Chapter Four The Valets Intervention
THE MORNING SUN STREAMED through the curtains of Mr Darcy's bedchamber, illuminating a scene of aristocratic despair.
Darcy sat in a brocade armchair, gazing blankly at the opposite wall, a cup of cooling tea resting on his knee.
He had barely slept. His mind had been a relentless carousel, replaying the catastrophic events of the previous day, culminating in his triumphant—and Pyrrhic—victory over Colonel Fitzwilliam by means of weaponizing Mr Collins's obsession with masonry.
At the time, it was a stroke of genius. Now, in the harsh light of day, it felt pathetic.
Near the window, Pimms stood at a wooden stand, vigorously polishing Darcy's riding boots. The sound of the chamois cloth was the only sound in the room for nearly twenty minutes.
Finally, Pimms set the cloth down. He picked up the left boot, held it up to the light, and examined his reflection in the gleaming black leather.
"If I may observe, sir," Pimms murmured, his voice as smooth and unruffled as a calm lake, "your strategy at the parsonage yesterday was a marvel of destructive engineering.
Wellington himself could not have orchestrated a more thorough conversational collapse. "
Darcy scowled, setting his teacup onto a side table with a clatter. "I do not know what you mean, Pimms. I merely indulged a clergyman in his architectural interests. It is a gentleman's duty to be polite to his aunt's dependants."
"Indeed, sir," Pimms said, reaching for a small tin of wax.
"And I am certain the burning passion you developed for the mortar consistency of the Rosings fireplaces was genuine.
I am glad you have described everything to me, and I thank you for your trust. I am humbled.
However, I feel compelled to point out a minor flaw in your campaign. "
"There is no campaign."
"If there were a campaign, sir," Pimms corrected politely, "the flaw would be this: while you successfully deployed the clergyman to neutralise the Colonel, you also neutralised yourself.
You won a battle of masonry, Mr Darcy, but you yielded the battlefield.
Miss Elizabeth left the room thinking your cousin a thwarted conversationalist and thinking you an enthusiast of bricks. "
Darcy groaned, burying his face in his hands. "It was a moment of weakness. I could not bear to listen to Richard quote modern poetry at her. He does not even enjoy modern poetry or know anything about it. He thinks Lord Byron is complaining about a toothache."
"The Colonel is an opportunist, sir. He uses the weapons available to him.
Smiles, poetry, page-turning. He is wooing the lady.
" Pimms set the boot down and turned to face his master, clasping his hands behind his back.
"What, pray tell, are you doing? Aside from looming in the corners of hothouses and acting the part of a decorative gargoyle? "
Darcy glared at his valet. "I am not a gargoyle."
"A gargoyle, sir, is a stony, forbidding creature that perches up high, scowls at the populace, and spits cold water on people's parades. I leave the comparison to your own judgement."
"I cannot bound up to her out of nowhere!
" Darcy protested, standing up and beginning his customary pacing.
"I am not Richard. I do not possess his...
his alarming elasticity of spirit. Furthermore, whenever I approach her, she looks at me as though she expects me to foreclose on a widow's cottage.
I do not know how to bridge the divide."
"You bridge it, sir, by speaking to her.
By standing in the light. By demonstrating that you have a human soul, capable of warmth and affection.
" Pimms picked up the second boot. "If you continue to employ the tactics of a stone fixture, the Colonel will walk away with the prize.
There are rumours about a picnic. I heard his batman, Higgins, mention it this morning.
A picnic, sir. With cold chicken and tartlets.
I do not know if he will proceed with the plan, but it is a sound tactic, if you ask me. "
Darcy stopped dead. A picnic. Richard would sit on a blanket, laugh in the sunshine, and ply Elizabeth with poultry and wit. It was an intolerable image.
"You are right, Pimms," Darcy said, his jaw setting with determination.
"I cannot allow my cousin an uncontested field.
I must cease this defence and go on the attack.
I shall seek her out this morning, and I shall engage her in meaningful, pleasant conversation.
I will not mention fireplaces, soil drainage, or the size of my estate. "
"A sterling resolution, sir," Pimms said, applying the wax with renewed vigour. "And if I might add one final piece of advice?"
"What?"
"When you speak to her, sir, attempt to look as though you are enjoying the experience rather than enduring a bleeding with leeches by the apothecary."
DARCY MARCHED OUT OF Rosings Park with the grim set purpose of walking to the gallows, determined to face the rope with dignity. He bypassed the formal gardens and took the winding path to the parsonage, surveying the horizon for the flutter of a muslin gown.
He found her near the edge of the estate's sprawling grove. However, she was not alone.
Elizabeth was strolling at a leisurely pace, her arm looped comfortably through the elbow of Sir William Lucas. The former mayor of Meryton was gesturing broadly with his walking stick, his face a picture of jovial contentment.
Darcy took a breath, commanded his eyebrows to rise to a non-threatening altitude, and stepped onto the path to intercept them.
"Miss Elizabeth. Sir William," Darcy said, executing a bow that he calculated to be exactly the right mixture of respectful and approachable. "Good morning."
"Mr Darcy!" Sir William cried, halting his promenade.
His face lit up with the obsequious joy he reserved for anyone possessing exactly ten thousand a year.
"A superlative morning to you, sir! We were just admiring the majesty of your aunt's timber.
I was remarking to Miss Elizabeth that the oaks here rival those at St James's, though, of course, the air there is thicker with the scent of royalty. "
"They are indeed fine trees," Darcy agreed, falling into step beside them as they resumed walking.
He turned to Elizabeth, his heart hammering.
She was looking straight ahead, her profile calm and composed.
"I trust you are finding the walking paths to your satisfaction this morning, Miss Elizabeth? "
"They are adequate, sir," she replied, her tone polite, clipped, and devoid of the sparkling warmth she bestowed on his cousin. "One dirt path is very much like any other, provided one does not trip over the roots."
Darcy floundered. Adequate dirt paths. It was hardly a foundation for a sweeping romance. "Yes. The roots. One must be... vigilant."
"Capital advice, Mr Darcy, capital!" Sir William boomed. "Vigilance is the watchword of the realm!"
Before Darcy could attempt to salvage the conversation with a pivot to literature or the weather, the sound of crunching gravel heralded disaster.
"Sir William! Miss Elizabeth! And... Cousin!"
Colonel Fitzwilliam bounded down a cross-path, offensively handsome in his riding coat. He fell into step on Elizabeth's other side, altering the composition of the trio into a crowded, lopsided quartet.
"I saw you from the terrace, Miss Elizabeth.
" Richard offered her a brilliant smile.
"And I thought to myself, 'Richard, you cannot allow that lady to navigate the treacherous roots of Rosings without a military escort.
' I see my cousin had the same thought, though he looks as though he is marching to a court martial. "
Elizabeth laughed, a bright sound that cut Darcy to the quick. "Mr Darcy was just advising us on the necessity of vigilance, Colonel."
"Vigilance?" Richard chuckled. "Against what? Feral pheasants?"
Darcy narrowed his eyes. The comedy of errors had begun, and he was determined not to be the punchline this time. He would thwart Richard subtly. He would outmanoeuvre him without anyone noticing.
"Exactly, Richard, vigilance." Darcy's voice dropped to a serious, authoritative register. "The groundskeeper warned me of a rather muddy bog just ahead on the left. It would be a tragedy to ruin those fine boots of yours. Perhaps you should walk on the outside, closer to the tree line."
Darcy casually angled his shoulders, subtly forcing Richard to the edge of the gravel path where the grass grew thick and uneven. If Richard tripped, or better yet, sank his gleaming Hessians into a puddle of mud, his chivalrous guise would be compromised.
Richard, however, did not even break his stride. "A bog? Excellent! A true soldier embraces the terrain." Without missing a beat, he fluidly stepped behind Elizabeth, executing a graceful pivot that brought him to her right side, placing her squarely between himself and Darcy.
"Miss Elizabeth," Richard continued, "allow me to shield you from the impending swamp. If the mud threatens to engulf us, I shall throw my coat over the puddle in the manner of Sir Walter Raleigh. Or better yet, I shall throw Darcy's coat. It is much thicker than mine."
Elizabeth laughed again. "A noble sacrifice, Colonel. I am sure Mr Darcy would be thrilled to contribute his tailoring to the cause of dry feet."
"I would rather..." Darcy started, realising too late that any objection would make him a miserly, unchivalrous bore. He gritted his teeth. "I would, of course, be happy to assist."
"See? A gentleman through and through," Richard teased, winking at Elizabeth.
Darcy tried another tactic. If physical thwarting failed, he would attack Richard's character—subtly, of course.