Regrets （Col Fitzwilliam）
I sat listening to that parson drone on full of regrets.
Of course, the primary regret was that I was at Rosings listening to that parson drone.
Such a thing could make a man repine his entire life up to that point, and I was one such.
That naturally led me to regret sitting there regretting I was listening to the parson instead of—wait a moment.
Any more of those sorts of thoughts would be like a dog chasing its tail, only to eventually catch it and bite himself on the—well—best to stop that cascade of thought right there and then.
I truly regretted that I could not come up with a better way to—
As you can see, listening to the parson could turn a sane man mad, and a man such as myself who was not all there in the first place, could probably be driven back to sanity, which when sitting in the parlour at Rosings was far-far worse.
I was not a man made for deeper thoughts, and in fact, if deep thoughts needed to be thunk, I had Darcy, and come to think of it, where the devil was Darcy?
While I was on the subject of life’s big mysteries, where in the dickens was Anne?
Even more importantly though, where was the good brandy?
I was almost ready to fall asleep on the sofa when the parson said something that made me snap around to actually listen to him—yes, I know that sounds ridiculous (and dangerous), but such was the case.
‘…for it is incumbent upon those of higher station in life to avoid polluting the bloodlines of their ever more worthy ancestors and their noble lineage with any such personages as you might encounter in the classes of those of most assuredly lower birth. Such a thing would most assuredly be considered degradation, and to engage in such a reprehensible connection would be thoroughly insupportable. It is essential that each person stay within the sphere of which they are a natural part according to the natural order of things as bequeathed…’
The man could spread the balderdash with sufficient vigour even for Lady Catherine—an impressive feat all by itself—but that particular bit of nonsense had me thinking back to a conversation from earlier that morning.
I had enjoyed a perfectly lovely walk with the ever-delightful Miss Bennet talking about acquaintances.
I could see that Darcy favoured her, while she was completely indifferent or even hostile to him, so I exerted myself to talk him up a bit by telling her what a good friend he was to Bingley.
I mean, who would not be impressed by his invaluable assistance in such a delicate matter?
I was caught by surprise when she reacted peculiarly.
‘I do not see what right Mr Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy…’
There was much more along the same lines, and I naturally replied with a quip to lighten the mood. ‘That is not an unnatural surmise, but it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.’
I did not quite connect the two, but she then had a sudden change of demeanour so painfully obvious that it would have been discernible even to a knucklehead like me.
In fact, it was so abrupt I suspect even Darcy could have detected it.
She developed a very sudden headache sufficient to cause her to depart my company instantly and subsequently miss tea at Rosings.
At the time, I reckoned she had simply developed a bout of good sense and reasonableness, but then it struck me like a bolt of lightning!
I am certain my exclamation of ‘Bloody Hell’ probably set my aunt to an alarmed and agitated state, but I cared not.
It was all so painfully clear. It was all so painfully obvious. It was a fully proven, scientific fact. It was quite alarming: Miss Elizabeth Bennet was in love with Charles Bingley, and Darcy had used his arts and allurements to separate them.
Now I understood why she looked at Darcy with less favour than a cavalryman looks at a French infantryman, or more likely less favour than a cavalryman looks at a French cannon pointed at his favourite horse, which he was astride.
Darcy must be just about the most despised man in the county.
In fact, he was probably the last man in the world she wanted to receive any type of addresses from. If he was not here, he must be at—
With the aforementioned bout of ungentlemanly cursing, I was out of the parlour like the aforementioned French cannon—though to tell the truth, French cannons were not all that reliable, so I like to think I was off more like an English cannon, or even better, an American cannon—but I digress.
I bolted from the parlour and ran halfway to the parsonage before I realised how ridiculous I looked and slowed down so I could approach without sweating and panting.
Since Miss Bennet now knew that Darcy had separated her from the love of her life, she was probably toying with him right at that very moment, and if I got there quickly enough, I might get a chance to see her make him sweat for once. I could hardly wait.
I imagined her quite capable of delivering a set-down for the ages and only hoped to witness it. I was just imagining the scene in my mind as it must have occurred.
Miss Bennet and Darcy, alone in the parsonage, with him making his addresses, but not knowing she had intelligence about his actions with Bingley, was almost guaranteed to be an explosive combination.
I even started sniffing the air for signs of smoke, for I was almost certain Darcy would crawl out of the parsonage with his waistcoat afire.
There was no chance I was going to miss that.
~
I entered the parlour only slightly out of breath and beheld the most bizarre tableau you can imagine. Darcy looked like he had actually been fired from the aforementioned cannon, while the barrel was pointing at a most inconvenient granite mountain.
Miss Bennet looked either vastly amused, murderously annoyed, frightfully confused, or perhaps some other emotion that was beyond me. Of course, those three were the only ones I used on a regular basis, so I may not have been as familiar with others used by the gentler sex as some might be.
Anne, surprisingly, looked like the cannoneer digging around for another cannonball (or gentleman), and another keg of powder while yelling at the top of her lungs, “Where’s my ramrod?” I could well imagine her using her petticoat as wadding… but perhaps that was entirely too fanciful.
She looked at Darcy like a cat playing with a mouse, but at my name she jumped to her feet, and executed her usual very elegant greeting, worthy of the finest ladies of the first circles.
“Periwinkle, just the man I was looking for!”
Her use of my given name should have either set me at ease or raised my hackles, but since she usually did not even bother to talk to me, I had no frame of reference, so I just stared.
She ran over, grabbed my arm aggressively, and dragged me to the table.
It was not particularly large, and with a full-grown colonel making the fourth occupant, it was likely to be a bit crowded, but she did not appear to mind.
She pulled a nearby chair over, and plunked me down in it, then resumed her own seat with hardly a breath.
She beamed at me most winsomely. “You are just in time. Darcy invited us all to Pemberley. I had come to believe that, with his habits of expense, he would not be able to afford it, but he assures me there shall be no impediments.”
I stared at Darcy, wondering just what in the world was going on. “Which particular habits of expense are you referring to Darc—”, but of course, I had to stop immediately when he stared at me with a look that made me want to stand in front of Anne’s cannon.
Soooo… Darcy had expensive habits, did he?
I should like to know what they were. I would not have guessed him for a man that would take a frightfully expensive Cyprian, so it must be drink, horses, or gambling!
Everyone knew that women, drink, horses and gambling were the only things that could break an estate as prosperous as Pemberley.
It had to be gambling! So, my cousin was both braver and foolhardier than I imagined.
He played his cards very close to the vest, my cousin Darcy…
but I would get the story from the man if it killed him.
I gulped down a hedgehog, and continued, “—well, er—I mean, of course, Pemberley can manage two guests! What an absurd notion!”
I thought that should calm Darcy down, and I really would have to ask him about his expenses, and exactly how Anne came to be privy to them. When did he even talk to our cousin? That was quite a mystery.
Unaccountably, Anne laughed, something that had been banned at Rosings since 1793. “Two… where do you get the idea it is two?”
Wondering exactly what was happening, I ventured, “Is Miss Bennet coming too? Well done! Good show! You are correct; the three of us shall be a merry party!”
Anne just looked at me with her wicked grin, and I noticed Miss Bennet having a very difficult time refraining from laughing, so I asked timidly, “Is anyone else invited?”
Anne replied nonchalantly, “Well, of course! Elizabeth cannot go all the way to Pemberley without her sisters!”
I had heard about her sisters… at length… in detail, from Darcy and this did not sound like a Darcy-initiated scheme.
I replied carefully, “Naturally… er… which sisters?”
I was hoping it would be the young silly flirty ones because I really had missed most of the fun the previous winter in Hertfordshire.
“Why, all of them of course!”
I could see why Darcy was so pale. “All of them?”
“Yes, of course. Nothing else would be fair.”
I just nodded, and she carried on brightly. “And of course, we must have their mother. It would not do to skirt propriety.”
Now Miss Bennet was clearly enjoying the joke, while Darcy turned paler and paler.
In fact, the paler he got, the brighter her smile got.
Perhaps the failed proposal had already happened, and I missed the whole show, but I could not quite work out how she kept him in the parsonage after rejecting him long enough for Anne to get her hooks into him.
It was most perplexing. I was trying to imagine the set-down she must have given him, while Anne carried on.
“And of course, we must have you, Mr Bingley, and Mother! How could it be otherwise?”
Now my head snapped back around to look at her in alarm, then swivelled back and forth between her and Miss Elizabeth to see her countenance when her lover was mentioned, but she was an inscrutable woman when she wanted to be.
You would not be able to tell her heart was broken in half from her countenance; that was for certain.
She was also taking the pending reunion with her lover with much less excitement that I thought the situation warranted.
Perhaps Darcy was even more of a scoundrel or Bingley more of a fool than I had surmised.
Anne blathered on, “I imagine Mr Bingley will need to bring his sister as well!”
Darcy turned red, and I was… I cannot tell you what I was, because I was distracted by the door-bell.