Chapter Five The Lemon Biscuit Emergency
If there was a patron saint of panic, Fitzwilliam Darcy was currently building a shrine to him in the breakfast room of his London townhouse.
It was Sunday morning. The bells of St. George's were pealing in the distance, calling the faithful to worship, but Darcy was engaged in a different sort of devotion: the absolute, fanatical pursuit of perfection.
He had been awake since dawn. He had paced the length of the first floor three times. He had inspected the drawing room curtains and found them wanting. He had terrified a housemaid by staring intensely at a rug for five minutes, trying to determine if it was aligned with the magnetic north.
"Mrs Crauford," Darcy said, pivoting on his heel to face his housekeeper.
Mrs Crauford was a stout, formidable woman who had run Darcy House for twenty years and had never seen her master in such a state.
She stood with her hands clasped, watching him with the wary expression of a menagerie keeper observing a lion that had suddenly decided to start a jig.
"Sir?"
"The tea service. The Sèvres porcelain. Is it ready?"
"It has been washed, polished, and set out, Sir. As it was ten minutes ago when you asked."
"And the drawing room? The light is... severe. We should draw the sheer curtains. But then it might be too dim. We want an atmosphere of effortless welcome."
"Effortless," Mrs Crauford repeated dryly. "Of course, Sir."
"And the refreshments." Darcy stopped pacing.
This was the critical point. "I recalled.
.. that is, I seem to remember from my time in Hertfordshire.
.." He paused, feeling the heat rise in his neck.
Why was this so difficult to admit? "That a guest expressed a preference for lemon biscuits. The small ones. With the glaze."
Mrs Crauford blinked. "Lemon biscuits, Sir? The cook has prepared the macaroons, the sponge cake, and the almond tarts you requested yesterday."
"Yes, but the lemon biscuits. They are specific. Crisp, but not hard. Tart, but not sour. Does Cook know the recipe?"
"I believe Cook is capable of baking a biscuit, Sir. Though on such short notice..."
"It is essential," Darcy said, his voice dropping to a register of grave importance usually reserved for discussions about the Corn Laws. "If we do not have lemon biscuits, the entire afternoon may well be a failure."
Mrs Crauford stared at him. She looked at the perfectly appointed room. She looked at the master of the house, who was currently wearing a waistcoat he had changed into only twenty minutes ago because the previous one was "too sombre."
"I shall inform Cook immediately, Sir," she said, her tone suggesting she would also be informing the staff to hide the sharp objects. "Lemon biscuits. Specific glaze. Essential for the preservation of the Empire."
"Thank you, Mrs Crauford."
She swept out, leaving Darcy alone with his anxiety. He walked to the window and looked out at Grosvenor Square. It was a grey, flat morning. In a few hours, she would be here. In his house. Sitting on his furniture. Drinking his tea. Eating his biscuits.
He rubbed his chest. The ache was there, a tight knot of hope and terror.
He had forced this invitation. He had allowed Robert to bully him into it, yes, but he had been the one to look Georgiana in the eye and agree.
And now, faced with the reality of Elizabeth walking through his front door, he felt entirely unequipped.
He was Fitzwilliam Darcy. He owned half of Derbyshire. He had an income that made mothers weep with joy. And yet, the thought of Elizabeth raising one incredulous eyebrow at his curtains was enough to make him want to flee to the Continent.
"You are being ridiculous," he told his reflection in the windowpane. "She is just a woman. A woman who finds you arrogant, stiff, and generally disagreeable. Lemon biscuits are not going to change that."
But he went to check on the progress of the baking anyway. Just in case. On his way to the kitchen, he halted abruptly.
"William?"
He froze in the act of straightening a portrait of his great-grandfather.
He turned to find Georgiana standing in the doorway of the drawing room.
She was dressed for church, though they had decided to attend the early service to be back in time for the call.
She looked lovely, soft, and utterly bewildered.
"Good morning, Georgiana."
"Mrs Crauford says you are terrorizing the kitchen staff about citrus fruit," she said, walking into the room. She looked around. "And you have moved the sofa."
"It promotes better conversation angles."
"It looks like we are preparing for a tribunal." She stopped in front of him, tilting her head. "William, look at me."
Darcy sighed and met her gaze. He saw the worry there, but also a new sharpness. The events of the last two days—the encounter at the bookshop, the raid on Cheapside—had awakened a spark in his sister.
"This is not normal," she stated. "You are never this agitated. Not for Lady Catherine. Not for the Prince Regent. You are acting as if we are about to be besieged."
"We are having guests. It is proper to be prepared."
"It is proper to be polite. It is not necessary to redecorate the house." She reached out and took his hand. "William. You told me you 'liked' her. You said she was an acquaintance whose intellect you admired."
"I do."
"This," she gestured to the room, to his tense shoulders, to the general air of hysteria, "is not 'liking'. This is panic. Is it... is it more than that, Brother?"
Darcy looked at her. He wanted to tell her.
He wanted to say, Yes, it is everything.
It is the only thing. But he couldn't. Because if he said it aloud, and then Elizabeth rejected him, which was the statistically probable outcome, the humiliation would be absolute.
And worse, it would break Georgiana's heart too, just as she was learning to trust again.
"It doesn't matter," he said finally, his voice rough. He pulled his hand away gently. "It cannot be anything more, Georgiana. Her connections, our situation, the history with Bingley and her sister… it is impossible. I am merely trying to be a good host."
Georgiana looked at him sadly. "You are trying to be perfect. You always think if you are perfect, nothing can hurt you."
Before Darcy could respond to that uncomfortably accurate dissection of his character, the front doorbell rang.
"They cannot be here yet," Darcy said, panic flaring. "It is only ten o'clock!"
But it was not the Bennets. It was, in fact, a forest.
Mostyn, the butler, appeared at the door, looking as flustered as a man of his dignity could be. "Sir. A delivery. From... from Lord Keathley."
Behind him, a procession of footmen began to march in. They were carrying vases. Massive, overflowing vases. Not just a bouquet, but an entire horticultural exhibition.
Roses. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. Hothouse roses in shades of cream, pale pink, and vibrant peach. They filled the room, the scent instantly overpowering the smell of lemon polish.
"Good heavens," Georgiana gasped.
"Robert," Darcy growled.
A card was attached to the largest arrangement, which required two men to carry. Darcy snatched it up.
For the Goddess. An English Rose should be among her own kind. Try not to let Darcy wither them with his gloom. - R.
"He is insane," Darcy muttered. "He has bought every rose in London."
"It is romantic," Georgiana sighed, touching a velvet petal. "A little excessive, but romantic."
"It is a fire hazard," Darcy countered. "Where are we supposed to sit? We shall have to navigate a jungle to reach the tea tray."
"We will make room," Georgiana said firmly. "Put that one by the window. And that one... oh, would it fit in the hall?"
As the servants rearranged the floral invasion, the door opened again. This time, the perpetrators themselves arrived.
Robert Fitzwilliam strolled in, looking sickeningly pleased, followed by a grinning Richard.
"I see the tribute has arrived," Robert announced, surveying the room. "Excellent. It adds a touch of life, don't you think? Covers up the smell of despair."
"You have turned my drawing room into a conservatory," Darcy said.
"You are welcome." Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "Now, where are these lemon biscuits I heard about? Rumour has it you held a knife to the cook's throat to get them."
"I did no such thing."
"Relax, Cousin," Richard laughed, dropping onto the sofa Darcy had so carefully positioned. "We are here to help. We shall handle the conversation. You just focus on breathing and not looking like a gargoyle."
Darcy looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. One hour left. He looked at the roses. Then, at the lemon biscuits Mrs Crauford had just placed on a silver salver. Then, at his family.
He was doomed.
The hour between eleven and twelve passed in a blur of nervous pacing (Darcy), smug commentary (Robert), and actual helpfulness (Richard and Georgiana).
Mrs Annesley, Georgiana's companion—a gentle, sensible woman who was used to the eccentricities of the aristocracy—sat quietly in the corner, ready to offer support.
Then, the clock struck twelve. And precisely three minutes later, Mostyn announced: "Mrs Gardiner. Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
Darcy stopped breathing.
They entered. Mrs Gardiner led the way, looking elegant in a walking dress of dark green. Miss Bennet followed, breathless in blue, her eyes widening as she took in the sheer volume of flora in the room.
And then Miss Elizabeth.
She wore a pelisse of brown velvet, simple and becoming. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her eyes bright and—Darcy noted with a sinking heart—guarded. She looked at the room, at the roses, at the assembly of Fitzwilliams, and finally at him.
She offered a small, polite curtsy. "Mr Darcy."
"Miss Elizabeth," he bowed. "Mrs Gardiner. Miss Bennet. You are welcome."