Chapter 3
The power of doing anything with quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance.
— MR DARCY, PRIDE PREJUDICE
As it turned out, Mrs Bennet was not at home, nor were any of Elizabeth’s sisters. Inviting Darcy into the house or even into the garden, no matter how enticing the idea was to him, would have been indecorous. Instead, he thanked Elizabeth for allowing him to see her safely home to White Street, asked her to give his regards to her mother, and promised to call the next day.
Now, he was en route to Wall Street with a spring in his step. He had told Elizabeth that he had once believed Evermore on Sea to be a magical place. By some incredible stroke of happenstance—or perhaps it was fate—Darcy felt its magic again. What else but magic could account for her presence in a place he held so dear at a moment when he was desperate for guidance; desperate for some sign, however small, that he was not about to make a grievous mistake by contemplating a marriage of convenience to his cousin Anne?
The idea of marrying Anne had long been distasteful to him, but Georgiana, in a moment of despondency, had mentioned how much she would have liked to have a sister in whom to confide; someone to advise her as their mother would have done. That conversation had come last month, nearly a year to the day when Darcy had arrived in Ramsgate and learnt that George Wickham had not only called upon his sister for weeks but had convinced her to elope with him to Scotland the following day.
Though Georgiana had since recovered from her disappointment, she blamed herself for failing to recognise Wickham’s true object: her dowry. As a girl, she had been quiet, but cheerful; ever since Wickham had filled her head with his manipulative tripe, however, she was positively subdued. It troubled Darcy exceedingly. While Georgiana placed the blame for her lapse of judgment upon her own shoulders, Darcy blamed himself. He was more than ten years her senior, and his father, now deceased, had left her in his care. He was responsible for every aspect of her well-being, yet he had failed her and failed grievously. He should never have allowed his sweet, impressionable fifteen-year-old sister to go to Ramsgate with naught but a companion to attend her—a companion in whose character he had been grossly deceived.
Darcy was not accustomed to reposing on his laurels; he was a man of action. If a bridge washed out at Pemberley, he would rebuild it. If his tenants needed assistance, he would give it. Since he could not force Bingley to forgive him, and he could not make Elizabeth marry him, he had, in a moment of utter futility and too much port, reasoned that he could at least marry someone and give Georgiana a sister. The most logical choice—nay, the easiest choice—was Anne. Lady Catherine had been pushing her at him for years, claiming it was his mother’s dearest wish, as well as hers. Was it also Anne’s? Darcy had no idea. Since they were children, she had been as disinclined to speak as her mother was inclined to say a vast deal too much. On the few occasions Anne did have something to say, it was never to him, and usually pertained to her ponies, which had grown so fat that Darcy was amazed they were able to pull Anne’s little phaeton around the park. But for her ponies, he doubted she would ever have set foot out of doors.
Anne de Bourgh was mute, sedentary, and cold.
Elizabeth Bennet was intelligent, lively, and warm.
They were opposites in every way.
How absurd he was to think that his dour cousin, who was so patently unsuited to him in both temperament and taste, could ever make him happy, never mind be a proper mistress of his estate! His aunt might have aspired to see Anne settled at Pemberley, but Darcy had seen no evidence whatsoever that her ladyship had done anything to prepare her for the responsibilities that entailed.
It mattered not, for Darcy would not squander the opportunity Elizabeth had granted him. He would do his utmost to show her he had changed and changed for the better. In time, perhaps she would consent to meeting his sister, and travel to Pemberley as Georgiana’s guest. There was no doubt in his mind that Georgiana would love her, and Elizabeth, with her inherent sweetness and cheerful disposition, would adore her in turn. They would be friends. Good friends. And hopefully, one day, sisters.
At last, the house—dubbed Sandstone Cottage by his uncle—appeared in the near distance, with its thick limestone walls and tiled roof. It was a welcome sight, as were the great, fragrant bushels of lavender that dominated the beds on either side of the flagstone walkway. The wind, which had lost most of its bluster, carried the scent of it on its breath, eliciting a nostalgic smile from Darcy as he approached the front gate. It was a scent that reminded him of countless summers spent with his father and uncle in this very house while his mother, who did not care for the coast, passed her time at Rosings Park instead.
Pausing just short of the front steps, he claimed a small sprig bursting with tiny purple flowers from the bunch and twirled it between his fingers, contemplating its delicate appearance and resilient nature. He lifted it to his nose, intent upon savouring its clean, soothing scent, when the door was suddenly thrown open and a voice said,
“Good Lord, Darcy. Whatever are you doing standing about in such a stupid manner?”
The lavender was immediately forgot as Darcy turned incredulous eyes upon his cousin, Viscount Emerson. His lordship’s shoulder was propped against the doorjamb, and his arms were crossed over his chest. His attire was impeccable, and his expression, which usually denoted either mischief or boredom, denoted boredom. Cocking one brow, he drawled, “Have you nothing to say?”
“I thought you were attending Lady Lumley’s house party.”
Emerson shrugged. “I had every intention to do so until I learnt that Lord Lumley would be in attendance as well. As I have lately been tupping his wife, it would have been in bad form.”
Darcy shook his head in disgust, but Emerson merely laughed.
An eldest son, destined to inherit the Fitzwilliam family earldom, Emerson had developed an inflated sense of self-importance while in leading strings. He valued beauty over intellect and pleasure over propriety. Rarely did he abandon the excitement and debauchery of London, even to attend to his Yorkshire estate. The seaside, and this rustic little strand in particular, held little inducement for a man who could not abide having a single speck of mud on his boots, never mind an entire coastline of sand tarnishing the highly polished gleam of his leather. Darcy could not account for his being there.
“You are fortunate that Lord Lumley has not called you out. He is not the sort of man to be made a cuckhold. If he ever learns of your trysts with his wife, he will likely skewer you with his rapier.”
Emerson rolled his eyes. “The only danger Lumley poses with a rapier is to himself, and before you mention pistols, he cannot take proper aim with one never mind load it. I doubt he has bagged a bird in the entire course of his life save for that plump little bit actress on Drury Lane. You really ought to give me credit where credit is due, especially as I have undertaken an absolutely appalling journey for your benefit.” He turned and made to enter the house, but said over his shoulder, “By the bye, you may thank me for my efforts with a bottle of your finest brandy.”
Perplexed and more than a little alarmed, Darcy followed him into the house. “Unless you tell me precisely what you are about, I shall thank you to leave.”
Emerson frowned. “You are far too serious for your own good. I have always thought so. But if you insist upon it, I shall spell it out for you in terms you can comprehend.” What he said next made Darcy’s blood run cold. “I thought to help you along with Anne.”
“What?”
“I was in my father’s library,” said Emerson, “looking for a particular book on the top shelf in the farthest corner—you know the one of which I speak—when I happened to overhear you tell my brother that you were considering offering for Anne.”
“Good God,” muttered Darcy, running his hand over his face.
“Unlike Richard, who thought you were daft, I think settling for Cousin Anne is a brilliant plan. Rosings is worth at least one hundred thousand, and Anne is worth fifty. You would gain a handsome piece of property, and Pemberley would not pass to that idiot cousin on your father’s side once you are dead.” He wrinkled his nose. “Alfred or Axel or Alanon or whatever he is called knows nothing about cheese or coal, nor has he ever shown the slightest inclination to learn. If he were to inherit, mark my words, the ninnyhammer would run Pemberley into the ground within a year.”
Catching the sleeve of his cousin’s coat, Darcy yanked him to a stop. “What did you do?” he demanded.
Emerson shrugged himself free of Darcy’s grasp. “Your estate needs an heir. Therefore, you will need a wife to help you get one. And since no one else appears to be good enough for you, and you seemed to be open to the idea of marrying Anne…”
“Such interference in my personal affairs,” said Darcy, barely keeping his temper in check, “is beyond the pale. I will not tolerate it.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” said Emerson exasperatedly. “I merely paid a visit to my aunt and suggested that perhaps a trip to the seaside would benefit Anne’s health. It certainly cannot hurt. If you are lucky, the brisk sea air will do wonders for…well, everything about her that could use some improvement, which I suppose is in fact everything about her.”
“I am not going to marry Anne,” Darcy insisted. “Not now or ever.”
“Unfortunately, you may have no choice. Being so fastidious as you are, all the eligible ladies are likely to be married to other fellows by the time you get around to offering for any of them. Then, you’ll be left with no one but Anne, despite yourself.” He slapped Darcy on the back. “Your lady awaits your presence in the drawing room with her mother. It goes without saying that her ladyship was vexed to find you were not at home to receive her when we arrived.”
Darcy uttered an oath as Emerson cheerfully called out, “Good news, Lady Catherine! Darcy has returned,” and strode towards the drawing room with an alacrity that made Darcy want to strike him.
“My nephew has arrived at last?” said Lady Catherine. “Let him come in and attend me. I have much to say to him regarding this house!”
Darcy had no doubt that she did. Scowling, he hoped that perhaps the west-facing windows in the drawing room posed such an inconvenience that her ladyship would declare her intention to remove to the inn.