone related to you, Aunt Catherine, how about if I marry Anne?”
“No,” Elizabeth said, speaking for the first time.
Darcy turned to her, aghast. Could she have feelings for Richard? Yes, they’d been cordial to one another but . . . Darcy’s hands curled into fists.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, I’d thought better of you than this,” Elizabeth continued. “Miss de Bourgh is of age. You don’t court her mother, but her. That is no way to propose marriage. Whoever her mother is, Miss de Bourgh deserves better from you, all of you.” She ended her speech with a look toward Lady Catherine, who glowered back.
Richard blinked several times, obviously surprised. “Well, yes, I know that, but this is not a romantic proposal. Anne realizes that, I’m sure. What must be made clear is that we get on well enough and that I meet the requirement of being a Fitzwilliam.”
Anne yanked her hand from Richard’s, her expression revealing hurt.
“Her stepmother’s requirement, not hers,” Elizabeth said. She shook her head. “A woman deserves better than a man who delivers words of logic to a parent, or even to her. She deserves at least a modicum of passion. Such a decision cannot be made wholly on logic. It would be better to remain unwed for all time than to submit to an emotionless union.” She darted a glance toward Mr. Collins, whom Darcy had forgotten, and colored slightly.
“This is not a topic for you, you impertinent girl,” Lady Catherine snapped. “Speak again and I shall ask you to leave, all of you. Darcy, you will marry Anne. You cannot have a worthy objection.”
Darcy ignored his aunt, his attention on Elizabeth. Suddenly, everything came into place. For days, he’d been arranging the details of his feelings for Elizabeth in his thoughts, sorting the objections and obstacles into neat categories and applying logic to positives and negatives alike. Upon realizing he actually intended to propose to her, he’d planned to lay them out to her as he had to himself. He’d assumed a woman of her intelligence would appreciate a clear delineation of both sides of his argument for her hand. Listening to her defense of Anne, though, he realized that was obviously not the way to propose. “Let me show you,” he said to Richard.
Richard nodded, his expression bemused.
Instead of going to Anne, as Darcy imagined the others expected, he got down on one knee in front of Elizabeth. Reaching out, he captured the rose-adorned teacup and saucer she cradled loosely, his fingers brushing hers as he took the porcelain dishes and set them aside. Her eyes widened and he wondered if she realized he was serious in his actions. He predicted the others in the room did not.
Looking up into her lovely visage, Darcy took a steadying breath. “Miss Bennet, I ardently love and admire you. Your beauty is unrivaled, your wit unmatched. I’ve seen you use tact with people who lack it, and admired you for it. I watched your loving care of your sister when she was ill.” He noted how her eyes softened at the mention of her sister. Encouraged, he sought about for something more he could say about her family. “Your father is clever and your mother hospitable. Your older sister is kind, your middle sister is industrious in her pursuit of accomplishments, and your younger two sisters are cheerful and friendly.” There. That should cover that. Did he have to say something about her uncle the attorney and his wife? No. He’d already used hospitable for her mother, and he couldn’t think of anything else nice to say about them.
Elizabeth regarded him with raised brows, her delicate lips round with surprise, but it was the amusement dancing in her gaze that stabbed him. She was surprised, yes, but not by the ardor of his proposal, only by his behavior, which she obviously took as a joke. Any thought he’d had that she knew about his courtship was quenched.
Starting to feel foolish, Darcy realized he needed to cover his emotions before anyone saw the truth in them. Still on one knee, he turned to Richard. “Stress the positives,” he said in a conversational tone. “You may not love Anne, but you like her.” He got up, dusting off his knees. “Try.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at Elizabeth and the laughter in her eyes.
Richard stood, turning to face Anne. Hesitantly, he lowered himself to one knee, looking up at her. “Marry me. I am a poor soldier with no hope of more than a soldier’s life.”
“Talk about her,” Darcy said.
“Don’t talk at all and stand up this instant,” Lady Catherine said. “I will not have my drawing room turned into a stage where you make absurd and insincere proposals.”
Darcy’s face heated. He glanced at Elizabeth, who was looking pityingly at Richard. He realized he shouldn’t have stood. This was his opportunity. He’d started his proposal and he would finish it. He couldn’t let things stand as they were, for that would be ruin. After all, what man could hope to recover from a botched proposal?
Squaring his shoulders, Darcy held out a hand to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet.”
She turned to him, taking in his proffered hand with surprise. Her expression curious, she placed her palm in his and he pulled her to her feet. He didn’t release her, but instead brought her fingers to his lips.
“Miss Bennet,” he repeated, lowering but not relinquishing her warm hand. He leaned closer, hoping his eyes expressed what was in his heart. “I wish your sister were here, so I could use your Christian name freely, even if I would still have to put the word Miss in front of it.” He lowered his voice, not to keep the others from hearing, but because the intimacy of his feelings demanded it. “I say it in my mind over and over, savoring every syllable. Sometimes, to vary it, I use the nickname your family uses.”
She appeared truly shocked now, all amusement gone from her gaze. The hand he held trembled slightly, and he reached for her other, clasping both between them.
“I want you to be by my side as I go through life. I want you to be the mother of my children. I want to see you holding our child in your arms. I want to show you the beauties of Pemberley. I want you to be there to correct me when I am wrong and to encourage me when I am right. Elizabeth Bennet, will you marry me?”
“This is going too far,” Lady Catherine
cried.
From the corner of his eye, Darcy could see his aunt was on her feet, her face a deep red, but he didn’t take his gaze from Elizabeth’s. Hers searched his face, touching on it with an intensity he could almost feel. Her slender fingers tightened about his.
“You’re serious,” she breathed.
“He is not serious,” Lady Catherine shouted.
Mr. Collins appeared beside Darcy’s aunt, his gangly arms fluttering about. “Cousin Elizabeth, come away from Mr. Darcy this instant. Release his hands. How dare you behave in such a vulgar way in front of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” The clergyman sounded as if he might collapse into tears.
“You brought this fiend of a woman into my home,” Lady Catherine screeched, turning her anger on Collins.
“Enough,” Darcy said, relinquishing one of Elizabeth’s hands to face them. “Leave your lackey be, Aunt Catherine. I met Miss Bennet long before she came to Rosings.”
Lady Catherine was scowling at him, her chest heaving with the force of her anger. Mr. Collins cringed at her side, somehow crinkling his tall frame into something shorter than she was. Behind them, Mrs. Jenkinson sat in the corner looking perfectly composed, while Richard and Anne both wore surprised expressions.
“We are making a scene,” Darcy said, his tone quelling.
“We? You and Richard are making a scene. You are making jokes of yourselves,” Lady Catherine snapped.
“If we are, then I am not finished,” Richard said.
Darcy looked past Elizabeth to see Richard turn back to Anne, before whom he still knelt. “Anne, I can’t make an impassioned speech as Darcy did. I’m a simple man. I’m an honest man, as you know. I’ve never thought of you in a romantic way, but I can begin doing so. I think there is a great comfort in wedding someone you know well, and know you get along with. Many marriages don’t have passion. Many do, only to see it flicker out and leave nothing of substance in its wake. We already have the substance, you and I. That will carry us through all of the years, come what may, and, I dare to hope, it will see us happy.” Richard grinned. “Also, I am willing to sign a marriage contract which gives you half of the net income from Rosings and all of your dowry, and I believe you should have the freedom to spend what is yours.”
Epiphany with Tea: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 2