Chapter Two
T he great doors of Rosings swung open at their approach, and Mr. Peabody greeted them, his wiry figure nearly lost in the vastness of the entrance hall. “Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Her ladyship is expecting you in the blue drawing room. If you would like to refresh yourselves first—”
“No need,” Darcy said brusquely, already removing his gloves.
“I am sorry to disagree, cousin,” Fitz cut in smoothly, “but I believe we would both appreciate a moment to make ourselves presentable after the journey.”
Darcy caught his cousin’s hard look and suppressed a sigh. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Peabody.”
He entered his usual chambers. Fitz followed him inside. “Darcy, promise me you will not start in about the folly the moment we walk into that drawing room.”
“I had no such intention,” Darcy protested. He had fully expected that they would have tea first.
“No?” Fitz raised an eyebrow. “Then why were you staring at that hill as if it had personally offended you?”
“I was merely observing—”
“The angle of the slope? The moisture content of the soil? The precise weight distribution of the stone?” Fitz was exasperated, but Darcy heard fondness too. “She will not yield, you know. For once, cousin, let us pass this visit in peace.”
Darcy straightened his cravat with perhaps more force than necessary. “Very well. I shall hold my tongue. Though if she mentions it, I will consider myself released from this promise.”
“Even if she mentions it,” Fitz insisted.
He was silent for a moment, considering whether that was possible. “I promise to try,” Darcy said finally, which was the best he could manage.
When they entered the drawing room, Lady Catherine was enthroned in her favourite chair, with his cousin Anne arranged carefully on a chaise beside her. The spring sunshine streaming through the tall windows did neither of them any favours. Lady Catherine appeared more imperious than ever, while Anne seemed happy to fade into the upholstery.
Darcy’s gaze assessed the room with a familiar aversion. His aunt’s preference for ostentation was entirely absurd. Every object here competed for attention, from the gilt-edged mirrors to the elaborate Aubusson carpet. No one could really discern the colour of the walls, for they had disappeared beneath a riot of portraits of cherubs and garlands, while crystals dripped needlessly from every sconce and the chandelier. A half-dozen delicate tables dotted the room, none of them with any purpose save to display porcelain figures. But even here there was little thought for grouping like things together. Shepherds and milkmaids sat next to leering satyrs and drunken cherubs of Bacchus who clutched barrels of wine. Even the chair cushions had been embroidered within an inch of their lives, forcing guests to perch awkwardly lest they damage the needlework.
It was, Darcy thought, rather like the folly itself—all show and no substance, proof of wealth without evidence of prudence, every choice made for appearance rather than comfort or practical use.
“Darcy! Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine extended her hand with royal grandeur. “You are late. I expected you hours ago.”
“The roads were in poor condition from the recent rains, Aunt,” Fitz said, bowing over her hand.
“Nonsense. They cannot have been so bad.”
So said the woman who only ever travelled to the village a mile away. They had made very good time.
“Come, sit down. Mrs. Jenkinson, ring for tea.” His aunt fixed her sharp gaze on Darcy. “Well, nephew? Have you nothing to say to your aunt?”
“It is good to see you looking so well,” Darcy managed, though the words felt stiff on his tongue.
“Hmph. You seem out of sorts. Though I suppose I know why.” Lady Catherine’s fan tapped against her knee. “You passed my lovely folly on your way in, did you not? Still standing, you see, despite all your dire predictions. How many years has it been now?” Her smile was unbearably smug.
Darcy felt Fitz’s warning gaze boring into him. He took a careful breath, remembering his promise. “Lady Catherine,” he began with every intention of changing the topic, but she was not finished.
“Really, Darcy, you must learn to admit when you are wrong. The finest architects in Kent assured me it would stand, and stand it has. Such a beautiful addition to the landscape. Everyone says so. Why, just last week, Lady Metcalfe was remarking on how picturesque it is.”
Finest architects indeed. Only one architect had been willing to take the money and make no protest. The tea arrived, and he accepted a cup mechanically, barely tasting the drink as Lady Catherine continued to extol the virtues of her folly. His aunt’s voice droned on, each word stoking his frustration like fuel added to a fire.
“—and Lady Metcalfe’s second cousin, who has travelled extensively in Italy, declared she had never seen its equal. Such perfect proportions! Such elegant simplicity! Though of course, one cannot expect everyone to appreciate such an artistic vision.” Here she cast a meaningful glance at Darcy.
The tea scalded his tongue and burned his throat, but he barely noticed.
“When the morning light strikes the limestone, it positively glows. Like marble from Carrara itself!”
As if the woman knew anything about Italian art. The folly was a replica of—
He leaned slightly forward, intending to speak, but Fitz kicked the heel of his boot sharply against Darcy’s ankle and glared at him. Darcy glared back, and when Lady Catherine at last paused to draw breath, he could contain himself no longer.
“Aunt,” Darcy said, his voice carrying the weight of seven years’ frustration, “it is not the appearance of the folly that is at issue.” It was, but it was not the most important problem. “You cannot continue to ignore the structural concerns.”
“Nephew,” Lady Catherine interrupted, waving away his words as she might dismiss an impertinent servant, “I find your persistence on this matter quite tiresome. The folly has stood for many years without the slightest indication of instability.”
“Seven years is nothing in the life of such a structure,” Darcy pressed, setting down his cup and rising to pace before the great fireplace in an attempt to cool his temper. Fitz, still seated with his own tea, caught his eye with another warning look that Darcy ignored. “The weight of the stone, combined with the former chalk mines in the area—”
“I consulted Harrison before we began,” Lady Catherine declared, her spine straightening impossibly further. “He assured me the location was perfectly suitable.”
“Did he?” Darcy’s tone sharpened. “Or did he simply bow to your wishes and take your money, knowing you would accept no contrary opinion?”
Anne coughed delicately from her position near the window, and Mrs. Jenkinson arranged a shawl over her shoulders despite the increasing warmth of the day. “Perhaps, Cousin Darcy, we might discuss something more pleasant? The gardens have bloomed beautifully in the past fortnight.”
“Indeed, they have,” Fitz added quickly. “The primroses are particularly—”
“The primroses will look considerably less fine when that monstrosity comes crashing down the hillside,” Darcy cut in, his patience fraying.
Lady Catherine’s fan snapped open with the sound of a pistol shot. “Really, Darcy, you speak as though I had erected some merchant’s folly, some tradesman’s fantasy. This is Rosings Park. Everything here is built to the highest standard.”
That was not in the least true, but she would never listen. “The finest craftsmanship cannot overcome the basic laws of nature.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes flashed, and Darcy, chagrined, understood that she was quite enjoying their battle. “I find it extraordinary that you presume to tell me what cannot be done on my own estate. I, who have managed Rosings these thirty years.”
“Twenty-four,” Anne murmured, her correction almost inaudible.
“I have overseen improvements that have made it the jewel of Kent. Fitzwilliam, do you not agree that the folly adds a classical dignity to the landscape?”
Fitz, caught between his desire for peace and his loyalty to Darcy, cleared his throat. “It is certainly striking , Aunt.”
Coward.
“You see?” Lady Catherine gestured triumphantly at Fitz. “Even your cousin appreciates it. Anne, my dear, did you not say just yesterday how much you enjoyed taking the air there?”
Anne’s pale features registered resignation at being applied to for her opinion. “I believe I mentioned that the view from my window was pleasant,” she said carefully.
“There, you see?” Lady Catherine turned back to Darcy. “The folly provides my Anne with respite and contemplation. Would you deny your cousin this small pleasure?”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. “I would deny her the pleasure of being buried beneath thirty tons of stone, yes.”
Fitz coughed to hide what might have been a laugh. He did that quite often at Rosings.
“Really, Darcy,” Lady Catherine said dismissively. “I begin to think you argue merely for the sake of argument. The folly stands, it will continue to stand, and I will hear no more about it. Now, shall we discuss more agreeable matters?”
It was just like his aunt to bring up the disagreeable matter and then refuse to finish the conversation. Darcy nearly growled.
She ignored his obvious frustration. “Tell me, is it true that you have met Mrs. Collins’s pretty houseguest? I am told you were introduced in Hertfordshire last autumn.”
Darcy, who had just lifted his tea again to keep himself from saying something truly unforgivable, nearly spilled it. “I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. Quite decided opinions. Impertinent, really.”
“Mother likes her,” Anne whispered.
The room seemed suddenly airless. Darcy set down his cup with excessive care, aware of Fitz’s shrewd glance in his direction. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he repeated, his voice strange to his own ears. “Is here? At Hunsford?”
“So you do know her,” Anne confirmed.
He nodded.
“Yes, yes.” Lady Catherine waved her fan, appearing annoyed that Darcy had already been introduced. “You recall I wrote you of Mrs. Collins? Yes, well, Miss Bennet has come to visit her. A young lady of quite modest circumstances, I understand, though she plays and sings a little. Not very well, of course, for she has had none of the advantages that Anne has enjoyed. Still, one must make allowances. The girl seems to have some conversation.”
This was nearly a paean from Lady Catherine.
Darcy stood abruptly, then realized he had no reason to do so. He moved to the window, ostensibly to examine the gardens, but his eyes were drawn to the path that led to the parsonage. She was here. The very woman he had fled to London to forget, whose impertinent wit and fine eyes had haunted him all winter.
“Cousin?” Anne’s soft voice broke through his thoughts. “Are you quite well? You look rather pale.”
“The journey,” he said curtly. “The roads. If you will excuse me, I believe I will take an opportunity to refresh myself.”
“You have already done so,” Lady Catherine complained. “Not even you are so fastidious, Darcy.”
He strode from the room without answering. He heard Fitz making his apologies, but Darcy did not slow his pace.
He had come to Kent seeking distraction from his troubled thoughts, only to find their source waiting for him. And knowing Miss Elizabeth’s clever observations, she would no doubt take particular delight in watching him wage his hopeless campaign against his aunt’s folly. He could almost see her raised eyebrow, imagine the barely suppressed smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she witnessed him being treated like a child.
Miss Elizabeth—he would always think of her as Elizabeth—here at Rosings. It was as if fate itself were laughing at his attempts to put her from his mind.
He reached the staircase beyond the drawing room and stopped, pressing his fingers to his temples. A headache had begun to pulse behind his eyes, a combination of the journey, his aunt’s intransigence, and the revelation that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was so near. She was even closer now than she had been in Hertfordshire.
It was intolerable.
Darcy exhaled sharply, aware that his reaction was excessive. He had heard about the parson’s marriage from his aunt, and he had known Miss Elizabeth was friendly with the new Mrs. Collins; it was only natural that she might visit. It was not as though she had followed him here, if anything, he had unwittingly followed her. And yet, he had spent months persuading himself that his interest in her was of no consequence, that his admiration—if it could be called such—was nothing more than passing curiosity.
He had been deceiving himself.
With a muttered curse, he turned on his heel and strode toward the opposite end of the hall. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he walked, as though he could physically shake off the anticipation that now sparked in his chest.
“Escaping already?”
Darcy stopped and turned. Fitz leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing about his mouth.
“I am not escaping,” Darcy said stiffly.
“No, of course not. You simply had an urgent need to inspect the stairs,” Fitz’s gaze sharpened. “I did warn you not to engage on the matter of the folly. And yet, here you are, pacing the halls within a quarter hour of arriving.”
Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. “She is here.”
Fitz blinked. “Who?”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
A slow grin spread across his cousin’s face. “Ah. May I assume that Longbourn is located in Hertfordshire? Perhaps near Bingley’s leased home?”
Darcy closed his eyes. “It is.”
“Then this is the lady you would never name, perhaps the one you kept from Bingley? Now that is very interesting.”
“It is nothing of the kind,” Darcy snapped. “Bingley was interested in her eldest sister. Miss Elizabeth’s presence is merely unexpected.”
“And troubling,” Fitz added, unrepentant. “To you.”
Darcy ignored him. His aunt would expect his return any moment, and allowing Fitz the satisfaction of prolonged amusement at his expense was more than he could bear at the moment. He straightened his coat.
“I am going back in.”
“Good man,” Fitz said cheerfully. “Do try to prevent Lady Catherine from setting the date for your wedding to Anne before dinner.”
Darcy scowled, but his cousin only laughed, falling into step beside him as they returned to the drawing room.
Lady Catherine barely glanced at him as he entered, already deep in a lecture about Mr. Collins’s latest sermon, which she had taken a hand in writing. Anne was not listening, but Mrs. Jenkinson gave every outward sign of attention. Darcy took his seat, schooling his expression into indifference. But his mind remained elsewhere—on the modest parsonage a short distance away, and the woman within it, whose eyes challenged him, whose sharp wit and sweet laughter unsettled the foundations of everything he thought he knew. She was here, and no matter how he fought against it, he was going to see her again.
An hour later, Darcy was ready to do anything for an opportunity to leave the room and find some quiet place to ponder his situation. But his aunt was still speaking.
Did she ever stop? The only thing that saved him was that she so rarely required a response.
“Really, Darcy, what were you doing in such a backwater?” she asked suddenly.
He held back a sigh. At least she had offered him a clue about her subject. “May I remind you that Hertford House is located in Hertfordshire?” he inquired coolly. “It is half a day from London, Aunt, hardly a backwater.”
“Were you visiting Hertford House?” his aunt responded glibly. “No?”
Darcy cast a despairing look at Fitz, who merely shrugged, his expression caught between sympathy and amusement.
It was clear that, for today at least, the battle over the folly was lost. The surprise of Miss Elizabeth’s presence so close to Rosings had too thoroughly discomposed him. But he knew, with the same certainty that told him the folly would eventually fail, that he would try again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
After all, he reflected grimly, Fitz was right. If there was one trait he shared with Lady Catherine, it was stubbornness.