From Admiration to Love

by Maria Grace

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I am glad to hear that.”

  “There is one favor I might ask, though. Is there any way to prevent that ring from finding its way into either Fitzwilliam’s or Georgiana’s pudding? I can see no good coming of it, especially in the presence of a large party.”

  “You mean this one?” She opened her hand. A tiny silver ring twinkled in the sunlight.

  “My wife is indeed the wisest woman in Derbyshire!”

  “Not in all of England?”

  “I am not far from being convinced of that as well.”

  Chapter 2

  December 6, 1813

  Darcy peeked over his newspaper. Elizabeth sat across the morning room table in a happy sunbeam. The sky-blue walls, white, wispy curtains and the vaseful of French marigolds from the garden made it easy to imagine she was sitting somewhere in the gardens she so loved.

  She was absorbed in her sewing—what was that she was making? Another baby dress for the parish, no doubt. There had been so many babies born this year, it seemed like she was constantly sewing them.

  Pemberley had an outstanding mistress in her. Mother would have been proud. She even looked just the tiniest bit like Mother, sitting in mother’s favorite spot in the room, where the light was best for sewing. The house ran smoothly under Elizabeth’s administration and, after a bit of settling in, the local matrons came to respect her even as the parish looked to her for guidance. She had been a little daunted at first, but who would not be? Even so, she had done him proud. But perhaps she was working too hard, though. She seemed tired so often, even if she never complained.

  She turned slightly toward him and lifted her eyebrow. He was staring again. He chuckled and turned his eyes back to his newspaper. Technically, staring was a bit rude, but with such an object for his attention, who could blame him? At least she took it in good humor.

  Marriage—to the right woman—was a very, very good thing.

  He sipped his coffee and savored the cinnamon in the air, wafting from the plate of warm Chelsea buns Mrs. Reynolds had just brought in. There was nothing to compare to Pemberley’s Chelsea buns, sweet and spicy, full of currants and sticky with sugar glaze—he licked his lips.

  “Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Reynolds dashed into the room breathless and a little wild-eyed.

  Elizabeth jumped to her feet, her sewing slipping to the floor. “What has happened?”

  “Callers … I mean guests … pray forgive me but the house is not ready. We had no idea …”

  Darcy folded his paper and set it aside. “Who has come? We are not expecting anyone.”

  “Pray tell me Lydia and her … husband … they have not arrived on our doorstep, have they?” Elizabeth clutched the back of her chair almost as though dizzy.

  Darcy gritted his teeth. There was one person who was definitely not welcome under his roof, and unfortunately it was his sister’s husband. Denying him succor would be very awkward indeed, especially at Christmastide, but no one could reasonably expect him to be tolerated when Georgiana was resident in the house.

  “No, Mrs. Darcy, not them. It is Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh!”

  Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “You did not tell me you invited her.”

  “I did no such thing! I have no idea why they are here.”

  “Lady Catherine is waiting for you in your study, sir. I am sorry, but she would not be stopped. Miss de Bourgh is in the ladies’ parlor. She did not say, but if I may be so forward, it seems that she would speak with you, Mrs. Darcy.” Mrs. Reynolds wrung her hands in her apron.

  “Have refreshments sent to both of them, and see that the maids make up rooms for them in the family wing—the far side of the family wing.” Elizabeth glanced at Darcy.

  “I suppose there is little else to do. Tell Lady Catherine that I will be with her shortly. I will have my breakfast first.”

  Mrs. Reynolds shuffled away, still wringing her hands. Aunt Catherine had a way of terrorizing the staff wherever she went. Elizabeth turned to him with a very peculiar look in her eye—she was rarely caught off guard and apparently did not appreciate it.

  “I am going to enjoy my buns. There is every chance that I will be in no mood to eat once I have finished with Aunt Catherine, and I will not allow Cook’s efforts to go to waste.” He reached for a warm sticky bun and took a generous bite. “Not to mention you have not had your gift yet.”

  “My what?” She retrieved her sewing from the floor and folded it into her sewing basket.

  “It was a tradition between my parents to exchange a small gift on St. Nicholas Day.”

  “Why did you not tell me? I—”

  “I suppose I should have, but I have been selfish this year. I wanted to have the privilege to myself just once.” He rose and opened a drawer in the sideboard, withdrawing a slim package wrapped in brown paper. “The Gardiners helped me with this, so I trust it will be to your liking.”

  Her eyes glittered, and she smiled: a little shy, a little delighted. Did she realize what a gift that was—to be so pleased with him?

  She untied the string and unfolded the paper to reveal the blue, purple and gold silk beneath. Gasping, she held it up. The fabric cascaded from her hands to the floor, shimmering in the morning sun.

  “You have spent so much time on Georgiana’s fancy dress for the ball. I thought you should have something equally special. It is a saree, from India. Your aunt will write to you with instructions on how to wear it. After the ball, if you like, you might have it made into an evening gown.”

  She wrapped the saree across her chest and stared down at it. “The colors, the fabric, it is so beautiful.” She twirled in the nearest sunbeam. “I am glad Aunt Gardiner has instructions for this. I have no idea what to do with so much fabric!”

  “I have seen them worn. It will suit you very well.”

  She returned the saree to its wrapping. “You are so dear to think of such a thing—truly you spoil me. I had not given a thought to—”

  “Exactly, my dearest.” He stood and drew her very close. “You do so much for all of Pemberley. It is a gift to be able to do something for you.” He leaned down; a kiss was definitely in order.

  “Ah… Mr. Darcy…” Why did Mrs. Reynolds have to come in now? “Excuse me, sir. Lady Catherine is growing most restive.”

  “I will be there, Mrs. Reynolds. You are dismissed.” So much for not growling at the staff. “Now, where was I?”

  Elizabeth stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, warm and soft and entirely too suggestive for so early in the day, especially with company waiting. Her eyes met his, twinkling a promise that just might sustain him through what was to come.

  He kissed her once more, finished his Chelsea bun and steeled himself for his unexpected company.

  “I will see to Anne,” she called after him. “Perhaps, between their stories, we can get a true picture of what has brought them to Pemberley.”

  He nodded, but did not look back lest he roll his eyes at her which, he was told, most considered rude.

  His fingers were still sticky, so he paused at the study door to wipe them on his handkerchief, straighten his jacket—and dab away beads of sweat on his forehead. There was no reason Aunt Catherine should instill such a reaction in him. But those boyhood recollections were hard to shake away. Father had visited Rosings every Easter and had brought him along. Aunt Catherine was not particularly tolerant of the childhood adventures he and Fitzwilliam—and on rare occasions Anne—had shared.

  Drawing a deep breath, he strode into his study.

  Aunt Catherine paced along the windows, staring out into the neat fields in the distance. Her skirt rustled against the nearby chairs and tables placed not quite far enough away from the windows to allow her full, old-fashioned skirts to pass unimpeded. He stood in front of his neat walnut desk, flanked by an impressive bookcase and waited for her to acknowledge him.

  She crossed back and forth along the windows three more times before finally no
ticing him from the corner of her eye. “Why did you keep me waiting?”

  “Why have you arrived without any invitation or even a letter announcing you would come?”

  “Am I not family? Do you suggest that I am not welcome?” She bristled, like an angry hen puffing her feathers.

  “Is it not customary to announce a visit before it is made, particularly during the holiday season when I might be accommodating other guests?”

  “Your housekeeper says you are only hosting Fitzwilliam and are having no other guests arriving this season.”

  “That is not the point. Does not etiquette require—”

  She whirled on him. “Etiquette be damned!”

  He staggered back and leaned on his desk. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me very well.” She stomped toward him. “This is no time to be concerned about etiquette. I am dealing with a crisis—an emergency, and I need your help.”

  “An emergency?”

  “Yes, an emergency, and I do not know where else to turn.”

  “Have you told Uncle Matlock? I am certain he is able—”

  “No, I have not talked to my brother. He is as much a problem as what I am dealing with.”

  “I know you have had your disagreements in the past—”

  “That is hardly the word for it. I am not speaking to him. All he does is shove Fitzwilliam at me, and that is hardly any help at all.” She pressed her hands to the sides of her face.

  “Pray sit down.” He led the way to a pair of chairs near the window. “Now, explain, completely and in detail, what you are talking about.”

  “He insists that Fitzwilliam should marry Anne since you did not do your duty by her.”

  He grumbled under his breath. “If you have come to berate me on my choice of wife, I will have your coach brought around immediately.”

  She flung her hands in the air, gesticulating wildly. “What is done is done, and I cannot change that now. But that does not mean that Anne should settle for … for …”

  “The well-connected son of an earl?”

  “A man whose wealth is not equal to her own.”

  So that was Aunt Catherine’s prejudice against him. She had never actually voiced it to him before. “What has Anne’s non-existent husband to do with any of this?”

  “The de Bourghs are coming.”

  The study door swung open, and Fitzwilliam sauntered in. “Morning Darcy, Mrs. Reynolds told me the most extraordinary thing, that Aunt Cath…”

  Aunt Catherine rose. “Good morning, nephew.”

  Fitzwilliam skittered back several steps, blinking rapidly. Apparently, he shared Darcy’s childhood recollections. “Aunt? I did not know you were expected.”

  “She was not.” Darcy gestured to a nearby chair. “Join us. It seems Aunt Catherine is in need of some assistance.”

  Fitzwilliam hurried to take a seat. “What is wrong?”

  She worked her teeth over her upper lip, eyes narrowing. “The de Bourghs are coming.”

  “You said that already, but I still have no idea what you are talking about. You make it sound as though the French are massing on the border.” Darcy raked his hair. Why did Aunt Catherine always leave him doing that?

  “The de Bourghs, my late husband’s family. They are coming to Rosings.”

  “And the problem with that is?” Fitzwilliam asked.

  “Fool! Can you not see?” She leaned across to slap Fitzwilliam’s knee. “They want Rosings Park.”

  Fitzwilliam donned a patient smile that meant he was anything but. “Rosings belongs to Anne.”

  “Of course it does. But they want it. They are offended that she inherited it—claim the estate should have been entailed to keep it in the de Bourgh line. They are sending eligible de Bourgh men to try and seduce Anne into marrying one of them to bring it back into the family!”

  Fitzwilliam snickered. “Seduce Anne? I hardly think that possible. She has always done what you have told her, why do you think that will change?”

  She turned and waggled a finger at Darcy. “That we can thank Darcy for. You are responsible for this calamity, so you must remedy it.”

  Darcy rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “How exactly is that?”

  “After you failed to marry her, I decided to send her away to school for a year, to refine her accomplishments—”

  “To prepare her for the marriage mart,” Fitzwilliam muttered under his breath.

  Aunt Catherine glowered at him. “She needed some small bit of tutoring to polish—”

  “Forgive me, but Anne lacks—or at least lacked—the most basic accomplishments of a lady in society. She cannot play or sing, can hardly dance. She speaks no language but English, when she chooses to speak at all. Even her manners are highly questionable.” Darcy looked to Fitzwilliam as though seeking confirmation.

  “How dare you criticize my daughter! Besides, she has other allurements.”

  “You speak of Rosings Park, which is why the de Bourghs are sending suitors for her.” Fitzwilliam rose and stomped to the window, his back toward them. “She can be easily and suitably married to any of them, and your problem is solved. I believe there is even a title or two among the family, which should be quite to your liking. I do not see what your concern is.”

  “Of course not. I did not expect you to be of much help.” She slapped the arms of her chair and focused on Darcy. “In the first place, that foul seminary in Bath has turned Anne into a wild sort of … of romping girl that I hardly understand! She is disrespectful and disobedient. I barely recognize her as my daughter. She tried to order me to the dower house last week! Can you imagine?”

  Fitzwilliam coughed—a hardly effective attempt at concealing a snicker.

  Aunt Catherine’s eyes narrowed into narrow, dark slits. Was that the expression Medusa had used to turn her enemies into stone? “All that aside, there is no way, absolutely none, that I will permit the de Bourghs to get their hands on Rosings Park again. That is my final word on the matter.”

  “Anne is of age. Technically, you have no word on the matter,” Fitzwilliam muttered to the window.

  “She will do as I say. You will see to that. That is your duty, Darcy.” She met his gaze with a frighteningly determined one of her own.

  “What do you have against the de Bourghs? All propriety would suggest it right for the estate to remain in their line, that the family was materially harmed when it went to Anne. If she were to actually like one of these de Bourgh fellows enough to marry him, why would that be so bad?

  “Because he would be a de Bourgh, and they are all alike. I was married to one. No daughter of mine will ever be.”

  Fitzwilliam turned and caught Darcy’s eye with an upraised eyebrow.

  ∞∞∞

  Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair and listened as Aunt Catherine talked around the same points for nearly an hour. She never really added anything of substance, just got louder and more adamant with each repetition. Darcy’s looks pleaded for help several times, but nothing Fitzwilliam could say would improve the situation. Long ago Aunt Catherine had decided he was as superfluous as his family thought he was—the heir was hale and hearty, so what need was there for the spare? Darcy though, his opinions were important, he had weight in the family.

  By all rights, Fitzwilliam could, and perhaps even should be jealous. But there was a great deal of work and unpleasantness involved in that. Much better to find equanimity in other ways, like maintaining a clandestine friendship with Anne while none of the rest of the family were the wiser for it.

  Finally, Aunt Catherine trundled off in a cloud of taffeta and offense, to be led to her quarters by the long-suffering Mrs. Reynolds. As soon as the door shut, Fitzwilliam plucked a key from Darcy’s desk and hurried to unlock a pair of doors in a nearby cabinet revealing a crystal decanter and glasses. He poured two glasses of brandy and returned to Darcy.

  “Do not try to talk until you have had a sip or four. It is far too early in the se
ason to allow her to give you an apoplexy.”

  Darcy grunted and sipped his brandy. “Anne at school? I had no idea. What could she be thinking, sending Anne to a finishing school at her age?”

  Fitzwilliam ran his tongue along his lower teeth. “She mentioned it to me, shortly after your marriage—she was quite in high dudgeon at the time, and I hardly thought her serious. But for the record, I did tell her I thought it a very bad idea.”

  “Which probably made her all the more determined to do it.” Darcy rolled his eyes.

  “Of course. Can you imagine how humiliating it must have been, to be so much older than the rest of the students there? Do you suppose Aunt Catherine lied about Anne’s age?” Was it wrong to pretend that he knew nothing of this when he and Anne had discussed it at length the last time he had been in Bath?

  “It would not surprise me if she had, to try to save face.” Darcy dragged his hand over his face. “Have you any idea what she has against the de Bourghs?”

  “While I tend to know far more than most of the family would like for me to, I have no idea.”

  “Shall I write to your father to see if he knows anything, or—”

  “If he knows anything, it will be you he tells, not me.” Fitzwilliam’s lip curled back just a mite. Anne, on the other hand, might just be very willing to tell him as soon as he could get a moment alone with her to ask. All of this was very peculiar, even more so than things usually were when Anne was involved.

  ∞∞∞

  Elizabeth paused at the parlor door. Dealing with Lydia and Kitty, even Mary was one thing, but Anne was no younger sister. She was five years older than Elizabeth, and according to Darcy, quite as proud as her mother. Would she consider Elizabeth her peer? Did she really wish to talk as Mrs. Reynolds suggested? She never had in all the time Elizabeth had spent in Kent both before and after she had become Mrs. Darcy. More likely, Anne intended to try to order her about as Lady Catherine did. That would not do, not at Pemberley.

  Elizabeth drew a deep breath. None of this line of thinking was doing her any good. Best get this over with. She smoothed her skirt and strode into the neat little ivory parlor where she entertained local ladies when they called. The furniture was light and dainty, upholstered in pale blue florals over ivory painted wood. Matching curtains were tied back from the tall windows that overlooked the informal flower garden. Tall vases with sunflowers and poppies added color and guided the eye from the curio cabinet in one corner to the plinky old harpsichord that Elizabeth refused to remove from the opposite corner. If nothing else, it was a good source for conversation when topics ran sparse.