Chapter Ten #2
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood apart in one corner of the ballroom, surveying the dancers with a deepening scowl.
It was Christmas Eve, and instead of being home with his father and Georgiana, he was here.
Aunt Tilda’s Christmastide balls were always amongst the most lavish affairs, yet they held no appeal for him.
He would far rather be at Pemberley, lighting the yule log and overseeing the decorations.
But Father and Georgie were in London as well.
“Go, Fitzwilliam,” George Darcy had wheezed. “There is nothing you, or anyone, can do for me. Spend the holidays in frivolity as a young man ought. I promise I shall not expire while you are at Matlock House.”
Darcy had offered him a glass, lowering his voice with resolve. “Do not speak so. You are not going to die.”
“You must cease telling yourself that; it will hurt all the more when I do, son.” His father coughed, accepting the drink with a tremor of the hand. “We have much to speak of before that day arrives, but for now, you must attend your aunt’s ball.”
Darcy had frowned at that. “It is dreadful of Aunt Tilda to act as though nothing is amiss. We ought not to be making merry when—”
His father interrupted him, denying him an opportunity to continue.
“Tilda acts as ever she has done—hiding her grief and nerves behind entertainments. Do not hold it against her. Now, wear your dark-blue waistcoat, the one embroidered with the silver thread. And have Brisby tie your cravat into something more fashionable than that sorry knot you persist in wearing.”
In the end, his father had persuaded him, but attending did not oblige him to dance.
The present returned. A voice broke through his brooding. “Why are you scowling, Darcy?”
Lieutenant Richard Fitzwilliam sauntered up, his red coat bright beneath the candlelight, gold buttons gleaming. “Do you not know that it is nearly Christmas?”
Darcy regarded him evenly. “I am not disposed to frivolity, Cousin.”
Richard‘s good humour softened. “Is your father very ill?”
“He is. I fear he will not live beyond Twelfth Night.” The admission constricted Darcy’s throat; he drew a steadying breath.
“I am sorry, Darcy.” Richard clasped his shoulder with feeling. “I shall be here for you…when the time comes.”
“Georgiana will need you as well.”
Darcy’s attention was captured suddenly by a lovely young woman attending Lady Westland. “Who is that?”
Richard turned, his mouth turning down in disapproval. “That is Mrs Elizabeth Fiennes. It seems she has wormed her way into Suzanne’s favour. My mother says her sister insisted on inviting the couple, and Mama did not consent until enquiries were made.”
Darcy’s gaze remained fixed on the lady. “And?”
“And nothing remarkable was discovered. Mr Fiennes owns an estate in Hertfordshire; he met his wife in the country. She is the second daughter of an insignificant country gentleman. Little enough to know, save that the husband earns his living lending money.”
Darcy’s brow knit. “A usurer? Why would your mother admit such a man—and his wife—into her house?”
“It is a favour for her sister, or so I am told.”
“That hardly explains it.” Darcy folded his arms, unwilling to relinquish the subject, though his eyes did not leave the enchanting vision beside Lady Westland.
She had beautiful chestnut curls, but they were arranged in a fashion ill-suited to her fine features.
Her gown, midnight blue trimmed with ivory embroidery, fitted to perfection, enhancing every advantage of her figure.
Teardrop earrings and an elegant sapphire necklace emphasized her high cheekbones and long neck.
“What could Lady Westland’s fascination with her be?” he asked, his gaze following the ladies as Suzanne introduced Mrs Fiennes around the room.
“Whatever it is, Mama is standing behind her. You had best keep your distance, Darcy. I do not like her husband at all. Fiennes is not what he seems.”
Darcy turned to his cousin. “How can you be certain?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
“’Tis just a feeling.” Richard’s feelings were rarely wrong. “Stay away from her, Darcy. I can see your interest. She is married and out of your reach.”
Darcy looked affronted. “I would never!” he insisted, lowering his voice so they would not be overheard.
“I was not accusing you of anything.”
Suddenly, Lady Westland approached, her young protégé on her arm. “Darcy, Richard, I am pleased to see you both. Pray, allow me to introduce you to my dear friend, Mrs Elizabeth Fiennes.”
Both gentlemen bowed. Darcy straightened, pleased with the opportunity to speak with the handsome lady despite his cousin’s warning.
“Mrs Fiennes, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said kindly.
Richard murmured in agreement. Filled with a sudden desire to dance with her, he asked if she had a set left unclaimed.
Her cheeks went red. “I am afraid I am not of a disposition to dance tonight.” She sounded apologetic as she exchanged a heavy look with Lady Westland. The latter seemed to understand some hidden message and patted her hand.
“There is no need to worry, Elizabeth,” she said. “No one will fault you.”
Before Darcy could reply, a man approached. His expression seemed tightly controlled, and his gaze stayed on Mrs Fiennes. Her husband, he realised.
“Mr Fiennes, how kind of you to join us!” Lady Westland sounded cheerful, but there was bite to her words that Darcy did not understand. “I have been introducing your wife to some of my friends.”
“Will you introduce us, Aunt?” Richard asked. Darcy could feel his cousin’s posture stiffen beside him.
“Certainly. Richard, Darcy, this is Mr Damian Fiennes. Mr Fiennes, my nephew Lieutenant Richard Fitzwilliam and his cousin, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.” Lady Westland said it all with humour in her voice—she delighted in the ridiculous, and with a nephew older than herself, one could not help but be amused by it.
“Gentlemen,” Fiennes said, bowing stiffly. “It is a pleasure. Please do excuse me, however. I need to speak with my wife.”
Darcy saw a flash of fear in Mrs Fiennes’s eyes before she cast her gaze to the floor and nodded.
The vibrancy he had watched from across the room had vanished, replaced by a colourless, silent being.
The pair departed without another word. Lady Westland watched them, her pleasant expression turning to a scowl.
“I cannot abide that man,” she hissed. “I will put up with him for the sake of his wife, though.”
“Is she worth it, Suzanne?” Richard asked. “The penniless daughter of a country squire is hardly fit company for a countess.”
Lady Westland rounded on her nephew. “You will not speak of Elizabeth in that manner ever again,” she hissed. “You do not know what she has endured—what she daily endures.” She folded her arms stubbornly.
Richard studied his aunt, and Darcy saw the moment comprehension fell on him. “You have an affinity to the woman because of shared experience?” he asked.
That reveals nothing, Darcy griped internally.
Lady Westland nodded. “I must protect her, Richard,” she murmured. “I must protect her as I never was.”
“There is only so much that you can do,” Richard said consolingly. “You cannot be with her all the time.”
The lady sighed heavily. “I know. But I can give her the tools she needs to survive without me.”
The conversation shifted, leaving Darcy more baffled than before. I shall have to corner Richard later, he thought. I believe I am owed an explanation.
Unfortunately, Darcy never had the chance—his father passed onto his reward just after Twelfth Night, plunging him into sorrow of the acutest kind, and heaping more responsibility than ever before on his young shoulders.