Chapter 2 Hunsford Happenings
by Leigh Dreyer
Rosings Park, Kent
The morning felt…wrong.
He awoke with his face crushed into a book—some Gothic romance that he would not hesitate to put away.
Georgiana was quite mad to enjoy such utter nonsense.
He must speak to Mrs Annesley about his sister’s appetite for the tales—better she should spend her days with poetry if she required the fantastical.
He tossed the book to the side of the bed and shut his eyes, as if it were that simple to fall back to sleep, to his dreams of walking with Elizabeth through the park at Pemberley, smiling at her across the dinner table in London.
Then somehow the fog would clear, and he would receive clarity.
Instead, however, the morning confused him.
Not in any way he might name with dignity.
Drunken escapades at school aside, he had experienced this state of muddled thought before—and those occurrences could all be linked to his cousin Richard.
Blast Richard, his smuggled French brandy, and his fascinating tales of the army over a glass (or three) after dinner.
Suffering his aunt’s presence was enough, but now he would suffer whilst his cousin found humour in every moment of his discomfiture, for Richard would recognise the signs as soon as Darcy was served his egg.
Rosings was, by design, the same every day: the same breakfast, the same footmen at precise distances from the walls, and the same silent threat of Lady Catherine’s disapproval hovering like a draught.
And yet—
The birds chirped louder and longer than they ought.
Darcy stared at the canopy of his bed as if it had personally offended him.
His valet entered, efficient and unruffled. “Lady Catherine has invited the party at Hunsford to dine this evening, sir.”
Darcy sat upright, so quickly that Hines paused mid-step. Darcy’s mind snagged on the words as on a nail. The party at Hunsford. Dinner at Rosings.
He recalled the dinner table of the previous evening, where Mr Collins praised the window coverings with such devotion that one might assume he had been engaged to them. He remembered Lady Catherine offering opinions as though the world had been built to receive them.
And afterwards—
Darcy’s stomach tightened.
Afterwards, he escorted Elizabeth from Rosings.
Afterwards, he proposed.
He dragged a hand down his face and prayed that the building megrim would not last long.
Hines held his coat. Darcy shoved an arm into it without looking, as if clothing could anchor him to sense.
“I am surprised her Ladyship should invite them two nights in a row,” Darcy said, striving for calm.
Hines blinked once. “One night in a row, sir. Her Ladyship dined with the party from Hunsford last—”
“Never mind,” Darcy snapped, then forced himself to soften. “It does not signify.”
But it did signify. It signified everything. He knew, of course, that he would have to see her again. He was not daft. He looked in the mirror and noticed, not for the first time, the tired mien of a man who was in love and had lost.
Richard found him before he could retreat into the library like a wounded animal.
“Darcy,” his cousin said cheerfully, as though the world had not shifted beneath their feet. “Walk with me.”
“I would have thought you completed your inspection of the grounds yesterday.”
“I am in need of air.” Richard grinned. “You know how I like to be thorough. Besides—” His brows lifted. “Perhaps we shall run across your Miss Bennet.”
“She is not—” Darcy began unconsciously, then stopped because the words were ridiculous now.
Not his. Not yet. Not ever. “You would save yourself the trouble of discontent with our aunt if you would simply use the manners with which you have been brought up rather than those you have learned serving king and country.”
“Very well, I promise to do better tomorrow. Unless the old termagant is not at breakfast, in which case, I reserve the right to behave in whatever manner I see fit.”
They set out along the lane, the same hedges cut into squares so rigid they looked as if they had been disciplined into shape. Lady Catherine had never met a living thing she could not command into obedience.
From beneath a topiary came a honk so offensive that Darcy flinched.
A gander launched itself at his Hessian boots with the ferocity of a creature convinced Darcy had insulted its mother.
“What the blazes—” Darcy began, as beak and wing met leather.
The gander honked, snapped, honked again, hissed, and advanced with the air of a French officer.
With as much dignity as a gentleman could retain whilst being attacked by poultry, Darcy ran with high knees, alternately being bitten in the thighs and breeches.
Thanking the heavens and Hines for his Hessian boots, he shooed the demon bird away with his arms and shouting “Hie!” and “Away with ye!” in his best Derbyshire goose herding accent, emulating young Peter from Pemberley.
Richard, meanwhile, was less than helpful. He stood on the path, pointing and braying quite like a barn animal himself.
When Darcy had escaped what the gander deemed its territory, he recollected himself, straightened his waistcoat, and attempted to appear as though he had intended the performance.
“Fine creature, that gander,” Richard said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It has a taste for drama.”
“It has a taste for violence,” Darcy muttered, running a hand through his hair.
And then—
Elizabeth.
She crossed the meadow ahead, her skirts pushing through wildflowers with a serenity that made Rosings appear almost tolerable. Darcy’s lungs tightened. She was everything that morning should not have been: bright, alive, untroubled.
As if nothing had happened.
As if he had not poured his heart out and been refused.
Richard stepped forward with his usual ease. “Miss Bennet. I hope you have had a pleasant morning.”
Elizabeth smiled politely. “Colonel Fitzwilliam. Mr Darcy.”
Darcy tipped his hat. His hand was steady only because he willed it. “Miss Bennet.”
She looked at him with mild curiosity. Nothing more. No discomfort. Or anger. Or remembered mortification.
Darcy’s world tilted.
“Your gown—” He gesticulated whilst casting around for the kind of dandy compliment his cousin would give.
“Is pretty” did not seem enough, and “suits you” was inelegant.
After a moment that lingered too long, he surmised to point anywhere near her bodice was abominably gauche.
He cleared his throat. “You are…out early.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted. “I always walk early, sir.”
As she spoke, the gander honked behind them, as though offended no one had invited it to the conversation. Darcy’s shoulders stiffened, awaiting an attack from the monstrous animal. Richard glanced towards it with a smirk.
They exchanged pleasantries—safe, ordinary, maddening—and then Elizabeth excused herself.
“I shall see you at dinner,” she said with calm certainty. “Mr Collins has said we are invited to Rosings.”
Darcy watched her go as if she were a vision he might lose by blinking. “She does not remember,” he said under his breath, a strange realisation dawning.
Richard’s grin faded. “What?”
Darcy shook his head sharply. “Nothing.”
But it was not nothing. Perhaps he had another chance. Perhaps by some heavenly intervention, he could propose again.
Dinner came, inevitable as punishment. The parson praised the glazing. Lady Catherine praised herself. Elizabeth sat at the far end of the table, speaking with Charlotte and replying to Lady Catherine’s nettling with a sweetness that made Darcy both admire her and suffer profound embarrassment.
After dinner, when the ladies rose to separate, Elizabeth said, “Your Ladyship, I would beg to be excused. I fear I am not well. I have a headache.”
Lady Catherine made a sound as though headaches were a moral failing. “What a pity to have such a weak constitution,” she would surely say as soon as she got the chance.
Before his aunt could respond, and before Darcy could stop himself, he said, “Allow me to escort Miss Bennet back to the parsonage.”
“A gentleman such as yourself must not bother with my cousin.” Mr Collins quickly imposed himself between Darcy and Elizabeth. “She is quite capable of walking the short distance across the lane. She is queerly fond of walking and will not be bothered with even a servant as escort.”
Darcy cocked an eyebrow and met Lady Catherine’s austere gaze.
He let out a low huff as if insulted. “I am sure Lady Catherine would not approve of such impertinence from her male relatives. She understands the importance of propriety more than anyone. What if harm should come to one of her guests, who could have easily been accompanied? I shall escort her home and return without incident in no time at all.”
Richard shot him a look. Darcy ignored it. He needed to know. He needed to apologise, and he needed to understand why he had been given a second chance. He needed—
“Darcy, you must accompany the poor woman to the parsonage. I am only grateful that my Anne has never needed to be taken to bed because of a mere headache. I am grateful one of my nephews has a thought for propriety.”
Richard cleared his throat, but Darcy escorted Elizabeth from the room before they could hear his response.
Elizabeth did not look at him as they walked, her hand light upon his arm.
The path was quiet. The air smelled of clipped hedges and damp earth and the faint perfume she wore—something clean, something like violets, something that made him draw nearer to her to discover the origination of the scent. Was it in her tresses?
“Miss Bennet.” His voice betrayed him at once, too tight, too earnest. But he had been granted a second chance and would not lose it. “You must allow me to tell you—”
Elizabeth’s steps slowed.
“My feelings will not be repressed.” The words had been waiting behind his teeth like a weapon he could not lay down. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Elizabeth stopped so abruptly that Darcy stumbled.