by Meg Osborne
Elizabeth coloured, and Richard exchanged a glance with his cousin. Darcy, evidently fearing the same explosion from Elizabeth that Richard did, forestalled it expertly by addressing Lady Catherine himself.
“I am surprised Anne is not with you, Aunt,” he said, pretending not to notice the way Lady Catherine's eyes lit up at the mention of her daughter by this gentleman in particular.
“I felt sure you would notice her absence, Fitzwilliam,” she said, warming to the topic. “Alas, she has been visiting a friend this afternoon. I tried to insist on her staying, in order that we might both greet you upon your arrival, but my dear daughter would not be persuaded.” She smiled, indulgently. “You know how affectionate young ladies are. This particular friend of hers has been lately unwell, and Anne, having suffered so often herself with ill-health, would not be kept from her side a moment longer.” Lady Catherine lifted her gaze first to Elizabeth's, and then to Marys’. “She is the new Lady Dalrymple, you know, and it is so pleasant when connections of such high standing become not only acquaintances but true friends, that I did not wish to discourage my dear Anne from visiting.”
Richard refrained from rolling his eyes, sure that this would not be the only time they might hear of Anne’s friend Lady Dalrymple during their stay. His aunt was fond of name-dropping and doubtless felt that to Mary and Elizabeth, any name would be doubly worthy of note.
“She will return to join us for dinner,” Lady Catherine said. “And I have invited Mr Collins as well, as our shared acquaintance.” She turned to Elizabeth, the warmth sliding from her voice. “I trust that will not be problematic for his cousins?”
ELIZABETH GAZED AROUND the interior of the bedroom that had been given to her during her stay at Rosings. She had expected to be sharing with Mary and was, in fact, a little disappointed to be housed in wildly different parts of the house. When she had remarked, out of surprise rather than to make any particular judgment, that she had expected the sisters would be sharing, and not wanting to put the household to any extra work in providing an extra room, Lady Catherine had chosen to respond.
“Do not you think that we have rooms to spare? I assure you, Miss Bennet, we have plenty of space to house any number of guests my nephews choose to invite to stay here, you needn’t be forced to share with anybody else, as you might have to at your own home.”
Lizzy had found the comment amusing, although she had managed to look suitably chastened whilst within sight of Lady Catherine.
She flopped back on the bed, staring up at the curtains, and wondered how it was that she had been at Rosing’s scarcely more than a few hours and already appeared to have alienated its owner. At least poor Mary was faring rather better. Elizabeth had admired the way her sister had ably answered every question Lady Catherine had thrown at her, before promising to play for them that evening, if it would please Lady Catherine to hear her. This was agreed upon as a fine idea, and they had fallen to discussing music, until Mr Darcy had cleared his throat and suggested that perhaps the ladies might wish to lie down for an hour before their evening meal, after the stress of their journey.
Lizzy had been unable to resist shooting him a grateful glance, and escaped, only to realise she was not in the least bit tired and instead longed for some occupation. A glance out of the window confirmed her suspicions that it had begun to rain, thus a walk was out of the question. She might have gone in spite of the weather, had she been at home, but she could not help but imagine what Lady Catherine’s response would be to such behaviour, and determined to do nothing else to offend their host, at least between now and their evening meal, if she could help it.
Rolling up to a seated position, Lizzy consulted her belongings, wishing she had brought another book with her. What she had was unappealing to her at that moment, and she ached for something new to read.
Surely there must be a library in a house as big as this? She had had the thought scarcely before she reached for the door handle, easing it open and creeping into the corridor. The house was silent, as far as she could tell, and she rejoiced in the opportunity to explore, on tip-toe, and locate the library without need of an escort. She progressed slowly down the corridor, careful not to make any noise that might alert her neighbours that she was not only not resting, but actively exploring. With wide eyes, Lizzy took in the beautiful art adorning the walls, admiring the elegant furniture that seemed placed just so and acknowledged that Lady Catherine de Bourgh was blessed with taste as well as fortune. Lizzy was ashamed to confess she had expected rather too much finery, as if to reassure her guests of her possessing it, but this was understated and perfectly suited the space it occupied. Lizzy paused before a painting, sensing a familiarity about its subject. The young woman was not Lady Catherine, although they certainly looked alike. Her face was kinder. This could not be the aforementioned Anne, could it? Lizzy tilted her head to one side, wondering if she and the young woman might succeed at becoming friends, despite Lizzy’s propensity to offend her mother.
Behind her, a gentleman cleared his throat, and Elizabeth started, spinning around to find herself face to face with Mr Darcy.
“Miss Bennet.” He bowed. “You are well rested?”
“Y-yes,” Lizzy stammered. “Quite well. I merely wished -”
“It is a nice picture, isn’t it?” He nodded towards the portrait, sweeping aside the apologies Lizzy could already feel forming on her lips.
“Beautiful,” she agreed. “I wonder who the subject is. I fancy a likeness between it and Lady Catherine. Is this your cousin?”
A reflexive smile crept up onto Mr Darcy’s face, and he shook his head.
“I might permit you another guess. It is not Anne, nor her mother.”
Lizzy turned back to the painting, wondering who else this young woman might be. Surely she meant enough to Lady Catherine to warrant a permanent display. There was something about the light in the lady's eyes that struck Lizzy as eminently familiar, and she turned back to Mr Darcy.
“This is your -”
“My mother,” he confirmed. “Lady Anne Darcy.” He frowned. “Lady Anne Fitzwilliam she was when this was commissioned.” He sighed, and Lizzy felt a flare of sympathy. He was still a young man, and to have lost both his parents seemed a cruel blow to have been dealt.
“She is very beautiful.”
Darcy nodded.
“My sister is like her to look at, and in her character. She was always very kind, very welcoming to others.” He stiffened. “I am more like my father in that respect.”
Lizzy smiled, but said nothing. The same was true of her. She was so unlike Mrs Bennet that she often found it impossible to conceive that they were so closely related. Of her parents, she was most like her father, and it was perhaps for this reason that she felt so betrayed by Mr Bennet's siding with his wife in the affair of Elizabeth’s betrothal. Something of her thoughts must have settled over her features, because Mr Darcy was prompted to speak again.
“Perhaps - perhaps we might walk together, Miss Elizabeth, if you are not too tired. I know this house almost as well as I know my own, and might be able to offer you a little of its history.” His lips quirked. “I cannot promise amusing tales of daring and disaster as fall so easily from my cousin’s lips, but I might explain who certain people are, or the history of a room, should you wish to hear it.
Lizzy scarcely hesitated a moment.
“That would be very kind of you, Mr Darcy, but I do not wish to put you to any trouble. I am sure you have occupations of your own to attend to.”
“It is no trouble, Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy smiled, and Lizzy felt herself returning it. “No trouble at all.”
Chapter Four
“...this corridor has hardly changed since I was a child. It receives the most traffic, and so Aunt Catherine wisely keeps it free of all but the smallest ornament.” Darcy gestured towards a solid end-table and the one portrait of his uncle that remained on permanent display, a memorial to her husband that Lady Catherine ensur
ed every guest would pass and appreciate.
He was amazed at how much he had enjoyed their short tour of Rosings. Elizabeth had been wonderful company, displaying just the right amount of interest in all that he wished to show her. He had feared, briefly, that she might find the pastime dull, but she had questioned him with interest about the house's former occupants, and his own memories of visiting as a child, so that he spoke quite freely and unselfconsciously to her. He had even succeeded in winning a few of those smiles he had come to look for in Elizabeth's features and once, when he recounted a tale that ended with both he and a friend - it had been Wickham, but for the purposes of his story, his childhood companion remained nameless - ended up in the lake that could be seen from the window of a certain study. He recalled his uncle's hammering on the window and enquiring upon whether they intended on tackling Poseidon before or after taking tea, and would they like his assistance. He smiled, faintly, at the memory. His uncle had been as friendly as his aunt was proud, and in that instance, he missed him, wishing Elizabeth might have had the chance to meet him, just once.
“And here, you see, we reach the parlour once more.” He opened the door with a flourish, anticipating by its silence that it was empty.
“Oh!” An exclamation was followed by an embarrassed feminine laugh, and Darcy recognised his cousin, Anne, hurriedly stuff something into her reticule and stand. “William!” she exclaimed, happily. “And -” She turned a curious glance towards his companion.
“Elizabeth - Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, quickly. “Forgive us, cousin, I did not realise you were here.” He nodded, stiffly, and the gesture was returned in a polite curtsey from Anne towards her guests.
“Nor I you!” She smiled, and turned towards Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. I must apologise for being absent on your arrival this afternoon.”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth said, warmly. “I do hope your friend is faring rather better after your visit?”
“My...friend?” Anne frowned.
“Aunt Catherine said you were visiting a friend who was unfortunately under the weather,” Darcy interposed. “Lady Dalrymple? I hope that she was cheered by your presence, cousin.”
“Oh.” Anne’s frown faded, but did not entirely disappear. “Yes, she is quite well.”
“That is good news,” Elizabeth said, after a moment’s awkward silence fell over the room. “It can be of such concern when those one cares for suffer.”
“Indeed.” Anne glanced behind them towards the door, and Darcy took her cue.
“I wonder if you would care to join us for tea, cousin? I believe there is still some time before dinner, and I wonder that your afternoon's visit might not have left you fatigued.
“No -” Anne stammered. “That is, yes,” she smiled, ruefully. “In fact, I am quite tired. I hope you will not be unduly offended if I refuse, in this instance, and take to my room for an hour's rest before this evening.” She glanced towards Elizabeth. “Do, please, forgive me my rudeness, Miss Bennet. I hope we might be properly introduced and converse a little more freely this evening.”
With one last curtsey, Anne excused herself and Darcy and Elizabeth found themselves alone, but for a servant, who Darcy summoned to request a small tea tray be brought for them.
“I hope your cousin is herself quite well!” Elizabeth said, as she glanced at the contents of a small shelf on one wall. “I do not like to think that our presence forced her to leave her sanctuary.” Her eyes sparkled, and Darcy smiled.
“There are plenty of rooms that might make her a better one, if her intention was truly to remain undiscovered,” he said, lightly. “I half expected Richard - Colonel Fitzwilliam - to be in here, for he was at a loss for occupation when I left him.”
“Perhaps he has found some, at last,” Elizabeth said, running her fingertip along the spines of a small collection of books that sat, undisturbed, in a corner. Her voice was tinged with distraction, and Darcy was eager to know which title had caught her attention. At last, he could bear it no longer, and asked.
“Do you see any titles you recognise?”
Elizabeth jerked her head up, and smiled, guiltily, at him.
“You have caught me out!” she said, stepping away from the books, and closer to the centre of the room, where he was standing. Folding her arms across her front, she lifted her shoulders in surrender. “I think you can tell a lot about a person by the books they choose to read.”
“Indeed?” Darcy arched an eyebrow. “And what insights have you gained to my aunt?”
“She is fond of romances.” Elizabeth’s eyes shone wickedly.
“Aunt Catherine?” Darcy snorted.
“Perhaps these belong to her daughter, then,” Elizabeth said. “I do not criticise the collection: there are a few titles among it that I have read and enjoyed.”
“You like to read, Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy had intended it for a question, but his words came out flat, and she took them for a statement of fact.
“You do not approve, Mr Darcy?”
“On the contrary, I think it encouraging when a young lady seeks to improve her mind with reading.” He paused, a sly smile crossing his face. “Depending, of course, on what she chooses to read.”
“Ah, you would not, I think, approve of at least one of these titles.” She glanced back towards the books, and smiled. “The Mysteries of Udolpho.” She grinned wickedly. “It is thrilling, indeed. Murder, intrigue, and such drama!” She clasped her hands in an affectation of despair. “Mr Darcy, such a tale I can barely describe to one as sensible as you. But it entertains us country folk very well.”
Their tea arrived, and Darcy took advantage of the activity to compose his response to her comment. They sat in seats close to one another, but at enough distance that Darcy felt safe to pose his question.
“Do you think me dull, Miss Elizabeth?”
This evidently caught Elizabeth off-guard, for she lifted her eyes to his, and for the tiniest moment she looked upset, anxious, perhaps, that he had read a personal slight into her comment.
“I did not say that, Mr Darcy.”
“Ah, but you do not deny it.” He sighed. “I am not offended, for I confess there is an element of truth in your opinion.” He met her gaze and held it, surprised when she did not immediately look away. “But only an element.”
“RICHARD...?” A FEEBLE voice reached Colonel Fitzwilliam from Lady Catherine’s sitting room, and Richard cursed inwardly, slowing his step, and peering around the doorframe.
“I hope I did not disturb you, Aunt?”
He had deliberately walked on tip-toe as he neared her rooms, hoping to pass without notice and thus avoid the interview he felt certain was waiting for him, once she could secure him to herself, without fear of interruption. Alas, he had apparently not succeeded, for a bony hand summoned him forward.
“At my age,” she said, haughtily. “Everything is a disturbance. Even one’s nephews, despite their best attempts at not being.” She smiled, but it was not the picture of affection she intended, and Richard felt the full weight of her criticism. “Now, I wish to speak to you and am glad that we may do so alone, without the distraction of your other guests.”
There was a heavy emphasis, intended or otherwise, on “your”, and Richard wondered whether she was quite so content to have welcomed Mary and Elizabeth to Rosings as she had claimed. A flare of anger burned in his chest, for he was ready to defend his choice of a bride against whatever criticism his aunt dared to levy against her.
“Tell me, how do you find Fitzwilliam?” Lady Catherine’s voice was calm and measured, but Richard detected a note of undisguised interest.
“Find him? Why, he is himself, as usual,” Richard replied. “Do not you think?”
“He seems a little distracted,” Lady Catherine said. “And I fear, had you not been already planning on visiting Rosings, that he might have found an excuse not to call on us. You know it has been quite some time since
he was last here. I fear - I fear he is forming other attachments.” Her lips quirked. “Or, rather, others are attempting to form attachments with him.”
“Darcy does not form attachments easily,” Richard remarked, cheerfully. “So you need not worry about him being entrapped into a marriage he does not wish for, if that is your concern.”
“Fitzwilliam,” Lady Catherine said, sternly. “Is too much a gentleman to truly believe women capable of the orchestrations I know only too well.”
Richard smiled, but said nothing. Orchestrations you know, or orchestrations you have yourself attempted? he asked his aunt, silently.
“It is perhaps a good thing that it is I who have come to Rosings with a bride in tow and not Darcy, then, is not it?”
Lady Catherine harrumphed, but Richard's bald attempt to change the subject was not entirely unsuccessful.
“Yes. Miss Mary...” She tilted her head first one way, and then another. “She is not who I pictured you finding happiness with, Richard...”
“Oh?” There was a note of challenge he could scarcely keep out of his voice. He did not intend to be disrespectful to his aunt, or to challenge her freely on their very first night under her roof, but equally, he did not intend to listen to her list reasons why he ought not to marry precisely whom he wished to.
“Oh, I do not disapprove of the choice,” Lady Catherine said, waving away Richard’s concerns with a flick of her wrist. “How can I? We have scarcely met, nor shared two words together.” She smiled, and Richard noticed, not for the first time, how cat-like her expression could turn in an instant.
“How well acquainted are you with her sister?”
There was an affectation of calm about his aunt’s question that did not deceive Richard for even a moment.
