Chapter Ten
“You are very dull tonight, Darcy. What has you languishing near the fireplace.”
“It is nothing, Lady Catherine. I received a troubling letter from a friend, and need some time to formulate a response.”
Darcy folded the letter he had received from Hurst prior to his departure for Kent, and slid it into his waistcoat pocket. The news within painted a dark picture with regard to Charles and Caroline Bingley, confirming what Darcy had learned from the investigator he hired.
Lady Catherine raised her eyebrows. “Has your friend encountered some difficulty?”
“His brother, rather. A small predicament.”
“I cannot approve, Darcy. One must never meddle in affairs of others.”
“I shall consider your counsel,” Darcy replied, the corner of his mouth nearly twitching as he contemplated the woman who had built her formidable reputation upon precisely such meddling. Before he could dwell on it further, the door opened with a gentle creak.
“Fitzwilliam, thank you for accompanying Anne.” Lady Catherine nodded approvingly at the two cousins entering the room, her daughter’s pallid complexion a stark contrast to the colonel’s ruddy features.
“We were just discussing how Darcy’s acquaintance has a brother facing difficulties.
I was advising against his intervention. ”
“Ah, but intervention is our cousin’s specialty.
” Richard guided Anne to a comfortable seat by the crackling fire before claiming the chair beside Darcy, who fixed him with a stony glare from beneath his dark brows.
“That expression shall not deter me. I presume we speak of Bingley; you do hover over him like a nursemaid with a favourite charge.”
“I never direct Bingley’s actions. His life is his own.”
Richard threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the coffered ceiling of Rosings’ drawing room.
“Did you not confess, over a family dinner at Christmas, that you and his sisters schemed to separate him from a young lady of inferior rank? Ashton said you even called the society in that village savage.”
“In truth, most of them are gentlefolk farmers, as I am,” Darcy protested, a hint of colour rising on his otherwise composed features. “Rustic would have been the more fitting term, not savage.”
“Rustic or not,” Richard countered, eyes dancing with mischief beneath sandy brows, “Ashton also informed me that you insisted drastic measures were needed to pry the puppy from a mercenary mother’s clutches.”
“What mother is not mercenary?” Anne’s soft murmur drifted over from her corner by the fireplace.
Darcy spared his cousin a quick, apologetic glance, thankful their aunt had not caught the remark, for he dreaded another lecture on their supposed cradle betrothal.
Lady Catherine interjected, “You still count that tradesman’s son among your friends? You must end that acquaintance at once. By acknowledging him, you encourage him to think he belongs in a higher circle. A sensible man would not wish to abandon his proper sphere.”
“Bingley received a gentleman’s education, and he plans to purchase an estate so he can marry and raise a family,” Darcy replied, his voice measured despite the tightening of his jaw.
“That is the point, nephew. He owns no estate, and by inviting him to society events, you sully the Fitzwilliam and Darcy names. He could never attend without your patronage.”
“Lady Catherine, calm yourself.” Darcy's voice softened as he leaned forward in his chair. “Though I am friendly with Bingley, my closest companion is his brother-in-law, Mr. Reginald Hurst. You may recall me writing about him. We attended Eton and Cambridge together.”
“His father has an estate in Sussex, does he not?” Her tone eased marginally.
“Yes, he does, and it was through Hurst I first made Bingley’s acquaintance.” Darcy then turned to Richard, seizing the moment to divert the conversation. “What say you to riding out to Picket Farm tomorrow? When last I passed, their roof showed signs of needing new slate.”
“Mr. Howard mentioned as much,” Lady Catherine said, referring to her steward. “He also has concerns with regard to the south field, where many seeds have failed to germinate, threatening a meagre summer yield.”
“Thank you, Lady Catherine. I will discuss that with him tomorrow.”
With the topic securely shifted, Darcy relaxed his shoulders and resolved to answer Hurst’s missive when he had a quiet moment before retiring for the night.
The following morning, pale sunlight filtered through the lofty oaks as Darcy and the colonel rode the dew-slick grounds with Rosings Park’s steward.
Mr. Howard, a lean man with a weathered face and bright, efficient eyes, pointed out drainage concerns along the western boundary and described his plans to produce a better yield in the fields that had experienced slow germination.
Freed by Mr. Howard’s competence, Darcy turned his thoughts to the manor’s broader needs and reflected on his aunt’s ever-ready interference beyond the garden gates.
Such actions only muddled affairs better managed by those with a steadier hand.
If Lady Catherine would leave private livelihoods to the steward, the estate would hum with quiet prosperity.
By midmorning, the two cousins returned to the house, exchanged their dusty coats for crisp waistcoats, and stepped into the drawing-room where Lady Catherine sat beneath a gilded portrait of her late husband, her sharp gaze fixed upon the rector, Mr. Collins.
Mr. Collins himself was an odd figure: a pompous little man whose ill-fitting clerical coat fell loose over his shoulders, yet strained mightily around his stomach.
Darcy vaguely recalled him as the ungainly partner to Miss Elizabeth at Bingley’s ball.
More than once, the portly rector had stepped wrongly and collided with other dancers in their line, holding everyone up as he apologised profusely, causing acute mortification to stain Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks a vivid scarlet.
The evening had concluded with the peculiar discovery that the Bennets had departed with nothing but a brief explanation from Miss Bennet to Bingley.
Their abrupt retreat had struck him as odd, especially given Mrs. Bennet’s earlier boasts that her eldest daughter would soon reign over Netherfield Park as mistress.
He had fully expected them to linger until the last carriage was called up.
Perhaps Miss Bingley’s insinuations about the youngest Bennet sister’s impropriety with an officer among the garden shrubs contained a kernel of truth.
What else could explain such a precipitous departure?
Reluctant to interrupt their aunt’s discussion, Darcy and Richard began to withdraw.
“There is no need to hurry off,” she called after them. “Mr. Collins and I have nearly finished.”
At this, the rector turned with exaggerated delight. “Mr. Darcy! It is a pleasure to see you again. I cannot thank you enough for saving me that dreadful night when my cousin left me stranded with no means of returning to Longbourn. Had you not—”
“You thanked me at the time, Mr. Collins,” Darcy interrupted, his tone cool. “No further acknowledgment is necessary.”
“Of course, of course. “Mr. Collins bowed. “I understand.”
“A cousin of Mr. Collins is visiting his wife,” Lady Catherine said. “He was, at first, hesitant to allow the visit, but the two ladies have been good friends for many years. It shows strength of character on his part to allow one who decried his good intentions to stay in his home.”
“Indeed, Lady Catherine. You have counselled me wisely in how to guide and educate my cousin,” Collins declared, his chest swelling.
“Since her arrival, she has shown proper humility, and I believe she fully comprehends the errors of her former conduct, particularly that which we discussed upon my return from Hertfordshire.”
“You must put aside your cousin’s regrets and cleave to your wife, Mr. Collins,” Lady Catherine advised, her gaze stern but approving. “The former Miss Lucas attends to my directions with humility and generosity, and aspires to no greater station than that befitting a rector’s spouse.”
Darcy understood Mr. Collins had married the daughter of Sir William Lucas.
If she were Miss Maria, the Bennet sister visiting was likely either Miss Lydia or Miss Kitty, a thought that filled him with dismay.
But, if the bride was the former Miss Charlotte Lucas, the chances that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was now situated less than a mile from Rosings Park...
Breathless hope fluttered in his chest and sent his heart racing.
“If you will excuse me, Aunt, I would like to inspect the ledgers and make notes on my discussion with Mr. Howard this morning.”
“I trust everything was in order?”
“A few repairs are necessary and some minor business to attend to, but nothing requiring your immediate concern.”
Darcy inclined his head in a courteous half‐bow to his aunt and her rector, then withdrew.
His elder cousin fell into step behind him, the tread of their footfalls muffled on the thick carpet.
Once they were clear of the great hall and inside the oak-panelled study, Darcy sank into a comfortable leather armchair, loosening his coat with a tired gesture.
Richard closed the study door with a gentle click and collapsed into a matching chair, studying his cousin with a teasing light in his eyes.
“Care to tell me what had your shoulders hunched up about your neck so tight, you almost wrinkled your cravat?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Richard repeated, casually crossing one leg over his knee.
“Nothing worth noting.”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” Richard tutted. “Rare is the day your posture reveals your deeply held emotions. The minute that puddle of inanities announced to our aunt his cousin was visiting, you froze like a statue.”
Darcy shifted in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight.