by Pamela Aidan
The end of the morning’s collect signaled that the assembled might resume their seats, giving Darcy only a few seconds to cast another surreptitious glance in Elizabeth’s direction. The curiosity that had enlivened her face had been replaced by a thoughtful character focused on the intricacies of the stained-glass window, a gift of Sir Lewis’s grandfather that hung majestically in the apse beyond the pulpit. It well became her, and he would have given much to know the nature of the thoughts that produced such an arresting display, but hard upon this observation was the guilty realization that he was once more engaged in a blatant invasion of her privacy. With reluctance, he withdrew from his secretive foray without catching her eye and gave his attention to Hunsford’s unfortunate rector. Darcy’s previous exposure to the presuming little man had not included a taste of his formal sermonizing; therefore it was, in a sense, the rector’s “maiden speech.” Darcy’s expectations were not high, but as Mr. Collins arranged and rearranged his sheaf of notes upon the pulpit, the visitor was prepared to give him the benefit of a judgment reserved.
His papers finally arranged to his satisfaction, Mr. Collins turned to the family of his patroness and, to Darcy’s consternation, bowed to them yet again, whereupon Lady Catherine nodded her permission to proceed. With growing apprehension, Darcy watched the rector arrange his face into the most solemn of lines and turn it upon his congregation. “My text this morning comes from the Epistle to the Colossians, chapter three: ‘Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth.’ My subject for this Easter morn, my faithful congregation, is affection — or, more properly, what has been called Religious Affection. That is to say, I speak to you today in stern warning against the vulgar excesses of ‘Enthusiasm!’ ”
“Oh no!” Fitzwilliam groaned as he shrank down in the pew, but Darcy came to a tense attention. This was his aunt’s doing, he was sure of it.
“The text,” continued Her Ladyship’s mouthpiece, “directs us to set our affection on things above. This may not be construed as leave to indulge in flights of emotion. Heaven forbid! Religion is of a more steady nature; of a more sober, manly quality. She scornfully rejects the support of something so volatile, so trivial and useless as a lively imagination and the uncontrolled flow of, you will pardon the expression, ‘animal spirits.’ Such things find their home in the heated, disordered brain of the Enthusiast rather than in the dispassionate, rational understanding which the Supreme Being requires of the true man of religion.”
Heated, disordered brain? Darcy crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a piercing stare at his aunt’s minion.
“No, dear listeners.” Collins brought his palm down upon the pulpit with a theatrical thwack. “True wisdom, true religion directs us to the reining in of passion and its disorders for the calm cultivation of moral virtues. Only fulfill the conditions on your part of duty and honor, become proficient in this lesson of the Gospel, and all will be well. Self-reformation is affection set on things above, not this vain, self-aggrandizing fervor.”
Self-reformation! Darcy shifted, the pew having grown unrelenting in its discouragement of the slightest bodily comfort. Honor and duty were the air he’d breathed all his life, yet had he not been lately tempted to abandon them? How close had he trod to succumbing to the wiles of Lady Sylvanie, whose tragic madness had, nonetheless, shown him the shocking depths of hatred he harbored in his own heart? And what success had he found over these intervening months in rooting it out?
“I tell you, it is no more than the low canting of wild fanatics like that infamous Newton or Whitefield of the last century or Bunyan and Donne before them.” Mr. Collins swept men his theological and literary superiors aside with a wave of his hand. “And I need not remind you where that led!” He paused dramatically, then spat out, “Regicide!”
Another groan arose from Fitzwilliam. “Dear God, now she’ll write His Lordship that I’m planning to kill old George!”
Darcy’s brows slanted dangerously, and his eyes narrowed into mere slits. If this reflected Lady Catherine’s view, and he had little doubt that Collins’s sermon had been written under her direction, she must never be permitted to stay two minutes alone with Georgiana!
“Trust, rather, in Reason, the Divine’s handmaiden, and in your spiritual fathers — I am honored to be so appointed and advised by Her Ladyship, Lady Catherine de Bourgh — to prescribe to you what is proper affection, acceptable in the sight of Heaven. Thus endeth the lesson. Amen and amen.”
After the benediction, the choirboys struck once more an attempt at their proper notes and began the recessional down the aisle, Mr. Collins in their wake. A small sigh near his shoulder recalled Darcy to the service of his cousin. Putting his displeasure aside, he quickly gathered up his hat and walking stick and reached for her prayer book, then glanced over at Elizabeth as he stepped out of the de Bourgh pew. If it were possible, she looked even more thoughtful, more lovely than before, and he profoundly wished that he might approach her, greet her at least, before he must leave. But duty and propriety demanded that he escort his cousin to the barouche. He must deny himself now, but this evening, he vowed, he would deny himself nothing of her that she would give.
“Cousin Anne.” Darcy quietly addressed the apparitionlike figure beside him and offered her his arm.
The return journey to Rosings was accomplished in a weighty silence on the part of all in the barouche save its most noble occupant. Constrained by all of history and custom to keep silent within the walls of the church, Her Ladyship more than compensated for that charge of Scripture with an unending stream of commentary on her neighbors, their relatives, their servants, and their friends as the carriage wended its way down the lanes and up the drive of Rosings. Both Fitzwilliam and Darcy looked pointedly away during her considerable holding forth and gazed stonily out upon the countryside. Occasionally, Darcy would cast a glance at his cousin in the hope of discovering something about her person that would give him some insight into her troubles. She also gazed out upon the passing scene and never once looked in his direction that he could detect, the wide brim of her bonnet still acting as a shield against his inquiry and her thin hands clasped in a knot of gloves and the strings of her reticule. As worrisome as Anne’s behavior might be, it was clear he could do nothing at present about it.
The deft motions of Fletcher’s whisk across his shoulders ceased their brisk rhythm, signaling to Darcy that, according to the exacting standards of his valet, he was prepared to leave his rooms and present himself to his aunt. In terms of his apparel, this was undoubtedly so. Gone were the blue coat and cream breeches of the morning, and in their place, snugly buttoned to his frame, were an understated but expertly tailored black frock coat and trousers. Darcy regarded his reflection in the mirror as his valet, awaiting his opinion, stepped back. He stretched his chin up and away from Fletcher’s knot, loosening it just enough to allow for some comfort. Truth be told, he had directed Fletcher to select trousers for the express purpose of setting Her Ladyship to moralizing upon his lack of proper evening dress and the lamentable casualness of young persons in this new century. Displeased with his appearance, perhaps she would be less attentive to his conversation, especially when he had opportunity to engage her rector’s humble guest. But there was the rub! His exterior self was well accoutred, impervious to examination. But as his gaze traveled up from the elegant lines of his coat, past the exquisite knot of his neckcloth, to look into his own eyes, he saw in them the expectancy of pleasure and challenge that the evening would surely afford. It, in fact, ran rampant through his inner man, exciting pleasurable but disorderly sensations throughout his body. He closed his eyes and, beginning with idiot, silently applied to himself any number of epithets until the beat of the blood in his veins returned to a more steady rhythm.
“Mr. Darcy, is aught amiss?” Fletcher asked quietly from behind him.
“No, I am well pleased, Fletcher,” he assured his valet as, with relief, he opened his eyes upon a visage more
like his own self. Although it had taken an unusual degree of summoning, his habitual reserve had come to the fore and asserted itself. How long it would last in Elizabeth’s presence was not something he wished, at the moment, to contemplate. He left the mirror and, pulling at his watch fob, strode to the door.
“It is six, sir,” Fletcher offered. Darcy tucked the watch back into its pocket. They should arrive in a half hour, leaving enough time to settle Lady Catherine’s complaints and engage in some calming, cousinly banter with Richard. Anne, as well, he remembered guiltily. She would not contribute to the conversation, he knew, but perhaps in her attention to their exchanges, he might observe something that would offer insight into her troubled sighs.
The servants were lighting the hall lamps as Darcy made his way to the stairs. Six and a few minutes, he calculated. In less than half an hour…He could not help but think on what it would be to see her here among his relations and in the stately apartments of Rosings. She would not be completely at disadvantage; he understood that she had been in Rosings’s drawing room at least twice before, but the contrast in situation from that to which she was accustomed must affect her. If not situation then the temerity of Lady Catherine’s invasive questions and imperious opinions coupled with her rank and station must dampen her vivacity. He tried to imagine Elizabeth, her magnificent eyes downcast, listening in quiet deference to his aunt’s pronouncements; but the exercise only caused his mouth to arc into a smile. Well did he know from their conversations at Netherfield her fascination with the inconsistencies of human nature. Of such assorted follies, Lady Catherine was an abundant mistress. Was Miss Elizabeth Bennet diverted by them? Did she dare hold her own; and if so, how did she do it and continue to enjoy his aunt’s favorable regard? The evening ahead was poised to be probably the most intriguing he had ever spent under his aunt’s roof.
A loud click and a “Damn and blast, Fitz! Trousers!” alerted Darcy to his cousin’s entrance into the hall. Fitzwilliam stood away from him, amazement causing his eyebrows to disappear beneath the fall of curls across his brow. “You know what Her Ladyship thinks of ’em, old man.”
“Which is why I chose to sport them tonight, Richard, so that you” — Darcy paused and indicated his cousin’s correct breeches, clocked stockings, and pumps — “will shine as an example of stability and manners in contrast.”
“Oh.” Fitzwilliam paused to consider the prospect, then smiled at his cousin. “Very decent of you, Cuz. Anything to stop the old she-dragon from going on about writing His Lordship. I can’t fathom where she picked up the notion that I’d turned Ranter.” He shook out the modest lace at his cuffs. “Sure I look the part, are you?” Darcy could not help laughing at his cousin’s unwonted concern as he nodded his assurance. Wryly acknowledging his amusement, Fitzwilliam returned him a crooked grin. “Well, you would be anxious too, if it were you Her Ladyship had in her sights.”
“So be your most charming self tonight and you’ll soon be back in her good graces.” Darcy grinned. “Shall we go down?”
On beholding their entrance, Lady Catherine’s dry smile fell into a disapproving line, but she did no more than sniff deprecatingly at Darcy before commanding her nephews to sit on the settees that had been drawn up in a worshipful circle around her great chair. Anne and her companion Mrs. Jenkinson, were before them, seated across from Her Ladyship in their usual swirl of shawls, but tonight Anne was dressed in a particularly becoming gown that favored her pale coloring and slight figure. “Does not your cousin look charming tonight, Darcy?” Lady Catherine’s question to him as he bowed to Anne froze the smile he had summoned up for his cousin before it reached his lips. The sincere compliment he had been about to offer would now appear only a command performance, emphasizing once again their strained relationship.
He rose from his bow to a much-distracted Anne, who was looking in every direction but his, her fingers clutching at her shawl. “Cousin Anne.” Knowing he must succeed in commanding her attention, induce her to look into his face, he addressed her in the softened but earnest voice he used with Georgiana. “Anne,” he repeated, and slowly she raised her eyes to his. “You, indeed, look well tonight.” She blushed faintly at his words, and her eyes quickly dropped, but not before he detected a flash of gratitude and, perhaps, even a little pleasure in his compliment. So, he thought, Anne was not as indifferent to attention as she would have the world believe! But then, her world was admittedly very small, circumscribed as it was by her health and Her Ladyship’s sensibilities and tastes. Honest, ingenuous compliments were, he was certain, a rarity.
Turning from Anne, Darcy eyed the settees that circled his aunt. None of them appeared sturdy enough to contain the anticipation coursing through him in currents that increased in force as the hands on the clock swept toward the appointed time. The need for a decision, however, was postponed by the sudden opening of the drawing room doors, causing Darcy’s heart to lurch at the sound. “Traitor!” he murmured under his breath, attempting to shame it into submission even as his eyes were drawn inexorably to the doors.
First, of course, came Mr. Collins and his wife, the former with an aspect of abject deference. Mrs. Collins, however, improved her husband’s standing by accompanying his excessive display with a more appropriate air and a simple curtsy of the correct degree. Miss Lucas followed immediately behind her sister, her frame trembling visibly as she caught Her Ladyship’s eye, and then came Elizabeth. The bonnet and pelisse had been left with the footman, but her frock was the one of the morning. Delicate, creamy muslin flocked with flowers embroidered in blue and edged with lace, it flowed gracefully about her person, draping her figure in a most intriguing manner. He watched as her eyes swept the room and she awaited her turn to honor its occupants. She began with Her Ladyship, turned briefly to Anne and her companion, and brightened at Fitzwilliam. Then, she observed him. Their gazes locked, the avid expectancy in hers such a mirror of his own that Darcy’s heart bounded violently in what felt like a mad attempt to unite with hers. Aghast, he pulled his eyes away, preempting her curtsy with his own stiff bow. Cure himself with a surfeit of her? How had he miscalculated so completely?
“Mr. Collins, pray be seated.” Lady Catherine languidly beckoned her guests forward and indicated the seats to her left.
“Thank you, Your Ladyship.” Mr. Collins bowed again before scuttling across the room in a manner that put Darcy strongly in mind of a quail he had disturbed while riding the previous morning. “You are all condescension, Ma’am, a fact widely known among all those —”
“Mrs. Collins, Miss Lucas.” Her Ladyship interrupted his fulsome address. Mrs. Collins followed her husband to their assigned places, while her sister, Darcy noted, quickly sank into the seat that promised the best concealment from Lady Catherine’s regard. But his eyes could not be long away from their desired object, and dangerous as it had proved to do so, he looked once again to her. She stood quite still, her aspect cool as her relations abased themselves to his aunt; but then, as he watched, he saw her lips twitch. A secretive smile began to tug at them, matched by a new brilliancy in her eyes. That familiar expression was soon followed by a deliberate pursing of her lips, a strategy he knew her to employ to gain control over her features, that they not betray her unseemly amusement. In beholding her delightful battle for mastery, Darcy pressed his own lips tightly together to forestall the grin that attempted to accompany his exaltation at one of his questions answered so quickly. Collins might quake and Her Ladyship’s peers might tremble, but Elizabeth Bennet stood in no awe of Lady Catherine. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Lady Catherine nodded her acknowledgment. As Elizabeth walked with confident grace to take a seat, he marveled that she had sketched his aunt’s character so handily in so short a time. Whatever would happen next?
Fitzwilliam answered his question by slipping round the guests and claiming the place next to Elizabeth on the settee. “Opportunist!” Darcy growled to him before lowering his frame into the last place available, that nearest his
aunt and across from Elizabeth and his cousin. Swallowing his disappointment, he resolved instead to retrieve his situation by observing how she handled his cousin and what Fitzwilliam’s behavior toward her might reveal. But almost immediately, Lady Catherine engaged him with some particulars of little consequence to anyone but herself. Long inured to her manner, he set himself to satisfy her demands while pursuing his own ends but found that the lady succeeded in irritating him more than she had ever done before. He could make nothing of the conversation opposite him, save that it was a lively one of earnest discourse punctuated by laughter on both sides. Fitzwilliam was delighted with Elizabeth; that was obvious. Darcy knew all his moods and their telltale signs. Richard might have begun in a flirtatious vein, but he was now captivated, and worse, intrigued, and not only by her person. The thoughtful expression on his face told Darcy that he was beginning to discover her mind as well. He shifted in his seat. It was inevitable, he conceded. Elizabeth did not simper, nor did she exude the fashionable ennui that one encountered in most females of the ton. No, her charm had a substance about it, a directness that a man could quickly appreciate with his mind as well as his senses. And Richard, deuce take him, was appreciating it quite enough!
“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of?” Lady Catherine’s querulous demand startled Darcy into the realization that he had not paid his aunt the least attention for several minutes. “What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
