Chapter Twelve The Watercolour Romance #3
Mrs Jenkinson squeaked and scurried forward, uncorking the pink bottle, which filled the room with the smell of rotten onion and old shoes.
"No," Richard said.
Lady Catherine stopped and stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said no, Aunt," Richard repeated. He did not shout. He did not perform. He stood still, a soldier defending his position. "Anne will not be drinking the rhubarb tonic. She does not need purging. Her lungs are sound."
"Are you attempting to practise medicine, Nephew?" Lady Catherine sneered, her voice rising to a dangerous crescendo. "You presume to know the delicate constitution of the de Bourgh line?"
"I know," Richard said, taking a deliberate step forward and forcing Lady Catherine to tilt her head back to look him in the eye, "that Anne walked a mile across the meadow carrying a solid wooden easel, and she did not so much as sniffle.
I know that she is painting a somewhat horticulturally confused elm tree.
And I know that the only thing threatening her health is the smell of that vile pink concoction Mrs Jenkinson is holding! "
Mrs Jenkinson gasped and nearly dropped the bottle.
Lady Catherine's face turned an alarming shade of magenta.
"How dare you! You speak to me with such insolence?
You, who have been capering about my estate for weeks, making a fool of yourself over a country gentleman's daughter?
You will step aside, Richard, or I shall write to your father and have your allowance suspended!
Let us see you survive on your wages alone. "
"Write to him!" Richard countered fiercely, his eyes blazing with fury. "Tell him that I stood up to you! Tell him that I defended Anne!"
Anne was still in her chair, her heart no longer fluttering; it was hammering a triumphant, deafening march.
She stared at Richard's broad back. He was risking everything—his allowance, his aunt's formidable wrath—for her.
He was not doing it to show off. He was doing it because he believed she was worth fighting for.
"She is an invalid!" Lady Catherine screamed, losing the last shred of her composure. "She is destined for Pemberley! She is the future mistress of Derbyshire! She cannot be subjected to draughts and watercolours!"
"She is not an invalid!" Richard roared back, his own volume filling the room with the force of a cannon. "She is an artist! She is a tactician! She is the woman I respect and admire, and if you attempt to force-feed her that vile water, Aunt, I swear to God I will pour it into the pianoforte!"
The echo of Richard's declaration bounced off the marble bust of Caligula, rattled the windowpanes, and slowly faded into the carpet.
Mrs Jenkinson slowly sank to the floor in a dead faint, the bottle of tonic rolling harmlessly away.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh looked at Richard towering over her, then past him at Anne, who was sitting upright, healthier and more defiant than she had been in two decades.
The matriarch of Rosings Park could not reconcile herself to the evidence. She brought a trembling hand to her chest and swayed on her feet.
"I..." she rasped, her voice a hollow croak. "I must... I must go to the dairy. The butter... the maids..."
Without another word, without a shout or a threat, Lady Catherine turned on her heel and walked out with the stiff, jerky gait of a clockwork automaton whose mainspring had snapped.
Richard stared at the empty doorway as if expecting a secondary assault. When none came, his shoulders slowly dropped. The fury left him in a rush, and he leaned against the edge of the small table.
He turned his head back to Anne.
"Well," he breathed, dragging a shaking hand through his carefully windswept hair, making it worse. "I believe I have just forfeited my inheritance, my family relations, and my standing in the county of Kent."
He looked down at her, a crooked smile touching his lips. "I hope you are worth it, Cousin."
Anne stood up, stepped into Richard's space, grabbed his lapels, pulled him down to her level, and kissed him.
It was not a delicate, sickly kiss. It was a firm, passionate, watercolour-stained collision that knocked Richard off balance.
Richard let out a muffled sound of shocked delight. His arms came around her instantly, hauling her against his chest and lifting her toes from the floor. He kissed her back with everything he had, pouring his soul into the embrace.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard. Richard rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, a smile of victorious joy splitting his face.
"You," Anne whispered fiercely, her hands still gripping his lapels, "are the most magnificent, idiotic blockhead in the British Army."
"And you," he murmured, opening his blue eyes to look at her, besotted, "have paint on your ear."
Anne laughed, and the sound that filled the room banished the gloom of Rosings Park for ever. She did not care about the paint or the wrath of her mother. For the first time in her life, Anne de Bourgh was exactly where she wanted to be, and she was never going to hide again.