Chapter Nine The Parsonage Offensive
IF THERE WAS A RECOGNISED curriculum for the emotional rehabilitation of repressed masters of Pemberley, Fitzwilliam Darcy was fairly certain he was failing the introductory course.
The library at Rosings Park had been transformed into a classroom of horrors. Darcy stood by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, sweating as though he were facing a parliamentary inquiry.
Pacing in front of him, wielding a silver paper-knife as a fencing-master’s foil, was Viscount Keathley.
“Let us review Scenario Four.” Robert’s voice echoed in the cavernous room. “You are walking down a path. The sun is shining. The birds are singing a cheerful melody. Miss Elizabeth Bennet turns to you and says, ‘Mr Darcy, the weather is fine today, is it not?’ What is your response?”
Darcy swallowed hard and dug into the recesses of his newly coached brain. “I look at her. I maintain eye contact.”
“Good. Not a glare, mind you. A gaze. There is a distinction. A glare implies you wish to tax her property; a gaze implies you wish to kiss her hand. Continue.”
“I gaze,” Darcy amended, a flush creeping up his collar. “And I reply, ‘Indeed, Miss Elizabeth. The barometric pressure suggests a sustained period of no damp, which should prove beneficial for the local wheat harvest.’”
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, who was lounging horizontally upon a leather sofa, let out a groan that sounded like a dying walrus. “Good God, Fitzwilliam. I am falling asleep just listening to you. You sound like a farming almanac.”
Anne de Bourgh, perched as always upon her favourite reading table, shook her head in disappointment. “You are not trying to purchase her land, Cousin. You are trying to woo her. Wheat harvests are not romantic.”
“They are essential for survival!” Darcy protested defensively. “What am I supposed to say? It is a factual observation!”
“Romance is not about facts, Darcy!” Robert cried, throwing his hands into the air.
“Romance is about poetry! It is about making the mundane seem extraordinary because she is present! If she asks about the weather, you do NOT mention the barometer. You say, ‘The weather is indeed fine, Miss Elizabeth, but it pales in comparison to the brightness of your countenance.’”
Darcy stared at his cousin as if Robert had just suggested he strip naked and dance the minuet. “I cannot say that. I would choke on my own tongue. It is absurd.”
“It is charming,” Robert insisted. “Women love charm.”
“Miss Elizabeth despises empty flattery. If I say that to her, she will look at me as if I have suffered a head injury, and she will be correct to do so.”
“He has a point, my lord,” Dawson observed from his post by the doors. “Mr Darcy lacks the innate theatricality to deliver such a line without sounding as though he is reading it from a prompt-book.”
“Thank you, Dawson,” Darcy muttered.
“I am stating facts, sir. Your strengths lie in silent, brooding intensity and catastrophic bursts of honesty.”
“Right, fine.” Robert sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No poetry. But you must engage her, Fitzwilliam. You must ask her questions about herself. And you must smile. Let us practice the smile. On the count of three. One, two, three.”
Darcy forced the corners of his mouth upward, attempting to project warmth, amiability, and a complete lack of arrogance.
Richard recoiled on the sofa. “Desist! Desist! Stop it at once! You look like a gargoyle experiencing a muscle spasm!”
“It is disturbing,” Anne agreed, shuddering. “If you smile at her in such a way, she will call for the apothecary.”
Darcy dropped the grimace, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “It is useless. I am an unmovable object. I do not know how to banter. I only know how to insult her family or hand her my own ruin in writing. I should leave Kent and spare us both the agony.”
“You will do no such thing.” Robert stepped forward and clapped Darcy on the shoulder. “You are Fitzwilliam Darcy. You can manage a conversation with a small, witty woman. You just need to be yourself—but perhaps slightly softer, less... you.”
Robert checked his pocket watch, his eyes brightening. “Besides, all this pedagogical exertion has made me restless. I require fresh air. Watching Fitzwilliam’s attempts to express joy is physically exhausting.”
“A walk?” Richard perked up, swinging his booted feet to the floor. “Capital idea. I could use a stretch.”
“Let us all go,” Robert announced, a wicked, strategic gleam entering his eye. “We shall go to the parsonage. We shall invite the entire menagerie for a stroll.”
Darcy’s heart launched into a gallop against his ribs. “Now? We are going now? I am not ready! We have not even covered Scenario Five: The Accidental Hand Brush!”
“A baptism of fire, Cousin!” Robert grinned, moving to the door. “Anne, fetch your bonnet and your companion. We shall need Mrs Jenkinson to satisfy the chaperonage requirements.”
Anne hopped off the table, seamlessly adopting a slight hunch. “I shall summon her. She thinks I need the sun for my vapours.”
Ten minutes later, the Rosings party piled into the viscount’s behemoth of a carriage. The short ride down the lane to Hunsford was silent, save for the sound of Darcy’s boots tapping on the floor.
When they arrived at the parsonage, the intimidating mass of their party nearly sent Mr Collins into a fit of nerves that could rival Mrs Bennet’s.
The vicar threw open the front door, his eyes bulging as he took in the viscount, the colonel, the master of Pemberley, the heiress of Rosings, and the hovering, nervous companion.
“My lord! Mr Darcy! Miss de Bourgh!” Mr Collins gasped, bowing so deeply he nearly headbutted the doorframe. “To what do we owe this second, staggering condescension? The parsonage is overwhelmed! I must inform Mrs Collins—I must fetch the best chairs—!”
“No need for chairs, Collins,” Robert interrupted, deploying a smile that could melt lead. “The day is fine, and my cousin Miss de Bourgh expressed a desire for a restorative turn about the lanes. We thought we might impose upon your household for company.”
“Company! Oh, the honour! The glory!” Mr Collins bounced on his feet with sycophantic joy. “Sir William! Charlotte! Cousin Elizabeth! Maria! Make haste!”
Within moments, everyone had assembled in the narrow hallway. Sir William Lucas was trying to find his hat; Mrs Collins was appropriately sensible; Maria Lucas was staring at Robert as if he were the Prince Regent.
And then there was Miss Elizabeth.
Darcy’s breath caught in his throat. She was tying the ribbons of a simple straw bonnet beneath her chin. Her eyes swept over the crowded hallway, briefly landing on Viscount Keathley, then Richard, then Anne.
Finally, her gaze stopped on Darcy.
He braced himself for the chill. He braced himself for the arch raise of her eyebrow, or the subtle, mocking smile that accompanied their interactions. He waited for her to look at him as though he were an ogre.
Instead, a small transformation occurred. Her eyes softened and the rigid line of her shoulders relaxed. She did not sneer, nor did she avert her eyes. She offered him a hesitant but undeniably warm smile.
Darcy felt as though he had been struck by lightning. His brain ceased to function. She smiled, his internal monologue shrieked. She is not glaring. What does it mean? What is the procedure for a smile? Robert did not cover this in the library!
Before Darcy could spiral into another collapse in the hallway, the viscount sprang into action.
“Mrs Collins.” He offered his arm to her. “I have heard rumours of a very fascinating rock formation near the edge of the parish boundaries. As a woman of sense, you must tell me if it is worth the tramp.”
Mrs Collins, recognising exactly what was happening, allowed herself to be led out of the door. “I believe you mean the old quarry, my lord. It is mostly just dirt, but I am happy to oblige.”
“Sir William!” Robert called over his shoulder, not breaking stride. “You must accompany us! I require a man of the world to settle a debate regarding the Prince Regent’s latest architectural folly.”
“The Regent!” Sir William beamed, eagerly trotting after the viscount. “Capital! I have many thoughts on the pavilion, my lord!”
“Miss Lucas,” Richard chimed in, offering his arm to the young girl. “I understand there is a militia regiment camped in Meryton. Tell me, are their uniforms up to standard, or are they a disgrace to the king’s red?”
“Oh, Colonel!” Miss Lucas giggled, hooking her arm through his. “Captain Carter had the most magnificent epaulettes!”
That left Anne, Mr Collins, and Mrs Jenkinson.
Anne executed a masterpiece in tactical warfare. She let out a small, rattling cough, leaning on her companion.
“Mr Collins,” Anne whispered, her voice reedy and weak.
“My mother mentioned that your sermon on the theological implications of... of shrubbery pruning... was most enlightening. I find my soul troubled by the concept. Could you perhaps walk with me and elucidate the finer points of ecclesiastical botany?”
Mr Collins looked as though he had just been handed the keys to the kingdom of heaven. “Miss de Bourgh! It would be the crowning achievement of my clerical career! Mrs Jenkinson, if you will permit me to support her on the other side—”
Within sixty seconds, the hallway was empty.
Everyone had spilled out and strategically fractured into distinct groups, rapidly disappearing down the country lane.
Darcy was left standing in the entryway alone with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
The silence was deafening.
Darcy swallowed dryly. He looked at her. She looked at him.
“It appears,” Miss Elizabeth said, her voice laced with a speck of amusement, “that your family moves with the efficiency of a trained military unit.”
“They are... disciplined,” Darcy managed to croak. He cleared his throat, trying to summon the lessons from the library. Engage her. Banter. Do not mention the barometer.
He offered his arm, which felt like a lead pipe. “Shall we, Miss Elizabeth?”
“We shall, Mr Darcy.”