Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
APRIL 1812
“ T here is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome,” Fitzwilliam Darcy had told their beguiling guest that evening in November. He had gone to Hertfordshire solely to help his close friend, Charles Bingley, to set up house on his first leased estate. He had not intended to be thrust into the company of the most enchanting and infuriating woman he had ever known.
“And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody,” Elizabeth Bennet had retorted with a fire Darcy could not help but relish. Her tongue was like a cracking whip in its speed and precision, and its sting only added to Darcy’s utter fascination with the country miss—a fascination that had flooded his every nerve these five months and counting.
“And yours,” Darcy had replied, unable to suppress a smile, “is wilfully to misunderstand them.”
Oh! How she had seemed positively delighted to misinterpret him! Everything he had said to her during his short sojourn had been twisted into an insult and thrown back in his face with a ferocity that had overset his senses. Elizabeth Bennet was truly glorious, and he had been, even then, in serious danger of falling in love with her.
A fact he had been wrestling with the entirety of the year of our Lord 1812.
How glad he was that, upon their second meeting, they had come to understand one another better! Indeed, finding her at his aunt’s home in Kent just before Easter had been a disconcerting surprise, one which had for several days discomposed him. However, Miss Bennet soon made him to know that her feelings towards him had very materially changed, even gently hinting that he should join her on her otherwise solitary walks through Rosings Park’s extensive gardens each morning.
That is not to say they spoke much during these wee-hour jaunts, but it was becoming clear he no longer brought out in her the fury and ire he once had. A part of him was gratified she now respected him more and chose not to interpret his every word as a veiled insult. Another greater part of him missed their banter, the turn of her mind as they sparred, the witty way she had of stabbing him in the gut and making him revel in the pain. He was sure that, as the years went by, she would lose her awe over his station, his wealth, and all he was offering her and would again be comfortable expressing her pert opinions and upbraiding him with her fine eyes.
Even Lady Catherine, who valued her own opinions above anyone else’s, had to concede that dinner conversation became rather dull with only herself, her invalid daughter, Darcy, and his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, at the table. It had not been difficult to convince her to invite the parsonage party to dine at the great house after he had arrived.
And so, here they were—Lady Catherine’s doting vicar Mr Collins, his wife, who was a particular friend of Miss Bennet, that lady’s younger sister, and his Elizabeth.
Not his yet, he supposed, but it was only a matter of time.
The clinking of their spoons as they ate the grainy broth set before them was barely audible over Lady Catherine’s imperious voice. The dining hall at Rosings Park was impressively massive, with every leaf remaining in the obscenely long table even during intimate gatherings such as the one she hosted this day. Elizabeth Bennet wondered if the room had been designed to ensure that Lady Catherine’s voice carried from one end to the other, for it certainly did.
This was the first time Elizabeth had been invited for a formal dinner at that grand table since her arrival in Kent three weeks prior. Though her primary thought in coming to the southern county was to visit her dearest friend Mrs Charlotte Collins, she could not help but to admit she had also nurtured a deep curiosity to experience Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s reportedly unfathomable wisdom and solicitude.
These claims she had heard from Mr Collins ad nauseam during his short visit to her home several months before, as he also happened to be a distant cousin of Elizabeth herself. Indeed, that sycophantic gentleman, who no doubt wished he sat at Lady Catherine’s right, was waxing eloquent regarding the finery with which she set her table.
“Miss Bennet,” their hostess addressed her vicar’s guest without preamble, “I understand you are a great reader. Have you enough to amuse you in the library at the parsonage?” Before Elizabeth could answer, however, Lady Catherine continued, “Of course not, for such a small library could not possibly hold a selection as might cater to the tastes of a young lady. Especially not the library of a clergyman.”
Mr Collins bowed to his patroness as if he had been given a great compliment, awkwardly scrunching his body in half while still seated, and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.
“You shall come to Rosings and peruse the shelves of Sir Lewis’s library. I cannot say I am a great reader myself, for my mind is so naturally replete that I see no reason to pour information into it, but Sir Lewis was quite attentive to his book-room and spent much of each day in it from almost the first moment of our marriage.”
Elizabeth lifted her tumbler to hide the smile that crept up at the thought of a young Lady Catherine being abandoned by her husband as soon as their wedding tour had ended. It did not surprise her one jot that a man might prefer the solace and silence of a library to the constant, inane chatter of his abundantly informed young wife.
Averting her eyes from her hostess, her gaze fell upon the lady’s taciturn nephew, who also had his cup raised to his lips. Is Mr Darcy laughing at a similar thought? Not possible, for if there was one thing Elizabeth knew about Mr Darcy, it was that his thoughts never aligned with her own.
Elizabeth turned towards the sound of a soft cough. Miss de Bourgh did not look as wan this evening as she had when they had been first introduced. Her lips and cheeks had more colour, and she held herself a bit taller. Elizabeth wondered if having her betrothed so near restored some amount of Miss de Bourgh’s vivacity. Could theirs be a love match, then?
Well, Elizabeth wished them well. Perhaps they could reproduce until their misery spread through all of Derbyshire, she thought ungenerously.
No, she could not countenance the man. And she certainly could not imagine that she and he might both be attempting to quell a laugh at his exalted aunt’s expense.
She choked a bit on her barley water, therefore, when Mr Darcy, holding her gaze, raised one eyebrow and gave her an almost imperceptible tilt of the head.
When the entire table turned their attention to Elizabeth to ascertain what had caused such a fit, she took the opportunity the momentary silence afforded to clear her throat and offer, “Mr Darcy, I understand the library at Pemberley to be very grand.”
“Yes, as we have discussed, it has been the work of many generations. I believe you would particularly appreciate it, Miss Bennet,” he answered as if speaking only to her.
“I am sure I would, should I ever have the opportunity,” she agreed. Indeed, if not for having to suffer Mr Darcy’s company, she would have delighted at the thought of roving about in such a great repository of knowledge and creativity.
“Did you not say you intend to visit Derbyshire this summer? You and your party must come to Pemberley. Georgiana and I shall give you a tour,” he offered warmly, as if, again, he had read her thoughts.
Elizabeth was shocked at the openness with which he invited her into his home, even into his revered sister’s company. What could he mean by it? The raised eyebrows on the countenances of both Miss de Bourgh and Colonel Fitzwilliam, cousins to Mr Darcy, told her she was not the only one startled by such an invitation.
“What say you, Colonel?” Elizabeth asked the man to her right in an effort to lighten the spirit of a room whose mood had suddenly become decidedly heavy. If anyone could lend a measure of levity to their intercourse, it was Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Can the library at Pemberley possibly live up to the magnificent descriptions I have heard?”
“I must admit, Miss Bennet, it is perfection itself,” he answered with a sly smile. “I spent many summers perusing the shelves as a youth, pulling out volume after volume looking for one that would trigger a trap door or open into a secret chamber.”
“And did you ever find such an interdicted passageway?” Elizabeth asked, excited at the thought of such intrigue in what she imagined to be a staid, quiet home. For no house superintended by the likes of Mr Darcy could possibly be the least bit interesting.
“Indeed, I did, though I shall never show it to Darcy.” He laughed, waggling his eyebrows at his exasperated cousin, who had clearly heard such claims before. Whether Miss de Bourgh or Lady Catherine had heard of it, Elizabeth could not say, for they were both more interested in the food which had been set before them than in joining the conversation. Finally, she thought.
“You are too apt to crow over a victory to have discovered such a thing. If there is indeed a secret room hidden in the belly of Pemberley’s library, and you had found it, there is no way you could have kept it secret,” Mr Darcy accused his cousin playfully, surprising Elizabeth by the lightness in his tone.
“And you are too sceptical for your own good. You ought to learn to trust people, especially your own flesh and blood,” the colonel said with feigned affront before bending towards Elizabeth and whispering, “Now I shall have to take it to the grave if I ever do find the blasted thing.”
Elizabeth stifled a laugh as Mr Darcy rolled his eyes at his cousin’s theatrics. Turning to her, he then confided, “I have actually been contemplating making some improvements to Pemberley’s library.”
“Can one improve on perfection?” Elizabeth asked, one brow arched. “Surely you cannot but add to its charms by new and interesting volumes.”
“I do not believe I could improve it elementally, but I find the lighting in the library inconvenient for reading at the hours I am most able to indulge in the pastime. I have been thinking of doing some renovations to the room itself.” With that, he looked to his cousin with a smirk, saying, “So, as regards your supposed secret door, I imagine I shall find it for myself soon—if such a mysterious passage exists.”
“Renovations!” Lady Catherine gasped, her spoon dropping with a loud clank into her bowl, her eyes wide in horror as her broth splashed over its rim. “What can you be thinking, Darcy? To deface such hallowed grounds as Pemberley’s venerable library! Why, for Lady Anne’s sake?—”
Elizabeth was taken aback by the vehemence of Lady Catherine’s avowals regarding a home she did not have any claim to. Though, upon further thought, she supposed she should not have been. Her ladyship had been more than generous, Mr Collins had informed her, in her advice on the best use of space and positioning of furniture at the parsonage. Why, she had even been so helpful as to insist the rector place shelves in the closets!
Mr Darcy’s jaw tensed, and he cast his aunt an unconcealed glare. “I thank you not to speak of my mother,” he spat, the jovial tone of a moment before conspicuously absent.
Apparently, Elizabeth was not the only one taken aback by the volume and passion of Lady Catherine’s reaction to Mr Darcy’s rather innocuous statement—or of her nephew’s frigid response—for Miss de Bourgh exchanged a nonplussed look with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth was heartened to see Lady Catherine’s relations expressing mortification over her exuberant exclamation; evidently, Elizabeth’s mother was not alone in her ability to make her family members blush.
Mr Darcy’s mother, however, seemed to have elicited a much more hostile response in her son. Elizabeth studied him, noting the grim line of his mouth and the severe way he gripped his spoon.
What could Lady Anne Darcy have done to anger him so?