Page 52

Netherfield, Hallway – Fletcher

T he back corridors of Netherfield were already humming. The maids moved quickly but quietly, their footsteps softened by worn rugs and years of habit. In one corner, Meg stood on tiptoe to wipe the upper panes of the narrow side window that overlooked the front approach.

She paused mid-polish. “That’s no ordinary coach.”

Jenny, just behind with a tray of silver to be re-set, leaned to look. “That’s Town-made, that is. Look at the arms-real old money. Who-?”

Fletcher was passing at that very moment, a folded waistcoat across one arm and a pale cravat tucked under it.

He was meant to be halfway to the linen room - Mr Darcy had asked, quite uncharacteristically, for the starch to be re-checked and the waistcoat to lie clean and sharp beneath his coat.

A small thing, but Fletcher understood what it meant. Tonight mattered .

The girls’ voices caught his ear, and then he caught the crest.

He stopped.

Just one glance, and he knew. He had seen that coat of arms enough times to have it branded in his memory.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

He moved closer to the window and squinted through the mist. The travelling carriage gleamed beneath the thin morning light, heavy with polished brass and Town refinement. His jaw tightened.

Without a word, Fletcher turned - but not before casting a sharp glance at the two maids. “That will be enough gawping,” he said, low and firm. “You have trays to polish and linen to see to. Nothing here that concerns us.”

Jenny flushed and ducked her head. Meg gave a sheepish nod and turned back to her cloth.

Fletcher moved off, quicker now, his boots clicking lightly on the stone.

Mr Darcy would need to know.

And if gossip began to spread before Morris even opened the door - it would not be from his part of the house.

Fletcher did not slow as he climbed the stairs.

The waistcoat was laid with care on the bed, the coat already brushed to a dark sheen, and the fresh linen cravat knotted and set out.

He adjusted a sleeve with practised fingers, then moved to the door, silver-backed brush in hand - though his thoughts had long since shifted from starch and seams to strategy.

“There’s something you will want to know, sir,” he said quietly.

Darcy looked up from fastening his cuff. “Yes?”

“Your aunt’s coach has just turned into the drive.”

A pause.

“Lady Catherine?” Darcy said, though he already knew.

“Aye, sir. Crest’s clear. She’s just come round the bend - her footmen are already climbing down.”

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “She did not write.”

“No, sir. Not to you, nor to the house - far as I know.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “She does not believe in subtlety.”

Before either man could speak further, a voice echoed up from the stairwell - sharp, imperious, impossible to mistake.

“I will not wait in the entrance like a tradesman! Is this the drawing room? It had better be the drawing room!”

Darcy exhaled through his nose. “She has not changed.”

Fletcher allowed himself the faintest flicker of sympathy. “Shall I see to coffee, sir?”

Darcy shook his head. “No time.”

He straightened his coat and strode for the door. “Thank you, Fletcher.”

“Of course, sir.”

As Darcy descended the stairs, the house felt suddenly more alert - Morris would have opened the door, the maids would be scattering like startled hens, and no doubt Lady Catherine had swept through without waiting for either announcement or invitation.

She appeared at the foot of the stairs just as he reached the last step - tall, formidable, wrapped in an imposing travelling cloak, her walking stick planted like a weapon.

“Ah,” she said, lifting her chin. “So you are here.”

Darcy met her gaze with steady civility. “Good morning, Aunt.”

* * *

Netherfield - Entrance Hall - Darcy

“Do not ‘good morning’ me, Fitzwilliam,” she snapped, already sweeping past him. “I did not travel from Kent to exchange pleasantries. We will speak. Somewhere private.”

Darcy said nothing, merely turned on his heel and led her through to the smaller of the Netherfield sitting rooms - a space infrequently used, but one he knew would afford them quiet.

She did not sit.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Lady Catherine rounded on him. Darcy stood opposite her with measured calm, hands clasped behind his back.

“Your silence,” she began, “is deeply unbecoming. A nephew of mine should know better than to allow such reports to flourish unchecked.”

Darcy met her eyes. “I did not realise I was expected to send my aunt bulletins on the weather in Hertfordshire.”

“The entire neighbourhood is aflame with talk of your attentions to that girl . The second of five daughters, with no fortune, no connexions, and the most disgraceful set of relations I have ever encountered! A young woman with relatives in trade , Fitzwilliam.”

“I have no complaint to make of Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy said evenly. “Her uncle is a respectable man in a respectable profession.”

“Her uncle is in Cheapside! ” Lady Catherine snapped. “And her mother’s sister is married to a solicitor. The gossip alone is a disgrace. That people should even whisper-”

“I care very little for what people whisper. Her father is a gentleman, her uncle a man of integrity, and the family-whatever their eccentricities-have been nothing but hospitable to me.”

Lady Catherine’s nostrils flared. “And what of her mother? A woman who chases fortune for her daughters like she were haggling in Covent Garden! You are to ally yourself with that ? ”

Darcy’s expression did not change, but his voice dropped a fraction. “I intend to marry Elizabeth Bennet-if she will have me. I do not seek your approval, though I once hoped for your goodwill.”

She recoiled slightly. “Have you lost your wits? Do you believe yourself in love with this country girl-this nobody ?”

“I do.”

“That is no reason.”

“It is the only one that matters.”

Lady Catherine rose in a rustle of stiff silk. “You are bewitched. You cannot know her character-it is all lively manners and a pretty face.”

“I know her character well,” Darcy said quietly. “I have seen it in her compassion, in her courage, in her sense of honour, and her willingness to challenge me when I deserved it. You may choose to see only her position. I see her worth.”

“She is not suitable,” she spat. “I told Mr Collins as much, and I will tell you the same. Do you imagine such a match would be received at Matlock? At Pemberley ?”

“I do not answer to Matlock,” he said coolly. “And I believe I know what Pemberley requires.”

“You would disgrace your name-your family-for this… country miss?”

Darcy’s gaze held steady. “You are mistaken. Elizabeth Bennet would honour the name of Darcy.”

Lady Catherine made a noise of disbelief, something between a scoff and a hiss. “She is beneath you.”

“Not in any way that matters.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You are serious.”

“I am.”

“You intend to marry her.”

“If she will have me. ”

Lady Catherine’s gloved hand tightened on her walking stick. “Then you are more of a fool than I thought. You will regret this. The match is beneath you. It will lower you in the eyes of the world.”

“Then let the world adjust its gaze,” Darcy replied.

Her eyes narrowed. “So you will go forward with it?”

“If she will have me.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow. Then Lady Catherine straightened her shoulders, her voice cold with disdain.

“Then I wash my hands of it. Of you . Of this entire misalliance. Do not look to me for support, Fitzwilliam. I will not extend my name to such foolishness.”

Darcy bowed. “Then I shall not trouble you further.”

Lady Catherine turned to the door, her cane striking sharply against the floorboards. But just before she left, she paused, voice low and biting.

“I hope she refuses you.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Then we are each free to hope as we please.”

She swept out a moment later, the silence she left behind sharper than her words.

Darcy remained standing for several seconds longer, jaw tight, shoulders square.

He had known this might come. But hearing it spoken aloud-his aunt’s scorn, her rejection-still struck a blow.

And yet, beneath the sting, something else remained.

Clarity.

Elizabeth had asked for time.

He hoped she had had enough.

Darcy did not return immediately to his chambers.

Instead, he turned down the corridor and crossed to the library, where he suspected Bingley might have retreated after breakfast. The room was warm with the faint scent of wood polish and pipe smoke - not from Mr Hurst, mercifully, but from Bingley’s occasional experiments with being a “thinking man.”

Sure enough, his friend stood near the window with a volume in one hand and a decanter untouched on the sideboard behind him. He looked up as Darcy entered.

“Darcy,” Bingley said lightly. “You missed a rather spirited debate at breakfast over whether the weather meant rain or merely mist. I remained neutral.”

Darcy managed a faint smile. “I regret to interrupt again - I only came to apologise.”

Bingley tilted his head. “Apologise?”

“My aunt. Lady Catherine. I am told she arrived rather imperiously.”

“Ah.” Bingley waved a hand. “She barked at Morris and declared the parlour unfit for conversation, but nothing worse than I have heard before. She passed me on the stairs without blinking. If that’s all I must endure in friendship with you, I count myself lucky.”

Darcy’s mouth twitched. “You are gracious.”

“Or very nearly deaf,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Are you off somewhere?”

Darcy nodded. “The stables. I need the air.”

Bingley studied him for a moment, then simply said, “You will find it cold, but clear.”

Darcy turned to go, then paused at the threshold.

“Thank you, Bingley.”

Bingley smiled. “Let me know if I should order a round of pistols.”

Darcy’s reply was dry. “Only if she returns.”

The wind had picked up as Darcy rode, tugging at his coat and stinging his face with damp air. The fields blurred past in muted shades of winter green, the road soft beneath his horse’s hooves from recent rains .

He had left Netherfield at a swift trot, the tension from his aunt’s visit still thrumming beneath his skin. Every word of her tirade echoed in his memory - her disdain, her threats, her certainty that she could shame him into obedience. But he was past shame. Past fear. Past silence.

Let her rail. Let her threaten disinheritance and disgrace. Let her write to Matlock, to Pemberley, to any soul she thought might stand between him and the future he had chosen.

She would find him immovable.

The timing now mattered more than ever. Gossip was already running through the neighbourhood like spilled ink, and Lady Catherine’s visit would only fan the flames.

If he waited too long-if Elizabeth wavered-his aunt might find some new weapon, some leverage to delay or damage what he hoped to build.

He did not intend to give her the chance.

If Elizabeth would have him, he meant to speak with Mr Bennet today - secure his blessing, dispel the whispers, and begin preparations for a wedding without delay. Within a fortnight, if he could manage it. No banns. A special licence. In Town, if need be. He would make it easy, swift, respectable.

What, truly, could his aunt do? She could rant. She could write. She could try to persuade Georgiana to withdraw her affection - but Georgiana, thank God, would not be moved. And her dowry, her portion - none of it came from Lady Catherine.

No, she could not touch what mattered most.

He reined in slightly as Longbourn’s gateposts came into view through the trees. The hedges glistened with dew, and smoke curled gently from the chimneys. Light gleamed faintly in an upper window - and somewhere beyond that stone and ivy, Elizabeth was waiting.

Darcy drew his horse to a halt.

His heart was pounding harder than it had on the ride. Not with fear - but with hope. With the weight of a future that now felt tantalisingly close.

This, he thought, looking at the house that had become so unexpectedly dear, is what I have chosen.

Not because of gossip, or pressure, or pride.

Because of her.

He nudged his horse forward, breath steady, jaw set.

It was time.