Chapter 16
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Like nearly everything at Rosings Park, the drawing room had been arranged with more attention to consequence than comfort.
The chairs were positioned at intervals that discouraged easy conversation, and the ornaments were displayed at heights that invited admiration rather than use.
Even the fire, though generous, faced away from the principal sofa in a manner which suggested that Lady Catherine’s guests were expected to warm themselves on the honour of the visit rather than any practical heat.
Darcy had long since ceased to notice any of it, for he had been coming to Rosings every April since he was nineteen years old.
Its various oppressions had long since become familiar enough that he rarely thought about them.
Only now, with his sister by his side and all his protective instincts active, did he fully feel how very uncomfortable the customary spring visit truly was.
Georgiana sat beside him on the sofa nearest the window, her posture growing more careful with every passing minute.
Not fear, precisely. Only the instinctive adjustment of a gentle nature encountering a very loud one, the way a sensitive person may unconsciously hold their breath when the wind changes.
Colonel Fitzwilliam occupied the chair to Darcy’s left with ease; unsurprisingly so, for their Cousin Richard had always possessed the useful talent of appearing comfortable in situations which were anything but.
It served him well in both drawing rooms and on campaigns.
Darcy had for years admired it with the resigned envy of someone constitutionally incapable of acquiring the same skill.
Lady Catherine sat in the tallest chair and addressed herself primarily to her own opinions.
“The east garden,” she declared, in the tone of someone announcing the outcome of a trial, “requires entirely new planting this year. I have spoken with the head gardener and told him so plainly. He is competent enough in his way, but he lacks vision. Most men do.” She turned her gaze toward Darcy expectantly.
“You will walk through it this afternoon and tell me whether I am right.”
“I am certain you are,” Darcy replied evenly. More to the point, he was certain his aunt would not listen if he attempted to persuade her otherwise.
“You have always possessed excellent judgement in such matters,” Lady Catherine continued. “It is one reason I have never doubted that Anne’s future is perfectly secure.”
Darcy winced at that reference to his supposed betrothal to her daughter, but Anne did not look up from her book.
“There are very few gentlemen whose understanding of her situation I would trust. Family connections are invaluable in these matters. Do not you think, Fitzwilliam? I am sure your father would say so. Of all men, an earl must understand the importance of lineage and family duty.”
“Indeed,” said Fitzwilliam. Darcy suppressed a crooked smile, for his cousin had spoken with the cautious tone of a man approaching a loaded cannon.
“Strangers know nothing of a person’s constitution,” Lady Catherine went on. “Whereas those who have known one another from infancy possess every possible advantage.”
“To be sure, Aunt.”
Lady Catherine looked mildly dissatisfied at how quickly the agreement came.
Likely she had prepared additional arguments for opposition, which she would now be denied the pleasure of delivering.
She let this pass with the air of a general accepting a surrender that has been offered too early and without sufficient drama.
Anne de Bourgh sat beside her mother in a smaller and less ornate chair and said nothing.
She rarely said anything at Rosings beyond what was required to confirm that she had been listening.
Whether she had in fact been listening was, Darcy had long suspected, another matter entirely.
Over many years, Anne had perfected the art of appearing attentive while retreating somewhere unreachable within herself.
He could not blame her for it. When at Rosings Park, he often wished he possessed the same capacity.
Mrs Jennings, Anne’s companion, sat close by and watched Anne with professional anxiety. Anne bore this with a patience that showed her accustomed to being anxiously observed.
“The plantings in the west walk are also disappointing,” Lady Catherine continued.
“I shall want your opinion on those as well. And on the new chimney in the east wing, which the workmen have assured me is satisfactory, but which I do not believe for a moment. Workmen always say chimneys are satisfactory. It is the only word they know.”
“If you wish, Lady Catherine, I shall be happy to look at them,” Darcy told her. “Though I suspect I am less capable of judging a chimney than your workmen, not more so.”
Fitzwilliam made a sound that might, to an inattentive listener, have passed for a cough. Darcy recognised it as amusement suppressed for the sake of survival.
Georgiana had turned slightly toward the window. She had not spoken in some minutes, and the careful blankness in her expression told him she had already exhausted her capacity for chimney opinions. Her attention had settled firmly on the garden.
He felt the familiar wave of guilt. He had promised her more time together this spring, and he had delivered Rosings Park, which was not entirely the same thing. Yes, she had been warned, but what of that? It was his duty as her brother and her guardian to see to it that she had a pleasant home.
“Georgiana,” Darcy said, directing his voice beneath Lady Catherine’s continued remarks about east wing structural assessments, “I believe the garden air may be quite mild this afternoon.”
Georgiana turned at once, the blankness dissolving into something rather more alert.
“It is,” Fitzwilliam agreed. He was already sitting forward in his chair. “Very mild. Remarkably pleasant for the time of year. I was only thinking what a great pity it would be not to make use of it.”
Lady Catherine looked toward them with the expression of disapproval she reserved for people who were about to do something she had not suggested first. “The air is still cold,” she said with authority.
“I would not recommend it for anyone of delicate constitution. Anne certainly must remain indoors.”
Anne looked up from her book. “I believe I should enjoy a short walk.”
“Certainly not,” Lady Catherine replied immediately. “The air remains far too sharp for you. Dr Simmons was perfectly clear on the subject. You have improved considerably this spring, and I will not have that progress undone by a foolish expedition into the garden.”
Anne appeared neither surprised nor particularly disappointed by the ruling. “No, Mother. Of course not.”
“Quite right,” said Lady Catherine. “Mrs Jennings, you will see that she remains warm.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs Jennings replied, and tucked another shawl around Anne, though she was already well wrapped up.
Darcy rose. “We shall be brisk about it,” he said pleasantly. “Georgiana is in excellent health. I would not have her sit idle when the grounds are available.”
Though Lady Catherine looked on the point of another protest, he was already moving. Chivvying Georgiana before him, Darcy made for the side door with Fitzwilliam close behind them.
The garden received them with the particular mercy of being far from the drawing room windows and considerably better in every other respect as well.
The sky was grey, the air not yet warm, and the paths still rather muddy, but after a long morning with Lady Catherine, all seemed entirely delightful.
Fitzwilliam exhaled heavily the moment they were out of earshot. “Good God. Four distinct opinions about the chimney, Darcy. I counted them. Four separate opinions about a chimney that none of us will ever think about again after we leave this house.”
“Five,” Darcy replied. “You missed the one about the mortar.”
“I was protecting myself.” Fitzwilliam pressed one hand briefly over his eyes. “You owe me for this visit.”
“Do I? She is as much your aunt as mine.”
Georgiana walked between them, her step lightening with each yard from the house. Whatever one thought of Lady Catherine, the gardens were lovely even in early spring.
“She means well, I think,” Georgiana offered, with the charitable instinct she must have inherited from their father.
“She always means well,” Fitzwilliam said. “That is precisely what makes it so relentless. If she meant badly, one could be angry about it.”
Georgiana laughed, which made everything immediately better. Her laugh was still much too rare, and therefore precious.
They walked on for several moments beneath the budding trees, talking of small things. At a pause in the conversation, Georgiana glanced toward Darcy with surprising shyness. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he said readily.
She hesitated only briefly. “Do you truly intend to marry Cousin Anne?”
Fitzwilliam laughed outright. “Good God, Georgiana. Straight to the point.”
Georgiana looked faintly puzzled. “Was it an improper question?”
“Not at all,” Darcy said, though Fitzwilliam still appeared amused. “And no. I certainly do not.”
“Oh.” Georgiana nodded thoughtfully. “That is a relief.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “A relief?”
“Yes.” She considered for a moment. “Because I do not think Anne wishes to marry you either.”
For a second, there was silence. Then Fitzwilliam laughed so hard he nearly lost the path entirely.
Even Darcy found himself smiling. “I suspect,” he said, “that you may be correct. And indeed it is a relief.”
He walked and let the conversation flow around him, and put his attention onto the path ahead and the cold clear air and the view from the south walk, which carried across the fields and the village and the lane that wound down through Hunsford.
He had walked it twenty times. It offered nothing new.
His attention kept returning to it anyway.
He was thinking about Elizabeth Bennet again.