Chapter Nineteen
“D ashing,” Fitz declared with a frown, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall next to the glass. “The wind is surely at your back. Most men appear fearsome when they are scarred—villainous, even. But you? You take a blow to the head, and it only serves to make you more distinguished. Women will throw themselves at your feet.”
Darcy rolled his eyes as he turned to peer into the mirror. “I am only interested in one woman, and fortunately, she is not the throwing type.” The scar just above his right eyebrow was still pink and rather vivid. He had been a little concerned about his appearance, but Elizabeth must not mind it, for she had accepted his hand when it—and he—had looked a good deal worse.
Fitz grunted, gesturing vaguely at Darcy’s face. “I daresay Miss Elizabeth finds it quite compelling.”
He smirked. “Are you jealous, Fitz?”
“Of you?” his cousin exclaimed. “Of course I am.” His smile was lopsided and mischievous, his next words spoken in an imitation of their aunt. “If you were not so generous with me, I would be quite put out.”
Darcy gave him a withering look and stepped back, holding out his arms as his valet slipped his travelling coat on over his shoulders. “You speak an inordinate amount of nonsense for so early an hour.”
“You are the one who insisted we leave for town at the first sign of light,” Fitz replied calmly.
He wished to be in London in time to visit Elizabeth, who had departed Kent a week ago to reside with the Gardiners. “And the first sign of light is here, so it is time to depart,” he replied.
They took the stairs with alacrity, but as they stepped out onto the floor and he took his gloves and hat from the butler, Darcy stopped short.
Lady Catherine was waiting for them. She surveyed him with an exacting gaze, her eyes raking over him as he stood before her. Darcy endured her scrutiny without comment, his hat in one hand, his gloves in the other, his coat buttoned without causing him any discomfort. He was, at long last, wholly recovered.
“Well,” she said, pursing her lips. “I suppose you have done a tolerable job of not dying.”
Fitz, standing just beyond Darcy’s shoulder, made a strangled noise that was either a cough or a laugh. Darcy did not deign to acknowledge it.
“I believe I have managed,” he replied.
Lady Catherine lifted her chin, surveying him with narrowed eyes. “Would you join me in the drawing room?”
Darcy glanced at the front doors. He truly wished to be in London early. There was something he needed to do.
“It will not take long,” his aunt said.
He followed her in, and Fitz followed him. As they entered, he saw Anne sitting in a chair near the window. She nodded at him as they entered but turned her attention back to the book in her hands.
She must have risen early to be sure her mother would not make things between them any worse than they already were.
Lady Catherine moved to her favourite chair but did not sit. “I had my doubts. You were quite insensible when they brought you back.” Her gaze flickered down to his boots and back up again, as if to confirm that he was still standing. “You are truly recovered?”
“Fully.”
She sniffed. “You do look well enough. Strong. Unreasonably so, considering all you have put me through.”
Darcy arched a brow. “ You , madam?”
Lady Catherine, choosing to ignore him, clasped her hands before her and squared her shoulders. She pursed her lips. Then, with great reluctance, she spoke. “It has been pointed out to me—by more than one source—that my disregard for your warnings about the folly may have been . . . unwise.”
Fitz sucked in an audible breath, which he disguised poorly as a yawn.
Darcy crossed his arms. “Go on.”
Lady Catherine’s fingers twitched against her skirts. “It is not as though I expected anyone to actually sit in it,” she said in a rush. “It was meant to be admired, not occupied.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to reply.
Lady Catherine cleared her throat. “That being said, I suppose my sister”—she hesitated, as if the words pained her—“would be very cross with me if any injury of a permanent nature had occurred to you due to my inattention. She would have had quite a great deal to say about it, and she never tired of correcting me. One would think she was the elder.”
She paused. Darcy waited.
“And I further suppose,” she continued with a vague wave of her hand, “it was a regrettable thing that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was caught up in it. But you must understand that I did not intend for it to fall over.” She sniffed. “I believed you simply were being difficult because you enjoyed sparring with me.”
Darcy lifted a brow.
Lady Catherine exhaled sharply. “Oh, very well. It was wrong of me. And I”—she pressed her lips into a thin line before forcing the final words out—“apologise.”
He was certain that if he had chanced a glance at Fitz that his cousin would be gaping at Lady Catherine. She never apologised for anything. Not that Darcy could recall.
“I do not wish to argue with you, Aunt,” he told her in a quiet voice. “Whatever our disagreements, you are still my mother’s sister, and I care for you. But in return, I must have your word that in future you will take my concerns more seriously, particularly in matters where safety is at issue.”
Lady Catherine folded her arms, regarding him for a long moment. At last, she nodded briskly. “Very well.”
“I must have your word.”
She straightened to her full height. “You have it.”
Darcy unfolded his arms and dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I appreciate that. And so long as you hold to the promise you have just made, I forgive you.”
There was a pause. Then his aunt inhaled deeply, as though preparing herself for something truly unpleasant. “Before you go, I have something for you.” She turned to a nearby table, where a velvet-lined box sat waiting. Lifting the lid with great reverence, she extracted two drunken cherubs done in porcelain—exquisite in detail, delicately painted, and entirely ridiculous.
“For Miss Elizabeth,” she announced, holding them out. Darcy had to hand off his hat and gloves to Fitz quickly, for she was pressing them into his hands. “A wedding gift.”
Darcy stared at them. Fitz, at his shoulder, stared harder.
“They are rather fine,” Lady Catherine continued, with an air of self-importance. “French. Quite valuable.”
Darcy could think of no appropriate response.
Lady Catherine mistook his silence for admiration. “I knew you would like them. They have been in my possession for years, but I find myself willing to part with them for such an occasion.” She clasped her hands, nodding in satisfaction.
He schooled his features into something resembling gratitude before saying, “You are very generous, Aunt.”
“Of course I am.” She lifted her chin. “See that they are given pride of place.”
Darcy made no such promise, but he did return them to the box and bow in farewell.
Turning, he moved toward Anne, who had been sitting quietly in the corner for the duration of the conversation. “Cousin,” he said gently, bowing over her hand.
Anne gave him a tired but genuine smile. “I wish you great happiness, Darcy.”
Something softened in Darcy’s heart. “Thank you.”
Fitz said his farewells, and they both strode out of the drawing room and out the front door to where Darcy’s carriage awaited them. The footman held out the velvet box that contained his aunt’s gift for Elizabeth and then shut the door. Then and only then did Fitz finally lose his composure, the fist pressed to his mouth to stifle his laughter sadly ineffective.
“Porcelain cherubs as a wedding gift.” His eyes were alight with mirth. “In their cups, at that. Pride of place!”
Darcy sighed, tucking the box safely into a corner of the carriage before settling onto the seat. “Say another word, Fitz, and I shall tell her that you broke them.”
Fitz’s merry laughter filled Darcy’s ears as the carriage pulled away from Rosings, the grand house shrinking into the distance behind them.