Chapter 5
M y cousin reluctantly agreed to my veiled suggestion that we defer a visit to the local tavern until we had cause to properly drown our sorrows.
This restraint, however, meant we had little to do other than present ourselves to be of service to Lady Catherine at various times throughout the day.
It was true that time at Rosings Park crept along most frustratingly, and suffering from such an inhibition of our inclinations to be anywhere else, we persevered.
Like two weary elders, we proceeded through the following few days, one of which was Sunday.
We met the party from the Hunsford parsonage at church, dined with them afterwards, and bade farewell to Sir William Lucas.
Lady Catherine was in peak form throughout, instructing the gentleman where to change horses, and since he meant to stay in town for a day before returning home, she also told him what shops to visit and even what he should eat.
His young daughter shrank behind her older sister and became invisible to Lady Catherine, and since presumably, Mrs Collins’s life had been mined for opportunities in which to meddle, my aunt turned upon her next target—Mrs Collins’s friend.
We endured her cries of, ‘No governess!’ and ‘Out! All at once?’ and ‘Upon my word. You have decided opinions for so young a person. Pray, how old are you?’
Fitzwilliam, sitting across the table, darted a look at me ripe with concern for a young lady subjected to such ungracious treatment.
I, not sharing his anxieties on her behalf, sipped my wine before filling Anne’s half-empty glass.
Lady Catherine would discover for herself that rather than being daunted by her presumption, some persons would likely find it invigorating.
Later, having retreated to my room as was our habit, Fitzwilliam said, “I must say, I have never seen anyone so well equipped to flick away our aunt’s provocations.”
Perhaps I had partaken of one too many fingers of brandy, for I replied in a drawl, “Who do you mean? Miss Maria Lucas?”
He chuckled. “You know to whom I refer, but if you wish to hear her name?—”
“ That lady needs no chivalry, Cousin,” I said.
“No. I daresay she does not. She seems to have a ready supply of her own. If only she had a fortune.”
What ensued was a mighty struggle within me to decline the invitation to canvass the topic of her one word further.
The lady in question had made an indelible impression on me when visiting her home county of Hertfordshire, and just when I thought I might forget her, she arrived a stone’s throw from Rosings Park to be thrust under my nose with distressing regularity.
So, I deflected. “If you wish to marry a fortune, you should marry our cousin.”
“What—your intended?”
He was being wry, for we had discussed Lady Catherine’s insistence I marry Anne many times over. We had both arrived at the same answer—no, I would not. I then chose to tease him solely for the sake of directing the conversation away from the parsonage.
“You would do well here at Rosings,” I said as if I were seriously mulling over the idea.
“Lady Catherine has no designs on me. It is you she wants.”
“She wants only my fortune and to live vicariously through the combining of two rich estates. I do not need to tell you again that I will disappoint her.” I finished the brandy at the bottom of my glass, and said, “And when I disoblige her, you should perhaps step in.”
He turned to look at me with one brow raised. “Do you suppose I do not know what you are doing, Darcy? You are speaking nonsense of a purpose.”
I shrugged. “You believe you know me too well. But I assure you I am only trying to help you to secure the fortune you so often allude to as your impediment to marriage.”
“What a cynic!”
“Oh? And you are not? What is this whine that you would court that lady if only she had a fortune, hmm?”
He set down his glass with a thump. “Perhaps we should step outside.”
“I believe we should,” I said, also setting my glass down with intent. “Carsten!” I called to the dressing room where my valet had a cot. “Bring the foils to the back lawn.”
I do not know how my cousin and I might have appeared had anyone been looking down at us from one of the upper rooms of the house.
There was a light drizzle of rain that was more like a mist, and in the flickering orange light of two flambeau lit expressly for us, we fenced with an intensity fuelled by many unexpressed frustrations.
We had done this often in our youth, less so these days, but the dance of it was still familiar enough to relieve our aggravation.
None of the feelings we exorcised had anything to do with one another, and we were well matched.
Fitzwilliam was hardened by war and dauntingly strong, but I was shaped by privilege and the regular instruction of the masters I could afford.
I easily deflected his attacks, and he efficiently kept me on the defensive.
In under half an hour, we were drenched, panting, and struggling to keep our roars of laughter from waking Lady Catherine.
Carsten, who stood patiently under the eave throughout, came forwards with towels, and Sergeant Donaldson, who had sat on a bench smoking his pipe, relieved us of our foils.
“What fools we must look like to them,” I said to Fitzwilliam as we mounted the stairs.
“Idiots,” he said, hanging his arm on my shoulder. “I might be a touch too old to spar with you.”
“Time does not overlook me. Still, when we are toothless and fat, we should totter around in the dark poking at one another, reliving the privilege of our youth.”