Chapter Seventeen The Muting of the Viscount
FITZWILLIAM DARCY HAD categorised the past fourteen days of his life under the heading of a miracle.
The progress of his courtship with Miss Elizabeth Bennet had not merely been successful; it had been flawless.
It was a golden, luminous fortnight that had rewritten the geography of his soul.
The man who had once paced his chamber at Rosings like a caged beast, bleeding his emotional ruin onto a piece of paper, was officially dead.
In his place stood a man who woke every morning in Grosvenor Square with a lightness in his chest.
He was attentive, relaxed, and irrevocably devoted.
They had established a routine that brought Darcy more joy than he had ever thought possible.
Every other morning, his carriage made the journey from the quiet Mayfair to the riotous Cheapside.
He no longer noticed the rattling carts or the street vendors; he only noticed the knocker on the door of the Gardiner household.
He and Miss Elizabeth walked in the park, they conversed in the drawing room, and they engaged in a volley of wit that left Darcy constantly, happily on his toes.
Furthermore, the integration of their respective families was proceeding with an ease that defied logic.
Georgiana, who had spent the last year trapped in a cocoon of shyness and lingering trauma, was blossoming in Miss Elizabeth’s company.
The two young women were forming a tight, sisterly bond.
Miss Elizabeth had a magical ability to draw Georgiana out, treating her not as a fragile porcelain doll, but as an intelligent young woman whose opinions mattered.
Georgiana had even laughed aloud yesterday when Miss Elizabeth had recounted a slightly exaggerated tale of Mr Collins measuring the distance between oak trees.
And then there was Anne.
Anne de Bourgh, having permanently shed the three woollen shawls and the rattling cough of her Kentish captivity, was having the time of her life.
She had taken London by storm. She was a woman unleashed, eager to experience everything she had been denied while trapped under Lady Catherine’s dictatorial thumb.
She dragged Darcy, Richard, and Georgiana to museums, art galleries, and lectures. But her true reign of terror was concentrated in the modistes.
Only two days prior, Darcy had been forced to escort Anne and Georgiana to Madame Céleste’s renowned dress shop on Bond Street. Anne had met the French dressmaker head-on.
“I do not care if puce is the colour of the season, Madame,” Anne had stated, her eyes narrowing.
“I refuse to wear a colour that resembles oatmeal. You will fetch the vibrant emerald silk, or I shall take my considerable patronage to a seamstress who understands that I am not attending my own funeral.”
Madame Céleste had actually wept, but the emerald silk had been produced in no time. Darcy had stood by the door, exchanging a look of respect with Dawson, who was holding the parcels.
Yes, Darcy’s world was a paradise of newfound joy and familial harmony.
Which made the catastrophic collapse of his cousin, Viscount Keathley, all the more spectacular to witness.
Robert Fitzwilliam, the renowned rake of London, the master of drawing-room banter, the man who had an effortless charm that made duchesses swoon and baronets weep with envy, was in a predicament that brought a role reversal.
Every time the Fitzwilliam clan called on Gracechurch Street or the Gardiners joined them for an outing in town, Robert underwent a metamorphosis. The moment Jane Bennet entered the room, Robert turned into a statue, experiencing the same affliction that Darcy had suffered in Hertfordshire.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and the combined party had decided upon an educational excursion to the British Museum to view the newly acquired antiquities.
Darcy and Miss Elizabeth were strolling arm-in-arm through a gallery of Egyptian artefacts, engaged in a debate regarding the architectural merits of pyramids versus the modern English estate.
“I simply believe, Mr Darcy, that a pyramid lacks practicality,” she was saying. “Where does one put the windows? How does one ventilate the drawing room?”
“The pharaohs were notoriously unconcerned with cross-breezes, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy replied, a warm smile settling easily on his face. “They prioritised longevity of their dead bodies over a good view.”
“A fatal flaw. I should require a window and perhaps some sensible glazing.”
Darcy barked a laugh, the reference to Mr Collins’s obsession hitting its mark.
Behind them, the atmosphere was significantly less jovial.
Viscount Keathley was walking beside Jane Bennet. Jane was wearing a pale-yellow walking dress, her golden beauty illuminating the sombre museum gallery. She was examining a granite sarcophagus with interest.
“It is fascinating, is it not, Lord Keathley?” Miss Bennet asked gently, turning her eyes to him. “To think of the history contained within this stone. What do you make of it? What do you suppose the hieroglyphs signify?”
Robert stopped walking, his spine snapping straight. His hands, usually resting casually in his pockets or gesturing with theatrical flair, were glued stiffly to his sides. He stared at the sarcophagus as if it were about to spring open and demand he jump inside.
He opened his mouth and a strangled squeak emerged. He closed his mouth and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively against his pristine cravat.
“The stone is... very heavy, Miss Bennet,” Robert finally croaked, his voice devoid of its rich, carrying baritone.
Miss Bennet blinked, her smile faltering in confusion. “Heavy, my lord?”
“Yes. It is made of... rock. And rock is... heavy.” Robert stared blankly at the granite, a bead of perspiration forming on his temple. “Very heavy rock.”
Darcy, who had paused to observe this exchange, had to bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper. He caught Miss Elizabeth’s eye, and he could see her battling the exact same urge to laugh.
Darcy excused himself from Miss Elizabeth with a slight bow and strolled back to his cousin. He stopped beside Robert, who was still glaring at the Egyptian tomb as if trying to memorise its structure.
“Robert,” Darcy murmured, his voice pitched to reach only the viscount’s ears. “You seem tense. Would you care for a fire poker? I understand they are very comforting to look at when one is incapable of human conversation.”
Robert’s head snapped towards Darcy, his eyes wide from the betrayal.
“Do not do this,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his jaw barely moving. “I am dying. My organs are shutting down. She looked at me, Darcy. She looked directly at me and asked me a question about ancient scribbles. I did not know what to tell her. I only know how to play cards and insult people.”
“You are doing brilliantly,” Darcy lied with vindictive satisfaction, recalling the coaching sessions Robert had forced upon him in the Rosings library.
“You successfully identified the sarcophagus as heavy. Next, you might point out that it is also old. Women love a man with a firm grasp of the obvious.”
“I hate you,” Robert whispered.
“I am merely offering pedagogical support, Cousin.” Darcy patted Robert on the shoulder with enough force to rattle his teeth. “Remember. Gaze, not glare. And breathe. A bluish complexion is not romantic.”
THE INCIDENT AT THE British Museum was not an isolated one. The viscount’s muting continued consistently.
Three days later, during a promenade in Hyde Park, the situation deteriorated further.
The party was walking along the Serpentine. Robert was beside Miss Bennet, holding her parasol for her. Actually, he was not holding it; he was gripping it, mostly above his own head, causing the lady to struggle to get some shade. He had not spoken a word in fourteen minutes.
Richard, who was walking behind them with Anne, could bear it no longer. He jogged forward, stepping in front of his brother and halting the procession. With a look of medical concern, Richard reached out, grabbed Robert’s wrist, and pressed two fingers against his pulse point.
“What are you doing?” Robert stammered, yanking his arm away.
“I am checking for a pulse,” Richard announced loudly, causing Miss Bennet to look on in alarm. “Your skin is clammy and you have lost the power of speech. I believe you are suffering from a severe case of impending doom. Shall I fetch a physician to bleed you?”
“I am perfectly well,” Robert gritted out, his face flushing a violent shade of crimson.
“He is not well, Miss Bennet,” Anne drawled, drifting forward to join the assassination of her cousin’s character. She looked at Robert. “He has been struck dumb. If we were to place a hat upon his head and stand him in the corner, he could serve as a coat rack.”
Miss Bennet, ever polite, was distressed. “Oh dear. Are you feeling faint, my lord? Perhaps we should sit down?”
“I am not faint, Miss Bennet,” he choked out, attempting to bow reassuringly. Unfortunately, his rigid posture caused him to misjudge the angle, and he bumped his shoulder solidly against a low-hanging branch of a willow tree, sending a shower of leaves cascading over his top hat.
From the safety of a few feet away, Darcy and Miss Elizabeth watched the disaster unfold.
“It is painful to witness,” Miss Elizabeth murmured. “He is entirely undone. The great Viscount Keathley, reduced to wrestling with willow trees.”
“It is the greatest spectacle I have ever witnessed,” Darcy replied, his chest swelling with poetic justice.
Even Georgiana, who had been quietly observing the dynamic over the past two weeks, found her courage. As Robert frantically tried to brush the leaves from his coat while avoiding Miss Bennet’s eye, Georgiana leaned to her brother.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, her eyes dancing with newfound mischief. “Perhaps Robert needs to write Miss Bennet a letter. With ink blots.”