Mr. Darcy's Great Escape

by Marsha Altman

  “Should I sing a funeral hymn?”

  “No, I’d rather not have to bear our aunt and your singing voice in one evening,” Darcy said, finishing his port quickly before leaving the room.

  ***

  Lady Catherine was waiting for him, sitting in a chair very close to the fire, even though it was high summer. Darcy bowed. “Aunt Catherine.” There seemed to be no chair for him to sit and still be facing her, but he felt more confident standing. He liked to be on his feet when he was uncomfortable.

  “Fitzwilliam,” she said, resting in her easy chair. Calling him that was always the first sign of danger. He did not take the seat offered to him, choosing to stand by the fireplace instead. “It has been a long time.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “The situation is obviously very different from when we last spoke; the situation of our families, of course. No doubt your cousin has told you.”

  “Of his brother’s misfortune, yes, he has.” She seemed to be coming right to the point instead of berating Elizabeth for a while, which he had expected her to do. “Though it is not a certainty. He may very well return, alive and well.”

  “Perhaps, or perhaps not. You understand the importance of consideration and planning for the future of our family.”

  “Of course.”

  She turned away from him. He could not remember the last time she had done something like that, but she looked into the fire instead. “Would I have employed every gypsy fortune teller in the world, I could not have guessed that Miss Bennet would be a more suitable wife for you than my Anne.”

  Not knowing what to say to such a dramatic admission, Darcy managed only to stutter, “Neither could I. But I believe my cousins are both very happy in their choice.”

  “They are. And Anne is much healthier. I should have thought to take her to Brighton.” Was this Lady Catherine, admitting to a weakness in thought or idea? He was stupefied as she went on, “The doctors say she might even survive a confinement if she was capable of such.”

  Darcy said nothing. He could think of nothing appropriate to say.

  “But you have a son and so the Darcy line is secure, provided he survives to adulthood. And you may yet have another. Your wife is still young yet. She may have aged you, but she is doing quite well herself.”

  He looked down. She had noticed, of course, the silver around his ears that had appeared during his recovery from his injuries in the duel with Wickham. “That was not her doing, but my own.”

  “So I have been informed,” she said, looking back at him. “But now we must consider the Fitzwilliam line, which is to die off because of Richard’s choice of a bride.”

  Once again, he could not find the wits for a response that would please either of them.

  “Don’t look at me so stupidly, Darcy. You know of what I speak.”

  “If this is a concern over Rosings,” he said, “then know that I have no desire to take possession of it and will break the entail as soon as my son is of age.”

  “That does not solve the crucial problem and is not why I called you here—as you have already guessed.”

  Of course, he thought. So why don’t you just tell me?

  “The task at hand is not an easy one—for either of us. Long have I considered it, but it is the only possible solution.”

  “Solution, Aunt Catherine?”

  “Yes.” She regained her usual demeanor in her determination. “Richard must take a mistress.”

  Had he been a lesser man, Darcy was sure he would have fainted from the shock. His mouth went dry. Lady Catherine had anticipated this, because she waited for him to gather his response. “What?”

  “It is, if his brother dies, the only way the Fitzwilliam line will continue. It can be done in secret, of course, so that it appears to be Anne’s—”

  “But she will know! He will know!” He was having trouble staying in place. The urge to pace around, to look away—to get away from this insane woman—was ready to overcome him. “Are you intending to propose that they divorce?”

  “Of course not! It would bring unimaginable shame to the family—”

  “As would your suggestion! Or even more so! A child out of wedlock for no other reason than this stupid idea of family bloodlines? I may have a medieval brother, but I believe the rest of us are living in the same century! If they want children, let them adopt!”

  “Like your sister Mary did? So conveniently while in France?” Lady Catherine snarled.

  “Yes!” he said without thinking. “No! You are trying to throw me off! You know very well what I meant. If it is all to be covered up anyway, who cares if it belongs to one of them or neither of them? If you are so concerned about outside opinion—”

  “I am concerned for this family! The same family whose name you bear, Fitzwilliam; I will not let it die!”

  “Then you should have had sons!” Even in his enraged state, he could tell—after a moment or so of stunned silence—that he had gone too far. He stepped back, attempting to compose himself as he bowed. “I apologize, Aunt Catherine. But—surely you have not brought this idea to either of them?”

  “No,” she said. “I need your help to do it.”

  The blood drained from his face. He felt it, like it was growing cold as death. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I am very—”

  “No.”

  “Fitzwilliam, I am your aunt—”

  “I know who you are, and I will never consent to such a plan,” he said calmly, his voice steady in his severity. “It goes beyond all propriety and taste, and I will have nothing to do with it, ever.”

  “You—”

  “We have nothing more to say on the subject. In fact, I find myself in need of refreshment, or I may well be ill. Good night, Aunt Catherine.” He bowed again, turned, and left, tuning out her shrieks of his name by slamming the door behind him.

  ***

  When he returned to his quarters, Elizabeth was already in bed reading. Her head turned up to him in polite inquiry, but he could not bear to speak. He gestured harshly at his manservant to leave, and removed his coat and vest himself. The second was harder, as his hands were shaking in his rage, and it was hard to manage the buttons, but he finally managed to get it off and collapsed on the bed, his boots still on and his hands over his face. To his surprise, Elizabeth said nothing. He heard and felt movement on the bed, and she seemed to disappear, but he had not the strength to go after her before he felt her unlacing his shoes for him. His “thank you” was barely a whisper, and she returned to him after finishing her task.

  The rage in him would not so easily dissipate, but he was at least ready to look up at his beautiful wife, the sight of her bringing some relief. She asked nothing of him. Instead she took him into her arms, and so they lay, entwined, as his breathing lined up with hers.

  “Your heart is racing,” she said with some concern. “I can feel it.” Her hand was on his breast. He removed it and kissed her fingers.

  “Don’t worry for me.”

  “Darcy,” she said calmly, “I worry for you every second of every day. You are my husband. It is not something that can be dismissed.”

  “Neither can my own feelings, sadly,” he said.

  “You have lost your good opinion of your aunt forever?”

  Her presence and touch must have indeed worked its magic, because he could smile, if a little bit, and most tiredly. “It fell out long ago. Now it has merely been dragged through the mud.” He rested his head on her shoulder. “I cannot say it now. You will get upset, and I am still upset, and it will be a vicious cycle. I must settle first.”

  Elizabeth stroked his hair in complete and obvious understanding.

  “I will tell you—in time.”

  And in time, after a long while of her soothing presence, he did.

  Chapter 4
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  Quenching the Fire

  The Darcys took breakfast on their own, expressing their regrets through the servants but making no particular excuse. That they did not quit Rosings altogether that very morning had already been decided the night before. They would stay and protect the Fitzwilliams.

  “She is mad,” Elizabeth said over a very uneasy breakfast in their chambers.

  “She is desperate. She has always been stubborn about her opinions, but this is beyond the norm. But she is older than we remember her.” He reached over and put his hand over hers, reaffirming that together, they would weather this.

  “I did wish to call on the Collinses today,” Elizabeth said. “And perhaps it would be most settling for us before facing Lady Catherine again.”

  “I never thought I would think of Mr. Collins as a settling presence, but I agree,” he said. “At least he is predictable.”

  They shared a laugh at Mr. Collins’s expense before rising for the day at last and collecting their children. Grégoire was in his monkish habit of rising at three in the morning to begin his day of prayers, so they found him walking the grounds outside, very much awake and totally unaware of what had transpired. Neither of them could bring themselves to burden him with it—at least, not yet. “Brother. Elizabeth.”

  “Grégoire,” Darcy said with the best smile he could manage. “We’re to call on the Collinses. Elizabeth is old friends with Mrs. Collins, and they have not seen each other in years. Would you join us?”

  “Of course.”

  They called for Nurse, who brought down Geoffrey and Anne, who ran up ahead even though they didn’t know where they were going. Sarah, Elizabeth preferred to carry herself.

  The Collinses were waiting for them, with the two older daughters running out to greet their visitors. Elizabeth embraced her old friend, while Mr. Collins just bowed. He was always intimidated by Darcy and was now equally intimidated by his brother, albeit for different reasons. They exchanged more docile pleasantries as all the children were introduced. The Collins family had three daughters (“The old Bennet curse,” Darcy whispered to his brother, but could not further explain in their situation). A single family nurse kept watch over the older children, who played in the yard but were warned not to disturb the garden as the adults went inside.

  “You don’t have to stay very long,” Elizabeth whispered to her husband before disappearing with Charlotte into her private sitting room with Sarah.

  “Please, let me see to some refreshment,” Mr. Collins said, momentarily disappearing and leaving Darcy and Grégoire in the proper sitting room. A sudden agony washed over Darcy’s face, which Grégoire did not miss.

  “What is it?”

  “This awful room,” Darcy said. “I hoped never to visit it again.” When an explanation was obviously needed, he said, “I proposed to Elizabeth in this room. Right where you stand now, almost precisely.”

  Grégoire frowned. “Then should that not bring back pleasant memories?”

  “Perhaps I have never told you of our most awkward courtship,” he said. “I proposed to her in the most abominable way possible, insulting the whole of her relations and admitting that I thought the match was unsuitable but I was hopelessly in love. She then rejected me in the most abusive way possible without physical violence.”

  “But you were married.”

  “Yes. Almost a year later, when I had done everything in my power to convince her that I was not the ogre she thought I was.” He saw some movement in the back. “Please do not mention it in front of Mr. Collins.”

  “Of course not,” Grégoire said. “But that is all in the past now.”

  “Yes. Though I am starting to feel as though visiting Kent brings about awful behavior on the part of myself and my aunt.” Unfortunately, Mr. Collins returned, and he could not clarify—for the moment.

  ***

  The trip had exhausted little Sarah, who was placed in the crib beside Eleanor, only a few months older than she. There, she immediately went to sleep most peacefully. “Perhaps they will be great friends someday.”

  “I do hope so,” Charlotte said. “I have missed you, Lizzy.”

  “I have, too,” she said as they closed the nursery door and went back into the women’s sitting room, where tea was ready for them. “So much has changed.”

  “I must admit most shamefully that there have been times when I thought it a misfortune that you married Mr. Darcy, and we have not seen each other as a result. But that is the fault of Lady Catherine. But—are things beginning to mend between your husband and her ladyship?”

  “We thought maybe so, when she finally responded to my pleas for renewing the acquaintance,” Elizabeth said, biting her lip. “But now it seems less likely than ever that we will be seeing much of Lady Catherine.”

  “Why ever so? She was not especially out of sorts at dinner. In fact, I think your new brother silenced her quite well.”

  Elizabeth looked down nervously at her tea, then back up at her old friend. “Charlotte—will you take the burden of a terrible secret? Though I shan’t think it will be secret for much longer, it is the reason we were almost inclined to leave at first light.”

  “Lizzy,” Charlotte was almost scolding. “You know you can tell me anything.”

  She had wanted to tell someone, as it had weighed on her throughout their sleepless night. Grégoire was Darcy’s responsibility, and they had decided that they would approach Anne and Colonel Fitzwilliam as soon as possible, but in great privacy and when the mood was right. Plus, they had not the least idea of how to go about it. It was such a relief to unburden herself to Charlotte, who was so sweet and unassuming, so ready to weather Lady Catherine’s wild tirades—but even she looked shocked.

  “The worst of it is,” Elizabeth said, “how she could propose such an idea with no feelings for her own daughter! Is Anne yet again to be the most unfortunate creature of all of us? Surely Lady Catherine is mad?”

  “Lady Catherine is older than you remember her, Lizzy,” Charlotte said, her own form now tense, “in body and mind. When I heard from my husband that Lord Matlock was sick—and so soon, after the death of his father!—I knew she was particularly concerned about Rosings, as I understand the ownership has something to do with Lord Matlock. Lady Catherine’s fortune is of course derived from Rosings, so Mr. Collins has been quite concerned.”

  Of course. Mr. Collins was dependent on his patroness, or he would be in poverty. Not that he had long before he would inherit Longbourn—but he would not inherit the money to maintain it. Elizabeth chided herself for not realizing the Collinses’ precarious situation sooner. How life had surprised them all! “But Rosings will go to Darcy, should Colonel Fitzwilliam’s brother pass away, and my husband could not be less interested in the place. He will lease it to the colonel—who I suppose will have to buy out of the army—and the Fitzwilliams are one of the loveliest couples I know! You are in no danger, Charlotte. This will all pass. Darcy has already refused to go along with Lady Catherine’s plan, which would never have worked. Colonel Fitzwilliam would never subject his marriage to such a horror.”

  “He is a kind man. I was sad to see less of him when he moved Anne to Brighton. But—it must be hard on them. Oh, Lizzy, for Anne to not know the joys of motherhood!”

  “It is not impossible. I have relatives who took in the child of a woman who died in childbirth, and they raise him as their own son and are very happy!”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps they will have children on their own, and all of this will come to naught.”

  ***

  Darcy was almost relieved when the invitation came, calling him to tea at Rosings. Watching Grégoire run circles around Mr. Collins was interesting enough, but it made the vicar no less odious. For the most part he stared out the window, drinking tea. He suspected there would be very little actual drinking of it at Rosings.

 
Elizabeth was willing to cut her own visit short, as they had planned to intercept the Fitzwilliams before Lady Catherine did any more damage, and they could not afford to miss this gathering. They said their good-byes and returned to Rosings, first dropping off their children in the nursery.

  “Do we have a plan?”

  “Yes. You can make polite conversation with my aunt, thereby getting her into a disgusted rage and thoroughly distracting her.” He smiled as his wife gave him a look.

  They were early by Darcy’s pocket watch, which he was inspecting as they made it down the grand stairs, but no further. Rushing down the hallway was the figure of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Darcy turned and said amiably, “Rich—”

  Which was about as far as he got before his cousin punched him in the face.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam was a military man, while Darcy was merely a strong man who happened to enjoy fencing (and occasionally socking people when he was drunk enough). There was no contest as Darcy hit the floor behind him, fortunately on a very thick and expensive rug. “How could you?”

  “How could I what?” Darcy said as he was helped up by Elizabeth. Grégoire made a move to also go to his brother’s aid, but when Fitzwilliam looked ready to strike him as well, he backed up the stairs a bit.

  “Richard!” came a cry from behind them, as Anne ran up from behind, apparently having heard the stir. “What in the world are you doing?”

  “Anne,” he said more softly, still huffing from the force of it all, “my apologies. This is between Darcy and myself.”

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam!” Elizabeth said as she forced Darcy to uncover his eye. It was red from the contact but did not look damaged. “My husband deserves an answer.”

  “I deserve an answer!” Fitzwilliam shouted. She had never seen him like this. “How could you?”

  “I can’t possibly imagine what I could have—” Darcy said as he got to his feet. “—done… Wait—did Aunt Catherine tell you—?”