Chapter 2
I did not generally lie to myself. I know many men who do, and I have observed that this is a particularly vicious habit.
Therefore, by morning I was forced to admit that the urge to send word to my cousin that I had changed my mind—that, in fact, I would join him in paying a call at the parsonage—had kept me awake half the night.
This urge was persistent. Yet, aside from being a practical man, I also possess a healthy sense of self-respect.
Some unnamed persons have called this pride, and though I disagree, I refuse to make the distinction for those who, for lack of sense and subtlety, cannot discern it for themselves.
In this particular instance, therefore, I simply had too much self-respect to fall prey to a mere curiosity that would prove to be a disappointment.
Wait. Disappointment is not the word I wish to use. Relief? Even worse!
“Hmm.”
“I beg pardon, sir?”
Had I actually murmured aloud?
“I was just clearing my throat.”
“Is this too tight?” Carsten asked as he made the final adjustments to my neckcloth.
“Perhaps a little,” I said, though in fact it was no tighter than usual.
Where was I? Oh yes. I had been engaged in an irritating reflection.
I searched around my head and settled upon what I had originally wished to conclude.
I had too much self-respect to fall prey to a mere curiosity that would prove to be a confirmation of my expectations.
The young miss would not be all that young, nor would she be terribly pretty, and she would most certainly not have any qualities of note to recommend her to any self-respecting gentleman.
Moreover, Fitzwilliam would very shortly discover that if this lady were anything, she was not the bit of skirt he wished her to be.
She was the guest of a parson. He would soon discover her to be drab, dull-witted, and uninteresting.
So it was that after breakfast, my cousin and I parted ways.
In high spirits, he ambled towards the main gates where the parsonage stood just beyond, while I, not in particularly high spirits, went to the stables.
My horse was saddled in good time—by my people, not my aunt’s—and soon I was trotting outward, beyond the house, to do my annual review of the estate.
This was a frustrating, fruitless business that I engaged in year-over-year.
I could observe to my heart’s content the many ways the viability of a property of that size could be maximised.
The amount of progress that could have been made depressed me, more so this year than last, for time was never kind to land that was mismanaged.
Like housekeepers, Lady Catherine had a regular parade of land stewards who came with the best of intentions and left in disgust, having thrown up their hands at one too many of her intractable notions.
Those who stayed for any length of time were of Mr Collins’s ilk, that is, lacking amour-propre .
These poor specimens had little understanding that acquiescing to my aunt would end in their being blamed for the consequences of doing so.
None, so far, had lasted longer than three years.
Heaving a faint sigh, I came to the outer boundary of Rosings Park opposite the main gate, and once there, I gently tugged the reins to turn my horse around before I slowly made my way back.
Upon entering the house, I discovered tea was being served, my presence was required, and while the footman delivering this news seemed to wish with all his heart that I might spare him grief by my instant compliance, I disappointed him and went upstairs for a leisurely wash and change out of my riding clothes.
Thus, upon my eventual return to the drawing room, I was roundly questioned.
“Upon my word,” Lady Catherine said, “what took you so long? The teapot has surely gone cold.” Turning to my cousin Anne’s attendant, she asked, “Is it still warm, Mrs Jenkinson? I am sure it is not. Send to the kitchen for more hot water. I do not know why I should have to tell you to do so. Are there no servants left in the world who know what they are about?” She then lifted her nose and turned back to me. “Well, Darcy? Where have you been?”
“Surveying the grounds as I do every year, ma’am.”
“I am certain you found the estate to be doing very well. There is never anything amiss at Rosings Park, and I do not know why you insist upon looking into it at all. I daresay Pemberley does not run as well or earn half so much in rents.”
I did not feel compelled to answer this and withstood another few moments of her assertions that of everyone in the family, she had the greatest knowledge of the management of property and the persons employed thereupon. Meanwhile, I looked across the room at Fitzwilliam.
What was that peculiar look on his face? Was he smirking?
He in a state of self-satisfaction was best avoided, for he had the knack of gloating in silence while pretending to be in a highly complacent, amiable mood.
I withdrew my attention from him and spoke to Anne, who was seated near me. “How are you feeling today?”
“It is well you ask,” her mother replied. “She looks well, does she not? I daresay the coming of spring should see her in her best looks.”
“I know of very few people who are not better suited to spring than late winter, ma’am,” I replied. And then, knowing my aunt well, I purposefully directed her attention to the largest painting in the room. “When did my uncle procure that work?”
It was an unfortunate trait that Lady Catherine possessed, for when she placed her full attention upon any one of her possessions, her face assumed a strangely reptilian cast. Perhaps it was the way she hooded her eyes in satisfaction, for she believed herself to be elevated—and envied—whenever she owned the object of anyone’s admiration.
I observed her dispassionately as she shifted her gaze from Anne to the painting, which was a Dutch landscape.
“Do you mean the Brueghel? That has been in the family for three generations. It is a significant work. I recall my father remarked upon it regularly. The artist was known to paint works with Rubens, you know.”
I did know. And further, I also knew that this was not Peter the Elder’s work, but a copy executed by Jan Brueghel the Younger. Moreover, I regularly used this ploy to interrupt Lady Catherine whenever I wished to change the subject.
“I believe your father also admired it,” she said to Fitzwilliam, “though he is no lover of art. I shall never understand why he has chosen to replace the best of his paintings with the works of—who is it that he patronises so regularly?”
“Constable, ma’am.”
“Ah yes. These modern painters have no sense of what they are about. I cannot convince him, however, that depictions of mud puddles and clouds are not art.” She blew her nose into her handkerchief, and after a few more remarks about the stupidity of her younger brother and her superiority as a connoisseur of art, we were then dismissed.
Just as I was leaving the room, however, I heard her speak to Mrs Jenkinson.
“I have invited guests for dinner. See that Anne wears her striped satin, and inform Mrs Blunt I want my daughter seated next to Darcy.”
“If she has invited whom I believe she has, we are in for a delightful dinner,” Fitzwilliam purred from a half-step behind me. I glanced at him and saw that he too had the look on his face of a lizard that had just flicked a horsefly down its throat.