Page 9 of Rosings Park (Happily Ever Afterlife #2)
CHAPTER NINE
T he morning of Anne’s funeral dawned more cheerfully than Darcy felt was appropriate, given the circumstances. The sky was a soft blue, there were no clouds to mar it, and the sun provided a pleasant warmth. The top of Anne’s tower could be seen peeking above the trees, enchantingly whimsical as ever. It was not at all the sort of farewell he had hoped for his cousin, whose death ought to be mourned by the world itself.
As Darcy approached the lych-gate where Collins stood ready, his uncle and male cousins proceeding ahead of him, the church bell began tolling. It rang in the usual pattern—twice, twice again, twice a third and final time—before counting out the years of Anne’s short life with a succession of individual strikes. By the time he and his kin had reached the unctuous parson, only a light echo lingered on the air.
The sight of Anne’s coffin, settled under the awning of the lych-gate, caused Darcy’s throat to tighten. It was so odd to consider that his dear cousin was inside that box, and soon, within the hour, she would join her father in the de Bourgh vault. Life would then proceed almost as if she had never been amongst them. Her family would wear black in her honour for a period of weeks, maybe less, before returning to the colours they preferred. She would be mentioned occasionally, but not often, and then it was entirely possible that they would cease to think of her at all. For such a kind-hearted, gentle young woman to have amounted to so little in the hearts of those who ought to have loved her best was a travesty of the highest order.
And yet, Darcy knew that he himself would likely fall into the same pattern. He would always recall Anne with fondness, but he would continue to live—God willing—and thrive with his growing family long after his beloved cousin was interred. He might think of her in the spring, when he always used to see her, but he had other concerns to tend to: the demands of Pemberley and various social obligations, to say nothing of Elizabeth and any children they might have.
Darcy swallowed hard against the lump in his throat as his fears for Elizabeth’s wellbeing rose up and joined his grief for Anne in attempting to choke him. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in deeply through his nose and out of his mouth, struggling to quell the mounting panic.
Mr Collins bestowed upon them an expression he must have thought to be sympathetic. “A solemn and most mournful good morning to you, gentlemen,” said he with a deep bow at the waist. How one could have a ‘solemn and mournful good morning’, Darcy could not say, but Collins rarely appeared to consider his words before speaking. “You have my most heartfelt condolences. Miss de Bourgh was a jewel among women, a noble and gentle beauty, the pinnacle of her sex?—”
“Yes, yes, now let us begin before the rest of us expire as well,” interrupted Lord Matlock. Unlike his sister, the earl had no patience for sycophants.
“Of-of course,” Collins stammered, staring at the earl with bulging eyes. “This way.”
The parson turned and all but scampered towards the church, tripping once on the hem of his vestments. His uncle and cousins followed without a glance at Anne’s coffin, but Darcy paused a moment to touch it with reverence before continuing on his way.
Inside the church, Darcy sat in the family pew and directed his unfocused gaze to Collins while he droned on from the pulpit. Funerals were meant to be a straightforward sort of ceremony, but Collins could never resist an opportunity to exalt his beloved patroness—even when she was not present.
Darcy was not pleased with Lady Catherine for how she had spoken of and treated Elizabeth, but he ought to remember that her daughter’s funeral was taking place before his eyes and abstain from his bitterness for the present. For all her faults, Lady Catherine had loved Anne—no doubt loved her still, as even death could not take that from her—and wanted the best for her, even when that desire conflicted with what Anne had wanted for herself .
Poor Anne, constantly under her mother’s well-meaning but unrelenting thumb. Once, not long after his father’s death, when Darcy had foreseen no possible happiness in his own future, he had offered to rescue his cousin from Lady Catherine’s reign.
It was the first Easter after George Darcy’s death and likewise the first journey to Rosings Darcy had undertaken without him. In previous years, whenever Lady Catherine would begin badgering the younger Darcy to marry her daughter, the elder would put a stop to it.
“It is Fitzwilliam’s choice, and I am certain he will make a good one when the time is right,” George Darcy would say with a stern and knowing expression meant for Lady Catherine. “As for this notion that my wife supported the match, she never said as much to me, so I will thank you to stop bandying that about.”
That year had been different. Lady Catherine’s arguments were no more convincing than before, nor did Darcy feel any change in sentiment towards Anne, but with his father gone and the future bleak, he was inclined to make at least someone happy. Not his aunt, but rather his cousin; Anne was miserable at Rosings, and he had the ability to remove her. If he could improve her lot in life, did he not have the obligation to do so?
The only potential drawback—apart from taking on Lady Catherine as a mother-in-law—was that Anne had always been of indifferent health, and there was no guarantee she could bear children safely. With that in mind, as well as what had happened to his own mother, Darcy was inclined to forgo procreation entirely. Pemberley was not encumbered by entail, and he was perfectly amenable to settling his assets on Georgiana and any children she might one day have.
He found Anne seated with her mother in the drawing room, slowly drifting off to sleep before the fire as Mrs Jenkinson fussed over her and Lady Catherine snapped orders at her daughter’s increasingly flustered companion from her ugly gilded chair. It pained him to witness such a scene, but Darcy reassured himself that it would not be thus for long.
“Anne,” he called out, startling her into full wakefulness. “It is a fine day out. Why do we not take a drive?”
Lady Catherine’s face lit with unholy glee, and she pounced on the idea. “Yes, yes, a drive is just the thing. It will do wonders for your complexion. Up, Anne—up I say! Your cousin is waiting.”
Darcy bit his tongue against bidding his aunt to let Anne rise at her own pace, knowing anything he said would only enflame Lady Catherine’s badgering.
In relatively short order—impeded rather than assisted by his aunt’s meddling—he had loaded Anne into her phaeton and taken up the reins. Once they were out of sight of the house, he attempted to pass them to his cousin, who was an excellent driver, but she shook her head. “I thank you, no. I ought not to be driving in my condition.”
Concern furrowed Darcy’s brow. “Are you unwell? Should I take you back to the house?”
“My stomach hurts, and I am a mite dizzy, but it will pass. The fresh air is already doing me some good.”
Although he remained ill at ease, he overlooked it; she hated it when he and Fitzwilliam coddled her, and he had learnt to abide by her wishes. Instead, he guided the horses to Anne’s favourite place on the grounds, the ruins her father had built at the height of his daft renovations to the manor. Later on, when Anne had taken a liking to the tower, Sir Lewis had repurposed it to her tastes, creating a haven for his beloved daughter where her mother could not be bothered to tread. Back then, she had delighted in his stories about King Arthur’s noble deeds and had dreamt of living in a castle of her own. In Darcy’s opinion, Rosings already looked rather like something sprung from the pages of a storybook, but Anne was not satisfied, and her indulgent father had taken great pleasure in gifting her the palace of her dreams—or a piece of one, at any rate.
Anne’s tower was set within the woodland just far enough to be obscured by the trees, all save for the turret at the top. It was roughly three storeys tall, made of local stone that was intentionally roughened to look weathered by age, and had a single room at the top for Anne to hide away in whenever she pleased. It looked as if it might fall over at the slightest gust of wind, but then it was meant to; inside, it was structurally sound and comfortably furnished. Lady Catherine did not like it, declaring that she preferred to have her daughter safely at home under her supervision, but Sir Lewis had never been much in the habit of listening to his wife.
Darcy tugged the horses to a stop before the artfully crumbling structure and gazed up at it, looking back into the past. It was not so long ago that he and Fitzwilliam had gambolled about the base, battling invisible enemies in defence of their stronghold. Anne would lean out of one of the smaller windows, waving a handkerchief and wailing for them to rescue her from some imaginary foe, usually an ogre, dragon, or evil witch. They always managed their daring feats by dinner time, then rushed back to the manor as champions. Now it was time to play hero again.
“Anne,” Darcy began, then cleared his throat. He was unaccountably nervous, doubt niggling at the back of his mind, but continued regardless. “I have been thinking that your mother’s desire for us to marry is not such a bad notion after all. What do you think?”
Anne, who had been staring inattentively at the wood as they drove through it, whipped about and fixed him with a look of utter revulsion. “I think you have lost your senses.”
Straightening his spine, he fixed his cousin with the famed Darcy glower. “I am of perfectly sound mind, thank you. What about marrying me strikes you as so unpalatable?”
“You are nearly a brother to me,” replied Anne with a droll twist to her mouth. “Have you thought about what it would be like to kiss me?”
Darcy could not help it; he felt the muscles of his face contract with disgust. He straightened his expression again quickly, but Anne had already seen and laughed at him.
“If you cannot even countenance the prospect of a kiss, then what hope do you have of taking me to the marriage bed? I cannot say that I know precisely what it entails, but the village women are quite clear that it is more than kissing.”
“Forgive me, I had not meant to insult you. There is naught wrong with you on that score.” So he said, but in truth Darcy did not find Anne attractive. She was extremely thin and had a waxy pallor that did not appear healthy. Her pronounced features might have been handsome with some flesh on her bones, but the sunken quality of her cheeks only emphasised the sharp angles in an unflattering way. Her white-blonde hair not only never held a curl but fell lank about her face like tattered curtains. She was far from the sprightly brunettes he tended to prefer.
Anne waved her hand at him as if it were nothing, though it must have stung. “Never fear, I do not find you particularly attractive either.”
This took Darcy aback. He did not like to consider himself vain, but he had mirrors and was reasonably assured that he was a handsome gentleman. He was tall, of an athletic build, had all his teeth, and his hair was thick upon his head, to say nothing of the strong patrician features he had inherited from his father. Part of the reason he was so desirable to unmarried ladies lay in the prospect of bedding a suitably wealthy man who did not look like their grandfathers. Or Marbury, who was growing increasingly doughy about the middle.
Anne laughed again, and while it was nice to hear, it did not soothe his ruffled feathers. “Do not look at me like that. Even were you not my brother in nearly every way, I do not care for tall, dark gentlemen who scowl at everything that moves. I prefer a more cheerful aspect.”
“Like Fitzwilliam?”
He thought he saw a light flush rise on Anne’s cheeks, but it was difficult to tell in the shade of her bonnet. “I am not inclined to marry him either. I am not suited to marriage for the simple fact that I am not healthy enough to carry children, and men require heirs. Even when they do not, I am told they come in any case.”
“I think you mistake me. I am proposing that we do not…that we never…” Darcy huffed in frustration at his own babbling. “Blast, this is an awkward business. Suffice to say, I shall not expect any children from you.”
“You would deprive Pemberley of an heir?”
“My estate is not entailed, and I can dispose of it how I wish. I have no need of a child of my own blood.”
Anne’s expression was unmistakably dubious. “You say that, but I cannot believe you mean it. You truly do not wish to have children?”
After witnessing his mother slowly losing her strength from miscarriage after miscarriage only to die in childbed with Georgiana? No, he could not say he was inclined to inflict that sort of misery upon any woman.
He did not wish to share such maudlin thoughts with his delicate cousin, however. “Not especially, no. What I do require is a wife, preferably one with good connexions and healthy assets, to shore up my own finances. Georgiana’s dowry is thirty thousand pounds, so I shall need to replace that with my marriage.”
“And you would rather marry me than some lady whom you love?”
“I do love you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know you have not had a Season in town, but let me assure you that there are no débutantes there whom I could see myself marrying. They are all insipid, grasping, and vicious, not at all the sort of person I would wish around my sister. It would be far better to marry a woman whom I know I can tolerate and who has been a good friend to me.”
“A woman whom you can ‘tolerate’?” Anne shook her head. “That is not the compliment you think it is, Cousin.”
He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“You ought not to be so jaded about your prospects at only two-and-twenty. What if, a few years from now, you actually did meet a woman whom you could love? What then?”
“You have been reading too many novels. I sincerely doubt that my perfect match is out there somewhere, waiting for my addresses.”
“Do not disparage my novels!” Anne cried, pinching his arm. Despite her size and the thickness of his coat, many years of practice had enhanced her technique enough to cause pain. Darcy jerked away even as she proceeded to scold him. “You read them all before you pass them along to me—do not deny it.”
He rubbed at the sore spot she had inflicted as he said, “I do not deny it, but I shall say that they are not realistic. Have you ever met a woman who combines taste, beauty, wit, and charm? One who is also suitable for a man of my stature and comes with a healthy dowry?”
“No, but then you have always been unreasonable in your demands. Perhaps the perfect woman for you is out there, but poor and unconnected.”
“Then she is not the perfect woman for me.”
“Fie on you, Fitzwilliam Darcy!” Darcy shrank back, sure she was about to pinch him again. Anne merely crossed her arms and fixed him with a blistering scowl instead. “I thought you better than that. You ought to realise that a woman’s worth is not in her purse but in her personality. Do not disregard a lady merely because she cannot enrich your coffers.”
“Even if such a mythical creature should exist, and I doubt very much that she does, it would not matter because I would be content in my attachment to you. A marriage is not about affection, it is about?—”
“Siring heirs?”
Darcy tipped his head back, searching the heavens for patience. “I was going to say that marriage is about cementing connexions and acquiring assets, not romantic whimsy. Even if your mother goes about it in the wrong way, she is correct in that our alliance would be the envy of many. Just think of it—Pemberley and Rosings united.”
Anne sighed and looked down at her lap, shoulders hunched. “If you will not listen to anything else, at least hear me on this: Rosings Park is not the boon you think it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother misrepresents our wealth. If something is not done soon, we shall be forced to retrench.”
“How do you know?”
“I overheard your father and Uncle Matlock confronting my mother last spring about her spending habits. They insisted upon taking control, but she refused, declaring that she has everything well in hand. Look at the estate books, and you will see.”
Darcy was astounded that his father had never mentioned this to him. In thinking back, however, he could see how this might have slipped the elder Darcy’s mind; between the demands of Pemberley, his son away at university for most of the year, raising a daughter on his own, and his prolonged illness, the tribulations of Rosings Park would not have been at the forefront of George Darcy’s mind. Darcy himself was entrenched in his father’s former responsibilities now and knew he was not handling them efficiently.
Shaking off his shock, Darcy said, “My offer still stands. I shall assist Lady Catherine with estate business regardless, for that is a familial duty, but if we were to marry, I could more reasonably devote a greater portion of Pemberley’s wealth to the endeavour. Eventually, it could be made to turn a profit, I am sure.”
“And my answer still stands—no, I will not marry you. I thank you for your kind offer, but I am not inclined towards matrimony now or ever. Even if I were, I cannot deprive you of the chance at a happier union or saddle you with the expense of saving Rosings. You may consider your duty to me fulfilled.”
He might have pressed harder for a different outcome, but his heart was not in it. “Very well, I comprehend your feelings. Should you change your mind, you have only to let me know.”
“I shall not, but I thank you for your devotion. You are the best of men, Darcy, and some fortunate lady will happily accept you as her husband one day. No matter what you say, I am convinced that she is out there, and you will not be able to resist her.”
Darcy snorted and took up the reins, clucking at the horses to drive on. Anne was not well enough to climb the spiral staircase that day, but she could still enjoy the blooming daffodils along the lane. “We shall see. ”
Darcy was abruptly withdrawn from his reverie as the congregation stood, chanting “Amen” as a single voice. He belatedly joined them, earning a sympathetic grimace and slap on the shoulder from Fitzwilliam. He alone seemed to understand Darcy’s grief, having been one of Anne’s former playmates himself.
He and his cousin followed the other pallbearers out of the church and back to the lych-gate, where Anne’s body awaited them. It was time for the final farewell.