Page 18 of An Offer of Marriage (Engaged to Mr Darcy #7)
TO RANT AND STORM
“ G ood news and bad news, old man,” Fitzwilliam announced as he arrived in Darcy’s breakfast room. “I must give you the bad first; I am afraid else it will lessen the triumph of the good news significantly.”
Darcy sighed. “Out with it, then.”
Fitzwilliam first seated himself, and accepted a cup of coffee from the servant before speaking. “Lady Catherine and Anne have come to town.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “Dreadful news for your family, though I cannot see how it will affect me.”
“They wish to have an audience with you. Lady Catherine said, specifically, that it is in your best interest to come to them.”
“No,” Darcy replied firmly. “I still feel an ache when I breathe. If I never see that caterwauling harpy?—”
“Lady Catherine insists that she has news of which you must be made aware. She says she will have Anne remain in her bedchamber if you should prefer it. ”
There was something in Fitzwilliam’s countenance that made Darcy pause. “It seems you think I ought to heed the summons. What is it?”
Fitzwilliam appeared decidedly discomfited, shifting in his chair and staring at his coffee cup. “One never wishes for a breach in the family.”
“Something tells me there is more to it than that.”
“The tale is not mine to tell. But I do think you ought to hear what she has to say. And see what she wishes to show you.”
“Show me?” The sense of peace, the surety of his happiness, had begun to leach away. “Is this something to do with Elizabeth? Because I do not trust my aunt?—”
Fitzwilliam held up his hand, palm towards Darcy in a gesture to stop him. “I do not ask you to trust her. I would not trust either of them, frankly, were it me. But I would trust Mrs Collins.”
“Mrs Collins! What has she to do with it?”
“Darcy. Pray, let us go to my aunt and you may see for yourself. Perhaps you will call it all a humbug and give no more thought to it than that.”
Darcy stared at his cousin through narrowed eyes, a sickening pulse of trepidation rising within his gullet. Fitzwilliam was not easily fooled. And clearly he felt something was afoot here, something worth Darcy’s attention.
He stood, tossing his napkin onto the plate, the eggs he had eaten suddenly roiling within him.
“Do you not wish to finish your breakfast?” Fitzwilliam asked, then hurriedly drained the rest of his coffee.
Darcy merely shook his head. He ought to have known such felicity was not to be his. Yes, he had blessings aplenty in his life—good family and friends, the comforts of wealth, the delights of freedom to do mostly as he pleased. But love? Evidently it could not be.
Stay calm. It is probably nothing. What could it be in any case? Something to do with Mrs Collins? Some youthful something-or-other in Elizabeth’s past? Unless she had a secret child stashed away somewhere, he could not imagine what might signify enough to bring his aunt and cousin to town.
As they began the short walk to the Matlock town house in St James’s Square, he asked, “What is the good news?”
“Only that she means to take Anne to some balls and parties while she is here. I hoped it meant she accepted the notion of another man marrying her.”
“That is excellent for Anne, but it is nothing to do with me,” Darcy replied. “I do not care if I never speak to any de Bourghs ever again in my life.”
“You are certain?” Fitzwilliam asked as they climbed the stair to the front door. “Mr Peter de Bourgh is a charming fellow and has shooting parties to rival none other.”
With a half-hearted chuckle, Darcy said, “Very well, I will make an exception for him .”
After entering the house, Darcy and Fitzwilliam went directly to the drawing room wherein sat Lady Catherine and Lady Matlock. Lady Matlock rose and smiled at them.
“Darcy.” She offered him her cheek. “Come, dearest, sit down. Shall I send for coffee?”
“I thank you but no,” Darcy said. Anxiety made him inwardly tremulous, but he prayed it did not show. He wanted nothing, only that the news might be delivered with the swiftness of a guillotine’s blade.
He took the seat farthest from Lady Catherine who had not yet spoken a word. “Well?” he said in clipped tones. “I do not have all day for fool’s errands.”
“Darcy, you will wish to thank me when you see what I have brought you.”
“Well, then?”
Fitzwilliam had taken a seat nearer to his mother and their aunt and was thus the one handed a folded page of paper. He rose and brought it to Darcy.
“That is a letter,” said Lady Matlock, “from Mrs Collins to someone called Jane.”
Jane Bennet? Darcy did not ask but instead opened the letter, scanning its contents quickly and then slowly. The pain slammed into him immediately, but he did all he could to remain stoic.
“What is this?”
“What does it look like?” Lady Catherine demanded. “The girl confounded you, Darcy. You have not been thinking clearly and now?—”
“How came it to be in your possession? Did Mrs Collins bring it to you?”
“Not intentionally,” Lady Catherine replied. “It was inadvertently attached to something else Mr Collins brought to me.”
“How do I know you did not write it yourself in some attempt to revenge?—”
“You know quite well that is not my hand,” Lady Catherine retorted. And in truth, he did know that. He did not know for certain it was written by Mrs Collins, but he knew neither Lady Catherine nor Anne had written it.
“It could be anyone else’s…” His voice died as he realised what he must do. Whether it was Mrs Collins’s hand or not wa s immaterial. What mattered was whether the words she had written were true.
He rose quickly from his chair. “Excuse me,” he said, already turning to leave. He needed to find Elizabeth, now, confront her, and…and… Well, he knew not. But a storm was brewing within him, and he meant to be far away from Lady Catherine when it was released.
Foolish lady that she was, she rose and came after him.
“Darcy, you must not be angry with your cousin or I,” she said as they both went into the hall.
“Mustn’t I? I beg to differ,” he retorted.
“Go take care of this business, this bit of madness you had with Miss Bennet,” she ordered. “And when that is through, come back. Anne will apologise, and you may as well, and then we can discuss your betrothal.”
He rounded on her. “Understand this: no matter what Elizabeth has or has not done or said, I will not marry Anne. Never. If this is some scheme contrived to force my hand, it has already failed.”
“It is no scheme,” Lady Catherine replied. “And I daresay you know that, else you would not look like you do.”
He despised that she could see through him and, wishing to run as far away as he could, he merely excused himself and left the house.
The walk home was a torment. She was not who he had believed she was. She was a cruel deceiver, hiding her barbs behind a teasing smile and sparkling eyes.
He had always been attracted to her for her sweetness.
There was no other person in the world whom he would have permitted to challenge him as she had.
He recollected even the time they had danced at Netherfield, how she had tasked him with nonsense about Wickham and other things.
He had not been offended by it, although he had come fairly close.
But his belief in her essential goodness had earned her his forgiveness even as the words in support of Wickham fell from her lips.
It seemed he had been very stupid. He remembered still what happy anticipation he had had for that dance.
It had taken him a bit of time to work up the courage required to ask her, and when he finally had, he had been elated by her acceptance.
When at last he had faced her in the line, he almost could not believe it—to dance with her at last!
And then she had proved antagonistic. He had understood it immediately, that she had lately met Wickham and had her ears filled with the blackguard’s lies.
Even bringing Wickham’s name into what was meant to be their time had been a disappointment, but it was nothing to the unhappiness he had felt escorting her back to her friends.
Thinking of it now stoked his anger. She was cruel. There were no two opinions on the matter. She was merely better at hiding it than most ladies.
Calm yourself , he urged himself—to no avail.
His dismay, his disappointment, and his fury were all joining together to produce one hotly metallic jumble of anger.
He hoped and prayed he did not see her until he had had time to ponder what he had learnt, for if he did, if his resentment were allowed to speak for him, he could not imagine a good outcome.