Page 5 of Lizzie’s Spirit

Darcy hailed a hackney, gave the direction to number forty-four Grosvenor Square, Darcy House, and swung adroitly up the step onto the passenger bench.

It had been some fourteen months since he had made the journey from his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn to the House , as the family called it.

After such a long period of time, he and his father, he hoped, might be able to partake of rational discourse rather than descending into recrimination and anger.

Little time remained to seal the breach.

The House fronted Grosvenor Square, but its entrance had been moved to Charles Street some ten years before.

Surmounted by a canted bay rising through the first and second floors and standing on two columns, the portico lent the building an imposing facade.

Darcy ascended the steps; the door opened, and Winthrop, the butler, greeted him:

“Master Fitzwilliam, what a pleasure to see you.”

“Yes, indeed, Winthrop. Too long, perhaps. Is my father at home?”

“Let me enquire, sir.” A footman stepped up and took Darcy’s hat, cane, and gloves.

Darcy nodded his thanks and looked around the spacious anteroom.

The decorated ceiling was outfitted with ornate plasterwork of incised Greek-key patterns but without the illusionistic paintings, which lately had become fashionable; the hall was illuminated by two Venetian windows.

His mother, Lady Anne, had preferred an elegant stateliness rather than brash modernism.

But Darcy had never felt comfortable in the House.

He and his elder brother, Frederick, had seldom stayed here, spending their time as children at Pemberley, then at school, and afterwards at Cambridge.

“He is in the library, sir.”

“Thank you, Winthrop. I know the way.”

The south-facing library situated on the ground floor was undoubtedly the finest room in the house.

Its walls were treated as a round-headed arcade on Ionic pilasters, between which were set the bookshelves, and, on the south side, three windows overlooked the courtyard garden.

Free-standing columns defined two vaulted aisles; the library fittings were grained to imitate satinwood.

“Ah, Fitzwilliam. The prodigal son returned, no less!” George Darcy was a tall, heavy man in his middle fifties.

He possessed a natural vigour, but long residence in London, without the exercise that comes naturally when living on a country estate, had resulted in a flabbiness to his figure, which, while not excessive for a man of his age, disquieted Darcy.

He had always recalled his father as a big, strong man, able to intimidate merely by his powerful presence. This man was somehow diminished.

“It’s good to see you, too, Father.” Darcy shook his head.

“You should study your Bible more closely. If I had taken my inheritance, squandered it, and then returned, your intimation may be correct. But my study of the law has been very profitable. My allowance, which you so kindly bestow on me, sits untouched at the five percents with Mastermans.”

“Fitzwilliam, ever so prickly! Sit, and I will attempt to restrain my tongue. A glass of wine?—This is an excellent Madeira, just arrived on that merchant’s ship… you know the one, has warehouses off Cheapside.”

“In Cheapside? Certainly not. But yes, wine would be excellent.”

Darcy waited until Winthrop entered, refreshed his father’s glass, and poured for him. He took a sip; indeed, a fine wine of good colour. His father looked towards him, a gleam in his eye, “I understand you visited with Catherine at Rosings a fortnight ago. Is there a forthcoming announcement?”

“Yes, there is an announcement.”

His father leant forward in his seat. “So, tell me…”

Darcy laughed. “Just this—that I would wring Lady Catherine’s neck.”

“How so?”

“For her scheme to remove her vicar, Mr. Collins, from the Hunsford living.” He paused, looking directly at his father.

“Do you still hold to the egregious misapprehension of my marrying Cousin Anne? Oh, for Jove’s sake, let it be, sir! Our parting before over this matter was ill-tempered and resentful. I pray now we can address the issue differently. I will never offer for Anne.”

Mr. Darcy harrumphed, piqued by his son’s dismissal of what many would see as a splendid match.

“Fitzwilliam, listen to me, and then, if you are of the same mind, while I may disdain your position, you’ll not be subjected to further argument.

” Stiffly, the younger Darcy stated he was prepared to listen.

“As a second son, you possess no fortune; and, while considered a gentleman by virtue of your being a barrister, likely your children will not be gentry. Can you so diminish the Darcy bloodline? Nothing could be more natural than you should secure your line’s future by marrying Anne.

When five and twenty she inherits Rosings Park.

Your aunt, Lady Catherine, desires it, and the union was your mother’s, Lady Anne’s, dying wish. ”

“No, sir! Mother’s dying wish was that I find felicity in life, above all.

For reasons I fail to comprehend, Lady Catherine alone wishes to unite Pemberley and Rosings.

And when she failed to persuade my brother Frederick to marry Cousin Anne, she concocted the lie that her sister—my mother—desired the match between her daughter and me. ”

Darcy drank the last of his Madeira, stood, and refilled it from the decanter.

“You talk of my line— Anne is weak and sickly; the very concept of her birthing a child is a cruel abomination. If I were to consummate the marriage, I would become her executioner. And outside the marriage bed, would such a marriage be felicitous? She hardly speaks; she has no accomplishments, no interest in literature, and no ability for outdoor pursuits except for driving her phaeton. She would not even be a pleasing ornament in my parlour: she has neither figure nor face; her features are insignificant. My evenings would revolve around wrapping her in shawls and rugs, placing her before the fire, ensuring she was not too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light.”

“Enough! Your oratory defeats me. I see why your skills in court are in much demand.”

“Forgive me, I spoke too strongly. Anne is well enough when away from Lady Catherine. In conversation, she possesses a wry intelligence and remarkably good humour for one so unwell. But, no, I could never marry her.”

They sat in silence, the shadows thrown by the great library windows moving perceptibly across the polished floor.

His father broke the impasse. “But I thought you envied Frederick having Pemberley. George told me you were jealous and resented that, as the younger son, you must work in a profession and hold no estate.”

“So you still listen to the tongue of that worm, George Wickham? In this, sir, you are foolish.”

Darcy’s father twisted in his seat; there was some remorse in his eyes. Again Darcy felt how diminished this man, his sire, had become compared to that ebullient person he last saw twelve months before.

Mr. Darcy senior held up his hands. “Frederick has laid it out before me. Yes, he alluded to Wickham’s vicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from me but not from you or your brother.

To my shame! But Wickham is my godson; it’s my duty to maintain some contact. What would you have me do?”

“So, you have come around and now acknowledge his want of character. I suspect you know he’s also a gamester and fraudster.”

“Indeed, Frederick told me so.”

“Did you know at one time I paid his debts at school? But that act of charity only enabled him to expend more against Darcy credit.” Darcy felt anger rising within him, and only with some force of mind did he calm himself.

“No more! All connection between him, Frederick, and myself was dissolved long ago.” Again he stood, walking to the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed on his father.

“Does he continue to ingratiate himself with you, using your good nature to further his own interests? I warn you, sir, any connection to Wickham will end in ruin.”

His father made to speak, but Darcy continued with some passion.

“Absit invidia verbo —may hostility be absent from my words . Frederick is an excellent manager of the estate: he works closely with the leaseholders, he cares diligently for the cottagers, and he can talk about four crop rotations with labourers, farmers, and dukes alike. He was born to his role and, under your exemplary tutelage, has become a great man. No, Father, I’ve never envied Frederick. He is the finest of brothers.”

Once again silence pervaded the room until Darcy could no longer put off the further disappointment his father would soon know. “But I came not to talk about Anne or Wickham. Those things are behind us. Rather, I’ve found that I and this society do not suit.”

“Whatever can you mean? ”

“Let me explain. Pardon my previous strong words, for I will soon need to seek your forgiveness.

“I am a barrister, sought after, able to expect good reward for my services. But the nature of these services disgusts me… yes, disgust is the proper word. You were correct that I visited with Lady Catherine. She called me to Rosings, rather imperiously, and instructed me to assist the rector, Mr. Collins, to claim his inheritance through an entail on an estate in Hertfordshire. This was urgent, she claimed, and in some mysterious way used her rank and contacts in Chancery to hear his claim in three months rather than the usual three years. How she achieved this priority, I do not know, especially as she sees Lord Eldon, the Lord Chancellor, as nothing but a tradesman. Collins is a fool and sycophant—as are most of those in Lady Catherine’s employ—but she became incensed when he began to make love to Anne through flattery and sweet-talking.