Chapter Seven
Darcy had always enjoyed Christmastide as a youth, especially when his Fitzwilliam relations hosted the annual family gathering.
Finding himself desperate for the festivities to be over was a new and upsetting sensation for him.
He was not pining for the quiet emptiness of Pemberley, only for some escape from his present disenchantment.
He wished to be away, to pretend that it had never happened, that his hopes had not been dashed and twisted into bitter disappointment.
He had scarcely had a moment alone with Anne in the last fortnight.
She had written to him as recently as the day before he departed Pemberley, reassuring him that her anticipation was as great as his own, for since their engagement they had only seen one another once.
In fifteen months, there had been one brief visit, as he passed through London that summer to bring Georgiana to Lymington.
They had walked in the park, he had repeated the same stories of his time in Scotland that he had detailed in his letters, and they had said little else under the overbearing chaperonage of her mother.
This visit was meant to be a romantic reunion, for Darcy knew winter to be her favorite season, and he had hoped that the presence of so much family might offer Lady Catherine enough distraction for him to steal some precious time alone with Anne.
Instead, she took ill after the first day’s festivities, a sleigh ride he had organized especially for her, though it had seemed more of a penance than a pleasure for Anne.
She remained abed for a week, seeing nobody but the physician, her loyal maid Miss Lovelace, and despite Anne’s own wishes, Lady Catherine herself.
The second week had been little better. Anne’s health was restored—or rather, it was what it ever had been.
She was perhaps more prone to taking ill than anybody else in the robust Fitzwilliam family, but then Darcy had always supposed her illness to be either an excuse of Anne’s to avoid her mother, or an excuse of Lady Catherine’s to suppress Anne’s willfulness, depending on the occasion.
There seemed to be a great deal of both that year, for Lady Catherine had taken up the idea of making Anne a countess.
Poor Rupert—his first wife had died a year into their marriage, and another year after that he lost his father, the late Earl of Matlock.
Lord Rupert Fitzwilliam had dutifully observed a year in mourning, had lamented the loss of his father and the burden of his new responsibilities—and then he had come out of mourning and experienced a sudden popularity amongst the ton that had, unfortunately, exposed how easily led he was.
And Lady Catherine de Bourgh had begun to consider leading him toward her daughter.
She denied it, of course, but Darcy trusted the word of his cousin Richard, who had only the best intentions when poking his nose into Rupert’s affairs.
Rupert had no intention of betraying Darcy over what he deemed a lackluster match, but his sister Roberta had aligned herself with the agenda Lady Catherine would not own to, showing a sudden interest in Anne after a lifetime of dismissing her as insipid.
The Twelfth Night Ball, being a masquerade, ought to have offered Anne and Darcy some reprieve from the machinations of Lady Catherine and Roberta, for Richard and Georgiana had done little to help the couple.
Darcy and Anne ought to have had a whole blissful evening of dancing together, disappearing into the crowd, and perhaps even sneaking away for some innocent but blissful solitude.
Instead, she had sprained her ankle in the first set.
She again sequestered herself, seeing only her maid while Darcy was obliged to attend the festivities without her.
The following morning, Darcy was determined to make one final attempt to woo his lady properly; he planned a picnic in the orangery.
Richard and Georgiana had refractorily agreed to serve as a buffer between the couple and the rest of their relations, and Rupert had obliged him by ordering all of Anne’s favorite refreshments to be served.
When Darcy inquired after her ankle, Anne gave a heavy sigh. “Mother will likely use my injury as an excuse to trespass further on Rupert’s hospitality, though I am surely capable of spending a few days seated in a carriage.”
Darcy watched her take a tiny bite of a lemon tart and set it aside with a grimace. “I hope she has not persuaded you to consider….” He nodded his head to indicate their cousin Rupert.
“I should loathe the responsibilities of being a countess, and I have told her so in the harshest language I dare,” Anne replied with a sympathetic smile. “Besides, I should infinitely prefer to marry for love.”
Darcy covered her hand with his own. “Shall I press her once more to set a date for our wedding? If you have not tired of shopping in Matlock and Derby with Roberta, you might stop in London for your trousseau on your journey back to Kent.”
“I am sure I could never tire of shopping, though I wish you had accompanied us. Your wardrobe is so austere! I am sure nobody would think less of your intelligence and somber dignity if you were to acquire a few coats and waistcoats that were more à la mode.”
Darcy made a droll face, taking her flippant criticism for the same teasing banter he enjoyed in her letters.
Anne had never cared much for fashion before, and he hoped this was not the influence of their superficial cousin.
Rather, he preferred to consider that it might signify some maturity, a readiness to take on the role of mistress of Pemberley.
As his wife, she would be required to think of such things, from redecorating the manor to her own tastes, to donning the latest fashions when moving in society for the preservation of their family’s reputation and status.
It was naive indeed to think of clothing only as a silly and frivolous hobby.
“I am perfectly willing to consider a new coat and waistcoat, whatever you think is finest, when we set a date for the wedding.”
Anne shrugged her shoulders, letting out a serene, noncommittal hum. “I should rather wait until summer to wed. Everything is better in summertime, is it not?”
He chuckled. “Have you tired of the snow already? I thought you would be enamored of a northern winter.”
“I shall never have the enthusiasm you must have developed after spending all your winters at Pemberley, but I shall have to do my best,” she chided him with a shake of her head. “Perhaps a hothouse would be just the thing.”
“We shall build one with your dowry—the biggest orangery anybody has ever seen, filled with all the plants you love best, and you shall choose the site for it.” Darcy sat up straighter, his chest filling with pride as this elicited a bright smile from her.
“We might make it large enough to throw parties in, what do you say to that?”
“I know you are fonder of society than I am, but I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours. Indeed, I shall quite depend upon you, when you serve as hostess in my homes—I am sure I wanted your fervor for observing the folly of the neighbors at the Harvest Ball in October. Your pleasure in lively society will make the tradition a more bearable one at Pemberley.”
He expected her to laugh at his reference to the fumbling buffoon he had made of himself when last he had entertained at Pemberley.
It had been his first year of managing the event without Bingley’s affability to outshine his own awkwardness, for his friend would not be parted from his wife and newborn daughter in Hertfordshire.
Darcy had cherished very high hopes of his fiancée presiding over the event at his side, but she had been swept up in her new friendship with Roberta, and he could not begrudge his beloved the female friendship she had long desired.
“I hope we shall not neglect Rosings, though Mother would like nothing better,” Anne said with a sigh.
“Of course. We might stay there half the year, and the other half at Pemberley, if you wish.”
“And half the year in London, too. I know you dislike it, but surely you would not deprive Georgiana of the opportunity.”
If Georgiana had been seated with them, she would have likely pointed out that this was the first time in the entire fortnight of their visit that Anne had so much as mentioned her future sister-in-law.
Darcy frowned at his sister’s intrusion into his mind.
“Georgiana would no doubt prefer to spend a third of the year at the seaside, rather than in town.”
There was a twinkle of mirth in Anne’s eye as she replied, “That would certainly prove an interesting way to find a husband.”
And that was the last time Darcy had seen her smile.
5 June, 1813—Sunset Ballroom, Sanditon, Sussex
Darcy had never imagined he could despise the sound of Anne’s laughter, but it was torture to him when Sir Sidney Parker was the cause of it.
She was seated across the table from Darcy, with Sir Sidney on one side of her, and Miss Lovelace on her other side, fairly falling all over her mistress as she, too, laughed at Sir Sidney.
While Darcy pondered the distinct possibility that Sir Sidney had his hand on Anne’s leg under the table, Richard sat at his side, muttering under his breath. “Well Darcy, are you not glad we came to Sanditon?”
“Of course I am,” Darcy replied stonily.
He was not opposed to admitting when he was wrong, though he seldom had cause to do so.
But in this instance, he was right to persist in his purpose.
“Now that I have seen this fellow with my own eyes, it is perfectly evident that he is a fortune hunter who has targeted an inexperienced heiress to get his hands on her estate when she comes of age.”