Chapter 6 The Beginning of Despair #3
Finding him was not difficult. He was sitting as proud as a peacock in his largest, shiniest curricle, wearing a hat of absurd elevation, a coat of the most outlandish azure and a cloth-of-gold cravat.
He was very likely visible from France. Even more surprising than his gaudy attire was his choice of companion.
Ashby did not often trouble himself to entertain Mrs Sinclair.
“Well met, Brother,” Fitzwilliam called up as he reached the side of the vehicle. “And delightful to see you, Grandmother. ’Tis a fine day for taking the air.”
“There is not much air left to be had in this crush,” she replied, looking about at the throngs of passers-by with a comical expression of bemused contempt. “What on earth are all these people doing here?”
“’Tis the fashionable hour, madam. They are promenading.”
She turned to her other grandson. “Is this why you insisted I come with you? To give you an excuse to parade around like a great coxcomb in that ridiculous hat of yours?”
“No, indeed,” Ashby replied insouciantly. “I insisted you come because my father insisted that I insist. You are driving him to distraction, madam.”
“Am I?” she replied more cheerfully. “Oh good.”
“For what is it that you believe me just the man then, Ashby?” Fitzwilliam enquired. “Have you a war that needs fighting?”
“Not I, though my cousin seems to have foregone diplomacy in favour of hostilities. You might need to take up arms in his defence.”
“Which cousin? And who is the enemy?”
“Darcy.”
“And the Gorgon of Kent,” Mrs Sinclair added gleefully.
“Lady Catherine? I find that hard to believe. Darcy has ever been the most tolerant of her ways.”
“’Til now, mayhap,” his brother replied. “But now, her ladyship has discovered he does not mean to marry Anne, and it seems he did not take kindly to her attempts to scold him into compliance.”
“Darcy has never intended to marry Anne. What has brought the issue to the fore?” Fitzwilliam fancied he could guess. It was not two weeks since Darcy had confessed his heartbreak. It was too great a coincidence to think this was not connected in some way.
“My aunt has heard a report that he means to marry a ghastly little upstart from Hertfordshire,” Ashby answered, veritably resonating with the joy of such delicious gossip.
Fitzwilliam licked his finger and rubbed at a smear on the rim of the carriage door. Elizabeth Bennet had much for which to answer. “You know as well as I that Darcy would never condescend to marry anyone even remotely ghastly. Lady Catherine ought to know better.”
“She has never had much in the way of sense,” his grandmother opined.
“Besides,” said Ashby, “by all accounts, Darcy’s defence of the woman has convinced her the report is true. Father says she is furious.”
“Oh, she is!” Mrs Sinclair agreed. “I never saw her so angry, and I was there the day Sir Lewis gambled away her underclothes in a card game.”
“Well, that is very unfortunate,” Fitzwilliam said, “but I still do not see what you think qualifies me as just the man. Surely you do not expect me to reason with her?”
“Of course not,” Ashby replied. “If she would not listen to Father, I hold no hope she will listen to you or me. The only person to whom she will pay any heed is Darcy, and after this, I doubt he will be in any humour to speak to her again.”
“All the sense was evidently bestowed upon the Darcy side of the family,” said Mrs Sinclair. “No offence,” she added, reaching to pat Fitzwilliam’s cheek. “You inherited the Sinclair charm to make up for it.”
Ashby scoffed. “It seems you were short-changed on all fronts, little brother. At least I inherited the money.”
Fitzwilliam hoped he had not spent it all on his ludicrous hat. “You might inherit the sharp end of my sword as well if you do not come to the point and tell me why I am just the man.”
His brother flashed him a cocky smirk. “Who better to tell us what is really the matter with Darcy?” Both he and Mrs Sinclair fixed him with identical looks of expectation.
Fitzwilliam crossed his arms. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You never were any good at lying, Dickie. It is obvious something is afoot, for I have never known Darcy as dull as he was at Father’s dinner two weeks ago.”
Mrs Sinclair nodded her agreement. “I must say, I recall him being far better company when he was younger. Most men grow out of petulance. He seems to have grown into it.”
“And I could have sworn he was half cut by the time he left.”
“I am surprised you noticed, Brother. You were cut to pieces by the third course,” Fitzwilliam parried. “Darcy had a headache that evening, nothing more.”
“You are fooling nobody. Do not think I have not heard about his scrape at Jackson’s. Darcy has not received serious injury in a fight since Nathaniel and he boxed each other off Pemberley’s veranda the summer before Mother died. If he has done so now, it is because he allowed it to happen.”
Fitzwilliam could not argue with that, so he did not.
Ashby gave a self-satisfied nod. “That and the way you are squirming in your regimentals lead me to suspect there is more truth to Lady Catherine’s claims than my father would believe.”
Curse his brother’s nose for scandal! “You must know I would not break Darcy’s confidence, even were I in it.”
“Oh, no! He is in love,” announced Mrs Sinclair with the utmost disdain.
“What makes you say that?”
“It is the only thing stupid enough to warrant your obstinacy in keeping it a secret.” She turned away from him to face the horses. “I have lost interest. Let us talk of something else.”
“Nay,” Ashby objected, “let us talk of this, now we have got to the crux of it at last. Is it this upstart from Hertfordshire with whom he is involved?”
“I did not say there was a woman involved.”
“Neither did you deny it. Is she truly the penniless niece of a tradesman? Are her connections truly so dire?”
“If they are not now, they soon will be, for she will gain the devil of an aunt with the husband,” Mrs Sinclair said huffily.
“What does it matter what her connections are?” Fitzwilliam replied impatiently. Darcy would never be required to contend with the ignominy of Miss Bennet’s low connections, for Miss Bennet did not want him!
“So there is a woman involved?”
He bit back an imprecation and feigned an easiness he did not feel. “What would you do about it if there were? You could never talk Darcy out of it.”
Ashby shrugged. “Probably not, but forewarned is forearmed. You of all people ought to know that. I would know if Darcy is about to make a fool of me.”
Fitzwilliam eyed his brother’s hat and privately challenged anyone to make a greater fool of him than he already had himself.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, but I can say with authority that Darcy is not engaged to anybody and certainly not to a fortuneless nobody from Hertfordshire. The most you must prepare for is Lady Catherine’s disappointment. ”
Ashby snorted. “’Tis not I who must prepare for that. You are the last unattached male cousin—and Anne will need to marry somebody.”
“Over my dead body!” cried Mrs Sinclair, twisting in her seat to glare angrily at Ashby.
“Make certain not to repeat that in my father’s hearing,” he replied. “It will only see Dickie down the aisle sooner.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, take me home, boy, before I am asphyxiated by foppery.”
Fitzwilliam watched them roll off through the park with a resigned sigh. He hoped Darcy would be suitably grateful that the secret of his disappointed hopes had been preserved only by dint of him skewering himself squarely on Lady Catherine’s.
Tuesday 9 June 1812, London
His aunt’s philippic had done nothing to diminish Darcy’s regard for Elizabeth.
He knew she was not faultless. She had neither fortune nor connections, but that was long since any concern of his.
Her looks may not be classical, but her beautiful dark eyes and comely figure afforded her a staggering allure.
Her courage rendered her impetuous and her loyalty gullible, but her compassion and sanguinity only made those qualities more endearing.
She cared less than she ought to for social conventions but flouted them with such éclat that no one much cared.
Elizabeth was not perfect, but to Darcy, she was perfection. Being without her felt like drowning.
Days, weeks, months had not lessened her grip on his heart.
He knew now what he felt for her was not in the common way.
Elizabeth had all but broken him—shattered his misplaced reserve, unravelled his mistaken principles and revealed a man in desperate need of redemption.
Then she had entwined herself about his heart, reformed him by her design and made a true gentleman of him.
She was not merely the woman he loved; she was the architect of his soul.
He could no more stop loving her now than he could stop breathing.
Yet, time cared for no man’s pain; thus, he persevered without her, reasoning that perhaps, if he kept moving, his heart would have no choice but to keep beating.
In that vein, he expended a good deal of energy on the hunt for Wickham.
He co-ordinated every aspect of the search and paid every bribe until he was found.
The temptation to deliver the news of his capture in person, to obtrude upon Elizabeth’s notice one more time, was compelling.
Such was just the sort of imperious, selfish thing he might have done before.
It was not something Fitzwilliam Darcy, gentleman, had any intention of undertaking.
Elizabeth could never wish to see him again; thus, he stayed away.