Chapter Thirteen The Cherry Tart Ultimatum
The morning of December twenty-seventh arrived with the grim inevitability of a tax collector. The sky was a flat, unapologetic grey, and the air inside Darcy House was thick with the kind of tension usually reserved for the moments before a duel.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was pacing. He had worn a groove in the carpet of the morning room that was becoming quite distinct. Every time he turned near the window, he checked the street. Every time he turned near the fireplace, he checked the clock.
"William," Georgiana said from the doorway. She was holding a book, but she wasn't reading it. She was clutching it like a shield.
"I am fine," Darcy said, pivoting on his heel. "I am perfectly calm."
"You are vibrating," she observed. "Mrs Crauford says the silver is rattling in the pantry."
"Mrs Crauford exaggerates."
"She does not. She is currently hiding the good china." Georgiana took a step into the room, then stopped. "Is she truly coming?"
"She is." Darcy stopped pacing. He looked at his sister. "You do not have to be here, Georgiana. You can go to your room. Or to the Gardiners. I am sure Mrs Gardiner would welcome you."
"And leave you alone?" Georgiana straightened her spine. It was a brave gesture, though her voice wobbled. "No. I shall stay. I shall support you."
"Thank you."
"However," she added, eyeing the heavy velvet drapes, "if the shouting reaches a certain volume, I intend to hide inside the linen cupboard. It is spacious, smells of lavender, and has a lock."
"A sound strategy," Darcy agreed. "I may join you."
"You cannot. You are the patriarch. You must stand and fight."
Before Darcy could argue the merits of hiding in cupboards versus facing his aunt, the sound of a carriage thundered outside. It was not a polite town carriage. It sounded like a war chariot.
Heavy wheels ground against the cobblestones. Horses stamped. And then, a voice that could shatter glass at fifty paces, boomed from the street.
"Careful with the step, you imbecile! Do you want me to break an ankle? Anne, stop dawdling! Look at this house! The windows are filthy!"
Darcy closed his eyes. "She is here."
"Cupboard," Georgiana squeaked, and vanished into the hallway.
Darcy straightened his coat. He checked his reflection. He looked pale, but determined. He thought of Elizabeth and her hand in his. He took a deep breath.
The front door opened. Mostyn, looking as if he had just swallowed a lemon whole, announced: "Lady Catherine de Bourgh. And Miss de Bourgh."
Lady Catherine swept into the room. She was a small woman, but she occupied space like an expanding gas. She wore a travelling habit of severe black, a hat with an aggressive feather, and an expression of supreme dissatisfaction.
Behind her trailed Anne. Darcy hadn't seen his cousin in a year. She looked bored. She was pale, yes, and thin, wrapped in three shawls, but her eyes were not the eyes of an invalid. They were the eyes of a woman who had heard the same lecture four thousand times and had simply stopped listening.
"Fitzwilliam," Lady Catherine barked, presenting her cheek.
"Aunt Catherine," Darcy bowed, avoiding the cheek and kissing her hand airily. "Welcome to London. Anne."
"Cousin," Anne murmured, drifting to the nearest sofa and collapsing onto it like a discarded marionette.
"Well," Lady Catherine said, stripping off her gloves and tossing them at Mostyn, who caught them with impressive reflexes.
"We are here. It was a dreadful journey.
The roads were abominable, the inns were flea-ridden, and the tea was tepid.
I require refreshment immediately. Cherry tarts.
And tea. Strong tea. Not that London swill. "
"I shall ring for Mrs Crauford," Darcy said.
"Do. And tell her to be quick about it. We have much to discuss, and I do not intend to waste time on pleasantries." She sat down in his favourite armchair, claiming it as a throne. "Sit, Fitzwilliam. Stop hovering. You look like a nervous groom."
Darcy sat. He kept his back straight.
"Now," Lady Catherine declared, fixing him with a stare that could peel paint. "Let us settle this business."
For the next ten minutes, Darcy sat in silence while his aunt consumed three cherry tarts and outlined the rest of his life. It was a fascinating experience, in a horrified sort of way. Lady Catherine did not negotiate. She dictated.
"We shall place the announcement in the Morning Post tomorrow," she decided, brushing crumbs from her bodice. "A discreet notice. 'Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley is engaged to Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park.' Simple. Elegant. It will stop the rumours."
"What rumours?" Darcy asked calmly.
"Do not play coy with me! The rumours that you are wandering about the countryside making eyes at nobodies! I heard you were in Hertfordshire. A savage place. Full of mud and militia." She shuddered. "But that is over. You are a Darcy. You have a duty."
Anne sighed loudly from the sofa. "Mother, do we have to do the duty speech? It is so long."
"Silence, Anne! This concerns your future!" Lady Catherine turned back to Darcy. "The wedding will be at Easter. At Rosings, of course. Mr Collins will officiate. It will be a union of the two great estates. Your mother and I planned it while you were in your cradles. It was her dearest wish."
Darcy looked at his aunt, the woman who dared to use his dead mother's name as a bludgeon.
"You say it was a compact?" he asked.
"A sacred compact! Written in... well, in our hearts! We agreed. The shades of Pemberley and Rosings are to be united."
"And yet," he said, his voice level, "my mother never mentioned it to me. Not once. In her letters, in her journals, on her deathbed. She spoke of my happiness. She spoke of duty to the tenants. She never spoke of Anne."
"She assumed you knew!" Lady Catherine snapped. "It was understood!"
"It was not understood by me," Darcy said. "Nor, I suspect, by Anne."
He looked at his cousin. Anne blinked slowly. "I mostly just want to stay in my room and read," she said flatly. "Mother says I must marry you to secure the line. I think you are very loud when you walk, Fitzwilliam. It would be annoying."
"Thank you, Anne," Darcy said genuinely.
"You see?" Lady Catherine waved a hand. "She is shy. She relies on you. Now, fetch me some paper. We must draft the announcement."
"No," Darcy said.
It was a small word. It hung in the air, vibrating.
Lady Catherine froze. Her hand, reaching for another tart, stopped mid-air. "I beg your pardon?"
"No," Darcy repeated and stood up. He felt a rush of adrenaline, a clarity that was sharper than the winter air. "There will be no announcement. There will be no wedding at Easter. There is no compact, Aunt. There never was."
"How dare you!" Lady Catherine surged to her feet, her face turning a mottled purple. "You defy me? You defy your mother's wishes?"
"I defy your wishes," Darcy corrected. "My mother wished for me to marry for affection. She wished for me to be happy. And marrying Anne—who finds my walking annoying and whom I view as a sister—would make neither of us happy."
"Happiness!" Lady Catherine spat the word as if it were a profanity. "Happiness is for ploughmen! You are a gentleman! You have a lineage to protect! You cannot break an engagement of honour!"
"There is no engagement," Darcy's voice rose, filling the room. "Not formal, not informal. And since my mother is unavailable to testify, there is no dispute. I am a free man, Aunt. And as a free man, I have made my choice."
Lady Catherine stared at him, her mouth agape. "Choice? What choice?"
Darcy took another breath.
"I am courting a lady," he announced. "A lady of beauty, wit, and worth. And you should expect the happy news shortly. But it will not be with Anne."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the clock on the mantel seemed to stop ticking out of respect for the sheer magnitude of the explosion that was about to occur.
Anne de Bourgh sat up. She looked at Darcy. And then, silently, she mouthed: Thank you.
Lady Catherine, however, was not silent. She inhaled. It was a long, rattling intake of breath that presaged a hurricane.
"A lady?" she whispered. "Who is she?"
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," Darcy said. "She is the daughter of a gentleman."
"Bennet? My vicar's relation? She is a fortune hunter! A polluted little upstart with no connections and uncles in trade! You would throw away Rosings for that?"
"I would throw away the world for her," Darcy said.
"You are mad! You are bewitched! I shall not allow it! I shall go to her. I shall tell her she is unfit to polish your boots! I shall—"
The door to the morning room banged open.
"Good heavens," a new voice cut through the tirade. "Is there a ritualistic slaughter of a pig in here? I could hear the screeching from the square."
Darcy turned. Standing in the doorway, wrapped in furs and looking ready for combat, was his aunt.
"Lady Matlock," Darcy breathed.
"Fitzwilliam," she nodded to him. She swept into the room, ignoring Lady Catherine entirely for a moment to inspect the remaining cherry tarts. "Stale. Typical."
Then, she turned to Lady Catherine.
It was a meeting of unstoppable force and immovable object. The Countess of Matlock versus Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Sister against sister-in-law. Velvet against bombazine.
"Catherine," Lady Matlock said coolly. "You are shouting. It is very vulgar."
"Eleanor!" Lady Catherine pointed a trembling finger at Darcy. "He is ruined! He is destroying the family! He refuses Anne! He speaks of marrying a... a Bennet!"
"Yes, I know," her sister-in-law said, removing her furs and handing them to a terrified footman who had appeared in the doorway. "We met her. Charming girl. Excellent teeth. And she made the Earl laugh, which is more than you have done in five and sixty years."
Lady Catherine gaped. "You approve? You sanction this pollution of the shades?"