Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“ M iss Bennet, eh?” Fitzwilliam asked his somewhat unkempt cousin as he chalked his stick the evening after the party from the parsonage had dined at Rosings.
“Miss Bennet, what?” Darcy asked sharply as he watched his own stick scratch the side of the white ball once again, causing it to roll limply to the right. Cursing his blunder, Darcy lifted his hanging head and attempted to school his features. He had been sure Fitzwilliam could not suspect his attachment to the young lady whose fine eyes had been haunting his dreams for months. He was wrong.
“I am not daft; I have eyes in my head. It is clear you have a tendre for her. Inviting her to Pemberley! Really, Darcy. Not that I blame you, of course—she is charming and clever and not at all bad to look at.” At receiving daggers from Darcy’s uncommonly unrested eyes, Fitzwilliam held up his hands in surrender and added, “Not that I have ever looked at her, mind you. As diverting as she is, you know I cannot marry without at least some attention to a lady’s fortune.”
Darcy did know that. As a second son, he would inherit very little; Fitzwilliam’s eventual wealth would have to come in the form of a wife’s dowry, and Miss Bennet had none. Not that such considerations had prevented his affable cousin from flirting with Elizabeth at every turn during the time they had been with their aunt. It rankled Darcy to the bone that Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth could converse so easily, while he struggled to declare his feelings aloud to her. Never before had a woman had such an effect on him, transforming him from an intelligent gentleman of sense and education into a pillow-tongued oaf just by turning her lovely face his way.
“And I must take into consideration a lady’s station in society, her family’s reputation, and her connexions,” Darcy answered, “no matter how charming and clever she is.” Was he prevaricating? He could not say, but something held him back from confessing his true motives regarding Elizabeth. He hoped his tone was cold enough that it did not reveal the agonising struggle such contemplations had wrought upon him, especially since his arrival in Kent.
“But you would marry her if she did not lack these things?” Fitzwilliam’s eyes spoke of sincere concern for his cousin’s welfare and, Darcy hoped, an understanding of his predicament.
Would I marry her? Could he go against society’s expectations, his exalted relations, even his own better judgment, for the sake of his heart’s yearning? It was becoming more and more clear to him that none of the obstacles he had meditated upon to put Elizabeth Bennet from his mind had been strong enough to overcome his ardent attachment to the lady. His diligent attentions to her morning after morning since he had come to Kent did not help, he supposed, but he had thought he was succeeding in meeting her on her walks without being detected by the party at Rosings. He had begun walking with her soon after his arrival intending to quell his feelings for her by getting to know her true character, hoping he might find some flaw.
This had failed miserably; his affection for her had only grown. It was unflagging.
But he could not tell that to Fitzwilliam.
Fitzwilliam had long been attached to Anne, from their youth if Darcy remembered correctly. Though Anne had changed, becoming more ill and lethargic over the years, he did not think Fitzwilliam’s affection had. Perhaps he did not love her as he once had, but it was no mystery to Darcy that Fitzwilliam still wished to see Anne de Bourgh well-settled, nurtured, and—most importantly—taken away from the crushing atmosphere of Rosings Park. If Darcy was not mistaken, his cousin was still holding out hope that his mother’s marriage contracts had secretly hidden away some small provision for the second son so Fitzwilliam himself could do just that. No matter how large her daughter’s fortune, Lady Catherine would never allow Anne to marry a penniless man.
No, Lady Catherine fully expected Darcy to be the one to take her daughter off her hands and would not allow Fitzwilliam to even think of such a thing for himself. It was clear that Fitzwilliam had become resigned to the inevitable and expected Darcy to do his duty by their cousin one day soon.
“I know you only ask out of concern for Anne’s future, Fitzwilliam. You two have been as thick as thieves since she was in leading strings, and I know you wish to see me eventually give in to the wishes of Lady Catherine on her behalf,” Darcy said with empathy, wishing yet again Lady Catherine would allow Fitzwilliam to take his place in her schemes. “I cannot promise you that will happen, but you need not worry for Anne at this moment, for whether I wish for it or not, Miss Bennet would not have me.”
“What lady in her right mind would refuse the master of Pemberley?” Fitzwilliam asked, attempting to lighten Darcy’s stormy mood, though the hand he clapped on his cousin’s back struck with a force that belied his jocular tone.
“The one lady in the world who has ever so much as caught my eye,” Darcy let slip in a wistful voice before clearing his throat and adding flatly, “and the one woman in Hertfordshire whom Wickham chose to single out and poison against me.”
“Wickham! What can that villain have had to do with Miss Bennet?” There was no humour in the colonel’s voice now, only stone-cold ire.
“He joined the militia regiment stationed in Meryton shortly after Bingley took up residence there. And he took a particular interest in Miss Bennet and her sisters,” Darcy explained with a sneer.
“After what he attempted with Georgiana, I would not put anything past the blackguard. A confidence man of no mean proportions, that one! I am only glad I was in Ramsgate to foil his nefarious plot before dear Georgiana was any the wiser.”
“I shudder to think what would have happened had you not intervened when you did. To this day, as far as Georgiana knows, he was just a childhood friend paying her innocent attention. If you had not sniffed out his plans to abscond with her to Gretna Green, Georgiana’s fate would have been disastrous.”
“How well I know it! I will never stop thanking Heaven I managed to come upon them when I did. How harshly Georgiana would have berated herself for having been taken in by such a practiced seducer, and if he had succeeded in getting her to leave with him—” Fitzwilliam stopped, as if the very thought of Georgiana’s living the rest of her life with such pain and regret tore his voice from his throat.
“Believe me, I know,” Darcy assured him. He himself had often thanked Providence that his cousin had gone ahead of him to Ramsgate in time to discover Wickham’s schemes of obtaining his young sister’s dowry of thirty-thousand pounds.
Fitzwilliam, along with being his oldest friend, had over and over again proved himself the truest. His attachment to Darcy and Georgiana was firm, having become closer to them in the past ten years than his own brother and sisters. Only with Darcy did Fitzwilliam let his guard down and speak frankly of his father’s cruel and belittling comparisons to Fitzwilliam’s elder brother, Viscount Reedsworth. Only to Darcy had he entrusted the state of his heart where his cousin, Anne, was concerned, openly confessing his resentment that Lady Catherine would not allow them to marry.
To everyone else, he was the fine conversationalist, quick to laugh, putting others at ease with his innate charm and good humour. On the field of battle, he wielded complete control over his troops because he had their complete loyalty. In the ballroom, or indeed the cramped drawing room at Hunsford Cottage, he beguiled the ladies with his handsome visage and friendly repartee.
More than once had Darcy watched in envious amazement as the woman he loved blossomed in the light of Fitzwilliam’s attention. Would she someday do the same for him? Would she let go of her innate deference for his wealth and station and allow herself to demonstrate her deep-seated devotion to him?
That day could not come soon enough.