Page 1 of Rosings Park (Happily Ever Afterlife #2)
CHAPTER ONE
March 1813, Kent
“ D earest, we shall arrive shortly.”
Elizabeth roused to the gentle murmur of her husband’s voice against her forehead, his lips brushing her skin with each syllable. Her mouth curled up at the corners, and she snuggled deeper into his warmth. “Mm, wake me when we get there.”
A soft rumble vibrated in Darcy’s chest, and he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Come now, we are almost to the parsonage. I dare say we shall arrive at our destination within a quarter of an hour.”
With a groan, Elizabeth complied, sitting up and stretching the stiffness from her limbs as she gazed out of the carriage window. The morning had begun fine, but somewhere along the road to Kent the sky had clouded over, and spattering drizzle had descended upon the land. It appeared to her that all the colour had been drained from the world, leaving behind a dull, dreary grey. The only brightness beyond the cosy confines of their conveyance was in the yellow daffodils growing in clumps along the side of the lane. Shivering, she rubbed her arms as a chill assaulted her through her pelisse. Outside the circle of her husband’s embrace was far less pleasant than within.
They had travelled down from Pemberley the day after receiving Lord Matlock’s letter announcing the unanticipated demise of Anne de Bourgh and were presently undertaking the final stage of their journey to Rosings Park to attend the funeral. Darcy had not wanted to go; he had not been on speaking terms with his aunt since she had learnt of their marriage and sent him an abusive letter denouncing it—or so Elizabeth assumed, having not been allowed to actually read the missive before it had been consigned to the fire—but at last he had been convinced of the necessity. Not only to pay respects to his cousin’s memory and Lady Catherine’s bereavement but also to uphold familial harmony.
On that score, Elizabeth had a delicate matter to discuss with her husband. “I have been thinking, and I feel we should keep my pregnancy to ourselves whilst we reside at Rosings. It would be awkward and unfeeling to announce that we are to have a child so soon after your aunt has lost one.”
“On Lady Catherine’s behalf, I agree. I would not wish to compound her grief. However, I shall likely inform my uncle and cousins, if only to explain why we shall not be taking part in the Season.”
“Not that I am especially keen to be paraded about, but I do not mind attending a few soirées to please your family. ”
“Absolutely not!” Darcy looked aghast at the very thought. “London is a dirty, smelly place at the best of times, and I shall not have you exposed to it in your fragile state. What if the filth should harm you? Or the babe? To say nothing of the great burden upon your constitution from staying out till the small hours amidst the excesses of society. No, we shall adjourn to Pemberley once our duty to Lady Catherine is dispatched. There, at least, one can breathe freely.”
Elizabeth took his nearest hand within hers and gave it a placatory squeeze. “There is no great need to argue your case to me, my love. I am perfectly satisfied to be at home for my confinement.”
They fell into a comfortable silence after that, and Elizabeth turned her attention to the window to discern how close they were to the manor. She was just in time to see it appear like a withered apparition through the mist.
Rosings, unlike Pemberley, had always appeared incompatible with its environment. The woods surrounding the park were gloriously untamed and full of life, while the house gave a distinctly opposite impression of cold superiority. It relied entirely on the awkward taste of man instead of harmonising with the glory of God’s creation, striking a discordant note.
The manor house stood three storeys tall, save for the occasional turret that rose above the main structure, and gave the impression of general stoutness. The facade was constructed principally of grey stone, beaten, stained, and discoloured by generations of weather. Prickly spires rose up to the sky, and along the edge of the roof at evenly spaced points, statues of snarling dragons stood guard over the mansion, rain dribbling from their open maws and falling to the ground below in a trickling cascade.
The windows were arched and pointed at the top, several of them boasting colourful panes in complex patterns. There was one particularly large, round window featuring some indecipherable tableau that had previously incited Elizabeth’s curiosity. Unfortunately, it did not belong to any of the public rooms, so she had never been privileged enough to study it save from afar. Much as she could discern from a distance, a kneeling gentleman was presenting a flower to his lady, but without a closer look she could not determine which grand tale of romantic adventure it depicted.
The entrance was similarly arched into a point above a pair of doors. They were painted a vivid red, with great iron rings and nails as adornment. The knocker mimicked the menacing beasts on the roof, glaring at visitors and almost daring them to disturb the inhabitants within. Between the ironwork and the unwelcoming dragon warden, it reminded Elizabeth of nothing so much as the drawbridge to an ancient castle. All the house is missing is a moat to keep the riffraff like me at bay , she thought with wry amusement.
As the carriage drew to a stop at the foot of the steps, an austere butler emerged from the stronghold with an umbrella held aloft. Several footmen, also bearing umbrellas, followed him out and descended the steps to assist. After an agonisingly slow progression from the vehicle to the entrance hall, they at last made it inside where, after divesting themselves of gloves and hats in the antechamber, Darcy proceeded to fuss over the slight dampness of her attire.
“You will need to change immediately,” he said, dabbing at her with a towel provided by a servant. “I will not have you catch your death of cold.”
Elizabeth gently batted his hands away. “I have endured far worse than a light drizzle.”
“That was before?—”
The stilted voice of Lady Catherine echoed from somewhere deeper within the house, cutting Darcy’s coddling short. “Is that my nephew at last? Send him in!”
Darcy’s eyes closed for a long moment, and he breathed in a deep, steadying breath. Upon opening them, he said to Elizabeth, “Let me call for the housekeeper so you can be taken to your rooms. You cannot stand about in those wet clothes.”
“Let us greet your family first. Then we may refresh ourselves together.”
Darcy sighed. “But then I insist that you lie down until dinner.”
Elizabeth was inclined to roll her eyes but subdued the impulse. Instead, she took Darcy’s arm and did her best to appear demure for the sake of her new relations. As yet, she had not been introduced to any of the Fitzwilliams, save for the colonel and Lady Catherine, and she hoped to impress them with her gentility. Or if not impress them, at least force them to concede that she was not the horror they were expecting.
The interior of the house was divided distinctly in half, with two main corridors separated by a grand staircase— also flanked by dragons in the form of newel posts and carpeted in a deep red. Above them, at the head of the stairs, was an enormous arched window and a line of lesser slender ones that provided light to the cavernous space. Below and to the left was the portion of the house she was most familiar with, but the right was something of a mystery to her. She knew the left to contain numerous parlours and the dining room, but she could not guess what was hidden down the other hall. A conservatory? A ballroom? More of the same? It was difficult to say in a house of this size and grandeur, but whatever mysterious chambers it possessed were not often revealed to visitors. Or not to those beneath Lady Catherine’s consequence, at least. A more elevated guest might be granted the privilege of a proper tour.
They followed Percy, the butler, down the left corridor towards Lady Catherine’s favourite drawing room. It was the one Elizabeth and Charlotte had previously dubbed the ‘Throne Room’ due to the enormous chair presiding over the rest of the furniture. It was a beastly thing of writhing swirls, gilded with ormolu and cushioned in carmine velvet. Elizabeth could not imagine it was especially comfortable but supposed that what it lacked in that regard it made up for in ostentation. Lady Catherine liked to sit upon it and issue orders or dole out advice to whoever happened to be at hand, exactly as a monarch was wont to do.
Inside, her eye was immediately drawn to where Lady Catherine, dressed in black, reclined upon her throne before the ornately rendered stone fireplace. Her bearing was regal, her person was dripping in gleaming ornamentation, and her fingers were intertwined atop the head of a silver-tipped cane that she seemed to go nowhere without despite having no apparent need for it—the lady was as spry as a woman half her age. Dressed head to toe in mourning black, she looked exactly as one might imagine the queen of the underworld would appear to her subjects. An enormous painting of King Arthur pulling Excalibur from a stone above Lady Catherine’s head drew Elizabeth’s eye. Or perhaps Queen Guinevere.
Her company was arranged about her in a semi-circle of matching lesser chairs and sofas upholstered in the same red velvet. The Fitzwilliams were a pale lot, their appearance lightened further by their distinctive white-blond hair. The family resemblance amongst them was remarkable; they shared the same general height, form, and colouring, and each of them, without exception, sported the grey Fitzwilliam eyes. It was rather unnerving to be assiduously peered at with the same gaze from so many alike, expressionless faces. Eerie, even. Although Darcy sported the same grey eyes, Elizabeth had never felt any creeping disquiet from any of his looks. Then again , she considered, it transpires that he was always looking to admire rather than censure.
Out of all the faces present, Elizabeth only recognised one aside from their hostess: Colonel Fitzwilliam. He stood apart from most of his family with his reddish hair, which Elizabeth supposed he must have inherited from his mother’s side.
They collectively stood as the Darcys entered, observing the newcomers closely.
“I suppose this must be your…wife,” said an older man, perhaps of around sixty years. He eyed Elizabeth askance as if expecting the worst .
Elizabeth felt Darcy tense beside her. “Indeed, Uncle. May I present my wife, Elizabeth Darcy?”
The gentleman, now confirmed to be the Earl of Matlock, snorted lightly but said nothing.
A glance at her husband proved that his jaw was tight with displeasure. Elizabeth placed her free hand upon his forearm in a comforting gesture, and he relaxed, if only slightly.
The rest of the introductions were made promptly. In addition to Lord Matlock, Darcy made known to her his aunt Lady Matlock and their eldest son, Viscount Marbury. The former was polite, if rather distant, while the viscount’s lip curled in disdain as he muttered, “Charmed.”
“And where is Georgiana?” demanded Lady Catherine, arching her neck and looking about as if she expected her niece to magically appear behind Elizabeth and Darcy.
Elizabeth bit her lower lip to prevent a smile from sprouting upon her face. Georgiana might have accompanied them to pay her respects to Miss de Bourgh were it not for the abject terror she felt towards Lady Catherine. Darcy had made a weak attempt to persuade his sister out of her fear but ultimately had not the heart to defend their aunt. As a result, Georgiana remained in London with the newly married Bingleys, happily assisting Jane in the decoration of their recently acquired lodgings on Brook Street until the Darcys returned to collect her.
“She remains in town. I thought her constitution too delicate for such a sorrowful occasion,” Darcy replied stiffly. Just as Lady Catherine opened her mouth, presumably to object, he continued, rather brusquely, “My wife requires a chance to rest and refresh herself. Might we be led to our rooms?”
Lady Catherine scoffed. “You have only just arrived.”
“Yes, and we are fatigued from the journey. Do not forget that we have travelled all the way from Pemberley.”
Lady Catherine barked at the footman on duty to fetch her housekeeper, Mrs Knight. The lady appeared and was given orders to show the Darcys to their guest chambers, to which she curtseyed and complied.