Chapter 25
Hunsford Parsonage
The Next Day
Fitzwilliam Darcy straightened his back and followed Mr. Collins into the sitting room, where Mrs. Collins and her sister were sitting across from one another. They rose as he entered, and Mrs. Collins said, “Mr. Darcy, welcome. Will you not introduce us to your friend?”
“Ladies,” he said, “may I please introduce you to my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Richard, Mrs. Collins and Miss Bennet.”
Richard bowed and the ladies curtsied, and then Mrs. Collins gestured for everyone to sit down.
Darcy naturally chose a seat next to Miss Bennet, who turned a smiling look on him and said, “Mr. Darcy, I hope you have been well since we last saw one another?”
“Yes, I have been very well, thank you,” Darcy said.
“I am glad. Did you spend the last few months with Miss Darcy in London?”
Darcy blinked, swallowed, nodded, and said, “Yes. It was pleasant to be in company with her.”
Silence fell, and he wracked his brain for an additional topic of conversation.
“I understand,” Richard said, “that your elder sister married Darcy’s friend Bingley. I hope she and her new husband are happy?”
“Oh yes, very much so,” Miss Bennet said, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. “They are perfectly suited. They have similar personalities and characters, and they understand one another better than most newly married couples probably do.”
“Do you think it is important that a husband and wife have similar dispositions?” Darcy asked.
She turned her enchanting countenance on him, furrowed her brow in thought, and then said, “No, I do not think that is true for every couple. Certainly, there are some who would be profoundly annoyed by a spouse with an identical temperament.”
“I agree,” Richard said. “My parents have very dissimilar temperaments; my father is taciturn and serious, and my mother far more outgoing. They complement one another perfectly.”
The door to the sitting room opened at this moment, and Mr. Collins entered with a maid in her wake carrying a tea tray.
Darcy rose and introduced his cousin to Mr. Collins, and then the gentlemen sat down again while Mrs. Collins poured tea for everyone.
The conversation became general, with Mr. Collins, Miss Bennet, and Richard providing most of the contributions, which allowed Darcy to sit back, drink his tea, and fix his gaze on the lovely face of the woman he adored.
And he did adore her with all his heart.
But he had discovered the previous night that he had insulted her before they had even formally met.
He cringed at the memory of those stupid words emanating from his mouth and wondered mournfully whether such a horrible start to their relationship meant that he had no hope of winning the lady’s hand.
He did not know, and that uncertainty chilled his bones. He had planned to make an offer to Miss Bennet. He had arrogantly assumed that she would accept with joy.
Now he was not nearly so certain. It seemed that their joint rescue of Maxwell had mended their relationship significantly, but was that enough?
It probably was not enough. Miss Bennet was beautiful, intelligent, vibrant, and not the sort of lady to wed based solely on fortune or connections.
Moreover, with two sisters well married, she need not wed outside her own inclination.
Even if she were willing, he did not want a marriage of convenience.
He longed for a marriage of joint admiration and respect.
It was a frightening, bewildering, and distressing situation for the master of Pemberley that the one woman in the world for him … might also be the one woman who would refuse him.
***
Lady Catherine’s Sitting Room
Rosings
Later
Lady Catherine de Bourgh dipped her pen into the inkwell and frowned down at her nearly finished letter.
She was writing to her man of business in London, who had informed her by letter that a serious leak had developed in the kitchen at de Bourgh House in London, and that one of the walls needed repair.
He requested instructions on how much money was available for such a task.
Lady Catherine thought that if it were not for the de Bourgh name, she would sell the London house. She disliked Town and very rarely stayed there, and yet the house required a skeleton crew of servants and a substantial annual outlay.
But of course she never did such a thing. Rosings was the real prize of the de Bourgh family, but a London townhouse was a cachet for any gentle family, and she would never give it up.
The door to her bedchamber opened, and Lady Catherine looked over as her private maid, Clara, entered with her mistress’s evening gown in her arms.
Lady Catherine peered at the clock, startled. It was later than she realized.
“I need to finish this letter,” she stated. “I will be ready in a moment.”
“As you wish, Madame,” Clara said.
Five minutes later, the letter was finished and sanded and sealed, and Lady Catherine set it aside for the next morning’s mail.
She stood up and walked over to stand in front of a large mirror attached to one wall. Clara helped her mistress out of her day attire, then lifted the evening gown from the sofa where it had been gently laid, and helped Lady Catherine into it before bringing a chair near the mirror.
Catherine de Bourgh sat down and stared into the mirror as her maid’s clever fingers began dressing her hair.
She was, as usual, pleased with her appearance.
She was not, of course, the fresh faced beauty who had won wealthy Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s hand so many decades earlier, but she was still an attractive woman, and her silk dress, with its overlay of expensive lace, looked well on her still fine figure.
“Lady Catherine?”
She lifted her eyes to look at Clara in the reflection of the mirror. Her maid, who had served her for a dozen years now, rarely spoke when assisting her.
“Yes?”
“I, erm, hesitate to mention this, Madame, but Phoebe came to me with a disturbing account of an overheard conversation last night between Mr. Darcy and Miss de Bourgh. Ordinarily, I would have scolded her for listening to her betters, but given her report, well…”
Lady Catherine rose to her feet, turned around, and looked down into Clara’s face.
“When was this, and where?” she demanded.
The maid’s eyes dropped to the Oriental rug between the two women, and she said, “Phoebe had extra work to do yesterday because Miriam was ill, and thus it was not until midnight that she went to the library to do the dusting. When she reached the door of the library, she heard two voices within, those of Miss de Bourgh and Mr. Darcy.”
“Did she listen through the keyhole?” Lady Catherine demanded.
Clara nodded and said, “Yes, Madame, she did, which is quite beyond the pale, but she was so disturbed about what she overheard that she came to me and told me all. She has always been an honest girl, and if she heard what she thinks she heard, well, I think you need to know about it, Madame.”
Catherine de Bourgh straightened her spine still more and asked, “What did she hear?”
Clara told her.
***
Netherfield Estate
Hertfordshire
The Next Day
Caroline Bingley shifted her feet into position, straightened her already straight spine, and drew her elbow carefully back, sighting down the smooth straight shaft of the arrow at the small dot glowing scarlet in the sunshine at the center of the target, twenty yards off.
A deep breath filling her lungs and let out slowly, and she let the arrow fly.
It darted through the air with all the speed and grace of a stooping hawk to slam emphatically into the ring around the bullseye, some three inches off of true center.
It was a victory and one worth celebrating, especially taking into account the breath of fresh breeze that had stirred just as Caroline had released the string.
Wind and passing clouds were always hazards of shooting outside, but on fine days like this one, it was worth the trade-off to be out in the pleasant weather.
The old stables stood by to be used in rain or if the temperature should turn chilly or windy, but for now, the targets had been set up on the smooth sward of the lawn.
Caroline collected her paraphernalia from the sturdy wicker table set nearby and made her leisurely way towards the far target and her collection of arrows sticking out from it.
The opposite target stood somewhat off behind her left shoulder, preparatory for her return shots.
The sun was pleasantly warm on her shoulders through her dress, although of course her bonnet protected her refined complexion.
Off in the park and the wilderness, birds sang in a twittering, chirping chorus, the air faintly sweet with the distant perfume of spring’s flowers.
Caroline realized that she would miss all this when she left for London.
Improbably and quite inadvertently, she had become fond of Netherfield.
When she remembered how she had disdained the old house and its unfashionable, outdated furnishings, how she had disliked the strange nighttime noises of the country, and how contemptuous she had felt towards all the neighbors, it made her current sentiments all the more surprising.
Slowly, unconsciously, she had warmed up to her new environment.
Crickets and frogs were a soothing chorus rather than a grating discord when she was trying to sleep, and fresh vegetables and game were a delight to her refined palate.
Most surprising of all was the alteration in her view of her neighbors.
She still did not relish the provincial assemblies that were pale imitations of the glittering London balls, and she still observed many of the local ladies to be vulgar and unamusing.
She had, however, found friends in, of all people, the two youngest Bennet daughters.
Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia had both shown a surprising adeptness with archery, almost equal to her own rapidly developing skill.
Even more surprising was the fact that they could be good company, if one was careful to guide their conversation.
Miss Kitty was pleasingly biddable, though lively Miss Lydia took a certain finesse of touch.
Caroline had learned just such conversational skills at her young ladies’ seminary and had little difficulty in introducing a new subject whenever the Bennets became tiresome in their raptures over red-coated officers.
She still found herself marveling over the changes in herself and her home as she pulled the arrows from where they were lodged.
Six months ago she would not have believed anyone if they had told her that she would come to enjoy the company of the youngest Misses Bennet, that she would like the country, that she would be a devoted archer.
Caroline tucked her arrows carefully into the pouch on her belt and stood a moment, looking up at Netherfield Hall where it rose tall and red and cheerful.
It was not a bad old house, really. It was in good repair, the windows were tight, and the chimneys drew admirably.
Moreover, a great deal of her current comfort came from Jane’s good sense.
Jane was proving an excellent Mrs. Bingley.
Her judgement and taste were not in question, even if Caroline would personally have preferred a bit more expense in the redecorating that had been done.
At least some of the most old-fashioned furniture had been consigned to the attics, replaced by graceful new tables and chairs and ottomans in timeless elegant styles.
She would miss being here, Caroline thought wistfully.
In two or three weeks, she would be returning to London for the Season.
She and Louisa had already been exchanging excited letters with plans for shopping and balls and theater trips.
Caroline would be staying with the Hursts, and a glow of anticipation lit her from inside as she contemplated the upcoming whirl of excitement and activity and parties.
There was nothing quite like the London Season, certainly, and the sleepy amusements of the country were nothing but a candle beside a chandelier compared to Town.
Candles had their place, though, Caroline thought, nocking an arrow to her string and taking aim.
Netherfield, little as she had expected it, had become a home to her, and she was grateful for Jane, whose sweetness and courtesy had not abated a jot after her marriage.
It would not be unreasonable for Jane to expect her sister-in-law to leave the house so that there would not be tension between current mistress and former, but not by so much as word or look had the new mistress of the house intimated that Caroline should leave.
The arrow whistled through the air and landed in the white ring.
Caroline aimed another arrow, determined to enjoy her archery while she could.
As much as she looked forward to parties and balls and routs, she would miss this, the grace and strength it took to pull a bow, the satisfaction at coming near to the bullseye.
There were no galleries in London for women to practice archery, which was a pity.
Someone should introduce one. For now, however, the day was fine, and the bow strong and supple in her leather gloves, and she had a pouch full of arrows. Caroline was content.