Chapter Seven #2
According to the terms of the late Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s will, his daughter Anne would inherit Rosings and a considerable fortune upon her twenty-fifth birthday, an event only three months away.
Darcy seriously doubted that Sir Sidney could go so long without exposing himself as a villain, a seducer, and a thoroughly debauched libertine.
Anne was not without the wit to see through such a blackguard, especially when Darcy was there to show her how a gentleman—and one who was truly in love with a woman—behaved himself.
Richard chuckled, took a sip of wine, and then gave Darcy a wary look.
“I suppose Anne, who has never known such novelty and indulgence in all her life, will suddenly come to her senses, eh? She shall forsake the charismatic magnetism of her new suitor and capitulate to the tyranny of her mother for the ten thousandth time, even on the verge of having her freedom once and for all?”
Darcy bristled at his cousin. “She will remember her feelings for me,” he hissed.
“I may not be as flashy and flirtatious as this fellow, but we share something far more substantial between us.” He would say no more about the matter, not in the middle of a crowded dinner party, with Anne seated only six feet away.
She caught his eye across the table and smiled at him, but it was not like the bright, infatuated smiles she bestowed on Sir Sidney; her eyes held apology and not affection.
And that was all—in the next moment her attention turned back to Sir Sidney, who had begun to regale the rest of the table with tales of his equestrian exploits.
Darcy waited for Anne to tire of this subject, which had never interested her, but she was more voluble than Darcy could remember ever seeing her.
“Sir Sidney has such a fine seat, I have never seen anything like it. Truly a bold rider, and his Arabian is unrivalled. Such speed, such flawless leaps! He rode splendidly at Newmarket in October,” she said to the couple seated on the other side of Sir Sidney.
“But not as well as your cousin; he defeated me soundly—and then to discover my own brother Arthur had bet against me—he made a fortune from Matlock’s triumph.” Sir Sidney nudged Anne’s shoulder with his own as he hooted with raucous laughter.
“So, he is one of your brother’s new set,” Darcy growled, resting an accusatory gaze on Richard.
“Poor Rupert,” Richard drawled. “Shall I write to my brother and inquire what he knows about this fellow? Perhaps we might uncover something salacious to put her off him.”
Darcy shook his head in disgust. He had no wish to win Anne back through such a devious method, and as he suspected this was all some scheme of rebellion to punish her mother, any scandalous revelations about Sir Sidney would likely push Anne further into the cad’s arms.
He lapsed into a protracted silence as he considered his present plight, though he remained peripherally aware of the conversation around him—Anne and Sir Sidney meant visit Sir Thomas’s stables at Trafalgar House, they would tour the site where a racing track was almost complete, they would find Anne a proper pony and spend countless hours riding.
Anne even meant to have a new riding habit made to match the fine puce coat Sir Sidney had worn at Newmarket.
After what felt like a thousand interminable hours, the first course was cleared away, which served as a cue for the guests to quit their present companions.
He was happy to do so, and he scanned the crowd of people chatting gaily as they milled about before selecting a new place for the second course.
He wondered if there was any point in sitting with Anne again, when she would surely attach herself to Sir Sidney all evening.
But then Lady Catherine appeared, headed in their direction; Sir Sidney bowed to Anne and declared he could no longer shirk his social responsibilities to the community.
At some point, Richard had become a more active participant in the conversation, leaving Darcy to his own pathetic ruminations.
Now, he seized Darcy by the shoulder, his face full of excitement.
“Darcy, did you hear that? Bevan! That was Marjorie Bevan, the sensational novelist our sisters are always carrying on about, and her husband Ezra Bevan—I believe he is a poet or a playwright or something. I suppose we would have known sooner if Sir Sidney had introduced us properly. But we must bring Georgie to them—though better not tell her Anne only babbled on about horse racing, or there will be an act of violence before dessert is served.”
The couple in question was now bidding Anne good evening before they stalked away. Anne, who was a voracious reader, had met a wildly popular authoress, and rather than discussing her own pursuits, she had spoken only of what interested Sir Sidney Parker. How utterly disappointing.
“Darcy? Darcy? Blockhead extraordinaire?” Richard snapped his fingers at Darcy, who only gave him a distracted frown. “If you are not going to listen to anything I say, I shall leave you to the agony of our aunt’s attention.”
Darcy’s head snapped up, and in a moment of alacrity he blurted out the first thought that entered his head. “This is all Lady Catherine’s doing, to be sure; so, too, must the remedy be.”
Richard gave a low chuckle and shook his head. “You wish to make Lady Catherine dislike you? If Pemberley burning to the ground has not curdled her esteem, I cannot imagine what could possibly repel her.”
But it had, Darcy realized. That was when the letters had stopped.
Had Lady Catherine prevented Anne from corresponding with him, forced her to sever the engagement?
Rupert was still unattached; his aunt may yet cherish some hopes of seeing her daughter made a countess, with a grand estate for Anne to preside over, leaving Rosings firmly in Lady Catherine’s grasp.
And only now, with Sir Sidney interested in acquiring an estate and a fortune to accompany his new title—a man who would encourage Anne to pack her mother away at the dower house at the earliest opportunity—well, now Darcy was back in favor.
They were approached by Sir Edward Gardiner, who shook hands warmly with them. “I hope you gentlemen are enjoying the food and the company very well this evening.”
“When the matchmaking mothers of London hear about your clever little musical chairs dining party, I am sure it will become quite a craze,” Richard quipped.
“Then I suppose it will not surprise you that I cannot take credit for the idea myself—my late wife was the genius behind most of the Tremont’s present triumphs.”
Richard guffawed. “I am of the opinion that women run the world, and have kindly allowed us the privilege of remaining ignorant to that universal truth.”
“My dear Madeline used to say quite the same thing!”
“It was a favorite expression of my late mother’s,” Darcy supplied, though he was not quite sure how much of a smile he ought to give when speaking of a rather sad topic.
“You are a Darcy of Pemberley! Ah, but that accounts for it. My wife grew up in Derbyshire—in the village of Lambton. I believe it is very near Pemberley. Her mother was the vicar’s wife, and she was sometimes invited to tea with the lady of the manor.”
“Mrs. and Miss Tremont? Oh, yes, of course. They were both excellent women.” Darcy was struck speechless at the sudden surge of respect he felt for Sir Edward, who had named this beautiful hotel for the woman he had loved and lost—the enormity of such a gesture, of what a romantic and devoted connection they must have shared.
Sir Edward’s eyes glistened with emotion as the two men shared a look of absolute understanding.
A smartly dressed young lady with raven hair and a penetrating gaze joined them. “Excellent women? I really must intrude on such a captivating conversation; Sir Edward, will you introduce me?”
The affable hotelier did so with evident pleasure, presenting Miss Esther Denham, niece of the local dowager.
She curtseyed, her gaze barely sweeping over Richard before fixing on Darcy.
“I have just met your sister, whom I should be happy to know better. I have found that too many young ladies come to Sanditon with ulterior motives, but I do not think she is one of them. Her manners are open and artless.”
There was no false flattery in Miss Denham’s frank observation, and so Darcy gave her a gracious nod. “As her guardian, I must thank you, Miss Denham.”
“I wonder, do you suppose it is easier or more difficult because of the disparity in your ages? My late brother was only a year older than myself, and it often seemed that I was the one raising him.”
Darcy knew not how to reply to such candor, but Richard appeared intrigued. “Your late brother? My condolences, Miss Denham. If my sister Lady Roberta were here, she would probably tell your that you are welcome to any number of her brothers—I have no doubt she thinks us all boorish babies.”
“Hmm.” Miss Denham’s lips quirked upward in what was almost a laugh as she continued to assess the pair of cousins before her.
“My brother did something illegal, and met his end as the immoral often do. His heir, Sir Anthony, is just over there flirting with Miss Bennet. He is kind and gregarious, but his circumstances shall require him to think practically. However, I believe Miss Darcy is quite safe from him. We have not long been acquainted—if I ever meet your sister Lady Roberta, I hope it shall be when I am better informed to decide if an exchange of relatives is advisable.” Her eyes twinkled with wry humor, and the odd creature at last gave them the trace of a smile.