Chapter Sixteen A Broken Viscount
HUNSFORD PARSONAGE had operated on a timeline dictated by Mr Collins’s digestion, but the Gardiner household in Cheapside was currently operating under the meticulously orchestrated dictates of Aunt Madeline’s fretting.
It was Saturday morning. Elizabeth stood in the centre of the drawing room, wearing her best muslin gown, attempting to project an aura of calm that she did not possess.
Her heart was beating wildly. He was coming today.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, the master of Pemberley, the author of the most catastrophic and beautifully unhinged letter in English history, was expected to call.
And her aunt was waging a holy war against a speck of dust on the mantelpiece.
“The cushions, Lizzy,” Aunt Madeline commanded, fluffing an embroidered pillow and tossing it onto the sofa. “Are they symmetrical? They must be symmetrical. Men of vast estates have a keen eye for symmetry.”
“They are perfectly aligned, Aunt,” Elizabeth assured her, suppressing a nervous laugh. “I promise you, Mr Darcy is not coming to inspect our cushions.”
“You do not understand, Elizabeth.” Madeline Gardiner halted her dusting to press a hand against her chest. “I grew up in Lambton. Five miles from the Pemberley gates. I used to see the late Mr Darcy riding through the village when I was a girl. The Darcys are not merely gentlemen, Lizzy; they are an institution. They own half of Derbyshire, and the other half likely owes them rent. And you have somehow managed to make the current, notoriously proud incarnation of that family fall madly in love with you.”
“I did not make him do anything,” Elizabeth protested, a warm flush creeping up her neck. “It was an accident.”
“No matter how many times you make that statement, Lizzy, I shall retort that it was a miracle,” her aunt said, moving to straighten a candlestick.
From his armchair by the window, Mr Edward Gardiner lowered his morning paper, bemused by the martial law that had overtaken his usually cheerful home.
“My dear,” Mr Gardiner said mildly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Might I remind you that we employ no less than six maids? Also, I believe the man is coming to court our niece, not to conduct an inspection. If he cannot survive a crooked candlestick, he is unfit for the rigours of marriage.”
Jane, who was seated on the sofa, smiled at her uncle. “He is quite robust, Uncle. Lizzy tells me he survived a bumblebee attack just recently.”
“A bumblebee?” Mr Gardiner repeated, turning to Elizabeth for confirmation.
“It was a very tense negotiation.” Elizabeth’s lips twitched at the memory of Mr Darcy going cross-eyed in the grove.
Before Mr Gardiner could inquire further about the insect, the doors burst open. Henry, Alice, and little Ruth tumbled into the room.
“Papa!” Henry skidded to a halt on the rug. “Is he here? Cook says we are expecting a prince! Is the Prince Regent bringing a sword?”
“No, Henry,” Elizabeth laughed, leaning in to straighten the boy’s collar. “He is not the Prince Regent; he is just a gentleman.”
“Does he have a horse?” Alice asked, her eyes wide.
“He has many horses,” Elizabeth promised.
“If he has no sword, I do not care,” Ruth announced plainly, clutching her wooden soldier.
“Ruth, my darling, you must care.” Aunt Madeline swooped in, ushering the children back to the door where their governess was hovering. “You must all be on your best behaviour. No shouting, no running, and no throwing wooden soldiers at the peerage.”
Just as the governess corralled the disappointed, swordless children into the corridor, the knocker on the front door sounded.
Aunt Madeline assumed the posture of a general receiving a foreign dignitary, Mr Gardiner folded his paper and stood up, while Jane smoothed her skirts.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor—a great many footsteps. It sounded less like a morning call and more like the arrival of an infantry battalion.
The drawing room door opened, and the Gardiner footman, slightly pale and overwhelmed by the sheer volume of consequence he was about to announce, cleared his throat.
“Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy,” the footman proclaimed. “Viscount Keathley. Colonel Fitzwilliam. Miss de Bourgh, and Miss Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. She had expected Mr Darcy, and perhaps his cousins. She had not expected an invasion of this magnitude.
Mr Darcy stepped over the threshold, his tall, imposing frame commanding the room. He was dressed in a dark blue coat that fit his broad shoulders with scandalous perfection, his cravat tied flawlessly.
As his eyes found Elizabeth, the severe lines of his face melted away.
Behind him filed the rest of the clan. Viscount Keathley sauntered in, impossibly elegant in charcoal grey. Colonel Fitzwilliam bounded in with a grin, his red regimentals adding a splash of brilliant colour to the room. Anne de Bourgh, unencumbered by a single shawl, glided in.
And finally, half-hiding behind Darcy’s broad back, was a tall, pretty, but visibly trembling girl of about sixteen.
“Mr and Mrs Gardiner,” Mr Darcy began, his rich baritone filling the room.
He executed a flawless bow, devoid of the haughty stiffness he had displayed in Hertfordshire.
“Allow me to introduce myself, and to offer my apologies for the scale of our intrusion. I fear my family lacks the ability to travel in numbers smaller than a regiment.”
“You are most welcome, Mr Darcy,” Aunt Madeline replied, executing a perfect curtsy.
Darcy proceeded with the introductions, presenting his cousins to the Gardiners and Jane. Then, he turned slightly, bringing the timid girl forward.
“And this,” Darcy said, his voice softening with affection, “is my sister, Georgiana.”
Georgiana Darcy’s blue eyes were wide with panic. She managed a shaky curtsy, looking as though she expected to be interrogated on her Latin conjugations at any moment.
Elizabeth did not hesitate, the protective instinct that made her an excellent older sister flaring instantly. She stepped forward, closing the distance, and offered Miss Darcy a smile.
“Miss Darcy.” Elizabeth extended her hands to take the young girl’s trembling ones. “I am so delighted to finally meet you. Your brother has spoken of you often, and I must confess, I am relieved to see you.”
Miss Darcy blinked in surprise. “Relieved, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered conspiratorially, her eyes dancing. “Because with the number of Fitzwilliams in this room, I was beginning to fear I would be outnumbered. I require an ally to help me navigate them.”
The fear in the girl’s eyes evaporated, replaced by amusement. She let out a small laugh. “I... I should be glad to be your ally, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Excellent. Then you must come sit by me.”
Elizabeth led the shy girl to the sofa, engaging her in easy conversation about the London season, giving her time to acclimate.
While speaking with Miss Darcy, Elizabeth kept a watchful eye on the rest of the room, and what she saw filled her with joy.
Mr Darcy was standing by the fireplace, deep in conversation with Mr and Mrs Gardiner. There was no condescension in his posture. He was not looking at the cushions, nor was he inspecting the angle of the candelabras. He was leaning in, genuinely engaged.
He looked impressed.
The door opened again, and the governess, unable to hold the line any longer, allowed the children to spill into the room.
The rigid protocol of the morning call dissolved into chaos.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was instantly besieged by Henry, who demanded to know if the colonel had ever shot a cannon.
Anne de Bourgh, to Elizabeth’s shock, dropped gracefully to the carpet to inspect Ruth’s wooden soldier, gravely informing the five-year-old that the soldier’s uniform was out of regulation.
Miss Darcy laughed aloud, forgetting her shyness as Alice showed her how to spell ‘cat’ on her slate.
It was a beautiful, noisy, joyful scene, but as Elizabeth surveyed the room, she noticed something quite wrong. Amidst the din of children, the laughter of the colonel, and the rumble of Mr Darcy’s voice, there was someone missing from the symphony.
Elizabeth glanced at the wingback armchair near the window.
Viscount Keathley was sitting there, holding a teacup. He was not speaking, nor was he deploying his legendary charm. He was not offering cutting, sarcastic observations about the décor or the company.
The rakish, cynical, relentlessly entertaining viscount was mute.
He sat rigidly in the chair, his knuckles white around the delicate porcelain saucer, his eyes fixed with an unblinking intensity on the opposite sofa.
He was staring at Jane.
Elizabeth watched, fascinated and slightly alarmed, as Jane leaned forward to answer a question from Colonel Fitzwilliam. Jane smiled, and a melodic laugh escaped her lips.
In the armchair, Lord Keathley flinched. He inhaled so sharply it sounded as if he had just been stabbed. His eyes widened, glazed over, consumed by the sight of Jane Bennet existing in his general vicinity.
He is not well, Elizabeth thought, astounded. The man is experiencing a failure in his faculties.
She immediately sought out Darcy. She caught his eye across the room, tipping her head to the viscount and raising a single eloquent eyebrow in question.
Mr Darcy glanced at his cousin. He looked back at Elizabeth, his face a mask of dry resignation, and offered a minute shrug that perfectly conveyed: You know exactly as much as I do, and I refuse to be held responsible for him.
Elizabeth bit her lip to hide her amusement, but as her eyes lingered on Mr Darcy, she noticed something else: he was fidgeting.
He was managing his conversation with her uncle flawlessly, but his hand kept drifting to the edge of his waistcoat.
His eyes kept darting to Elizabeth, filled with a restless agitation, as if he was carrying a burden and needed to set it down.
He needs a private audience, Elizabeth realised. He has something to say.
She stood up, smoothed her skirts, and raised her voice to cut through the hubbub.