Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
WORDS SPOKEN AMISS
The morning after Easter was grey and cloudy, and as Richard pondered whether to ride, heavy wet drops began to fall from the sky.
There would be a downpour, and he had no wish to be caught in it.
His decision was made. He descended to the breakfast room to take coffee and some toast and then returned to his rooms to engage in the correspondence that had been accumulating under his neglect.
There was some routine business from his regiment that needed attending to, and a letter from his mother, inquiring as to whether he had given Miss Eastway any further thought.
The former he dealt with expeditiously, although the sheer volume of the package took him some time.
The latter took a bit more tact, although his response was unambiguous.
He did not wish to marry, either now or later, and Miss Eastway, whilst a charming young lady and lovely to look upon, did not stir his heart.
He doubted his missive would quieten his mother’s nagging, but he would not lead her to believe she might have success.
There was, alas, nothing from Emily. He had been hoping beyond hope that her letter had merely been misdirected and was waiting for him at the bottom of the pile.
When his fingers had rifled through the entirety of it, his heart fell a bit in his chest, although he had told himself a great many times there would be nothing.
What had happened that she had not written?
The thought of her letters had carried him these past three months and more, and he was surprised at how bereft he felt without any sign of her continued friendship.
It was nearing noon when he entered the morning room at the back of the house.
The threatened deluge had come and passed whilst Richard had been busy at his letters, and the heavy odour of damp earth permeated the hot room.
Aunt Catherine sat in her favourite chair with a book in hand; Anne was likely still in her chambers, as was her habit. Of Darcy, there was no sign.
“Good day, Aunt. Where is my cousin?” He offered her the appropriate bow, then settled himself into a chair by the window and pulled out his own book, his fingers toying with the strip of embroidered fabric he used to mark his page.
“Anne? Oh, Darcy. He is out. I cannot imagine what he is about, leaving the house just after the storm, but he called for his coat and hat some time ago, and has been out since. He shall return covered in mud! I should tell Cardhew not to allow him back into the house. I ordered him not to go and to see to the accounts instead, but he is not one to listen to his aunt. I must have words with Matlock about this.”
What his own father could do to moderate Darcy’s obedience, Richard could not imagine.
Darcy held no particular allegiance to the earl, other than a familial one, and was the head of his own household.
Nonetheless, Richard simply smiled and said nothing.
He opened his book and shifted the armchair a bit closer to the window, the best to catch the grey light of the overcast day.
He was well absorbed in an account of John Pinkerton’s A General Collection of the Best and Most Interesting Voyages and Travels in All Parts of the World when the door opened and a rather harried-looking Darcy walked in.
There was no mud upon his boots or staining the hems of his trousers, but a quick change in his rooms could not erase the reddened face.
He had been about some business that was not entirely satisfactory to him.
“Darcy! Where have you been all day? You owe a duty to me and your cousin Anne.” Never mind that Anne had not been seen since the previous night. Aunt Catherine was, as always, most politic and civil.
“Never mind her. I, for one, require a story. Where in blazes have you been? Sorry, Aunt.” He apologised none too sincerely for his oath.
“I have been out paying a visit to the parsonage.” He spoke the words as if visiting a socially inferior family in the pouring rain were the most commonplace of activities for him.
“Indeed!” Richard would have wagered any amount that it was not Mr Collins’ company that Darcy sought, nor that of his sensible wife. His notion of affecting some sort of attachment between his cousin and Miss Bennet grew stronger. “And were all the family at home?”
Darcy pushed a hand through his damp hair, making one curl stand up at the wrong angle.
Aunt Catherine scowled at him, but uncharacteristically said nothing.
“Mrs Collins and her sister were visiting members of the parish. Only Miss Bennet was at home.” He did not say the name with any particular inflection or interest, leaving Richard confused.
Was Darcy interested in Miss Bennet or not?
No matter how he pressed, Darcy would say no more.
There was only one thing to be done.
The following morning, Richard haunted the hallways until his cousin appeared, and when Darcy stirred and asked for his coat and hat, Richard joined him.
“I hoped to visit the ladies at the parsonage,” Richard stated as they left the house. “Would you care to join me?”
Darcy thrust out his jaw and huffed but agreed readily enough, and with little conversation between them, the two men walked down the path through the woods and across the field.
This suited Richard well. His own visits were common enough to be unremarkable, and now he could watch how his cousin comported himself.
If Darcy would not describe his visits to Mrs Collins and her company, then Richard would have to see for himself.
It was, furthermore, no hardship to spend time with Miss Bennet.
He genuinely liked her—a great deal, to be honest—and enjoyed every moment of her company.
She and Emily would be great friends. He wished the day might come when he might introduce one to the other.
Oh, how he longed for the day when he might, by the grace of God, see Emily again.
“You are wool-gathering.” Darcy’s unexpected voice interrupted his thoughts as they approached the gate to the cottage garden.
The sun was weak in a watery sky, but there was no more threat of rain, and the unploughed fields were abloom in wildflowers.
Richard stopped for a moment to pick a small posy to give to Mrs Collins before beckoning his cousin along.
They came around to the front door and rang the bell, and soon were admitted to the morning room where the denizens of the house were gathered.
“Mrs Collins, a delight to see you again. For you.” He handed over the bouquet of wildflowers with a flourish, earning a blush and a wide smile in return.
“Miss Lucas, how are you enjoying this fine morning? A fair bit brighter than yesterday, is it not? And Miss Bennet!” He swept over to kiss her hand. Darcy scowled beside him.
Mrs Collins called for tea and cakes, and they conversed most enjoyably.
The subjects were never serious, and laughter filled the room.
Darcy, however, remained silent and stern, his lips a tight line upon his face.
He seemed to take no pleasure from the company or his surroundings at all.
Why, then, was he so insistent upon visiting the parsonage if it was so distasteful to him?
Not even when Miss Bennet spoke did any sort of animation come upon him.
It seemed Richard had been mistaken, and Miss Bennet was not, after all, the lady Darcy had admired in Hertfordshire. How very strange.
This pattern repeated itself all the following week.
On some days Richard would accompany Darcy to visit the Collinses and their guests; on others Darcy would leave the house without him, and once Aunt Catherine herself insisted upon joining them.
“I must know what is so engaging there, that you prefer their company to mine.” And all the time, Darcy would sit there stupidly, acting even more stern and reserved than was his accustomed manner in new company.
He seemed quite genuinely to dislike everything he saw, and yet would not stay away. It was most perplexing indeed!
More confounding still was Darcy’s propensity to be out of the house often in the afternoons.
He claimed to be walking the property to observe the state of the outbuildings, roads and bridges, but he always seemed to walk in the same direction, towards the grove in the woods close to the parsonage.
Here Richard did not follow him. His cousin must have some good reason for wishing the solitude afforded to him by nature.
Perhaps he was still in a dither about poor Georgiana.
It was nearing the end of the week, and Darcy had suggested leaving on Saturday, to be back in London before the Lord’s Day.
They had concluded yet another tedious dinner with their aunt and cousin, and the two men were now ensconced in the billiards room, taking desultory aim at the balls that were scattered across the green baize tabletop.
Richard had just sunk his ball when Darcy asked a strange question.
“What are your thoughts on marriage?” His disaffected tone belied the seriousness of the subject.
Richard balanced the pool cue on his toe.
“My thoughts on marriage? What a strange question. Are you wishing to know what I think of my own hypothetical marriage, or of the institution in general? Surely you are not joining my mother in her quest to wed me to the first wealthy young woman who crosses my path.”
“Does she have any chance of success? I ask only with your best interests in mind.” Darcy took his shot, sending his cue unerringly towards the red ball, which rolled across the table to the side pocket.