Chapter Eleven The Beast of Hunsford and Other Triumphs #2
“We are merely taking the air, Aunt Catherine,” Robert lied smoothly, attempting to deploy his arsenal of charisma. “The parsonage lies along the most picturesque route. The glazing—I must congratulate you again—on the windows is a beacon of moral fortitude.”
“Do not attempt to flatter me with your drivel, Robert,” Lady Catherine snapped, immune for once to the viscount’s charm.
“You have called upon Mr Collins for four consecutive days! Four! Mr Collins is a useful man, certainly, but he is not entertaining enough to warrant the daily attention of two peers and a colonel. What is the attraction? Is it the Lucas girl? Or that impudent Miss Elizabeth?”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to defend Elizabeth—consequences be damned—but before he could utter a word, a soft, reedy voice cut through the tension.
“It is me, Mother.”
They all turned to stare at Anne de Bourgh. Anne, who usually ate her asparagus silently as a church mouse, set down her napkin and looked directly at her mother.
“You, Anne?” Lady Catherine frowned. “What do you mean?”
Anne executed a masterpiece of acting. She lowered her eyes, twisted her fingers in her lap, and allowed her voice to tremble slightly.
“I find myself... lonely, Mother,” she whispered. “You are occupied with the affairs of the estate, and Mrs Jenkinson means well, but her conversation is limited to the weather and my digestion. I find that I require genteel female company.”
Lady Catherine blinked, her aggressive posture faltering. “Genteel company?”
“Yes. Mrs Collins is a sensible, married woman. And Miss Elizabeth has a lively mind. Being in their presence... it lifts my spirits. It makes me feel less like an invalid.” Anne lifted her eyes with a perfectly timed, delicate cough. “Is it so wrong for me to wish for a friend?”
Darcy stared at his cousin in absolute awe. She was brilliant. Ruthless, but brilliant.
Lady Catherine deflated. The mistress of Rosings Park, the woman who commanded tenants and clergymen with an iron fist, had only one genuine weakness: her daughter. Beneath the bombazine and the loud directives, she loved Anne with an overbearing but undeniable maternal devotion.
“A friend,” Lady Catherine murmured, her expression softening marginally. “Well. I suppose Mrs Collins is respectable enough. And if it benefits your health, Anne... I cannot forbid it.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Anne said meekly.
“However,” Lady Catherine rallied, raising a finger, “I will not have you tramping through the mud every day like a commoner. If you desire their company, you shall have it under my roof, where I can supervise the conversation.”
She turned her gaze to Darcy. “Fitzwilliam. When you call tomorrow, you shall inform Mr Collins that he and his menagerie are commanded to dine at Rosings on Easter Sunday. That includes the Bennet girl. We shall see if her manners have improved since her last visit.”
Darcy swallowed his relief and bowed his head. “As you wish, Aunt.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, it was Anne who issued the Easter Sunday invitation on behalf of her mother, and Mr Collins collapsed into a puddle of grateful tears.
“Easter Sunday! At Rosings!” Mr Collins went into raptures, clutching his hands to his chest. “Oh, Mrs Collins! The supreme condescension! To break bread with Her Ladyship on the holiest of days! I must draft a grace of unparalleled eloquence to recite over the soup!”
“I am sure Her Ladyship will be moved to tears, Mr Collins,” Robert drawled, leaning against the doorframe.
Amidst the vicar’s loud grovelling, Darcy sought out Miss Elizabeth.
She was standing near the small upright pianoforte, her fingers idly tracing the polished wood of the instrument.
He approached her, stopping a respectable distance away, but close enough that the scent of her lavender soap wrapped around him.
“You are commanded to appear at Rosings, Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured with a faint smile. “I apologise in advance for the inevitable critique of your musical abilities that my aunt will surely provide.”
“I shall endeavour to survive the scrutiny, Mr Darcy,” she replied. “Perhaps I shall employ Lord Keathley’s strategy and blame any missed notes on the vengeful spirit of a minor key.”
“A sound tactical decision,” Darcy whispered back, his heart swelling. “Though I assure you, if you play, I shall hear nothing but perfection.”
The words slipped out on their own—a glimpse of the man who had penned the chaotic letter. He braced himself for her retreat.
But Miss Elizabeth did not retreat. A soft blush rose to her cheeks, staining her skin a beautiful, rosy hue. She lowered her eyes, a small, secret smile playing on her lips.
“You are learning to compliment, Mr Darcy,” she murmured. “Viscount Keathley’s tutelage is paying dividends.”
“I am learning many things, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “And I am an eager student.”
THAT NIGHT, THE COUSINS convened in Darcy’s bedchamber for a final assessment of the campaign.
The atmosphere was different from the panic-stricken horror of their first meeting. Robert was lounging in the armchair, nursing a glass of fine French brandy. Richard was inspecting one of Darcy’s new boots, and Anne was charting their progress on the slate.
“The human barricades are functioning optimally,” she reported, tapping the slate with her chalk. “Sir William is so thoroughly distracted by the grandeur of Robert that he has not noticed Fitzwilliam staring at Miss Elizabeth like a starving man at a banquet.”
Darcy did not argue.
“And my quarry is secured,” Richard added cheerfully. “Miss Lucas could not remember her name today when I complimented her bonnet. I am a diplomatic genius.”
Darcy stood by the fireplace, leaning his arm against the mantelpiece. He did not feel unravelled anymore. Instead, he felt as though he had survived the storm and was finally facing the sun.
“She smiled at me.” Darcy kept staring into the flames. “She laughed. We... we conversed. Without anger.”
“I told you so.” Robert grinned, raising his glass in a salute. “You strip away the marble exterior, and you find a man capable of actual human warmth. You are doing brilliantly, Cousin.”
“If I may interject, gentlemen,” Dawson spoke up from his post near the wardrobe, where he was organising Darcy’s cravats for the millionth time. “I observed Miss Elizabeth today when I spotted her walking. Her posture was relaxed, her pupils dilated. These are the markers of an untroubled lady.”
“Thank you for the clinical assessment, Dawson,” Darcy muttered, though he could not hide his smile.
“I concur with Mr Dawson,” Boodles added from the doorway, holding a silver tray of fresh glasses.
“The downstairs intelligence network reports that Maggie, the scullery maid at the parsonage, has noticed a significant decrease in the young lady’s pacing and a marked increase in her humming.
Nothing is lost, Mr Darcy. In fact, I would wager everything is to be gained. ”
“You hear that, Fitzwilliam?” Robert stood up, clapping Darcy heartily on the back, nearly knocking him over. “The valets have spoken. The oracle is clear. You are not a ruined man; you are a man on the brink of victory.”
Darcy looked around the room—at his ridiculous, meddling, loyal family, and the two servants who knew too much about his emotional state. The crushing weight of his pride, his rejection, the humiliation of the letter—it all felt manageable now.
When the council finally adjourned and Darcy was left alone in his chamber, he did not pace the Aubusson rug, nor did he violently pen chaotic manifestos.
He climbed into his bed, pulled the covers over his shoulders, and closed his eyes.
For the first time since he had stood in the Hunsford parsonage and heard the words the last man in the world, Fitzwilliam Darcy slept the whole night through.
And as he drifted into the dark, his dreams were not of prisons or wardens, but of fine eyes and the brilliant sliver of hope that the future was finally his to claim.