CHAPTER ONE #3
“Oh, I do not dispute it,” her father said.
“The family tree is sound. You are, as you say, a spare heir of a Bennet—however much the name Darcy may have obscured the fact. The genealogies have been matched on both sides, documents certified. The question remains. What do you wish to do about it? And why are you here? As my wife and daughters have noted, I am in quite good health, and it is likely that I, too, will outlast my known heirs, which might require further study of the family tree, perhaps a fourth cousin or fifth?”
“Yes, be that as it may, I wish to invest significant resources into this—” And here, Elizabeth could picture the proud Darcy sweeping the leaky library with a look of such utter disdain that even her father would not fail to cringe. “—and to do that properly, as I mentioned in my correspondence—”
“Yes, yes… the matter of my daughters.” Her father’s voice had taken on the amused lilt that Elizabeth knew too well: the sound of a man watching a comedy unfold.
“You mentioned that you intended to marry. However, may I suggest that sentiment is quite premature? As my daughters are likely to be in mourning for my previous heir.”
“I think not.” Darcy strode toward the partially opened window, forcing Elizabeth to sink to the slushy ground, praying he would not glance down.
“The one I intend to marry does not hold Mr. Collins in high regard. I believe she is the key to Longbourn’s improvement campaign, as she is your ally, dear sir. ”
“Indeed, you are speaking about my second daughter? But perhaps she can barely tolerate you.” Another chuckle, and Elizabeth felt her father’s belly shaking with mirth as he anticipated the theatrics and dark comedy that would ensue.
“She will tolerate me well enough.” Darcy’s tone was well beyond arrogant. “I have observed her during my stay at Netherfield, and I believe Miss Elizabeth to be the most suitable choice.”
Elizabeth clapped her hand across her mouth to keep from screaming. The stone wall was cold, and an icicle dripped chills down her back.
Mr. Darcy was the Bennet heir, and he had come to marry her.
No, no, no, no, no, she wanted to scream, but her father was speaking between poorly concealed guffaws.
“This is entirely farcical; I apologize for saying it. Are you requesting permission to speak to my Lizzy? She would sooner cut you to ribbons. I warn you now, as I failed to warn Cousin Collins, may he rest in peace.”
“I believe you, sir, have the authority to speak to her.” Darcy’s voice was measured, careful, entirely without irony. “Given the circumstances.”
“The circumstances.” Another laugh, smaller, privately relished.
“Oh, the circumstances are magnificent. My second daughter, who has just this afternoon informed me that any heir who came courting at Longbourn deserved to be—how did she put it?—warned, if not hexed. My dear Lizzy does not yet know that the heir in question is the one man in England she has declared she would not dance with if he were the last gentleman standing.”
“We danced once at Netherfield,” Darcy corrected.
“A minor oversight on my daughter’s part, I should say. You caught her unaware and without an excuse.”
“Then I appeal to your discretion, sir.” Darcy’s voice was too close to the open window as his fingers tapped the windowsill. “Because I will marry her.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, as if closing them would mean Darcy would fail to see the top of her pink-bonneted head. Oh, why hadn’t she chosen the dusky brown?
“You see the comedy and the danger,” Mr. Bennet continued to the sound of the brandy decanter clinking.
“Not a word outside of this library. If my wife catches wind of your proposal, we shall never, ever hear the end of it. And if Elizabeth were to suspect… she would run you through with her sharp wit or set your waistcoat on fire. I have not been so diverted since Collins proposed in the breakfast room and Lizzy told him she would rather scrub chamberpots.”
“Then I trust your discretion, sir. Speak to her when you will, but I shall be back, and I will not take no for an answer. I am not Mr. Collins who requires the patronage of my aunt, the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I am my own man, the master of Pemberley and the future master of Longbourn, once it has been entirely renewed to its former glory—as described by my great-great-grandfather in the entail documents.”
“Well, Mr. Darcy, my wife is already at the door, and I suspect my two youngest have been listening in. No more talk. I shall introduce you, or do you prefer to take your leave?”
“I shall stay in the steward’s cottage, if you do not mind, as I see you do not have a steward, and this estate is in a considerable state of disrepair.”
“Ah, yes, yes, of course, of course.” Mr. Bennet was all amused conciliation.
“You are welcome to any and all renovations as long as you rob the coffers of Pemberley. We here, as you can see, live in a state of rustic indolence. How sporting it is to have such a diligent heir as yourself, Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s hems were muddied, her cloak damp, and her bonnet drooping over a face likely pale as curdled milk. She crept along the wall to the garden gate, gathered a few sprigs of ivy and a pinecone or two, and strode toward the kitchen door.
She would not give either man the satisfaction of knowing she had heard.