Darcy’s was opened and read first, and although addressed specifically, each letter proved to be comprised of the same language. They were summoned to the reading of the Last Will and Testament of Miss Anne de Bourgh on the morning of Tuesday next.
“The clerk awaits a response,” the butler stated when he saw all of the letters had been opened.
Darcy glanced at the colonel who nodded.
“We shall be there as directed,” Darcy confirmed.
As the butler turned to leave, the return of Lady Catherine was announced by the increasing loudness of her caterwauling.
“This is not to be borne! We cannot have a rotting body in the house. I must send another express at once. What care I if a royal infant wants christening? ’Tis merely a cousin. Darcy!” She turned into the room. “Join me in writing to hasten Anne’s service, else the Archbishop will not arrive until Monday! Is not His Grace some distant relation of yours on the Manners side, your father’s mother?”
She stopped abruptly at the disapproving faces of her younger family members. The men realised their breach of manners and jumped to their feet, and Georgiana seemed atremble where she sat. “And another thing… Are any of you aware of Anne keeping journals?” She cast a hard eye about the room. The belligerence of her voice did not inspire answers, either positive or negative, from her audience. “The most recent volumes are missing. I have set the servants to a thorough search of the house, including your rooms.”
She swept from the room, leaving startled silence in her wake.
Chapter 5
A Funeral
Monday, 13 April 1812
Waiting for an opening in the hectic calendar of Charles Manners-Sutton, The Most Reverend and Right Honourable Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, caused two days of delay in the funeral of Anne de Bourgh. To save attracting rats and sending odd smells afloat in Rosings, Lady Catherine agreed to have the body spend its last night outside the family crypt below stairs in the Hunsford church, where it was the duty of Mr. Collins to guard it from peril. It was excessively chilly there, and Lady Catherine reminded Mr. Collins, “A cool mind is a clear mind.” Her expression was wry; she had amused herself.
Early the following morning, Anne was fitted into her eternity box and carried outside to the lych-gates awaiting the pall bearers: Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy; Colonel Alexander Fitzwilliam; Theodore Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Matlock (Colonel Fitzwilliam’s father); James Fitzwilliam, the Viscount Scofbridge (the colonel’s elder brother and the earl’s heir); Kenneth Sapwater, Lord Dirthbevridge (elder brother of Regina, Countess of Matlock), and Sir Everett Sapwater (Lord Dirthbevridge’s eldest son).
The tolling of the bells warned Elizabeth and Charlotte that it was time to proceed to Rosings, and there they busied themselves with preparations as the funeral took place. Bells tolled again as Anne de Bourgh made her final journey to the family crypt, a conspicuous affair with ornate hawk heads at the corners rendered from a rather sickly green marble.
As was the custom in the best families, the women relations did not attend the funeral. Lady Catherine kept to her rooms. She did not care for Regina, her sister by marriage, and thought her name pretentious. What had her parents been thinking? Only the final tolling of the bells indicating the menfolk and the unwieldy number of carriages were processing to Rosings brought the two ladies from their chambers to wait silently in the receiving room.
Over an hour later, Darcy entered the receiving room behind the Archbishop. The shoulder feast was finished, but the sexes had not parted company. Lady Catherine had been adamant—for how else could she be?—that only family attend the meal, but the Archbishop had outflanked her by making invitations of his own. Thus had Mr. Collins been allowed at the table, though he nearly fell asleep in his lamb ragout. The townspeople were allowed in for coffee or tea.
Darcy glanced across to where Elizabeth stood at the coffee service, wearing a dove grey gown of mourning that did not imply familial grief, but it was a respectful colour befitting a family friend. She caught his gaze and nodded with genteel solemnity. He returned the gesture, and their eyes locked together. He would have shifted his notice to the slow entrance of Lady Catherine leaning heavily upon her brother the earl’s arm, but Elizabeth raised her brows as if to maintain Darcy’s attention.
“Are you well?” She mouthed the words silently, carefully, making sure he understood. Elizabeth was quite certain Darcy would never again allow himself to be drawn into private conversation with her. She did not know how to acknowledge his letter. Her harsh words in response to his proposal seemed petty indeed when weighed against this loss. She would not like him to think her uncivil. Some force from her heart compelled her to seek his attention, if only to learn whether he would grant it or cut her in a manner unnoticed by anyone but her.
Darcy blinked slowly, and mimed the word, “sad.” He was surprised that she would care about his emotions in the face of his insults to her and her family, but he knew she was capable of kindness, just as he was certain he did not deserve it. Yet here they were—together again—and to his astonishment, rather than fleeing, she sought his attention.
The corners of her mouth pulled into her cheeks in a tight mirthless smile of recognition, and she nodded, still meeting his eyes. Mourners were passing Darcy as he stood rather in their way, and he was forced to break his contact with Elizabeth’s compassionate eyes and knowing weary smile.
The congregation of mourners turned to face the Archbishop of Canterbury as he cleared his throat to read a simple statement of loss written by Lady Catherine and edited, rather heavily as it happened, by His Grace.
Instead of listening, Darcy stared at Elizabeth, admiring her profile. Sad does not begin to describe how I feel. Although I love you, Elizabeth Bennet, I misjudged you, confounded by my passion and my unfounded pride. You reveal yourself at every turn to be a truly good woman. Even though you despise me, you ask after my welfare. Am I always to be humbled by you?
Darcy looked to the colonel sitting with family in the best seats nearest the fire. His cousin was not stealing glances at the lady he was likely to court when the events of the funeral and meetings with lawyers and financiers were complete. Whilst in mourning, the courtship would be subdued, but surely, Alexander would take the present opportunity to introduce Elizabeth to his parents. An initial polite overture would make the necessaries less awkward when it came time for the colonel to announce his betrothal.
The earl stood and walked to Darcy. They patted each other’s shoulders, for they had previously managed no time for familial affection. Darcy turned his back towards the serving table. He hoped he might avoid the painful distraction of Elizabeth’s eyes. The two men spoke words of quiet commiseration. After a few moments, the colonel joined them.
Elizabeth served coffee to several clergymen, underlings of the Archbishop with whom she was not acquainted. The earl observed her around Darcy’s shoulder. “Tell me, Son,” he addressed Colonel Fitzwilliam, “I do not believe I have met the lady serving coffee. One of the village women, is she? She looks more refined than Hunsford could produce. Quite a prettyish sort of girl.”
The colonel barely flicked his eyes in Elizabeth’s direction but he could surmise of whom his father spoke. He hesitated.
Darcy felt all of the awkwardness of his cousin’s hesitance although he did not understand it. He cleared his throat with a glance at the colonel and produced the requested information.
“Her father has”—Darcy paused, stopping before blurting “a small estate,” fully and painfully knowledgeable of the acuity of Elizabeth Bennet’s hearing—“an estate, Longbourn, in Hertfordshire. She is the second eldest daughter. I paid calls upon them whilst staying in the neighbourhood last autumn. This lady is the particular friend of Mrs. Collins, the wife of Hunsford’s vicar, whom you see there pouring out tea. They were neighbours before Mrs. Collins married.”
Elizabeth heard it all—the pause in Darcy’s description when he might have disparaged the size or importance of Longbourn—and was amazed at the turn of his speech. He admitted to an acquaintance with her family. She would not have believed it of him had she not heard it for herself.
“Hmm!” The earl’s voice dropped. “She pours an elegant cup of coffee. Lovely hands. A handsome person. Perhaps a second daughter for a second son?” His elbow knocked his son’s. “Eh?” He then included Darcy in his speculations. “Well, which of you will introduce me?”
“Hardly the time, Father.” The colonel looked uncomfortable and glanced warily over his father’s shoulder at Lady Catherine.
Darcy stood looking at his uncle and cousin. What is wrong with Alex? Why does he not seize this opportunity? His father would smooth the path if he likes her. Darcy turned slightly, observing Elizabeth more indirectly than with his usual unswerving stare. She was standing alone, pairing additional coffee cups and saucers to keep busy.
“Miss Bennet?” Darcy heard himself say, and he took a step towards her, his uncle following with alacrity. “If I may?”
The earl smiled and nodded. The colonel shifted his weight.
“Uncle, may I present Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn? Miss Elizabeth, this is my uncle, the Earl of Matlock. He is Colonel Fitzwilliam’s father.”
Elizabeth executed a graceful curtsey, and the earl bowed over her hand. “Thank you, Darcy, for effecting an introduction. And thank you, Miss Bennet, for assisting my family today.”
“You are most welcome, my lord. Lady Catherine has been an attentive hostess on several occasions during my visit in Hunsford, and I am pleased to do whatever I am able in this time of sorrow.” Elizabeth met the earl’s eyes with sincerity.
The earl lowered his voice. “Attentive, Miss Bennet? Yes, you are good to be judicious where other words might be more accurate.” His eyes crinkled at the corners—eyes as used to smiling and being pleased as Lady Catherine’s were to frowning and finding fault.
Elizabeth smiled in return but maintained a diplomatic silence, save for the expressive raising of an eyebrow.
“Are you taking coffee, Brother?” Lady Catherine’s voice cut through the room like a cold rapier. “Pour it out, Miss Bennet. Do not stand there idle.”
Elizabeth turned away from Lady Catherine to hide a wider smile as all three men rolled their eyes.
“I shall take coffee, Miss Bennet. Alexander, fetch a cup of tea for your mother,” the earl suggested. The colonel moved away to speak to Mrs. Collins.
“How long do you stay in Kent, my lord?” Elizabeth asked as she handed the earl his cup.
“Not long. We have obligations that require our return to London tomorrow. My wife is not comfortable here in any case. My sister considers that I married beneath myself—no matter the wedding was thirty-five years and two fine sons ago—she never lets us forget.”
Elizabeth shook her head ruefully. She was not in the least surprised to hear of Lady Catherine being rude and ridiculous to a sister by marriage, even one who would precede her in the Fitzwilliam family order. “You are quite candid, my lord!”
“Your eyes inspire candour, Miss Bennet, do they not, nephew?” The earl turned to Darcy, only to see him lower his formerly appreciative gaze from this engaging young lady to study the pattern in the carpet.
“They do,” Darcy murmured.
Elizabeth subtly gripped the table, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks.
Darcy saw her delicate white knuckles tighten at the table’s edge, and wondered what it meant. He dared not return his eyes to her face. Surely, she was not daunted by the introduction to a nobleman.
The colonel returned with a cup of tea. The earl took a last quick glance from Darcy to Elizabeth and looked at his son. “Interesting, Alexander,” he muttered aloud and turned to sit with his sister. His son and nephew followed suit.
As the mourning guests began to leave, Lady Catherine arose from her seat intending to dismiss Elizabeth and Charlotte from their duties. Darcy did not see his aunt following him across the room as he was returning his uncle’s cup.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for introducing me to your uncle,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“You are most welcome, Miss Bennet. He requested an introduction.” Darcy searched her eyes for a moment of understanding.
“It was kind of you, sir.”
“You introduced her to your uncle?” Lady Catherine’s voice held a shrill edge of fatigue. It was tiring for her to maintain politeness whilst the Archbishop was in her home. “You forget yourself, Darcy!”
Darcy was also worn thin by the emotion of the day’s events and by being in the same room with Elizabeth for two hours even though fifty other people milled about. “Lady Catherine, you must certainly know Miss Bennet well enough to apprehend she would not presume upon such an introduction, especially one made during a time of mourning.”
Lady Catherine eyed her nephew and sniffed, “Hmm…well.” She turned to Charlotte. “Mrs. Collins, you and Miss Bennet are excused with my thanks.” She swept away, calling loudly for her maid.
Darcy’s annoyed features followed his aunt as she quitted the room. “My aunt is quite tired, I think. I must apologise if she has embarrassed you.”
The light danced in Elizabeth’s eyes. “Mr. Darcy, I have been here upwards of six weeks. Your aunt shows a remarkable consistency of character and temperament. She has been no worse today than any other. Do not make yourself uneasy.”
Darcy made an acknowledging shake of his head. “Yes, I am not surprised you have taken her measure.”
“She was too easily drawn out, whereas I did not understand another member of your family half so well as I should have.” She looked down quickly, hoping he would not mistake her meaning.
Darcy’s eyes searched Elizabeth’s downturned face but saw only a slow blush spread over her smooth cheeks. “If the person to whom you refer had been more forthcoming, if his manners were more civil or even amiable, perhaps you would have had an easier task of sketching his character.” Darcy handed the coffee cup to her rather than setting it upon the table, and as he had hoped, their fingers touched as Elizabeth took hold of the saucer.
The cup and saucer rattled in Elizabeth’s hand until she set them down. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said solemnly, her eyes full of understanding.
It was her seriousness that convinced Darcy she knew he had been speaking of himself when repeating the words she had once spoken, and she was not thanking him merely for returning an errant cup of coffee.
With relief at the end of the funeral gathering came an accompanying fatigue. Although in something of a mood to chide Alexander for appearing inept in not introducing Elizabeth to the earl, Darcy decided the matter could wait for another time. He neither knew nor cared where his cousin had gone. Instead, Darcy hid in the Rosings library and did not fight the drowsiness creeping upon him as he nursed a small portion of brandy before the fire.
A gentle hand lay upon his shoulder, and he glanced up, staring in recognition. Elizabeth Bennet was leaning over him with a slight smile on her lips and sparkles in her fire-lit eyes.
He smiled in return and sat straighter. “Miss Elizabeth…” He started to rise but pressure from her delicate hand and a shake of her head stilled him.
“Do not inconvenience yourself, Mr. Darcy. I have simply come to thank you for the service you rendered me today. It was kind of you to introduce me to your uncle—most kind indeed as well as unnecessary and undeserved.”
He started to speak, but he was silenced by the brush of her fingertips upon his forehead moving aside a wayward curl. This was followed by the softest kiss, placed where the curl had been. Forgiven! I am forgiven! He raised his hand to hers, still upon his shoulder. She grasped his, moved in front of him, and sat upon his th
ighs, looking intently into his face. She was blushing, and Darcy felt his colour rise with hers.
“You need not thank me for what was merely civil behaviour, Miss Bennet,” he breathed.
“On the contrary, Mr. Darcy. I am not in the least insensible to the awkwardness of our situation. You have done me a kindness, and now I would be consoled by returning the favour to you.”
Darcy was entranced as she lifted his hand to her lips. Suddenly he was aware of what she was wearing. Gone was the mourning grey; in its place was the evening dress she had worn on Easter when she had played the pianoforte for them. It would take only the nodding forward of his head to nuzzle the downy full flesh at her neckline.
Elizabeth shifted her weight in his lap. Her hand released his and rested calmly upon the fall of his trousers. His manly organ expanded rapidly beneath her hand, concerning him lest she should feel it. He was hoarse as he asked, “A favour to me?”
“What would you have of me, sir?” Her eyes were merry as she pondered. “A kiss?” She quickly brought her sweet lips to his and just as quickly pulled away. “A touch?” With her other hand, she plucked up one of Darcy’s and guided his warm fingers along the neckline of her bodice. The action raised her divine fragrance. “A caress?” The hand upon his trousers began to manipulate him, tentatively at first, then gaining confidence as she felt his response. “What will best soothe you, Mr. Darcy?”
At the risk of sounding greedy, his inclination was to request more of all three, but his words escaped in an inarticulate moan.
Elizabeth leaned into him, pinning his hand—which she had abandoned with two of his fingers hooked at her neckline—between them, filling his palm with her fluttering breast. Her lips were at his ear. “We shall not discompose my gown, sir, nor shall we raise my skirts. However, what we might do to your clothes is another matter entirely.”
A Will of Iron Page 5