Chapter Thirteen Hope Restored
THE BEDCHAMBER ASSIGNED to Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy was, for the first time since he arrived in Kent, devoid of torment. It was, however, occupied by an unsettling sound.
Pimms was whistling.
It was not a respectful, under-the-breath exhalation. It was a jaunty, full-throated rendition of Rule, Britannia! delivered with the bouncy, upbeat tempo of a man who had just successfully bet his life savings on a three-legged horse and won.
Darcy sat in the armchair, staring at his valet as though Pimms had sprouted a second head made of cheese. He watched as the man glided across the carpet, holding a freshly pressed linen shirt and waltzing with the garment.
"Pimms." Darcy's voice was laced with suspicion. "Are you unwell? Have you inhaled boot blacking?"
"Never better, sir," Pimms replied, snapping the shirt smartly to loosen any imaginary wrinkles before holding it out for Darcy to step into. "The air in Kent is quite restorative this morning. One might even call it victorious. Arms up, if you please."
Darcy stood, allowing the valet to manoeuvre him into the shirt.
"Victorious? I fail to see what victory has been achieved.
I confessed my secrets in a damp forest, admitted to ruining my best friend's life, and then sprinted away before the lady could formulate a response.
If this is victory, I shudder to think what defeat looks like. "
"Ah, but patience is a virtue, sir." Pimms stepped around to the front to begin the intricate process of buttoning. "A wise man knows when to leave the field and allow the enemy—erm... the lady—to survey the terrain. But my cheerful disposition is not reliant on your slow romantic progression."
"Then what, pray tell, has inspired this musical outburst?"
Pimms paused, his hands resting lightly on Darcy's lapels. He looked up at his master with such pitying smugness that Darcy felt an urge to check whether he had put his trousers on backwards.
"The Colonel, sir," Pimms announced, "has found a new battlefield."
Darcy frowned, reaching up to adjust his collar. "Richard? A new battlefield? What are you talking about? Has he decided to besiege someone from the village?"
Pimms let out a long-suffering sigh. It was the sigh of a Cambridge professor forced to explain basic arithmetic to a dense pupil. "No, Mr Darcy. Not a village girl. Colonel Fitzwilliam has abandoned his campaign for Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
Darcy froze. The breath caught in his throat. "He has?"
"Indeed, sir. He has hoisted the white flag, struck the tents, and marched his troops in a different direction.
" Pimms moved to the dressing table to retrieve a cravat.
"I have it on excellent authority—namely, from the Colonel's batman, Higgins, who is in a state of shock requiring smelling salts—that the Colonel is no longer confiscating poetry about willow trees. "
Darcy was curious. "I have my suspicions, Pimms, but share your intelligence, if you please."
"Sir." Pimms spoke very slowly, enunciating every syllable as though Darcy were hard of hearing. "He is in love with your cousin, Miss Anne de Bourgh."
Every piece of the puzzle fit. "Richard and Anne. But... Richard is... And Anne... Anne is..."
"Sir, it is, frankly, a match made in heaven. Or at least, a match made to give Lady Catherine an apoplexy."
Darcy brought a hand to his forehead, rubbing his temples. "Are you certain, Pimms? This is not just one of Richard's fleeting fancies?"
"Sir, yesterday the Colonel stood between Lady Catherine and your cousin and explicitly threatened to pour a bottle of rhubarb tonic into the pianoforte if her Ladyship did not retreat.
Higgins says that Mrs Jenkinson fainted clean away and the Colonel then kissed Miss de Bourgh with unprecedented zeal. "
Darcy's jaw dropped. "He threatened Aunt Catherine? To her face?"
"Vigorously, sir."
"Good God," Darcy whispered, laughter erupting from his chest. He laughed until he had to brace a hand on the dressing table. "He threatened her with the tonic! Oh, the magnificent fool!"
"Yes, sir. He is a fool in love," Pimms agreed, stepping back to admire his handiwork with the cravat. He met Darcy's eyes in the mirror, his smugness softening into encouraging loyalty. "The field is clear, Mr Darcy."
Darcy stopped laughing.
"The field is clear," he murmured, his heart daring to hope.
"It is, sir." Pimms waited while Darcy slid his arms into the coat, then drew the fabric smoothly across his shoulders.
"I suggest that you go downstairs and attempt to smile with your mouth.
With any fortune, Miss Elizabeth has realised that, while you may lack the Colonel's volume, you possess a superior grasp of both poetry and livestock. "
"That is a low standard."
"One must begin somewhere, sir."
By the time Darcy entered the drawing-room below, Pimms had subdued every visible crease in his coat, but had done nothing to quiet the dangerous movement of hope beneath it.
The Hunsford party had arrived before him.
Mrs Collins sat near the fireplace, listening serenely while her husband explained to Lady Catherine why the parsonage chimney had produced an unusual quantity of smoke that morning, just after it was thoroughly cleaned.
Elizabeth stood beside the mantelpiece in a pale green gown, one hand resting lightly upon the marble as she watched Mr Collins's defence grow steadily more elaborate.
Darcy's attention found her before he had properly entered the room.
She turned, and for a moment, neither moved. Then she smiled.
Darcy bowed to the room in general, then walked closer to Elizabeth and bowed once more for good measure.
"Miss Elizabeth."
"Mr Darcy."
Lady Catherine, who had been scrutinising Richard and Anne, chose that moment to speak more loudly than the circumstances required.
"Mr Collins, you have not yet informed me whether the chimney was swept according to the schedule I provided."
"It was, your Ladyship. I stood below and observed the sweep's every movement, for I believe a clergyman must exercise vigilance in all domestic matters, particularly those involving soot."
Lady Catherine nodded with approval, her gaze flicking to the far side of the room.
Richard stood beside Anne's chair, holding her embroidery frame in one hand and gazing down at her as though she had personally invented sunlight.
Anne was explaining to him that he was holding the frame upside down.
A faint flush warmed her cheeks, while Richard was attempting to memorise every word she uttered.
Lady Catherine turned her head away with such speed that the feathers in her turban shuddered.
"Quite right, Mr Collins. Neglected soot is the first sign of moral disorder."
Dinner was announced before the clergyman could expand upon the spiritual implications of chimney maintenance.
Lady Catherine arranged the company with precision, although her efforts to pretend that nothing unusual had occurred between her daughter and nephew introduced a strain into the proceedings.
She placed Richard at a considerable distance from Anne.
Richard corrected this by exchanging places with Mr Collins on the pretence that the light from the candelabra caused a glare upon his wineglass.
Mr Collins surrendered the chair at once, declaring that no personal inconvenience could compare with the honour of accommodating a son of an earl.
Lady Catherine's mouth tightened.
Darcy took his seat and found Elizabeth seated directly opposite, separated by silver dishes, flowers, and an ornamental arrangement of fruit that no one had ever been expected to eat.
Lady Catherine devoted the first course to explaining the moral failings of the kitchen maid who had cut the carrots into unequal lengths.
Mr Collins received every pronouncement with reverent agreement.
Richard, meanwhile, spent so much time watching Anne lift her soup spoon that he nearly poured wine into his own lap.
"Richard," Anne murmured without turning her head, "if you continue staring at me in that manner, my mother will have both of us buried beneath the east terrace."
"I am not staring."
"You have missed your mouth twice."
Richard glanced down at the spoon hovering near his cheek.
Across the table, Elizabeth lowered her gaze to conceal a smile. She raised her eyes and discovered Darcy watching her. Amusement passed silently between them, delicate and immediate, no longer burdened by the hostility that had once made every meeting a contest.
Lady Catherine continued to ignore the attachment developing beside her by concentrating upon Mr Collins with the desperation of a monarch clinging to a loyal but tedious province.
"Mr Collins, have you completed the sermon I advised you to write concerning the dangers of frivolous ornamentation among young women?"
"I have, your Ladyship. Twelve pages."
"You told me six yesterday."
"Your encouragement doubled my inspiration."
"As it ought."
By the time the pheasant appeared, Mr Collins had offered a detailed account of the sermon's structure, including a powerful section devoted to ribbons and the moral uncertainty of coloured stockings. Lady Catherine ordered him to bring it into the drawing room after dinner.
Elizabeth glanced towards Darcy in horror.
He could not determine whether the alarm in her face was genuine or theatrical. He allowed one eyebrow to rise and was delighted when her lips twitched.
Richard chose that moment to reach for the bread at precisely the same instant as Anne. Their fingers touched upon it.
Neither withdrew.
Richard's expression softened so much that even Mr Collins noticed.
Lady Catherine struck the table once with the handle of her knife.
"Mr Collins, you have not told us your position on embroidered slippers."
Mr Collins straightened. "A subject of grave concern, your Ladyship."
Anne claimed the warm bun and snapped it in half, passing one piece to Richard, who took it as if it was made of solid gold.
Darcy had never before witnessed two people make such a spectacle of bread.