by J. L. Ashton
Collins whimpered and tiptoed away.
The earl reached over to thump his son on the head before chastising the heaving, petrified-looking Mr. Collins.
“I would have thought you a yea-and-nay man, but you are a pudding head if ever I saw one,” he growled. “Now obey your betters, and my son will not have your gossiping tongue.”
Collins swallowed and bowed his head.
Richard snorted. “If my aunt would pay for more household help, that jingle brains would never have made it in here.”
“Do not dare insult me, young man,” scolded Lady Catherine. “No estate in the country is run as well as Rosings.” She sniffed and then, quick to her purpose, focused her ire on her youngest nephew, who—weary of the drama--was quietly watching events unfold.
“As for you,” she cried, pointing at Darcy. “Your sister will come live with me. You abandoned Anne and your promises to her, breaking her heart and spirit and hurtling her into the arms of that catamite, that awful little painter.”
“Bloody hell,” murmured Richard. He glanced at his father to ensure the earl’s angry fists were not within reach of his head. “She speaks a truth at long last.” He noticed his cousin stood perfectly still, his expression bland and unreadable. Darcy’s attention was focused on their aunt as she neared them, waving her hands in the air and screaming angrily about his character. How does he stay silent?
Lady Catherine’s diatribe against Darcy continued. “Now you are off gallivanting in the marriage mart, pushing up skirts and spilling seed,” she hissed. “That is no example to set for a young, wide-eyed girl. Your sister must not turn out like Anne, ruined by a low-born man.”
The room fell silent. Collins turned and peered at Darcy as though seeing him for the first time. “So murder was not your plan, and Miss de Bourgh lives in lustful sin by her own choice? You have been cuckolded, in truth, but you frolic about as a ladies’ favourite.”
“You are an ass,” Richard choked out angrily before a raw laugh rippled out of his throat. “Where is my sword?” His father glared at him and then at Lady Catherine, whose face slowly shifted from fury to incredulity as Collins’s words dawned on her.
“This is insanity.” The earl shook his head as his son’s bitter laughter grew louder.
“There is no humour in this story! This is a tragedy!” Lady Catherine cried. “My Anne is the victim of a grand schemer, lost to me and to her inheritance. If Darcy had done his duty, none of this would have occurred!”
“Insanity,” the earl repeated loudly, as he often did when feeling his opinions were being overlooked.
Collins stood to his full height and neared his patroness. “Lady Catherine, this is an outrage. Miss de Bourgh is a victim of greed and sinful lust, and she is beyond saving. But my parsonage! My parishioners need me. I need my home!”
Lady Catherine stumbled backwards towards her chair. She shook her hand at the vicar. “You! You are as selfish as my nephew! And you are an idiot! I never said she was dead. You assumed it and spread your slanders.”
Collins stepped back as though she had slapped him. “No…I was—”
“Reddington!” the earl bellowed.
The ancient footman hobbled over to the red-faced patrician.
“Take this man to the study, where he will remain until I deem his company necessary to the conversation. Lock him in.” Lord Matlock glared at Collins before sending his sister a withering stare. Collins meekly followed Reddington, throwing but one beseeching look back at the assemblage.
“My parishioners…my lambs need my guidance,” he whispered to himself.
When the doors closed, the earl turned to his sister and spoke in a steely voice.
“Catherine, your daughter is alive.”
“I never said she was dead—it was that fool who misunderstood. I said she was ‘dead to me.’”
“He is an idiot, as you say, but you knew what he assumed and did nothing to stop the lie from spreading. The fault is yours, Sister. Anne is married and with child. It is well past time to issue an edict that a mistaken communication circulated whilst you were away from Rosings, and Anne and her husband have returned from their extended wedding trip.”
She stared at him. “No. I forbid it.”
“Catherine, I warned you of Bedlam. Be reasonable. They cannot live in the parsonage. My son and nephew report filthy conditions and limited food and funds. Do you wish Anne to sell her possessions in order to eat? Her jewels?”
When his sister remained impassive, the earl sat down next her. “Cathy, she carries your grandchild, the heir to Rosings. Lewis’s grandchild.”
For a moment, the fierce expression on her face softened. Just as quickly, the anger returned. “No! I shall not have Anne’s fancy man and that base-born child in my home.”
“Well, then it is a good thing the dower house is at your disposal. The boys have secured maids, footmen, and cooks for Rosings. Mayhap your daughter and her husband, fancy though he may be, will lend you one or two.”
“Rosings is my house!” she roared.
“No, madam, it is not.”
All heads turned as Darcy stepped forward, speaking in a low voice.
“I have toiled for years with your stewards, all four you have employed over the course of the past eight years. Your late husband’s will provides for Anne at the age of nine and twenty, an age she attained just days ago. Rosings is hers, and neither your angry temper nor stubborn will can alter that fact.”
“But—!” she sputtered.
“Ah yes, argue with me, fight with me, slander my family name,” Darcy spat out. “It is by your word that good people who know only that name look upon me as a seducer of women and, how did you say it, ‘spilling my seed’?”
He shook his head in disgust, barely holding onto his self-control. “Your own vicar has spread lies about me and about an innocent lady.” He could not bear to think on the pain Elizabeth might have experienced by his own thoughtlessness. “You used me, my name, to justify your actions, your lies. To cast off your daughter.”
“I did not claim you as the child’s father! I did not claim any child.”
“No, you simply encouraged the view of me as the Grieving Groom, bereft of his ‘beloved betrothed’ and cavorting about country estates pushing up skirts. Have you no shred of decency?”
“I did not say those exact words, Nephew! Idle people will talk, create explanations, and—”
“Gossip. Which begets lies and ruins reputations.” Lord Matlock glared at his sister. “You have brought shame on the family.”
“Anne brought shame,” she retorted in a wild voice. “Not I.”
Darcy held steady, a severe expression on his face, his body near motionless. “You wished to cast off Anne? You cannot. She is soon to Rosings, by my estimate. When and if Mr. and Mrs. Peregrine Dumfries or their steward has need of my advice, I shall give it. But as for you, dear aunt, sister to my beloved mother—I cast you off.”
“How dare you—!”
Darcy spun on his heel and nodded at his male relations. “Uncle, Richard, I am for Darcy House.”
He needed to be away from this madness. He needed to fix his mind only on Elizabeth, on how to improve her opinion of him, on how to mend their friendship and make her amenable to not only continuing it but to see him as a better man, a more honest man. A man who loves her and is worthy of her love.
It would begin tomorrow evening. He was to see her—to dine in civilised company after a day of mendacious accusations and bitter revelations. He now knew what that damnable simkin Collins had said about him, had whispered to everyone within earshot, and if it had slandered him, the injury was far worse to Elizabeth.
“First your cousin, and now mine, their names and reputations besmirched!”
Worthless, ma
licious little fool. Could Wickham have said even worse? Elizabeth said she believed neither man. She did believe in his good character but lacked the truth about his situation. Yet, in spite of her anger, disappointment, and hurt, she had believed in and defended him. That was something to think on and appreciate. It might be more than he deserved, but it was a beginning. It must not be an end.
***
Elizabeth waited until the door closed and Mr. Darcy’s carriage moved away before sinking into a chair. She was shocked and miserable. He had thought of her as he would a man: likeable for easy conversation. Somehow, that had led him to think her worthy of courtship? He loved her, yet would leave her once again for an estate where better-situated marital prospects awaited? She tempted him?
It was nonsense, all of it.
He could not love her. He might claim enjoyment of her company as he would Miss Bingley’s: as an acquaintance without claim on his affections or intentions. A poor country maiden who reads Defoe and Milton must be such a novelty in the grand world of Fitzwilliam Darcy. And he thinks I would fit into his world? He wants me to?
He is so stupid. But he loves me. Or so he says.
“Lizzy, are you well?”
Elizabeth put down her book and smiled at her aunt. “I am well, simply fatigued and perhaps a bit touched by Henry’s cold.”
“So, Mr. Darcy played no part in prompting this quiet demeanour?”
“Somewhat, perhaps.”
“I am not unaware of conversations at Longbourn. Jane has written of her happiness with Mr. Bingley and of her concern with your mother’s favourite, Mr. Wickham.”
Elizabeth sat up straighter. “Her favourite, she says?” Oh, Mama, you are a fool.
“Your sister and Mr. Bingley have done their best to quiet her since you left, but she seems to believe you were wronged by Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Gardiner peered closely at her niece. “Do you agree?”
“No, not as my mother sees it. He misunderstood my…my situation, but we were nothing more than friends and chaperones to Jane and Mr. Bingley.”
“That is all? It goes no deeper?”
“We…” Elizabeth searched for the words. “We enjoyed a rapport and shared many interests.” She added softly, “It was unusual for both of us, I believe.”
“I know a little of the Darcys and their estate near Lambton. Every word I hear is complimentary. Mr. Darcy’s parents were kind and generous to Pemberley’s tenants, and he has continued that tradition since becoming master.”
Elizabeth cringed at the reminder of the man’s earlier sorrows. “Mr. Bingley mentioned that Mr. Darcy’s parents had died.”
“Yes. I was perhaps sixteen years of age when his mother died in childbirth. He would have been a young boy. His father passed not five years ago.”
“Oh.” This knowledge did not surprise her; he was master of Pemberley, was he not? Mr. Bingley had made mention of Mr. Darcy’s role as guardian to his sister, but had he ever spoken about his parents? Elizabeth had never truly considered his mother or how losing her when he was but a young boy might have affected him. It seemed, perhaps, that his wish for a family beyond the small one formed by him and his sister was genuine and heartfelt. As thankful as she was for her aunts, uncles, and cousins, Longbourn, filled with her parents and her noisy, oft-time irksome sisters, was the centre of her life. The Darcys’ quiet demeanours now made more sense.
“Lizzy, he is a good man. He is far above us, yet he has twice come to our door to seek you out.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth blushed and looked down. Stupid and in love.
“And we are to dine with him and his sister tomorrow. Do you mind my accepting his invitation?”
“No, I suppose I do not.”
The sound of a wailing child caught their attention.
“Do think on why he comes here, Lizzy,” she added, her eyes twinkling. “And do not think me like your mother when I ask you to smile a little more at him.”
“Aunt Gardiner!”
“He could use a little liveliness, and you could use a little happiness.”
“I also could use a bit of explanation from the man—some answers to his many mysteries.”
“Ah, but that is the best part of courting and love: the mutual and happy discoveries.” With a wry smile, Aunt Gardiner squeezed Elizabeth’s hand and went off in search of the increasingly loud, unhappy child.
Elizabeth groaned and mumbled at her aunt’s retreating back, “My mother would be proud of you!”
***
Darcy’s nerves remained turbulent the day after confronting Lady Catherine. He had tossed and turned all night, pondering Elizabeth’s rejection and his aunt’s unspeakable, implacable attitude.
Now, as the morning sun peeked through the curtains, he stared at the wall, determined to put the de Bourgh disaster out of his mind and think only on the problems affecting his heart.
He regretted not following Richard’s parting advice to smash out his frustrations with his fencing foil. “Imagine a melon to be Lady Catherine’s head. Or mayhap a sour lemon would be a better fit?”
Ah, the rotten fruit metaphors…Richard could find sick humour in their aunt’s madness, but it was no joke to Darcy. He had become increasingly determined to protect his sister from this appalling branch of his mother’s family. Were the roots decayed and dying, taking his mother’s life, his aunt’s mind, and Anne’s reason?
As happened so frequently, Elizabeth’s blushing, glowing face appeared before him. She was so full of health, happiness, intelligence, and kindness. Of course, he was drawn to her. He had thought her drawn to him as well; in fact, he was sure she enjoyed their conversations. Yet he had been a wiseacre not to recognise how others might view their friendly rapport and a fool to assume she was betrothed. Damn it, he was a man who demanded answers from his steward, his solicitors, his housekeepers, and his servants, so why had he been unable or unwilling to ask questions about her? Fear? Cowardice? Envy? Did he wish to avoid knowing too much of her happiness with another man?
She made him both weak and foolish. It was an astonishing feat, yet she was entirely unconscious of it. She prompted emotions in him that suppressed his natural actions, and he knew he was lost. He had everything to prove to this woman who had suffered gossip and rumour but stood up to those back-biters who impugned him.
Wickham. Good lord! Hearing that man’s name cross Elizabeth’s lovely lips was infuriating, but it was the final push Darcy needed—in spite of all the risks involved—to once again change his travel plans. How had he ever dared think it was appropriate to visit Marlbourn, play out his aunt and uncle’s wife-hunting fantasies, and then inform Elizabeth of his plans? His thoughtlessness made him shudder in disgust. He deserved her anger. He must prove that he was a better man than he had shown her.
Richard would laugh at his foolishness and mock him for his ding-dong ways, but he determined that, before he and Georgiana could head to Pemberley, they would pay a visit to Longbourn. They would go to Hertfordshire, and he would face down the whispers. He would show Elizabeth and her family every courtesy, act as a friend, and prove that he had not deserted her nor made promises he would not honour. He would continue courting her. No matter her reaction, he would remain her friend. Oh, what a bleak prospect mere friendship would be.
He penned a note to the duke informing him that a family issue would suspend their plans to visit Marlbourn. It would be, he scowled, attributed to Anne’s “death” and her mother’s need for him. He was sickened by the thought and let his mind wander, imagining what his mother would have thought of the situation. In light of all that had occurred, he hoped she would have approved of his cutting ties with her sister. She might also, as he had, question the Fitzwilliam bloodlines and wonder whether her sister’s weakness was in the head rather than the heart.
Darcy wrote a se
cond note, this one to Bingley, informing him that he and Georgiana would pay a short visit on their way to Pemberley. Then he began idly jotting down thoughts he wished to convey to Elizabeth. Ten minutes of pen to ink, and he had begun a letter explaining his family’s delicate situation, his aunt’s deception, and the careful subterfuge they had undertaken to protect Anne and the Fitzwilliam name. As he wrote, he felt lighter, as if he were in actual conversation with the intended recipient and mindful of her response to his words. He hoped she would be pleased by his adjustment of his travel plans.
***
Darcy’s “just slightly older but impressively more worldly” cousin burst through the doors near tea time. Somewhat annoyed at the man for his constant presence at Darcy House, he leaned back in his chair.
“Have you nowhere else to be, Richard?”
“I escorted your sister here. I believe that arduous work merits a tumbler of brandy and perhaps a dinner away from my parents.”
“You need more friends. Georgiana and I have an engagement this evening.”
“An engagement? Do tell.”
Darcy did not respond. Richard took a new approach.
“What are you writing there, Cousin?”
“I am sending a note to my solicitor. We have one or two outstanding matters to address before Georgiana and I leave town.”
“Ah yes, Marlbourn.” Richard furrowed his brows. “I thought I might join you there.”
“Or go yourself, as we shall not.”
“What do you mean? Buxom ladies await!”
“You are a single-minded man.”
“Double-minded, actually.” Richard smirked. “My mind prefers a dual cup of bounteous goodness.”
Darcy snorted in disgust. “Yes, oh son of Venus.”
“You truly mean to disregard my father’s marching orders?”
“Yes.”
“And leave me alone here?”
Darcy looked at his cousin and sighed. “Seriously, why are you here? What do you want of me now?”