Chapter 8
C ould anything be worse? This had apparently been a fatal question, since I was soon to discover the answer was unquestionably yes.
In the morning, I met Fitzwilliam at the steps under cover of a light but persistent rain.
If the sun had come up, which the clock said it must have done, it did not illuminate the scene.
His carriage stood ready; he had his caped greatcoat slung carelessly over one shoulder and the gold brocade and buttons of his uniform shone in the light from the open door behind me. He clasped my hand.
“Try not to murder him,” I said warmly, glancing at the sheathed sword he held in his other hand.
He made no promises. “Tell Georgie I shall wait upon her with my whole heart when I get to town.” He turned to step into his coach but looked back at me and said, “And tell Lady Catherine you do not mean to marry Anne, Darcy. It is past time she knew.”
“She knows already.”
“Aye, she does. Yet, she still believes.”
I made him no promises either. He was certainly right, but given how shaken I was, I could not conjure a sufficiency of will to apply to that situation. I felt so strangely weak, and I watched a little helplessly as Fitzwilliam’s coach disappeared down the drive.
Even after I was alone, I stood there, reflecting that the only good that had come of the last two days had taken place at the previous night’s dinner.
Though our aunt had harangued him for some time, upon finally realising she could not sway Fitzwilliam to stay, Lady Catherine had invited Mr Collins’s party to dinner as a begrudging gesture of farewell to her favourite.
I shall not parse words, for Fitzwilliam would always be her favourite.
Not only was he the son of an earl, but he was trained as an officer of Wellington’s to be socially charming and deftly conciliating while never giving away a particle of ground.
I, on the other hand, was ‘not warm’, and I had only been placed provisionally higher because I, or more precisely my fortune, had a particular use to her.
Very naturally then, as we sat down to dinner, the question arose as to why Fitzwilliam was leaving Rosings Park. But instead of my aunt, it was Miss Elizabeth who asked.
“I do not know what draws you away from Kent, sir, but the weather at present does not seem a likely inducement to travel,” she said.
“I do not recall a more rainy spring,” he replied. And with a nod of deference to her home county, he added, “But I have business in Hertfordshire, ma’am.”
“Hertfordshire?” Lady Catherine demanded. “I assumed you were needed at your regiment. If I had known you were only going there, I would not have given you leave to go. What is it that takes you to such a place, Nephew?”
“I have business with the militia there.”
“The militia! Whatever it is cannot be so very interesting. Upon my word. You must not go. I forbid it.”
“It is, however, interesting to me. There is a man of my acquaintance who has surfaced in the militia in Hertfordshire after having gone into hiding for multiple offences. I mean to roust him.”
“Yes, but why must you go? Send a letter to his general demanding he be punished.”
“The office would fall to his colonel, ma’am, and in any case, this matter is far too personal to be delegated.
He is a practiced seducer who lies well.
Good people are drawn to him. They believe his false claims of woe.
For all I know, he has his colonel’s sympathy because he makes a show of being a brave, mistreated man.
But, in fact, he is no one’s tool save the Devil’s. ”
I tried—I truly tried—but I could not arrest the sharp glance I threw across the table. Miss Elizabeth had raised her head in surprise, and our eyes locked. By the look of dismay on her face, it was clear she knew the name of the scoundrel in question.
“He sounds very bad,” she said carefully as she dragged her eyes away from mine.
“That he is known to steal what is not his and make mischief wherever he goes is of little consequence when compared to the injury he has done to—well, so many. Yet it does not bear talking of over such a fine roast.” Fitzwilliam raised his glass in compliment to Lady Catherine and Mr Collins then drowned all talk of his going with expressions of wonder at the sumptuousness of the food.
For good or ill, this had all taken place.
My initial hope had been that Miss Elizabeth would learn of Wickham’s character indirectly.
In other words, after Fitzwilliam’s intervention, I had hoped she and all her acquaintance would hear from Colonel Forster that Wickham was a reprobate unworthy of his rank.
I did not wish to be present when this revelation was made because I did not want to be connected to it in any way, for it raised many uncomfortable questions, such as why I did not say more than I did at the time.
That I was there when she learnt the truth was not ideal, but at least she now knew that I was not alone in my estimation of the man.
Wickham’s presence in Meryton had been a constant worry only aggravated by what I overheard of the lady’s admiration for him, and his loss of her favour and removal from that county were now all but assured.
The subsequent days of my visit to Rosings then passed without any relief.
I felt duty-bound to stay after my cousin left, but truthfully, the obligation was not deep and could have been easily overcome. I lingered for the sake of agony, I suppose, though it made no sense at all.
Lord knows I tried to hate her. I avoided her assiduously for the time I remained in her proximity.
If our paths crossed in the park where she walked nearly every day regardless of the persistent rain, I turned my horse in the opposite direction.
If forced to confront her, I nodded coldly and spoke but distantly.
I was not proud of how unequal I was to looking her in the eye, or how incapable I was of pretending she had not wounded me.
Time crept along as I nursed my regrets, my resentment, and the injuries upon my pride. But eventually, I concluded that no good would come of lingering in Kent. Familiarity did not, in this instance, bring to me the relief of any lasting contempt for her.
I spoke privately to my coachman and valet to make plans to go in four days’ time.
That same afternoon, Mr and Mrs Collins and their party arrived at Lady Catherine’s invitation to take tea.
Anne, providentially, did not come down.
Most likely she was too ill, which would account for why my aunt made no mention of her absence, for she did not wish to underscore her daughter’s weakness within my hearing.
Soon after every other formality required of such a visit had been satisfied, Miss Elizabeth announced to my aunt she would leave in the morning.
“Leaving? So soon? You must not think of it. You have barely given Mrs Collins one month of your time. Why, in my day, we did not visit anyone for less than three months together.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said calmly, “but my family expects me, and my uncle writes he has sent my older sister home from London because the roads are only getting worse. He urges me to come while I yet may.”
“And you, miss?” Lady Catherine turned her awful countenance upon poor Miss Lucas.
Mrs Collins spared the girl from having to offer what would have been a stuttering reply by answering for her.
“My father has written that my sister must stay the whole of spring, ma’am, since the rains in Hertfordshire have been constant, and he does not wish to send his carriage this far unless it is necessary.”
I could see where this reply would lead. Mrs Collins’s friend would be harassed for another half an hour, commanded to also stay in Kent, and belittled for even considering going away before she was told to leave. Having no inclination to hear more in this vein, I interrupted.
Looking directly at Miss Elizabeth, I asked, “Have the rains affected your father’s farms?”
“Unfortunately, yes. No seeds have yet been set. By all accounts we expect a poor harvest this year.”
“I have had similar reports from Derbyshire, though the flooding there has not been quite as severe.”
“Well, I do not know why anyone should have a bad harvest. We do not foresee anything of the kind here at Rosings,” Lady Catherine said.
“On the contrary, ma’am,” I said. “Your yields are looking to be halved if the rains do not clear quickly.”
“Halved? That is impossible,” she declared. “I have heard no such reports. You are much mistaken, Darcy.”
I certainly know how to allow my aunt her comfortable delusions, and I should have disengaged then and there. I had done so many, many times. But I suppose I was too irritable, my temper still too abraded, and most unwisely, I chose to contradict her.
“You have heard no such reports because you refuse to listen to them, ma’am. You demand your steward tell you only what you wish to be told, and I have yet to hear you ask a proper question of the man.”
In reply, she roared at the footman at the door. “Send Fenwick to me! We shall hear the state of my farms this instant!”
“No, you will not,” I said. “He might attempt to tell you truthfully the condition of your farms but couched in such conciliating language as must please you, and you will—as I already said—hear only what you wish to hear.”
“What insolence is this? Apologise this instant!”
“I cannot regret instructing you as to the facts. Your fields are in no better state than mine or Mr Bennet’s or any other landholder. Your servants and your dependents cannot inform you properly, and they endure such treatment as must make all your relations ashamed?—”
“Sit down!” She barked at Mr Collins and his party, who had all stood up with the intention to leave us to row in privacy.
It was then my turn to roar.
“Do you not hear how you address your dependents?” I had come forcefully to my feet and faced her. “You are speaking to the recipient of your benefice, not your slave, and he must submit to such humiliation because his livelihood depends upon your every whim. You forget yourself!”
She gasped. “Forget myself!” And then, “Sit down!” she bellowed, this time directly at Elizabeth Bennet who, having had enough, stood to leave with or without Mr Collins.
This was too much, and I also began to bellow. “You are embarrassing our guests and mortifying me. Do you also forget you are addressing a gentleman’s daughter?”
“A gentleman’s daughter?” she scoffed. “And who is this Mr Bennet? His estate is merely?—”
“He is my equal. His daughter is my sister’s equal—Anne’s equal!” Then, speaking with cold and deliberate clarity, I said, “Say your farewell respectfully to this lady, or you will never again see me in this house.”
“How dare you! She is not my daughter’s equal, and you cannot cut me. You are to marry Anne!”
“No, madam. I have told you more than once I cannot do as you say.” I bowed stiffly and spoke with angry certainty. “I take my leave of you, and in doing so, all talk of my marriage to Anne must end.”
I then turned to the blur that was the shocked faces of our company and bowed again. “I beg your pardon for subjecting you to such a scene. Were it in my power to do so convincingly, I would apologise on behalf of my aunt as well. Might I see you out?”
I firmly shut the door on Lady Catherine’s roars of indignation and asked for my carriage to be brought round immediately to take our guests home.
After this burst of industry there was nothing left to do save wait in the hall with Mr Collins and his party.
Needless to say, we stood there—shocked, silent, and awkward.
It would have been polite of me to leave but I could not move.
Everyone stared at the floor, or the walls, or indeterminate points in space.
Only once did Elizabeth Bennet steal a glance at me with wide eyes.
Her face had been a picture of alarm. Was she horrified?
Appalled? Her expression was unreadable. I fear mine was not. I was furious.
At last, the carriage came, and upon ushering them out the door I bowed and said to no one in particular, “Forgive me. You should not have been party to that disagreement.” I then spoke more purposefully to Mr Collins. “Do not despair, sir. You have done nothing to anger Lady Catherine.”
Two footmen then stepped forwards with umbrellas and sheltered the ladies to the coach, and I again stood on those same steps and watched a carriage disappear into the rain.