Chapter 9
NINE
FITZWILLIAM DARCY
He ought to have been miserable as he picked his careful way along the verge, carefully crossing washed-out patches where the mud sucked at his boots, the damp and chill creeping in under his borrowed cloak.
Even discounting the fact that his proposal had been rejected by the woman he loved, this sort of situation, with its dirt and discomfort, would usually render him quite sullen.
But he smiled to himself as he yanked his left foot from a small quagmire, and as he performed a most inelegant, flailing manoeuvre to prevent himself from tumbling bodily into a larger one, and as he waved to Thomas, one of his aunt’s servants, passing on the opposite verge.
He smiled as he thought approvingly that Fitzwilliam had chosen well in sending Thomas to watch over the Parsonage, and as he handed his filthy boots to his horrified valet inside the kitchen at Rosings Park.
He smiled because all was not lost. He and Elizabeth were to begin anew in London in little more than a week’s time.
She had promised him no more than a cordial acquaintance to be maintained for the sake of his friend and her sister, but neither had she declared that to be the limit of their future acquaintance.
He knew enough of her frankness to believe that if she had entirely resolved that he should not be allowed to plead his case for more, she would have at least hinted at it.
He knew himself well enough to be certain that he would soon turn to brooding and worrying over precisely how he was to win her, but not just yet.
For a little while, he would be happy that he had not been sundered from her forever, and that his dream of the future, which he had been so foolishly confident was his to claim, had not been utterly destroyed by his hubris.
He followed his unhappy valet through the servants’ passages to his chamber, where a hot bath was being prepared for him, for his aunt would flay him alive were he to tread through the house proper in his stocking feet.
He smiled through that, too, and through the late dinner delivered to him on a tray, and he only stopped when he fell asleep. Perhaps not even then, who can say?
The morning brought a return of his quotidian sobriety as his aunt chose to interrogate him over breakfast, demanding to know where he had been the previous evening.
Even Fitzwilliam’s protests that he had given her that information last night did not quiet her; she must and would hear it from Darcy’s own lips.
“I felt the need for some fresh air and went for a walk,” he replied in his most repressive tone, which slid off his aunt like hot wax from a candlestick.
“When the rain began, I took shelter at the Parsonage.” He turned then to Mrs Collins and said, “Your servants were most attentive, ma’am.
I commend you on an excellently-run household. ”
Mrs Collins blushed with pleasure and thanked him, but this diversion was not sufficient to forestall Lady Catherine, who chided him for being foolish enough to go walking when rain threatened.
“Had you caught your death out there, what would have become of Anne?” she demanded.
He sighed internally and glanced at his cousin, who sat in quiet misery at her mother’s left hand.
He had told himself for years that he kept silent on this matter so as not to disrupt her peace, but his aunt’s insistence had been tearing up poor Anne’s peace as well as his own.
It was time he made his position clear, for both their sakes.
“The same that will become of her now,” he replied. “Aunt, let me be plain—Anne and I are not engaged, nor shall we be so. Anne is far too ill to wed anyone, and your energy would be better put towards making her comfortable than insisting on a marriage which shall never come to pass.”
For several seconds, there was a great, held-breath silence in the ornate dining room.
Lady Catherine was frozen with an expression of shock and horror, very similar to the one on Mr Collins’s florid face, except that her mouth was not hanging open.
Miss Lucas had stilled with her spoon in her mouth, while Fitzwilliam was watching the proceedings avidly.
Mrs Collins was studiously expressionless.
And then, the match he had lit touched the gunpowder of his aunt’s temper.
She shrieked, she shouted, she lost all composure and ranted like a fishwife.
After a few moments, Darcy wondered whether he were not being unfair to fishwives.
Mrs Bennet, in all her glory, had never to his knowledge made such a display.
Lady Catherine raged until she began to repeat herself, and then closed with a demand that he retract his ‘cruel words’ on the instant.
“Are you quite done, Aunt?” he replied with an air of weary indifference, which little masked the disgust he felt for her behaviour.
He raised a hand to forestall any reply.
“You cannot force me to marry, you know. Even if you were to have your servants truss me up and deliver me to the altar, I should not speak the required words. And if any clergyman were so lost to reason as to record the marriage despite this, I would not rest until he were defrocked and the marriage annulled.”
Mr Collins made a strangled sort of whine at this. Fitzwilliam turned his head away and pretended to cough. Miss Lucas shrank down in her seat and looked very frightened indeed, while Mrs Collins ducked her head and took a long sip of her tea. Lady Catherine was not yet defeated, however.
“You would never expose Anne to the calumny of an annulment,” the lady declared, so promptly and decidedly that Darcy was more than half-certain she had considered the idea before.
“I believe I should welcome a good dose of calumny,” Anne said softly.
Every head in the room turned towards her.
Her pale cheeks reddened, and she fixed her eyes firmly on her plate as she added, “It would prevent you creating a new scheme involving some other gentleman, Mother. Darcy is correct. I am too ill to be any sort of wife to any man.”
“I say, Cousin, you ought to come to London with us if you think you could bear half a day in a carriage,” the colonel impulsively suggested, as Lady Catherine’s face became alarmingly purple.
“Mother would fuss over you, Father would summon a phalanx of physicians, and absolutely no one would suggest you ought to be getting leg-shackled.”
Anne appeared briefly hopeful, but a glance at her mother was sufficient to shrivel her animation.
“You are five and twenty, Anne,” Darcy said. “My aunt cannot prevent you going, and I will happily convey you to Matlock House on the morrow. If Mrs Jenkinson will not attend you, I will hire a respectable woman from Hunsford.”
“Anne will go nowhere!” Lady Catherine thundered, glaring at Darcy.
“And neither will you, Nephew. You will remain here and submit to your fate! Though I dislike the notion, I can see it would be best to apply to the bishop at St Mary’s in Westerham for a common licence.
You and Anne will be married by Thursday, and all this foolishness will be at an end. ”
“I would be honoured to perform—” Mr Collins began eagerly, but Darcy cut him off.
“You may waste your time and the price of a licence in Westerham if you like, Aunt. I intend to be in London for dinner tomorrow. Cousin Anne, if you decide to travel with us, only give me to know whether Mrs Jenkinson will attend you or not. I shall arrange everything.” He set his napkin by his plate and stood from the table, though his hostess had not signalled the ending of the meal.
His aunt’s rudeness demanded some return.
“I shall debate this no further. I will remain within my chamber until tomorrow, to prevent the renewal of such scenes as we have all endured this morning.”
He bowed to the Collinses and Miss Lucas.
“I shall make my farewells to you all now. As I said before, the hospitality of the Parsonage has been excellent, and I count my time there among the most pleasant moments of my visit here. Mrs Collins, I would be much obliged if you would convey my farewells to Miss Bennet.”
There was a speculative glint in Mrs Collins’s eye, but she said only, “Certainly, Mr Darcy. I wish you pleasant travels.”
He left them then, paying no heed to his aunt’s incensed proclamation that he must stay and hear her, and sequestered himself in his chambers as he had said he would.
Lady Catherine sent several messages by way of the servants, demanding he come out and speak with her, but he answered them all in the negative.
She was too proud to bring herself to his door, so he was spared that scene, at least, for which he was grateful.
He spent his time considering how best to effect a reunion of Bingley and Miss Bennet, and—even more importantly—how to then recommend himself to Elizabeth.
He chuckled to himself as it occurred to him that introducing the lady to his own dear, sweet sister might do more for his cause than any action or words of his.
When he descended the great stairs the next morning, Anne and Mrs Jenkinson were waiting, dressed for travel, with a grinning Colonel Fitzwilliam by their side. He offered his cousin his arm, and they departed Rosings with Lady Catherine’s shouts ringing in their ears and smiles on their faces.