Chapter Fifteen The Gospel of Mares and Geldings
FITZWILLIAM DARCY STOOD by the tall, arched window of the morning room in Darcy House, nursing a cup of strong coffee and observing what could only be described as a coup d’état.
It had been precisely forty-seven minutes since his carriage had deposited them in Grosvenor Square.
The journey from Kent had been a revelation.
Anne de Bourgh had not requested a single hot brick for her feet.
She had not wheezed. In fact, she had spent the last two hours of the journey interrogating him on the latest scandalous gossip of the ton, demanding to know which peers had bankrupted themselves at faro since she had last been permitted to read a newspaper.
Now, comfortably installed in Darcy’s home, the heiress of Rosings Park was dominating his staff, and doing so with a level of competence that made Darcy very proud.
She was seated upright in his favourite leather armchair, not resembling a tragic invalid at all, but a conquering general.
“Mrs Crauford,” Anne was saying, addressing the housekeeper with an unblinking stare.
“I understand from my cousin that your kitchen operates with an excess of caution regarding spices. Let us be clear: I have subsisted on boiled chicken and tepid gruel for the better part of a decade. If a vegetable is served to me without butter, or if a piece of meat lacks a robust peppercorn crust, I shall consider it an act of personal hostility.”
Mrs Crauford, a woman who routinely fed visiting dukes, bowed her head. “It shall be as you say, Miss de Bourgh. Cook will be instructed to employ the spice cabinet.”
“Excellent. You may go.”
As the housekeeper retreated, Georgiana Darcy hovered on the threshold, her eyes wide, clutching a piece of sheet music to her chest.
Georgiana’s understanding of her older cousin was based on a few brief and tense visits to Rosings Park.
She had always known Anne to be a sickly figure who blended into the damask upholstery and spoke only in whispers.
Because of the difference in their ages and Lady Catherine’s oppressive shadow, they had never had a genuine relationship.
“Anne?” Georgiana whispered, stepping hesitantly into the room. “You are... you are speaking at a normal volume.”
“I am, Georgiana.” Anne turned to her younger cousin with a brilliant smile. “And I am perpendicular. It is a miracle. Come here, let me look at you.”
Georgiana approached cautiously, as if expecting Anne to shatter. “But... your cough? Your vapours?”
“I left my vapours in Kent,” Anne declared with a shrug, gesturing for Georgiana to sit on the adjacent sofa.
“They are currently residing in my mother’s imagination.
You have grown, Georgiana. You are so elegant, considering you are forced to endure Fitzwilliam’s brooding presence on a daily basis. ”
Georgiana let out a startled trill of laughter. The novelty of someone openly mocking her formidable brother—and doing so from his own armchair—was apparently intoxicating.
“He does not brood all the time,” Georgiana defended him, though her eyes were dancing. “He hummed a few minutes ago.”
“Did he?” Anne raised an eyebrow at Darcy. “Good heavens. I assume the apocalypse is imminent. Tell me, Georgiana, what do you do for amusement in this cavernous museum? Please tell me you do not spend your days embroidering cushions.”
“I play the pianoforte.” Georgiana’s posture relaxed under the warmth of Anne’s unapologetic vitality, allowing the first seed of a friendship to take root. Georgiana, starved of clever, confident female companionship, was instantly drawn to her cousin’s mischievous energy. “And... and I read.”
“Excellent. We shall read together. Out loud. And we shall choose something inappropriate.”
“A noble itinerary,” a sensible voice came from the doorway.
Mrs Annesley stepped into the morning room. Georgiana’s companion was a woman of quiet dignity, impeccably dressed in dark grey, with an aura of serene competence.
“Mrs Annesley.” Darcy pushed off from the window frame to perform the introductions. “May I present my cousin, Miss de Bourgh. Anne, this is Mrs Annesley. She is responsible for keeping this household relatively civilised.”
Anne narrowed her eyes, assessing the older woman.
Darcy braced himself. He knew Anne was eager to live her life for once, and he feared she might perceive the companion as an extension of her gaolers.
Anne did not fake a cough, nor did she adopt a languid pose.
Instead, she met Mrs Annesley’s gaze head-on, her chin tilted in a challenge.
“I am told, Mrs Annesley, that you have medical competence,” Anne said, her tone sharp. “I should warn you, my mother expects me to require constant, hovering supervision and a strict regimen of noxious syrups. If you approach me with a bottle of cod liver oil, I will throw it out of the window.”
“I assure you, Miss de Bourgh, my medical kit is securely locked away,” Mrs Annesley replied, stepping further into the room.
“Given your current colour and the volume at which you just addressed the housekeeper, I suspect the only remedy you require is an uninterrupted hour at a circulating library, a large slice of cake, and perhaps a chaperone who knows how to look the other way when necessary.”
Anne stared at the companion. The silence stretched for a beat, and then she let out a bark of laughter.
“I like her, Fitzwilliam,” she announced, pointing a triumphant finger at Mrs Annesley. “Keep her. She is superior to Mrs Jenkinson.”
“I shall endeavour to retain my position, Miss de Bourgh,” Mrs Annesley murmured, her eyes twinkling as she moved to arrange the tea tray.
The atmosphere in the room hummed with this new, energetic dynamic. Darcy felt the knot of his familial anxieties loosening. His home was alive.
“So.” Anne accepted a cup of tea. “The fortress of Darcy House is secured. We have escaped the dragon. What is the next objective, Fitzwilliam?”
Darcy set his coffee cup down and looked at his sister, weighing his options. He had dreaded telling her, yet simultaneously yearned for the moment he could finally speak the words aloud.
“The next objective,” Darcy began, “involves a specific... geographical shift in our social calls.”
Georgiana looked up, her teacup pausing. “A shift?”
“Yes.” Darcy took a deep breath, meeting Georgiana’s wide eyes. “Tomorrow morning, we shall not be calling upon our usual acquaintances in Mayfair. We shall be ordering the carriage for Gracechurch Street. In Cheapside.”
Georgiana looked from Darcy to Anne, and then back to Darcy, her mouth falling open in a small ‘o’ of shock.
“What is there?” she asked.
Darcy exchanged a look with Anne. Anne nodded, and he took a deep breath.
“During my visit in Kent I became reacquainted with a lady from Hertfordshire. If you remember, I spoke of her in my letter to you from Netherfield.”
“Yes! I do remember! The ‘impertinent fine eyes.’ Oh...” Georgiana faltered, crossing her hands on her chest. “Brother, what are you saying?”
Darcy smiled at her reaction. “I am saying that the lady is presently residing at her relatives’ residence in Cheapside and I wish you to meet her. I have been granted her permission to court her. Her name is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Miss Elizabeth?” Georgiana breathed, the name carrying a fragile hope.
“Yes,” Darcy confirmed, a smile finally breaking across his face.
Georgiana did not respond with words. She responded with a squeal so high-pitched and joyful it nearly shattered the crystal on the sideboard. She abandoned her tea, launching herself off the sofa and throwing her arms around her brother’s neck.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam!” Georgiana cried, burying her face in his shoulder. “I am so happy! I am certain she is wonderful! I shall finally have a sister!”
Darcy hugged her back fiercely, closing his eyes against the sting of emotion. “You shall, hopefully. And a fiercely intelligent, very opinionated one, at that.”
“She is, Georgiana,” Anne contributed from the sofa, sipping her tea. “She looked Fitzwilliam straight in the eye and dismantled his consequence multiple times. You will adore her.”
“I already do!” Georgiana beamed, stepping back, her face radiant. “We must go tomorrow! First thing! Oh, I must inform my maid to press my blue pelisse!”
Before Darcy could agree to the sartorial plans, the morning room doors were opened to reveal the cousins.
“We survived!” Viscount Keathley announced, striding into the room with Colonel Fitzwilliam trailing close behind.
Robert kissed Georgiana’s cheek and threw himself onto a vacant armchair, as though he had just returned from a bloody military campaign rather than a short carriage ride to his parents’ house. Richard winked at the young girl and collapsed onto the opposite sofa, groaning audibly.
“Matlock House is a bedlam,” Richard reported, rubbing his eyes.
“Mother is cataloguing the silver to ensure we did not steal any teaspoons on our way out, and Father is in the library shouting at a footman about the price of imported tobacco. We escaped before they could demand to empty our pockets or worse, introduce us to the first heiress passing in the street outside our house.”
“You are just in time,” Anne said, laughing. “Fitzwilliam was just detailing his impending foray into the wilds of Cheapside tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes. The grand mercantile expedition.” Robert grinned, his exhaustion vanishing, replaced by the wicked gleam of a cousin ready to mock. “Tell me, Darcy. Have you prepared your vocabulary? You cannot walk into Gracechurch Street and discuss parliamentary reform. You must speak their language.”
Darcy crossed his arms, his newfound good humour challenged but not defeated. “I am perfectly capable of conversing with Mr Gardiner, Robert. Miss Elizabeth implied that he is an intelligent, well-read gentleman.”