Page 1 of All That Glitters

CHAPTER ONE

December 16 th , 1811

Fitzwilliam Darcy glowered at his aunt.

He did not wish to be here. It would not have been necessary, had she possessed the sense of a goose—and could cease interfering in every single action her steward attempted for the good of Rosings. This was the third steward he had hired for her since Sir Lewis had escaped her for Heaven’s reprieve.

Alas, sense was in short supply, and the man had sent a letter to Darcy saying that he could not endure it any longer, and had decided to seek new work elsewhere, even if he had to travel to America to find it.

“He is an idiot, Darcy! He wishes to chop off the branches of every tree in my orchard, and expects me to pay for it! He is a wastrel, who would denude my beautiful trees simply for the prestige of throwing my money at menials, and so I told him!”

He closed his eyes and willed his tone to remain even. “It is called ‘pruning’ my lady. If it is not undertaken in the winter whilst the tree sleeps, each tree will expend all its vigour in the spring growing unnecessary wood and foliage instead of fruit. It is essential.”

“I daresay. Winter is such a dull time of year, I assumed it was a story of his own invention. But if you insist, I shall naturally comply. If you were to marry Anne, I would, of course, happily allow you to make all of these decisions, and I would not have to waste my time with such tedium.”

And there it was—the extortionate demand: ‘Marry Anne and these problems shall disappear’. But firstly, he had made clear his lack of intentions towards Anne years ago; secondly, she was lying. Lady Catherine liked nothing better than meddling in the lives of anyone and everyone in her purview—she would only have more access to his, if he were foolish enough to marry her only daughter.

“As I have repeatedly said, you are more than welcome to write to me if you have questions regarding the actions of your steward—but unless I say otherwise, you are to follow his quite sensible and reasonable instructions.” His voice rose as the frustration over her clumsy manipulations, resulting in this unnecessary trip to Rosings, rose in force enough to—nearly—mitigate the speech of the gentleman he always strove to be. The look upon her face informed him that she was treating his every word with complete indifference.

“I will not hire you another steward. If you think yourself wiser, feel free to act yourself. Before you do, might I remind you of the nearly criminal destruction you caused your estate by doing just that after your husband’s death? I also promise, as God is my witness, I will not be salvaging Rosings Park again. If you persist in your aggravating and obnoxious interference, you will soon be attending to these issues by yourself, with whatever resources you can muster. I will give you no more of mine.”

“I do not know why you work yourself into such a state,” she sniffed, offended. “I have the situation well in hand. There is no need to be disagreeable.”

She has no idea why I am upset? Never mind that he had been required to cancel several important meetings at the last minute after receiving word from her steward. Never mind that it was bitterly cold and muddy, making travel miserable. Never mind that he had a dejected Bingley on the one hand and a heartbroken sister on the other. Never mind that he had not slept well since departing Netherfield two weeks prior, because as soon as he closed his eyes, he could only see Elizabeth. He knew he ought to refer to her, even in his thoughts, as ‘Miss’…but he had found he could not; not when, in the privacy of his own mind she was no missish, unexceptional, anonymous female. Somehow, she had managed to insinuate herself into his mind, lying in wait to capture his every train of thought. No, formality simply would not do.

Even now, while his aunt blathered on, it was too easy to slip away into his last memory of Elizabeth: dancing with her at the Netherfield ball, her eyes fiery as she defended his worst enemy, her grace and beauty as she twirled around him in the figures of the dance, the sound of her laughter, her wit, her sparkle as she challenged him, the stuff of his waking dreams.

He wanted her with a dangerous sort of wanting he had never before encountered. Sensibly, he had fled her, practically forcing Bingley to abandon Netherfield Park. He had hastened to London, where he expected to shed himself of any foolish romantic notions, submerging them beneath visits to his club, to Gentleman Jackson’s, to the entertainments to be found with friends and family.

Unfortunately, distance had done nothing to quell a passion he could not permit himself to accept.

Meanwhile his aunt bleated on and on about her usefulness, her intuition, her discrimination, her perspicacity, until he thought he might curse.

“See here, Darcy,” she complained, holding up a letter written in a flowery hand. “This is proof received just this morning from my vicar—I have mentioned him before, I think I recall.”

“Collins,” he grimaced, remembering the toady, ingratiating dullard who had dared push himself forward at Netherfield’s ball.

“Yes, Mr Collins,” she said. “He has followed my advice in every particular, and because of it, he has won the prize. Hear this: ‘It remains only to thank your ladyship for your excellent guidance and the wise counsel which led me, a humble man of the cloth, to win the hand of a young lady most modest, gracious, and pleasing to both eye and heart.’”

Someone had agreed to marry that fool? He made a sound of disinterest. It did not stop her.

“I understood when I granted him the benefice that he required a wife, as no congregation with an unwed vicar can properly function. Neither could he marry within the parish—it would create strife and envy.”

Darcy rolled his eyes at the thought of anyone fighting over Collins. His aunt continued to ignore his impatience with the subject, blathering on.

“I knew of course that he is heir to a fine estate in Hertfordshire, possessing five unmarried, female cousins currently living upon it. What could make more sense, I ask you, than that he should take one of them to wife? I despatched him for a visit as soon as he was appropriately settled at Hunsford. He has relied upon me completely to direct his courtship, of course. Recently he wrote to me that he did not think it quite proper that he attend a ball being held by one of the neighbours. I told him very directly that an entertainment of this kind—given by a respectable neighbour, for respectable people—could not have any evil tendency, and that he not only should participate, but that he should ask the cousin of his choice for the first set. I do not believe in squandering opportunities!”

Darcy’s exasperation with the subject had impaired the speed with which he made the proper deductions. Slowly, however, his aunt’s meaning dawned upon him.

He was aware that Collins was Elizabeth’s cousin. The man himself had made sure he knew it. He also knew with whom Collins had danced the first set at Bingley’s ball. He had watched Elizabeth carefully during the whole of it. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard. Indeed, he had watched the buffoon squash her toes twice! Darcy could, in fact, name every single one of Elizabeth’s partners; he had followed her with his eyes all that evening, as she laughed and danced and charmed the world. He remained convinced, from his careful scrutiny, that she had not received Collins’s attentions with pleasure, and certainly did not invite them by any participation of sentiment.

What his aunt implied now was that the vicar had asked Elizabeth—dearest, loveliest Elizabeth—to be his bride!

A flash of fury charged through his body like lightning. “The clumsy oaf spent most of his time stomping upon his partners’ feet,” he spat. “No one would want to dance twice with him, much less marry the fellow.”

Lady Catherine looked genuinely confused at his response. “Darcy, do not be an idiot. Females—especially those without means—do not select husbands for their skill at the Scotch reel, but for their ability to provide for a home and children. I daresay any woman would be eager to receive his proposal.” She glanced down at her letter again before continuing.

“He was somewhat put off by her lack of fortune—but I advised him to make no demand of that nature upon her father. ‘All that glitters is not gold,’ I told him. If she has been properly brought up and can keep a good house, those are the talents which will serve you best. In return, you might generously overlook her poverty.”

Unbidden, a vision of Elizabeth clothed in her pale golden gown, smiling, swept over his vision, replacing his view of Lady Catherine’s strong features, momentarily stealing his breath. The Bennet poverty! How he despised it! Elizabeth was wealthy in ample portions of beauty and wit, desirable in every other way. How was it possible that her parents should have permitted her to yoke herself to a fool?

“I admit, his decision to purchase a licence and marry her quickly does not show his frugality in the best light,” she said, still scanning the page. “But her mother insisted the wedding take place swiftly, and he thought it wise not to appear reluctant. Her father—although he had quite a bit to say about it—yielded to her wishes.”

The thought of Elizabeth suffering the meaty paws of Collins upon her person caused a sudden wave of nausea to roll through him. Her mother! Certainly her mother had insisted upon the match; the woman thought of nothing except marrying off her daughters and preserving her standing in the community. Her father would want his Longbourn estate to remain in the family. Elizabeth was simply a victim of her parents’ greed.

“Foolish man!” Lady Catherine smiled benignly. “He is impatient to fill his nursery, but who could blame him! Especially if she is as lovely as he claims, his haste is understandable. Ah, whatever you think of my age, I, too, remember what it was like to be young and impetuous! On my wedding day, Sir Lewis—although several inches shorter than I, was such an eager groom, with such a creative mind, and such flexibility?—”

Darcy abruptly stood, sending his chair screeching back at least a foot. “If you will excuse me madam,” he said, interrupting any possibility of hearing more. “I have urgent business in town and must take my leave. You will allow Mr Twitchard to prune, to pluck, to chop the blasted orchard down if he sees fit, and henceforth stay out of his way.”

“But Darcy, you cannot have come all this way only to turn around and leave within the hour! It is impossible! Ridiculous! You have not yet seen Anne! She will be so disappointed to have missed you!”

Since Anne had about as much interest in him as he did in hearing of Sir Lewis’s elasticity, he gave leave to doubt. “You will convey her my apologies,” he replied, and strode from the room.