Chapter Twelve The St Stephen’s Day Dash
Chapter Twelve: The St Stephen's Day Dash
St Stephen's Day dawned over London with a sky the colour of a bruised plum and a temperature that suggested the sun had simply given up and gone to the Mediterranean.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, however, was awake, dressed, and possessed of a clarity that was almost frightening. He stood on the doorstep of Matlock House at seven o'clock in the morning, banging the brass knocker with a rhythmic violence that startled the pigeons in the square.
A bleary-eyed footman opened the door. "Mr Darcy? It is barely light, Sir."
"I require my cousin," Darcy announced, stepping inside past the servant. "Is he awake?"
"Lord Keathley is present, Sir. I believe he is currently breakfasting."
Darcy marched to the breakfast room. Robert was there, slumped in a chair, wearing a dressing gown of violently patterned purple silk. He looked up as Darcy entered, blinking slowly.
"Go away," Robert groaned. "It is St Stephen's Day. The servants have their boxes, so the only thing I am permitted to box today is my own liver."
"Robert," Darcy said, stopping at the end of the table. "Look at me."
Robert opened one eye. "You are wearing riding boots. And a coat that looks heavy enough to smother a bear. Why?"
"I have a question for you. And I require an honest answer. No jokes. No deflections."
Robert sat up straighter, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. "Very well. Ask away."
"Are you serious about Miss Bennet?"
Robert didn't hesitate. The rakish smirk vanished. "Absolutely. I intend to marry her, Darcy. Assuming she will have me."
"Good," Darcy nodded. "Then we have work to do. We have secured the approval of our own family—miraculously—but we have neglected a crucial step. We have not spoken to her father."
"Mr Bennet is in Hertfordshire," Robert pointed out, reaching for a piece of toast. "And the ladies are here. Surely, we can speak to him when he comes to town?"
"Too late," Darcy said. "Our aunt arrives tomorrow. If I am to face Lady Catherine and tell her I am attached to another, I need to know that the attachment is sanctioned by the lady's father. I need to stand on solid ground."
"So... what? You want to write him a letter?"
"A letter takes too long. And a letter is easily dismissed." Darcy pulled on his gloves. "We are going to Longbourn."
"Longbourn?" Robert choked on his toast. "Hertfordshire? Today? It is twenty-five miles, Darcy! In the snow!"
"The roads are hard-packed. We can make it in four hours if we ride hard. An hour there. Four hours back. We shall be back by dinner."
"You are insane," Robert declared. "You are deranged. It is freezing. My nose will fall off. My horse will not talk to me ever again."
"Do you love her?" Darcy asked simply.
Robert looked at the toast. He looked at the frost on the window. He looked at Darcy's unyielding expression.
He sighed, a long, tragic sound. "I do. God help me, I do."
"Then get dressed. We leave in twenty minutes. Wear wool. Lots of it."
"I hate you," Robert muttered, standing up and tightening his dressing gown. "I truly hate you. This better be worth it."
"It will be," Darcy promised. "Besides, Mrs Bennet is a character. You will enjoy her."
"If I die of hypothermia," Robert called over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs, "tell Jane I looked dashing in the saddle."
The journey was, as predicted, miserable. The wind cut through their coats like a knife, the horses breathed plumes of steam, and the landscape was a relentless monochrome of white and grey.
They spoke little, mostly because opening one's mouth risked freezing one's teeth. But they rode hard, driven by the kind of madness that only love—or the fear of a formidable aunt—can inspire.
By the time the chimneys of Longbourn came into view, Robert looked less like a dashing Viscount and more like an icicle wrapped in expensive tailoring.
"I can't feel my toes," he announced as they turned up the drive. "Are they still attached? Check for me."
"They are there," Darcy assured him. "Pull yourself together. We are about to make an impression."
"A frozen impression."
They dismounted in the courtyard. A stable boy ran out, his eyes widening as he recognized Darcy, and then widening further as he took in the crest on Robert's saddle.
Hill, the housekeeper, opened the door before they even knocked. She looked at Darcy, then at the stranger beside him.
"Mr Darcy!" she exclaimed. "We were not expecting you, Sir. The mistress is in the parlour."
"Thank you, madam." Darcy stepped into the warmth of the hall, Robert stumbling in behind him and immediately gravitating towards the nearest fireplace.
The sound of voices drifted from the parlour. Loud voices. Specifically, Mrs Bennet's voice.
"...and I told Mrs Long that her lace was positively yellow, and she had the gall to say—"
The door opened and Darcy stepped in.
The room went silent. Mrs Bennet, who was reclining on a sofa with a plate of mince pies on her lap, froze. Miss Mary was at the piano, and Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia were trimming a bonnet.
"Mr Darcy!" Mrs Bennet shrieked, scrambling to sit up. She patted her hair frantically. "Good heavens! We thought you were in London! With the... with everyone else!"
"Good morning, Mrs Bennet," Darcy bowed. He stepped aside to reveal his companion, who was currently trying to defrost his eyebrows. "May I present my cousin. Lord Keathley."
The effect was instantaneous. Mrs Bennet stopped breathing. Her eyes bulged.
"Lord Keathley?" she squeaked. "A... a Lord?"
"A Viscount, Madam," Robert said, stepping forward and summoning a charm that defied his core temperature. He bowed low over Mrs Bennet's hand. "Forgive the intrusion. We are impulsive creatures. But my cousin spoke so highly of your hospitality that I could not resist."
"A Viscount!" Mrs Bennet breathed, looking as if she might faint from pure ecstasy.
"Oh! Oh, my! Girls! Stand up! It is a Viscount!
In our parlour! Mary, stop playing that dreary tune!
Kitty, hide the ribbons! Oh, my Lord, please, sit down.
Take the good chair! Hill! Hill! Bring the wine! The good wine!"
Robert grinned. He looked at Darcy with a sparkle in his eye. I love her, he mouthed silently.
"You are too kind, Mrs Bennet," Robert said, sitting in the offered chair and basking in her adoration. "Truly. And you have a charming home. Cozy. Delightful."
"Is Mr Bennet at home?" Darcy asked, cutting through the flattery before Mrs Bennet could offer Robert her firstborn child, with or without her husband's approval.
"He is in his study, Mr Darcy. But oh, never mind him! Stay here! Tell me, my Lord, do you know the Prince Regent? Is he as stout as they say?"
"I must speak with Mr Bennet," Darcy insisted. "Robert? Are you coming?"
"And leave this delightful company?" Robert asked, looking aghast. He leaned back in his chair, accepting a mince pie from a trembling Hill.
"Absolutely not. You go, Fitzwilliam. You are excellent at serious conversations.
And while you are at it, ask on my behalf as well, will you?
I shall stay here," Robert declared. "Mrs Bennet, will you tell me about Mrs Long's lace? I am on the edge of my seat."
Darcy left him to his fate. As he walked towards the library, he heard Mrs Bennet say, "Oh, my Lord, you are too handsome! Just like my Jane!"
Darcy smiled grimly. Robert was in his element. Now for the hard part.
Mr Bennet's library was exactly as Darcy remembered it: a sanctuary of dust, books, and cynicism. The master of the house was seated at his desk, reading a letter, looking entirely undisturbed by the chaos erupting down the hall.
"Mr Darcy," Mr Bennet said without looking up. "I assume the high-pitched screaming indicates you have brought a guest. Or a circus bear."
"A Viscount, actually," Darcy said, closing the door.
Mr Bennet looked up over his spectacles. "Ah. That explains it. My wife has a specific frequency for the peerage." He leaned back. "To what do I owe the pleasure? I thought you were in London, avoiding Meryton's society."
"I was," Darcy admitted, taking the chair opposite. "I failed."
"Evidently." Mr Bennet studied him. "You look cold, Mr Darcy. And you look determined. It is a dangerous combination."
"I have come to ask for your permission, Sir. To court your daughter."
Mr Bennet's brows rose in question. "Which one? I have five. Though I assume you mean Elizabeth. You spent enough time staring at her in November to bore a hole in her skull."
"Yes, Miss Elizabeth," Darcy confirmed. "I wish to court her. With the intention of marriage."
"And the Viscount?" Mr Bennet jerked his head towards the door. "Is he just decorative, or is he after one too?"
"He wishes to court Miss Bennet. Jane."
Mr Bennet raised an eyebrow. "Two of them. Efficient. Who is he?"
"He is my cousin, Robert Fitzwilliam. Viscount Keathley. He is the son of the Earl of Matlock."
Mr Bennet's expression shifted. A slow, dry smile spread across his face. "Matlock? Henry Fitzwilliam?"
"You know the Earl?"
"We were at Cambridge together," Mr Bennet chuckled. "He owes me five guineas from a bet involving a goat and the Dean's wig. I never thought I'd see the day his son would be in my parlour asking to court my daughter."
"Robert is... spirited. Like his father."
"And you?" Mr Bennet's gaze sharpened. "You are not spirited, Mr Darcy. You are proud. You are wealthy. And a month ago, you fled this county as if we were infectious. Why the change?"
"Because I was wrong," Darcy said without flinching. "Yes, I was proud. I was arrogant. I thought your family and this society beneath me. I was wrong. Your daughter has awakened me, Sir. She makes me want to be a man worthy of her respect."
Mr Bennet watched him for a long moment, and saw the honesty in the younger man's face and the lack of pretence.