Chapter Seven The Council of War
IF DANTE HAD REQUIRED an additional circle of hell for his Inferno, he would have done well to study the dining room of Rosings Park that evening.
The Rosings party had returned from their dizzying parsonage visit.
Now, they were required to endure a dreadfully long formal dinner under the watchful eye of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
The dining table was a vast, polished expanse of wood that was less a place to consume roasted fowl and more a tribunal.
Darcy sat to his aunt’s right, staring at his soup as if he expected it to rise up and recite his own humiliating prose back to him.
She has read it, his brain chanted to the clinking of silver spoons against porcelain. She has probably read it to her friend. They have likely composed a musical arrangement of my despair to perform on the pianoforte.
“Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine’s voice boomed down the table, vibrating the crystal goblets. “You are not eating your pheasant. Is the preparation inadequate? I expressly told the cook that a French reduction is the refuge of a lazy kitchen.”
“The pheasant is exemplary, Aunt Catherine,” Darcy lied, his voice tight. “I find myself lacking an appetite this evening.”
“It is the country air,” Viscount Keathley smoothly interjected, deploying his charisma to keep their aunt pacified.
Robert leaned forward, flashing a smile that had famously convinced a duchess to hand over her prize-winning spaniel.
“The air in Kent is so robust, so intellectually stimulating, it quite overpowers the physical senses. I, for one, have been captivated by the majesty of your estate management, Aunt. The glazing on the parsonage windows alone is a testament to your foresight.”
Darcy shot his cousin a look of disbelief.
Lady Catherine, however, puffed up like a bejewelled pigeon, oblivious to the underlying tension coming from her nephews.
“You have a keen eye, Robert,” Lady Catherine declared, her tone shifting from accusatory to smug.
“I have always said that a well-glazed window is the cornerstone of moral fortitude in the clergy. If they are draughty, they spend their time complaining rather than composing sermons. It is simple logic.”
“Brilliant,” Robert murmured, raising his wine glass in a salute. “Truly, a masterpiece in governance. Parliament could learn much from you.”
Across the table, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam coughed into his napkin to disguise a snort of laughter, while Anne continued to eat her asparagus with the serenity of a seasoned assassin.
Darcy closed his eyes and prayed for the sweet release of a well-aimed thunderbolt.
The evening dragged on, but finally, the clock in the hall chimed ten.
The moment Lady Catherine retired for the night—sweeping up the grand staircase with a final directive regarding the precise temperature of her warming pan—Viscount Keathley sprang into action.
The mask of the amiable vacant aristocrat vanished, replaced by the sharp, focused energy of a general preparing for a siege.
Robert moved swiftly through the silent, shadowed corridors of Rosings. He bypassed the drawing room and headed straight for the west wing. He summoned Darcy, Anne, and Richard to a covert, emergency meeting in the library.
The Rosings library was a cavernous room filled with thousands of unread, leather-bound volumes. Darcy started pacing in front of the unlit fireplace. Richard lounged on a sofa, and Anne perched on the edge of a reading table, her woollen shawls discarded.
“The perimeter is secure,” a hushed voice announced from the doorway.
Darcy turned to see Dawson, stepping into the room. Beside Dawson stood Boodles, equally impeccably dressed in a dark coat, emanating an air of competence and a patrician nose that seemed permanently lifted in disdain at the general state of the universe.
“Ah, excellent.” Robert clapped his hands together. “Cousins, Dawson and Boodles shall be present in this conversation.”
Boodles offered a bow so precise it could have been measured with a protractor. “An honour to participate, gentlemen. Miss de Bourgh.”
“Boodles,” Robert addressed his valet, “what is the intelligence from below the stairs?”
“The housekeeper is fast asleep, my lord,” Boodles reported, his tone as dry as dust. “The footmen are engaged in a game of whist in the servants’ hall.
We have approximately five hours before the scullery maids begin the morning fires.
You are free to strategise without interruption.
However, I advise keeping your voices to a respectable murmur.
The acoustics in these historical piles are notoriously treacherous. ”
“Thank you, Boodles,” Dawson added. “I shall guard the left flank. Should Lady Catherine awaken and demand her midnight gruel, I have a diversionary tray of stale scones ready to deploy in the corridor.”
“You are both heroes of the realm,” Robert declared, moving to the centre of the room. He turned to face his family, officially taking command of the mission.
“Right.” He pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket and gestured to a large, blank slate normally used for tallying estate logs.
“Operation: Salvage Fitzwilliam’s Dignity is now commenced.
The objective is twofold. First, we must assess the damage inflicted by the deployment of the ‘Manifesto of Doom’. ”
“Please stop calling it that,” Darcy groaned, burying his face in his hands.
“I call it as I see it, Cousin,” Robert replied. “Second, we must execute a coordinated campaign to prove to Miss Elizabeth Bennet that you are not, in fact, an unhinged lunatic who belongs in an asylum, but rather a gentleman of feeling who suffered a minor, isolated emotional break.”
“I did not suffer a break,” Darcy argued weakly.
“You wrote that she is the warden of your prison, Fitzwilliam,” Richard pointed out from the sofa. “If that is not a break, I shudder to think what your actual madness looks like. Will you be writing sonnets to the chickens?”
“Enough,” Robert barked, rapping his knuckles against the slate.
“We must gather our forces. I have devised the assignments. Because there is hope. During our visit, I purposefully pressed Miss Elizabeth with the mention of letters. She met me head-on. Congratulations, Cousin, she is an excellent parrying opponent—but she did not betray your confidence. I am fairly certain that whatever secrets you spewed are safe with her. However, we still need to be cautious.”
He pointed the chalk at Anne. “Annie, my sweet, ruthless cousin. I am assigning you the most delicate task of the operation. You are to befriend Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Anne raised an eyebrow. “Befriend her? I have spent the last twenty-four years avoiding human interaction. What makes you think I know how to be a friend?”
“Because you are observant, and you possess a shared appreciation for the absurd,” Robert explained. “Your proximity will allow you to offer subtle emotional support to our quarry.”
“Quarry?” Darcy growled. “She is not a quarry; she is a lady. I cannot stress this enough!”
“She is holding the weapon of your destruction, Darcy—keep up,” Robert dismissed him.
“Anne, your true mission is to gather intelligence. We need to know what she thinks of the letter. Did she laugh? Did she cry? Is she planning to frame it and hang it in the Meryton assembly rooms? We. Need. Facts.”
“I can do that.” Anne nodded, a wicked gleam entering her eyes. “I shall find a way. I will complain about my mother’s oppressive regimen. To my knowledge, nothing bonds women faster than mutual grievances against their mothers.”
“Brilliant.” Robert praised her and pointed the chalk at the sofa. “Richard.”
“Reporting for duty.” The colonel saluted lazily.
“You are deployed to charm Mrs Charlotte Collins.”
Richard’s salute faltered. He dropped his hand, offended. “Why do I always get the sensible married ones? I am a decorated officer of His Majesty’s army! I should be at the vanguard of the romance!”
“You get the sensible married one because you are the only one among us with an attention span long enough to survive a conversation about domesticity,” Robert countered.
“Mrs Collins is Miss Elizabeth’s closest confidante.
If Mrs Collins likes you, she will look favourably upon our entire camp.
You are the diplomatic envoy. Flatter her needlework.
Admire the turn of her staircase. Endure Mr Collins if you must.”
“If I must endure Mr Collins for more than ten minutes, I demand a medal and a significant increase in my brandy allowance,” Richard grumbled, crossing his arms.
“Granted,” Robert said without hesitation.
Finally, the viscount turned to face the master of Pemberley. The amusement faded from Robert’s eyes, replaced by intense focus.
“And now, for you, Fitzwilliam,” he said. “I pledge to strip away your rigid pride, demolish your fortifications, and teach you how to behave like a normal, functional gentleman in love.”
Darcy drew up, his spine snapping straight. “I know how to behave like a gentleman.”
“You know how to behave like an emperor,” Robert corrected coldly.
“You stand in corners, you scowl at the wallpaper, you refuse to dance because the company is ‘beneath’ you. And when you finally decide you have feelings for a woman, you deliver a proposal similar to an eviction notice, followed by an accidental letter that reads as a ransom demand!”
Darcy flinched. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the truth of Robert’s words choked him. He looked down at his boots.
“You are right,” he whispered, the admission tasting like ash. “I have botched it. I do not know how to fix it.”
“That is why I am here.” Robert’s voice lost its mocking edge, turning genuinely supportive.
“You love her. The entire room knows it. The paper mill that supplied your paper knows it, but you cannot throw your heart at her feet and expect her to trip over it gratefully. You must woo her, Darcy. You must converse with her without sounding like a magistrate. You must smile.”
“I smile,” Darcy protested.
“A grimace is not a smile,” Dawson noted from the doorway. “If I may be so bold, sir, your smile often resembles a man preparing to execute a traitor.”
“Thank you, Dawson. Your continued insubordination is noted.”
“I shall coach you,” Robert promised. “I shall teach you the art of the flirtatious banter. I shall instruct you on the proper deployment of a meaningful gaze that does not induce fear in the recipient.”
“It is a monumental task, my lord,” Boodles murmured from the door. “One might say, Sisyphean.”
“I shall roll the boulder up the hill, Boodles,” Robert declared.
“Wait,” Anne interrupted the plotting, slipping off the reading table and moving to the centre of the room.
The heiress of Rosings Park held up a hand, laying down a non-negotiable mandate.
“This is all very touching, and I am thrilled to see Fitzwilliam subjected to a romantic reformation.” Anne’s tone turned authoritative. “But there is a fatal flaw in your stratagem. You have forgotten the dragon sleeping upstairs.”
The three men exchanged nervous glances.
“My mother,” Anne clarified, her eyes narrowing.
“My mother must never catch a whiff of this scheme. If Lady Catherine even suspects that Fitzwilliam is courting Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire under our roof, the fallout will be apocalyptic. She will be furious and I will be caught in the middle.”
“Anne is correct,” Richard agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Aunt Catherine is operating under the delusion that Fitzwilliam is resting his humours before formally proposing to Anne. If she sees him smiling at Miss Elizabeth...”
“Then we must ensure she sees nothing,” Robert stated.
The group gathered closer, the atmosphere turning into a war council.
“We need a diversion.” Darcy’s strategic mind had finally engaged. “Something that appeals to her vanity so that she ignores everything else.”
“Or someone,” Anne suggested, an evil smile spreading across her face.
Anne outlined her plan. They would constantly redirect her mother’s scrutiny to the two most eager victims in the county: Mr Collins and Sir William Lucas. They would utilise the two visiting gentlemen as unwitting human barricades.
“It is genius,” Robert whispered in awe, staring at his cousin. “Annie, you are a menace, and I love you.”
“Think of it,” Anne continued, pacing the rug.
“Mr Collins begs for her condescension. Sir William is so dazzled by the chandeliers he barely knows what day it is. Whenever Fitzwilliam needs to speak with Elizabeth, one of us will ask Mother her opinion on the optimal height of a pulpit, or the proper method for presenting a knighthood. She will corner them and will lecture them for hours. They will be so honoured they will not even realise they are being sacrificed for your love life.”
“It is slightly cruel to them. They might be dull, but they are good men,” Darcy said with a twinge of guilt for the poor victims.
“Mr Collins enjoys it, sir,” Dawson chimed in from the door. “He views her Ladyship’s lectures as spiritual nourishment. We are providing him with a feast. And fear not. Sir William is made of sterner stuff; he will survive.”
“Then it is settled,” Robert announced, wiping the slate clean with a cloth. “The Council of War has spoken. Anne is our spy. Richard is our diplomat. I am the romantic architect. And Collins and Sir William are the sacrificial lambs.”
“And what am I?” Darcy asked, looking at his cousin.
Robert walked over and placed a hand on Darcy’s shoulder.
“You, Fitzwilliam, are going to learn how to be human,” Robert said gently. “You shall walk into the sunlight, you shall be magnificent, you shall look the woman straight in the eye, and you shall prove to her that the man who wrote that madcap letter is a man worth saving.”
Darcy swallowed hard. The fear returned, but this time, it was mixed with a small kernel of hope.
“I am at your disposal, Robert,” Darcy said.
“I know.” The viscount grinned devilishly. “And I intend to enjoy every single miserable second of it. Now, Boodles! Dawson! Pour the brandy! We have a courtship to construct!”