Chapter Four
D arcy and Fitz moved to the library, where his cousin poured them each a measure of brandy. The familiar scent of leather bindings and beeswax mingled with the rich aroma of the spirits. He had just settled into his favourite chair when Fitz crossed his legs and spoke.
“How long have you been in love with her?”
Darcy set his glass down with a thump. “I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Bennet,” his cousin replied as though Darcy were a dolt. “Delightful creature. You could hardly take your eyes from her all evening.”
“You are mistaken,” Darcy said stiffly. “I merely find her conversation engaging.”
“Engaging?” Fitz laughed. “Darcy, I have seen you ‘engaged’ by conversation before. This is well beyond that. When she managed to turn the topic from Mrs. Collins’s housekeeping to the keeping of bees, I thought you might actually smile at Lady Catherine’s dining table. In company, no less.”
“You exaggerate,” Darcy muttered, though he could feel the back of his neck growing warmer.
“Do I? Shall we catalogue your behaviour this evening? The way you watched her step down from the carriage from where you stood sentinel at the window? Your expression when Lady Catherine insisted on you taking Anne’s arm to dinner? The way you pressed your lips together to keep from laughing when Miss Bennet had my aunt claiming to have authority over the very bees in the hive?” He sipped from his glass. “You can be rather obstinate, you know, on certain subjects. The folly is one—”
“Fitz—” Darcy warned.
“I begin to think Miss Elizabeth is another.”
“Even were you correct, which you are not, it is impossible,” Darcy said, more to himself than his cousin. “Miss Bennet has little fortune and no connections at all.”
“Ah yes, the great Mr. Darcy of Pemberley cannot possibly form an attachment to an unconnected gentleman’s daughter.” Fitz’s tone held a hint of challenge. “Tell me, what precisely is the correct price for happiness these days? How many thousands a year must a woman bring to the marriage to make love acceptable?”
“That is not fair,” Darcy protested. “You know as well as I that marriage in our position carries obligations beyond personal inclination. You yourself look for a well-connected, wealthy heiress to wed, do you not? And there are other responsibilities to consider. The estate, the family name—”
Fitz shook his head. “Leave me out of it. I am not in your position. The Miss Bennet I watched tonight would be a match for any woman in the ton, including my mother. And most importantly, you cannot keep your eyes from her.”
Darcy stared into his brandy. “It signifies nothing.”
“Nothing?” Fitz raised an eyebrow. “Then you will not mind if I pursue her myself? She seems quite receptive to my dashing figure and charming address.”
The surge of jealousy that rose in Darcy’s chest was hot enough to burn. “You cannot possibly afford her.”
“You know how much my brother enjoys playing the bon vivant. I believe he would increase my allowance substantially if I promised to wed and start my nursery so he might avoid doing so himself. If my bride were Miss Bennet, that duty would not be at all onerous.” He leaned back and spoke to the ceiling. “She has wit, beauty, and a particular talent for managing difficult relations.”
Darcy stood abruptly, his chair nearly toppling over from the force. “Do not even consider it, Fitz.”
“There it is!” his cousin crowed triumphantly as he sat up and wagged a finger in Darcy’s direction. “That is not the reaction of a man who finds a lady’s conversation merely engaging .”
Darcy righted his chair and sat with a grunt.
“When was the last time you met a woman who could handle Lady Catherine so deftly, and yet so kindly? Who makes you smile despite yourself? Who constantly draws your gaze? I cannot remember a time I saw you so distracted at dinner. You nearly put your elbow in the sauce.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Darcy protested, though he had to admit he had been paying rather less attention to his plate than usual.
“Only because I kicked your leg under the table,” Fitz said cheerfully.
“Yes,” Darcy said drily. “I would ask you to stop doing that, by the by.”
Fitz crossed his arms behind his head. “Seriously, Darcy, I cannot recall ever seeing you so affected.”
“It does not signify,” Darcy repeated slowly, as though speaking the words would make it true. “Nothing can come of it.”
“So you say,” his cousin responded. “But I believe the lady has already broken through your defences. The only question is how long you will continue to deny it.” He caught Darcy’s gaze and held it. “I am not about to fish in your pond, but others will not care a jot. A woman with her excellent qualities will not go unnoticed forever. Lady Catherine may in fact be composing a list of eligible men for your Miss Bennet even as we speak. You know how she likes to be of use.”
The thought of another man courting Miss Elizabeth was exquisitely painful. Darcy did not speak, but as he sipped his brandy, he could not quite banish the memory of Miss Elizabeth’s bright eyes as she had deftly led his aunt’s attention away from her friend, or the way something in his chest had tightened when she smiled. Nothing could come of it, he told himself firmly. Nothing at all.
But watching the firelight dance across his cousin’s knowing expression, Darcy was not certain he believed it anymore. The brandy in his glass offered no answers, only the reflection of his own troubled countenance.
The rain lashed against the parlour windows, the steady patter rising to a furious drumming as the wind howled through the trees beyond the parsonage. The warmth of the fire in the grate was a welcome contrast to the damp chill seeping in from the storm outside.
Elizabeth sat on the settee nearby, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since cooled. Next to her, Charlotte worked at a bit of mending, her needle flashing in the dim light, while Maria sat with her hands folded in her lap, glancing anxiously over her shoulder at the window each time the thunder rolled.
Mr. Collins was in his study, writing the sermon on bees he had assured Lady Catherine was already complete. She supposed that composing one’s thoughts was different from putting them to paper. It was his third morning sequestered away, and Elizabeth had never been more grateful for an unintended consequence of her occasionally impetuous wit.
“I know you wished to walk out this morning, but I believe the weather proves I was right to keep you at home,” Charlotte said pleasantly.
Maria nodded solemnly while Elizabeth laughed. “You usually are, and I confess I am grateful not to be caught out in it.”
Near eleven, Mr. Collins burst in, interrupting their quiet pursuits. He held a note in his hand.
My goodness, what poor servant had been required to go out of doors to deliver it?
“My dear Mrs. Collins! Miss Elizabeth! Maria! Lady Catherine has most graciously invited us to take luncheon at Rosings. We must make haste! Her ladyship was most insistent that Miss de Bourgh requires company on such a dreary day, and she particularly mentioned you, my dear cousin.”
Maria stood and removed from the room without another word while Elizabeth and Charlotte exchanged glances.
“My dear,” Charlotte ventured, “perhaps we ought to send our regrets. The rain is quite severe.”
Pounding footsteps travelled up the stairs. Maria, as afraid of Lady Catherine’s displeasure as Mr. Collins, was apparently in a hurry to gather her things. Elizabeth sighed. There was little chance of them getting out of the engagement, but Charlotte, bless her, would try.
“Send our regrets? To Lady Catherine?” Mr. Collins looked aghast. “My dear Mrs. Collins, surely you cannot mean to refuse such condescension! Her ladyship specifically requested our presence.”
“The lanes will be quite muddy,” Elizabeth offered. “Surely Lady Catherine would not like it were we to sully her floors. She will understand—”
“Understand? Cousin Elizabeth, you cannot comprehend the honour being bestowed upon us! To brave a little rain is nothing compared to the privilege of providing company to Miss de Bourgh.”
“A little rain?” Elizabeth murmured, watching sheets of water cascading down the windows.
“Come, come!” Mr. Collins was already reaching for his coat. “We must not keep her ladyship waiting. Though perhaps, my dear,” he added to Charlotte with unusual thoughtfulness, “you might wish to wear your second-best shoes.”
Elizabeth and Charlotte exchanged glances. There was nothing for it but to change quickly and brave the downpour for the short walk to the great house.
Rather predictably, Elizabeth thought, they arrived at Rosings in a sorry state. Her hem was thoroughly soaked and spattered with mud, and her feet were wet through although she had chosen her sturdy walking shoes for the enterprise. Charlotte’s carefully arranged hair had begun to droop beneath her sodden bonnet. They were each armed with an umbrella, but unfortunately the rain had been blowing in sideways, rendering them all but useless. Poor Maria had fared the worst of all—her coat was too short to protect her skirts, and the pale yellow muslin she wore was now liberally dotted with muddy splashes. Her shoes, not suited for such inclement weather, were quite ruined. Even Mr. Collins, for all his determined cheer, resembled nothing so much as a wet crow, his black coat glistening and his neckcloth wilting.
In the entrance hall, they made a futile attempt to make themselves presentable. Elizabeth tried to shake out her skirts without creating an even greater mess on Lady Catherine’s marble floors, while Charlotte discreetly wrung out the edge of her pelisse into a potted plant. Maria looked close to tears as she attempted to brush the mud from her dress.
“You shall have to allow it to dry and remove it then, Maria,” Elizabeth whispered.
Mr. Collins was too busy extolling their gratitude for the invitation to Lady Catherine’s butler to notice he was dripping steadily on the rug.
When they entered the drawing room, Elizabeth was further mortified, for the contrast between their party and those within was painfully obvious. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy were both impeccably dressed. Miss de Bourgh, wrapped in several shawls on the chaise, looked as delicate and untouched as a hothouse flower.
Lady Catherine’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “Good heavens! Mr. Collins, you should have taken the carriage. I would have sent it, had I known you would attempt to walk in such weather. Mrs. Collins, you are positively drenched. And Miss Lucas!” Her voice rose in genuine horror at Maria’s bedraggled appearance. “Miss Bennet—” Her gaze travelled from Elizabeth’s muddied hem to her dampened curls with an expression of aristocratic dismay.
Maria shrank behind her sister, her cheeks flaming as red as those on Lady Catherine’s drunken cherub figurines.
If her cousin did not mind embarrassing himself, Elizabeth would happily leave him to it, but he had humiliated the three of them as well because he could not be bothered to wait out the weather. Elizabeth did not think she had ever been as angry with a man as she was with Mr. Collins. Not even Mr. Darcy.
Darcy had been watching the rain from the window at the far end of the drawing room that overlooked the path to the old orchard and had thus missed the approach of the little party from the parsonage. When they appeared in the doorway, wet through and in disarray, his heart clenched at the sight of them. Of poor Miss Elizabeth in particular, with the ends of her dark curls dripping and her normally bright eyes shadowed with discomfort. He dragged his eyes away to see that Mrs. Collins appeared equally drenched, while her young sister Miss Lucas looked as though she had walked through a river rather than merely down the lane, her yellow muslin frock ruined beyond repair.
“My dear Lady Catherine.” Mr. Collins bowed. “I would never presume upon your generosity by expecting the carriage to be sent in such inclement weather. The horses must be protected from—”
“Nonsense,” Darcy cut in, noting how Miss Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed at her cousin’s pronouncement. The swift, sardonic glance she cast at Mr. Collins told him all he needed to know about who had insisted they all walk rather than either declining the invitation or waiting for a carriage to be sent. He felt a surge of disgust at the man’s complete disregard for the ladies’ comfort.
The parson sputtered. “Oh, Mr Darcy, I assure you I have nothing but the deepest concern for—”
“Yes, quite,” Darcy interrupted, his patience wearing thin. He caught Miss Elizabeth pressing her lips together, no doubt to hide a sense of vindication that her cousin’s behaviour would not go unremarked upon. The sight of her trying to maintain her dignity while water dripped from her skirts made him want to shake the pastor until his brains rattled. If he had any.
Anne surprised them all by speaking up. “Mother, might I offer the ladies some dry stockings? And perhaps my blue slippers would suit Miss Lucas? Her shoes are quite ruined.”
Miss Lucas’s face brightened with relief even as she stammered, “Oh no, I could not possibly—”
“You most certainly will,” Anne said with unexpected firmness. “Mrs. Jenkinson, would you show the ladies to my dressing room? And have someone see to drying their shoes properly.” She pressed her lips together and stood. “Perhaps I shall accompany you.”
Darcy was pleased to see his usually passive cousin take such initiative. “Peabody.” he said to the butler, “have Mrs. Wilson bring down some warm blankets immediately. And bring tea as soon as the ladies return, but not before, for it must be hot,” he emphasized, noting how Miss Elizabeth was attempting not to shiver.
“Indeed,” his aunt agreed, warming to the role of beneficent hostess now that others had taken the initiative. “Mrs. Jenkinson, you might also locate your spare pelisse.”
Mrs. Jenkinson nodded, but Darcy sent Anne a look. “Never you mind, Mrs. Jenkinson. It is an excellent idea, Mother, but I have ever so many clothes that are out of fashion now.”
She had added that last so that her mother would not complain. In fact, Anne’s fashions did not alter much from year to year, and it was true she had many gowns she no longer wore. There was no need for Mrs. Jenkinson to give up her own clothing, and Anne’s annoyed expression told Darcy that she had needed no prompting from him on that score.
His aunt nodded regally. “Very well, Anne.” She turned to Darcy. “Do you see how well she would do as the mistress of an estate?”
Anne had been the mistress of Rosings as of her twenty-fifth birthday, more than four years ago now. But she had thus far been happy to allow her mother to play the part.
After the ladies had departed with Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson, Fitz turned to Mr. Collins with an expression Darcy had last seen him wear when dressing down a particularly incompetent lieutenant.
“Mr. Collins,” Fitz said with dangerous pleasantness, “I wonder if you might explain your thinking in requiring three ladies to walk through a rainstorm?”
“I— that is to say—” Mr. Collins mopped his brow with a sodden handkerchief. “Her ladyship’s gracious invitation was most pressing.”
“Not pressing enough to endanger anyone’s health,” Darcy cut in coldly. “My aunt would never expect guests to walk through a deluge to attend her.” He could not be certain that was true, but he was angry, and he knew how to prick his aunt’s pride.
Lady Catherine drew herself up. “Indeed not! I am most seriously displeased, Mr. Collins. To think that Mrs. Collins and her sister might catch their death of cold! And Miss Bennet, whose constitution cannot be as robust as Anne’s, just think of it!”
Darcy and Fitz exchanged an incredulous glance at this extraordinary pronouncement, but neither contradicted her.
“Your ladyship is all goodness,” Mr. Collins stammered nervously, “but I would never presume to request that you send a carriage to retrieve us. It is already remarkable that we are so rarely allowed to walk home.”
“You need not request anything,” Darcy said. “In future, you will send a footman to enquire. The carriage will be sent as a matter of course in inclement weather. Is that not so, Aunt?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” Lady Catherine waved her hand. “I keep an excellent stable, Mr. Collins. The horses are quite accustomed to such duties.”
Mr. Collins moved to sit in his accustomed chair, but Darcy’s aunt called out sharply, “Collins, you will stand until you are dry. I will not have you leaving a water mark on the furniture.”
The parson nodded and bowed. He was still attempting to explain himself to Fitz when the ladies returned. Miss Lucas wore a pale blue muslin that, while perhaps two seasons out of date, was of the finest quality and fit her perfectly. Darcy had not realized that Anne and Miss Lucas were so close in size. Mrs. Collins had been provided with a serviceable grey shawl that caught the slate blue of her eyes and improved her usual drab appearance considerably. And Miss Elizabeth—
Her dark curls had been tidied, and her colour was high. The rose-coloured shawl was a soft cashmere—he recognized it as one of a pair he had purchased several years back, a blue one for his sister and this one for Anne. It brought out an answering warmth in Miss Elizabeth’s complexion, and her eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth at Mr. Collins’s obvious discomfort.
She must realise that he had been scolded severely while they were out of the room, and it amused him that she appeared so satisfied by it.
Each lady wore dry shoes and, he supposed, stockings. Anne entered behind them, looking rather pleased with herself. Darcy caught her eye and nodded his approval. To his surprise, she gave him an exasperated look that clearly said she did not need his approbation for doing what any decent hostess would.
For the second time in less than half an hour, he found himself hiding a smile. Perhaps his quiet cousin had more spirit than any of them had suspected.
“Come, ladies,” Fitz said, smoothly intervening, “you must sit by the fire. I insist upon it.” He glared at Mr. Collins until that man escorted his wife to a chair near the hearth.
Fitz then caught Darcy’s eye with a knowing look that Darcy chose to ignore, though he could not help but notice how the firelight brought out a bit of auburn in Miss Elizabeth’s dark hair. She was still shivering slightly.
“Another log for the fire, Peabody,” Darcy ordered. “And the blankets, please.”
Peabody tended to the wood while Mrs. Wilson brought the blankets. A maid opened them and placed them over each lady’s lap.
Miss Elizabeth sighed as she tucked the wool blanket around her legs and feet. He hoped she would feel warm again soon. After a moment, she glanced over at him.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
It was ridiculous how pleased those two words made him. Darcy was aware he was watching Miss Elizabeth too closely—his aunt was looking at him with raised eyebrows, and Fitz was hiding a smirk. But the sight of Miss Elizabeth’s grateful expression made it worth any awkwardness.
“I have always said,” Lady Catherine pronounced, moving to another tall-backed chair nearer the fire so that her guests could still hear her, “that one must take particular care of one’s guests. It is the mark of true nobility to attend to such matters. Anne, you have done very well—though of course, you learned from my example.”
Anne caught Miss Bennet’s eye and quickly looked away, but not before Darcy noticed her small smile. He found himself fascinated by the silent communication between the two young women—the slight arch of Miss Elizabeth’s brow, the answering set of Anne’s mouth. When had his cousin learned such subtle impertinence? Or had he, so caught up in his disputes with her mother, merely failed to note it?
The tea arrived and Anne set herself to pouring it out.
“Indeed, your ladyship,” Mr. Collins effused, still attempting to recover his standing, “your consideration for others is beyond compare. Such generosity of spirit—”
“Yes, yes.” Lady Catherine waved away his praise, though Darcy noted she sat a bit straighter. “It is merely what any person of proper breeding would do. Though I dare say few households could provide such fine things at a moment’s notice.”
Miss Elizabeth lifted her teacup to hide her smile.
Darcy found his attention drawn repeatedly to that smile, to the way she managed to convey perfect politeness while her eyes danced with barely suppressed amusement. He had once thought her merely pretty. How blind he had been. There was a luminosity to her expression that seemed to draw everyone into its orbit. Even now, she was including Anne in her private mirth without making his cousin uncomfortable, a feat he would have thought impossible even an hour ago.
“Of course,” his aunt continued, warming to her subject, “I have always maintained that true charity lies in knowing how to give without making others feel their obligation. Would you not agree, Darcy?”
He started slightly at being addressed. “Indeed, madam,” he replied automatically, though his eyes stubbornly strayed back to Miss Elizabeth, who was now listening with an expression of exaggerated attention that made his throat tighten. Good Lord, he needed to distract himself. It would not do to laugh at his aunt before her guests.
“It is a principle I have always impressed upon Anne,” Lady Catherine declared. “I have taught her the natural ability to bestow favours without causing embarrassment to the recipient.”
Miss Elizabeth smiled to herself. She caught his gaze for a moment, and he could read her thoughts as clearly as if she had spoken them aloud: It was impossible to teach something that was a natural ability. But if anyone would claim to do so, it would be Lady Catherine.
“Your ladyship’s understanding of such delicate matters is unparalleled,” Mr. Collins began, but his wife interrupted him with gentle firmness.
“Perhaps, my dear, we might allow Lady Catherine to enjoy her tea?”
Lady Catherine grunted approvingly, and Darcy silently applauded Mrs. Collins’s tactful intervention. He had noticed how often she managed to redirect her husband’s effusions without seeming to do so, not unlike Miss Bennet had the other night. No wonder they were friends.
His eyes were drawn once again to that lady, who was now engaged in quiet conversation with Anne about a book of poetry she had brought with her into Kent. Miss Bennet’s animated expression as she discussed her favourite verses seemed to bring out an answering animation in his cousin. He had never seen Anne so willing to express her own opinions. He felt a little guilt for not speaking with Anne more. If his aunt would only give over her thinly veiled insistence on pairing them, he would not fear having his attentions misunderstood.
“You see, Darcy?” His aunt’s voice broke into his reverie. “Anne shows greatness of mind, for she is an extensive reader.”
He murmured a response he hoped was appropriate, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He rather suspected Anne’s animation today had less to do with any greatness of mind and more with Miss Elizabeth’s lively influence.
The rain continued to drum against the windows, but the atmosphere in the room had altered. Where before there had been discomfort and awkwardness, now there was warmth that had nothing to do with the blazing fire. And at the centre of it all was Miss Elizabeth, her dark eyes bright with intelligence and good humour, the rose-coloured shawl tugged tightly about her as she leaned forward to better hear Anne’s quiet reply to her question.
Her hair was beginning to dry, forming wild tendrils about her face that made his fingers itch to smooth them back. He looked away, lest his expression betray too much of what he was feeling.
Even his aunt had heard quite enough from her parson. “Brandy for Mr. Collins, I think,” Lady Catherine said abruptly. “He is shivering.”
Fitz fetched the decanter from the sideboard and poured a glass. When Mr. Collins spluttered his thanks, Fitz poured two more and held out one to Darcy with a grin. “It would be ill-mannered to let him drink alone.”
Darcy accepted it.
“Do you know, Miss Bennet,” Anne was saying, “I believe we have several volumes of poetry that might interest you. They are in the library. You ought to have something more to read, especially when the weather keeps you inside.”
“I should like that very much,” Miss Elizabeth replied, and Darcy found himself captivated by the way her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when she smiled.
Anne stood. “Do allow me to fetch a few for you.”
Miss Elizabeth reluctantly stirred, intending to stand and accompany his cousin to the library, but Anne shook her head. “No, you should remain here by the fire, Miss Bennet. I shall be perfectly fine alone.”
“Darcy,” Lady Catherine declared quite suddenly, “you will accompany Anne.”
Darcy shared a resigned look with Anne before approaching her to offer his arm.