Chapter 15 #2
Richard waited a few minutes, thinking about what he knew of Charles Bingley.
The two had met on several occasions and Richard found Darcy’s friend to be a pleasant enough fellow, if a bit effusive for his tastes, but did not know the younger man particularly well.
Their encounters had mostly been at larger social events, or at drinks after a horse race or a night at the theatre; there had been little time for intimate discussions about one’s innermost sentiments and affaires du coeur.
Bingley was one to wear his heart on his sleeve, however, and Richard could not imagine the man to be one to toy with a young lady’s affections.
If Bingley felt some regard for her, the whole neighbourhood would know of it, possibly before he did himself.
At last, Richard spoke up. “Was his attachment not deep, then?”
“Eh?” Darcy had also been wool-gathering, it seemed. Pining over his lady love, perhaps?
Richard bit back a smirk and spoke with his most disinterested voice.
“Bingley. Was his attachment to this young lady in Hertfordshire not so deep, that he broke it off without damage to the lady’s name? Does he remain in the neighbourhood? That must be rather awkward.”
Darcy gave another sniff. “No, he left. I do believe he will not renew his lease on the estate. He is one to make quick decisions, and I consider that had we not intervened, he would have offered for the girl’s hand.
But we were successful in our endeavours, and he is gone from the neighbourhood and still single. ”
“We? Who was your associate?”
“Why, his sister Caroline.”
Now it was Richard’s turn to groan. Caroline Bingley he did know, and it was not a pleasant recollection for him.
Bingley’s sister—the younger of his two—had long before set her cap at Darcy and was determined to forge some sort of alliance between the families.
As well as throwing herself in Darcy’s path whenever possible, she also hinted—and with precious little subtlety—that Georgiana would make a fine bride for her brother.
What Darcy thought of this suggestion, Richard knew not.
Georgie was still but a child after all, not quite sixteen years old.
But Caroline Bingley was not a woman in whom he placed any sort of trust. He must pry further.
“It was fortunate that his affections were not much engaged.”
Now Darcy looked right at him, a strange look upon his face. He seemed to fight with himself over the choice of words, and it was several moments before he spoke.
“No, indeed that is far from true. I have never seen Bingley so enamoured with a lady. He has been known to fall in love with a new person every three months, so it seems, but this was different. He seemed quite set on having her. It took all our efforts and powers of persuasion to convince him to quit the house before entering into an engagement.” He paused for a moment.
That strange look had not left his face.
“All the journey back to London, I thought he might start to cry. I half expected him to call to turn the carriage around, but he held firm and once we made Town, he seemed much more settled.”
“But was it your place to intervene?”
Another sour look. “I have the best interests of my friend at heart.” He would not elaborate. Richard scowled.
“Is he now over this attachment?”
Darcy rubbed at his chin and shifted as the carriage rolled over some uneven patch in the road. “He has not regained his spirits, but I have full confidence that he will in good time. It has only been a few months, after all.”
Richard furrowed his brow. This was rather high-handed, was it not? “But what was your objection? Surely, if your friend was happy in his choice, it was not your, or Caroline’s, place to intervene. He is a full-grown man, after all, and capable of making such decisions on his own.”
“Richard, have I not explained this adequately? The lady was totally unsuitable! It would never have been supportable. We rescued him from a rather unpleasant fate. I count this one of my finest victories.” He pushed the hair back from his forehead and frowned.
“Now, let us turn to matters more pleasant. I would not think of those days if I can at all help it.”
Darcy closed his eyes and turned to gaze out the window again and Richard knew the conversation was over. His cousin could be a rather stubborn sort, especially when he was uncomfortable. And this topic, for some reason, made Darcy extremely uncomfortable.
Richard turned to his own window to survey the passing countryside.
They were travelling southeast out of London, and the scenery was starting to develop into those lovely rolling downs he always associated with Kent.
It was too early yet for a full spring, but the undulations in the land were beginning to green, and in the distance, where not obscured by the trees that flanked the road upon which they travelled, he could see the familiar tracery of hedgerows and flocks of white sheep decorating the countryside.
No matter how often he travelled this route, and no matter how ambivalent he felt about his destination, he never failed to enjoy the journey and enjoy its gentle beauty.
After an uneventful morning’s travel, they arrived at Rosings.
The carriage turned down the avenue to the house, which loomed directly ahead of them.
No gently curving lane through wooded glades for Rosings.
Instead, the drive was arrow-straight with an expanse of lawn on either side of it, flanked by sternly pruned shrubbery.
Only then, after another stretch of lawn both left and right of the drive, did the vista fade into the woods that made up the park.
It was very grand but not very welcoming.
Rather like his aunt, Richard mused for the hundredth time.
Closer to the house the lawns opened into formal French gardens, promising a fussiness and ostentation that was met by the interior architecture and decoration.
Rosings was a house to be admired, but it held little in the way of comfort or charm.
Still, it was a house with which Richard was intimately familiar, and he could not imagine it any other way.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the grand entrance.
At once, a liveried footman appeared to open the door, and the step was in place before the two travellers could shift themselves to rise from their benches.
Richard waited for Darcy to gather his coat and hat before following his cousin out of the carriage and onto the smooth drive.
There would be no ruts or loose stones in Catherine de Bourgh’s demesne.
Their valises would be collected by some servant or another and delivered to their rooms. For now, they were due for an audience with Aunt Catherine.
Cardhew, the butler, bid them welcome and told them to follow him to where their aunt awaited their presence.
Rosings smelled as it always had. Stale wood smoke, too much perfume, and the undefinable odour of mustiness suffused the place.
All those gilt-encrusted busts of long-dead relatives of the late Sir Lewis still lined the long hallway, casting disapproving glares upon the newcomers.
Richard glowered back at one of them. Shining white marble tiles on the floor promised, as was their wont, a slippery path, and the dark maroon of the walls—a colour Richard hated—lit with occasional sconces, lent a foreboding sense to the walk. Nothing had changed.
“Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Cardhew intoned, then stepped aside to allow the men to enter the drawing room where Aunt Catherine sat with her daughter and Anne’s companion, Mrs Jenkins.
“You have arrived at last,” the lady said by way of a greeting.
“I had expected you this last half hour. Did you stop too long at Bromley? No, you would better have taken your rest at Chislehurst, for the inn there has better ale and is better equipped to see to the horses. I shall speak to your driver before your return to ensure he stops at Chislehurst instead. Your trunks are being removed to your accustomed rooms. I shall have one of the maids unpack them, for your valets most assuredly never fold your cravats properly. I have instructed my maid on the best way to fold linens. She shall instruct your valets. I shall see to it at once. Now come and greet your cousin Anne. She has been all in anticipation of your visit. Darcy, you may sit at Anne’s side on the sofa. Richard, you may attend me.”
And thus, the visit began.
“Richard,” Anne greeted him, interrupting his thoughts.
He was sitting on the terrace at the back of the house, enjoying the warmth of the sun as he smoked his cigar.
He was not normally a smoker, but something about this house sent him seeking any activity that would take him out of his aunt’s presence.
“Should you be out in this cool air?” His concern for his cousin was genuine. She was not the most animated creature of his acquaintance, but she was family and he held a suitable affection for her. “The sun is warm, but the air is still chilly.”
“Nonsense!” She grinned at him. “I am not nearly as frail as Mother would like to believe. She equates fragility of health with refinement, despite being so robust herself. In her mind, the weaker I am, the more precious. My indifferent health is almost a victory for her. She keeps the house so warm I always think I might suffocate. I enjoy the cool air, and I am dressed for the weather.”
Indeed, she was swathed in several heavy scarves and throws that fell over her winter coat. With her delicate build, she was all but lost in the heaps of fabric.
“Come and sit with me. I was merely staring over the fields, wondering what tasks will be set for us this year.”
She adjusted her woollen hat and took the chair at Richard’s side.