by Maria Grace
“Be that as it may, his kind—and his cousins—are likely to see reports of such treatment make it into the society pages. I cannot do that to Elizabeth. It would reflect very badly on her.”
“She does not deserve that. Invite your acquaintance then. I suppose, I must try to break the news to Anne and, at the very least, try to keep her away from Sir Jasper’s machinations until he arrives.”
∞∞∞
January 1, 1814
Early on New Year’s Day, Fitzwilliam made his way down to the morning room. There was something about the start of a new year that demanded rising early and reflecting upon what had been and what might be. It might be a custom unique to him, but New Year’s Day would not be right without it.
He sat near the windows that pulled in the morning light—sunrise was fading into morning. Fresh flowers had not yet been placed in the vases. Yesterday’s—last year’s really—marigolds were a touch faded and limp. A fire had been lit, but obviously not long ago, the air still carried a sharp chill—not entirely unpleasant, more invigorating. And far better than waking up in a tent on a French plain.
Mrs. Reynolds appeared briefly to place a steaming mug of coffee on the table near him. She was truly a treasure. Luckily, Darcy understood that. He wrapped his hands around the mug until it just burned—hot, dark and bitter.
What a year it had been. With Anne going off to school, his brother contemplating—seriously this time—taking a wife, Darcy navigating his first year of marriage, and his own sell-out from the army, how many things were changing around him? Selling out had not been an easy decision, but he had seen enough battle, enough death, enough blood. Mother had said he looked old beyond his years. He certainly felt that way. His allowance, and the money from his sell-out—if he was careful—could keep him comfortable—not in the style to which he had been accustomed, but comfortable—and if he took up Darcy’s invitation to live at Pemberley, then he might be more than comfortable. It was something to consider.
If nothing else, it might allow him to further his acquaintances with Miss Camelford and Miss Audeley. By no means was he violently in love, nor, hopefully, were they, but they were agreeable enough to consider seeing more of them.
“Good morning.” Elizabeth entered, with Mrs. Reynolds bearing a pot of tea just a step behind.
He rose and pulled her chair out for her. “So where is your lord and master? I am surprised he is not already here.”
“He went straight to his office this morning. He and the steward are meeting to discuss spring planting and improvements.”
“Does he never stop working?”
Elizabeth lifted a very teasing eyebrow. “He has been known to.”
He nearly choked on his sip of coffee.
“And it is just as well he is occupied this morning.” She removed folded papers from her sewing basket. “As I thought you wished to discuss these. Quite informative.”
The society pages he had asked her to read.
He leaned forward, elbow on the table. “That would be one word to describe them. Perhaps not the one I would have chosen …”
“I am sure not. No doubt you would have something far more colorful in mind. I certainly did.”
“So, what do you think? Have I hope of getting Anne’s attention with those?”
“I have been giving it a great deal of thought—what is that?” She dropped the papers and turned toward the window.
Laughter and shrieking—happy not threatening sounds, female and young—outside, near the well.
It was New Year’s Day!
“Damn foolish girls. They are creaming the well.” He ran for the back door, Elizabeth following.
Where had Anne got that idea? No one in her family practiced that Scottish tradition. Daft woman was trying to encourage Sir Jasper to propose—and that was simply not going to happen.
Anne and Miss Gifford, both barefoot and without a proper shawl to boot, had just made it to the well directly behind the kitchen, both scrambling to draw the first water from it. Whether more aggressive or more determined, Anne managed to secure the first bucketful.
“Dare I wonder who you will be offering a glass to?” Miss Gifford leaned on Anne’s shoulder.
“No, you may not.” He stormed up to them. “Both of you get back to the house and get proper clothes on! You will certainly catch your death of cold like that. Go, go both of you.” He shooed them along like a sheepdog herding recalcitrant lambs.
Miss Gifford ducked her head and scurried inside.
“You sound like my old governess. What has come over you? You used to be able to have fun. Why are you so insistent on ruining ours?” She watched the door through which her friend had disappeared.
“Have you any idea how ridiculous it is for you to be out barefoot in such weather? Since when has risking your health and well-being been considered having fun? Or is that to be a new parlor game for the evening?”
“Leave me alone, Fitzwilliam. No one has put you in charge of me.”
He grasped her upper arm and guided her—forcefully—into the kitchen. “We need to talk.”
From the corner of his eye, he watched Elizabeth slip back behind a partition in the kitchen. Probably just as well that she witnessed this; she could testify on his behalf when Lady Catherine complained he had not done enough to separate Anne from her suitor.
“I do not want to talk to you. I do not care what you have to say.” Anne pulled away from his grasp and stood near the large fireplace.
“You should.”
“Why? You are just a lackey for my mother. I want no part of anything she has to say.”
“I am not and have never been. I am your friend You must listen to me.” He grasped her shoulders and shook her.
“Stop that, you will make me spill my water.”
He grabbed the bucket, sloshing them both. Blast it all, that water was icy cold. “The last thing you need is this water.” He lifted the bucket and drank from it, allowing it to spill down his chest. The bucket empty, he cast it aside so violently it struck the fireplace hearth and bounced on the stone floor several times.
“What have you done? That was for Sir Jasper, not you.” Anne looked like she had lost something of real value.
“What I have always done, what is best for you whether you realize it or not.”
“I never asked for that favor, and I certainly do not want it now.” She tried to turn away, but he held her shoulders firm.
“I do not care what you want. I know what you need right now. You must listen to me. I absolutely insist.”
“If I listen, will you let me go? I am wet because of you, and now I am cold. I want to be warm and dry.”
“Listen then and I will release you.”
She folded her arms over her chest, shivering just a bit—probably for effect. “Speak.”
“Darcy and I have been looking into Sir Jasper. He is not what he has put himself out to be. His affairs are not as he has represented them to you.”
“If you mean he has debts, I am aware of them. He has been entirely forthcoming in that regard.”
“I doubt it. Where has he told you his debts come from?”
“Crops that failed, tenants that did not pay their rent. Even you can hardly fault him for that.” She looked so smug—unbearably so.
“He is a liar, and not even a good one.”
“Do not slander him!”
“What do you call a man who has lost his family seat to a hand of cards and only pursues a woman because she has the means to permit him to buy it back?”
“Those are lies!” She stamped—that must have hurt against the cold stone. “I cannot believe it. I will not. He is a good man, and he cares for me, more than you do. He would not deceive me.”
“And I would? When have I ever done such a thing?”
“You are in league with my mother. What more is there to know? You will do anything to make her happy—just like everyone else. What has she offered you to buy you
r favor? I am sure your assistance has not come cheaply—or has our friendship meant so little to you that it has?”
“Enough! I have discharged my duty. I will not hear any more of your foolishness and insults. I do not deserve this, and I will not tolerate it.” He threw up his hands and stormed from the kitchen. Warm dry clothes and distance from that infuriating woman would be most welcome at this point.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth held her breath and balled her fists. Contrary, foolish girl. She had no more sense than Lydia!
“What are you looking at, you stupid cow! Get away from me!” Anne shrieked.
A terrified scullery maid ran past Elizabeth.
First, she abused Fitzwilliam, her most faithful friend in the world. Now, she was abusing Pemberley’s staff? Enough was certainly enough.
Elizabeth drew in a deep breath and pulled back her shoulders. This was not a time for an angry older sister; for this she must be Mistress of Pemberley.
Slowly, deliberately she strode out from behind the partition and stepped toe to toe with a very startled Anne, face flushed in the heat of the large fireplace.
“What do you want?” Anne’s lip curled back, and she narrowed her eyes.
Oh, no, she would not win at that game. “What are you doing in my kitchen? One does not customarily find guests standing barefoot and wet in one’s kitchen, interfering with the efforts of the staff.”
“I do not need this right now. Leave me alone. Can you not see I am upset enough already?” She planted her hands on her hips and leaned close to Elizabeth’s face.
Elizabeth matched her stance. “You are a guest in my home. It does not behoove you to give me orders.”
“You are mistress of Pemberley, I understand that. We all here understand. You do not need to lord your triumph over me. Or have you suddenly taken to gloating.”
“You are a fool. Utterly and totally. Even more so than I had ever suspected.”
“Who are you to judge me? Get out of my way, and leave me alone.” She tried to step around Elizabeth, skidding slightly in the puddle Fitzwilliam had left, but Elizabeth cut her off.
“No. You will listen to what I have to say.”
“And if I do not want to?”
“You will listen any way. Not just Fitzwilliam, but Darcy and everyone else in the house has been trying to be patient and kind with you. You have repaid us with temper tantrums, insults and worse. Now you are ready to throw yourself away on a cad worse than the one my sister wed simply because you are too proud and too headstrong to listen to anyone.”
“What are you talking about?” Anne’s expression shifted. Perhaps Elizabeth had got her attention.
“Your precious Sir Jasper is a bounder! A rake! He only cares for your fortune, nothing for you. He wants Rosings, but not for the de Bourgh family, but to buy back his own seat without consideration or care for you or your mother.”
“I know he has debts. What gentleman does not? Except for Darcy of course, I understand he is perfect. You are exaggerating his situation far out of proportion.”
“And you are ignoring the danger you are in. Here, look at this.” Elizabeth shoved the society pages in her hand, pointing to a section she had marked in pencil.
“Sir P? Who is Sir P? You cannot imagine this is Sir Jasper?”
“You know the gossips are apt to use initials—”
“This is not him. I am certain of it.” Anne paused and read the section, tracing the words with her finger. “Apparently Fitzwilliam is better intentioned than I gave him credit for, but he is still very, very wrong.”
“With so much at stake, why would you ignore the counsel of your oldest, most faithful friend, and your family in favor of a man whom you barely know? You are a far greater fool than even my sister was, and I am sorry for you. Profoundly and deeply sorry. But pray, do not ask any more favors of me. I am done doing them for an ungrateful girl-woman who will not even try to be a rational creature. You can only hope your friend Fitzwilliam will be more understanding when you realize the depth of your folly, for I can hardly imagine Miss Gifford will be of much use to you then.”
Anne’s face turned several shades of red and sputtered something very unladylike. She stomped out, kicking the discarded bucket as she passed.
Elizabeth pressed her temples hard. Was this what her parents had dealt with in raising five daughters? If it was, pray she would only bear Darcy sons.
∞∞∞
January 4, 1814
After their last encounter, Anne seemed to keep to herself. She did deign to come to dinner, whether not to offend Elizabeth, or to avoid Darcy’s or her Mother’s scoldings, it was difficult to tell. But she did excuse herself early from the drawing room afterward, and had little interest in any of the evening amusements.
It should have given Fitzwilliam some peace of mind not to have to watch the flirtation between her and Sir Jasper. Should have—but it did not.
Everything about the situation felt wrong and dangerous, pinging his nerves like over-tightened violin strings, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Almost like being back in France, waiting, watching, and expecting the enemy behind any corner.
Yes, it was a good thing he had sold out.
By the third day, his skin crawled, and he paced and patrolled the house, snapping at everyone around him. Perhaps that was why Georgiana and Miss Gifford suddenly decided to pay a call upon Miss Roberts. The way Georgiana had glared at him when she informed him that not only would they be gone, but the men had gone out riding for the day, almost as if she was accusing him of driving them all from the house.
Stuff and nonsense! Darcy and Elizabeth were still there and did not seem bothered, so if the others were, that was distinctly their problem and not his.
He paced through the family wing. It was quiet, as it should be. All the ancestor’s portraits gazed down at him solemnly, but there was a certain demand in their eyes. What did they want from him?
He continued down the guest wing. Quiet as a tomb, as it was said, with his footsteps echoing off the walls.
Surely there was nothing wrong. Yet, his nerves would not settle. If he did not get them settled soon, he would surely run mad. Perhaps a drink. Darcy had an excellent French brandy in his study. Surely, he would not begrudge Fitzwilliam some.
He trotted down the grand marble staircase.
Oh, the trouble he and Darcy had got into on this staircase as boys. The stairs were wide enough for three or four to walk abreast, wide enough for a small carpet to glide over the stairs. What a wild ride that had been! Uncle Darcy had not agreed with them though, and saw to it they would consider it a bad option ever after. Still it had been jolly good fun.
He paused at the first landing. Music? Yes, it was. Anne’s playing—from the music room? Perhaps she would talk with him now? Then again, she might simply storm off as she had the last time he had tried. Best test her mood first.
He probably should not do it, but he ducked into the servants’ door and toward the door in the music room. Technically it was spying on her—another favorite game he and Darcy had indulged in during their boyhood—but it was for Anne’s comfort, and yes, his own as well. Surely that elevated the act away from just childish bad manners, did it not?
He peeked through the servants’ door into the music room, opened it just a hair, just enough to see Anne at the piano. She still wore a plain morning dress, had not bothered to dress for the day or even curl her hair. That spoke volumes, but what did it say? Her cheeks were pale and drawn—had she been sleeping? Clearly, she was upset, but at whom?
She stopped playing and looked around, a soft smile blossoming.
Hell and damnation, Sir Jasper was standing at the door. He sauntered in and closed it behind him.
The hair on the back of Fitzwilliam’s neck stood. His fists balled into tight knots. It had been a long time since he had used them—but not long enough that he had forgotten how.
“You would make a very sweet pai
nting there at the piano, in your morning gown. I would hang such a work in my home with pride, though perhaps a painting in dishabille might be even more appealing.”
Anne blushed and smiled at him.
How dare he be so familiar with her!
He approached, slow and smooth. “It seems like you have been avoiding me the last few days. I have missed your company. Very much.”
“With all the diversions of Pemberley, I cannot imagine my presence makes any difference at all.” She shrugged and looked away.
“Why have you been hiding from me, my dear Anne.” He caressed the top of the pianoforte.
His dear Anne? Fitzwilliam ground his teeth.
“It is difficult to know what to think.” She bit her lip.
“Has that dreadful cousin of yours been slandering me again?” He drummed his fingers along the piano.
“Do not speak of him so.”
Did she really say that?
“Why such devotion to a man who cares nothing of your happiness?”
Anne pulled wrinkled, dingy papers out from behind her music. “Tell me about this.”
“Society pages! Piffle and bother. Utter nonsense that is not to be trusted.” He tossed them to the floor.
“But why did they write such things about you?”
“Me? Why would you say that is me? How do you know? Or have the Darcys told you so?”
“Do you say it is not? Look me in the eyes, and tell me that it is not.”
“Will you believe me then if I do?”
Anne opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing.
“If you will not, then why should I bother denying it? Why should I say anything at all? My own testimony is not good enough for you? You would much rather believe those who are trying to ruin me?” His faced knotted in a threatening mien.
“I said nothing of the kind.”
“I thought you cared for me, that we were close to some kind of understanding. It wounds me to think I was so very mistaken. You are no different to other women I have known in society.” He turned aside and pressed his hand to his chest.
Manipulating bounder!
“How can you say that about me?” Anne stood and turned to face him. “You know I am not like that.”
