Page 5 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy

Darcy

S everal days had passed since Darcy’s unsettling conversation with Mrs Collins, and as he made his way to the breakfast room, his mind remained clouded. No further correspondence had reached him from Hertfordshire, leaving him wholly ignorant of Mr Bennet’s condition—and, by extension, the fate of the woman to whom he had so recently proposed and been refused.

“Fitzwilliam,” Anne murmured as he entered. She sat at the table, her habitual pallor more pronounced, the dark circles beneath her eyes deeper than usual. Before her rested a bowl of porridge, untouched save for the faintest ripple in the milk.

“My mother wishes to see us both,” she added with wearied resignation.

Darcy suppressed a groan and instead inclined his head ever so slightly. The last thing he desired was another audience with his aunt. Lady Catherine was bound to subject him to some overbearing proclamation or directive. Moreover, he had resolved to quit Rosings Park at the earliest opportunity, he had lingered too long as it was. Richard had departed just the day before, returning to his regiment, and without his cousin’s light-hearted company, Darcy could find no reason to delay his departure further.

“Do you know what this pertains to?” he asked Anne, a feeling of dread beginning to coil within him.

“I do,” she said, her tone imbued with resignation. “It concerns our future—specifically matrimony.”

Darcy exhaled sharply, allowing his disdain for the topic to momentarily cross his face. “Again?”

Anne offered a small, rueful smile, though her gaze remained fixed on the untouched porridge before her. “It has ever been thus.”

Of course, it had. His aunt had harboured designs for their union as long as Darcy could remember. Lady Catherine’s declarations that he and Anne were destined for one another, decreed from the cradle by their mothers—her sister, the late Lady Anne Darcy, and herself—had been a constant refrain throughout his youth.

And yet the assertion remained dubious. His own dear mother had never mentioned the matter during her lifetime, though she had died when Darcy was but fourteen. Surely, had such an arrangement been genuinely fixed, his father might have at least alluded to it? But no such references had ever been made. The notion, he supposed, had been entirely devised by Lady Catherine—or perhaps jested at by their mothers in earlier days, and misconstrued by his aunt into a matter of great seriousness.

Darcy’s opinion of the so-called arrangement was one of vague exasperation. His feelings on his cousin Anne’s position were kinder. She lived beneath the oppressive rule of her mother, with little opportunity for autonomy.

Before Darcy could further ponder the situation, Lady Catherine entered, sweeping into the room with the self-assurance of a reigning queen. Her gown, fashioned from her favourite taffeta, rustled with every step. In so many ways, Darcy thought, his aunt seemed frozen in time, carrying herself as though she were the belle of society, rather than a lady firmly beyond her prime. She took her place at the head of the table with military precision, her back stiff and straight as ever, her countenance commanding attention.

“Fitzwilliam,” she began, her tone imperious but touched with feigned amusement. “How good it is to see you. You have been uncommonly absent these past few days. Pray, do not tell me you have been avoiding me?” She let out a self-satisfied chuckle, as though the idea was too ridiculous to entertain.

“Certainly not, Aunt,” Darcy replied with composure.

“Good.” Lady Catherine folded her hands with deliberate ceremony. “I shall get straight to the matter of your wedding, as it is one of utmost importance to all concerned. I had long pictured you as a winter bridegroom—winter ceremonies are the most elegant, you know—but as I understand it, spring suits you better. So, let us compromise and settle the affair in the autumn.”

Darcy blinked, his aunt looked entirely earnest.

“Aunt,” Darcy said, clearing his mind. He wasn’t quite certain if she was serious or not. “I do not know what wedding you speak of. No proposals have been made.” That was not technically true – a proposal had been made and thoroughly rejected. Although not to Anne de Bourgh.

“Fitzwilliam, you know perfectly well what I mean. Your wedding to Anne. It is about time we set a date. You are not getting any younger. You are seven-and-twenty already. You must have an heir to carry on the line, lest Pemberley fall into the hands of your dreadful Darcy cousins. And Anne is three-and-twenty. She needs a husband before she’s considered an old maid and ends up on the shelf. Surely, you do not want that for your cousin?”

Darcy looked at Anne, whose cheeks had reddened as she looked down at the floor.

Darcy paused for a long moment, his hand resting firmly on the edge of his chair. Then, as if summoning all the weight of his resolution, he stood.

“Aunt Catherine,” he began, his voice steady though laden with finality, “I must clarify, now and for all time, that I have no intention to marry Anne. Not now, and not ever.”

A sharp intake of breath echoed through the room. Anne, who had been sitting pale and withdrawn, flushed a furious shade of pink. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her thin shoulders almost folding inward as if she might disappear altogether.

Lady Catherine stared at him as if he had declared a wish to leap off the nearest cliff. Her wide-eyed incredulity quickly transformed into stormy outrage. Her voice, low and venomous at first, rose steadily in indignation.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she thundered, her beringed hand striking the arm of her chair, “I know very well that you do not mean this! You are your mother’s son, and she, in her infinite wisdom, decided this match with me years ago. It has been settled since you were but a child. You and Anne are destined, marked by providence itself to unite Rosings and Pemberley.”

Anne winced visibly at the mention of her own name as she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the polished floorboards.

Darcy remained steadfast. He squared his shoulders and regarded Lady Catherine with an icy calm that only deepened her fury.

“Your fancies, madam,” he said evenly, “may bring you comfort, but they do not concern me. I have tolerated them long enough. Let me be clear: I do not love Anne and never shall. No affection binds us, and nothing save your own contrivances upholds this illusion of a future union. I will no longer indulge your imaginings. Your scheming ends here.”

“Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine half-rose from her chair, her face mottled with rage. “You will marry her! You have no alternative. Think of your lineage, your honour, your duty! Are you not a man of principle? Of family loyalty?”

Darcy’s gaze darkened. “You mistake stubbornness for loyalty, and antiquated notions for principles. My future, like my happiness, is my own. You may think that you can command my obedience, but, with respect, madam, I am no longer a boy under your influence. I will chart my own path, free of your interference.”

The crackling tension in the room was almost unbearable. Anne’s head dipped so low that her chin grazed her chest. She was trembling faintly, and for a moment Darcy felt a flicker of pity for her—a woman so constrained by her mother’s iron will that even the possibility of independence seemed unthinkable.

Lady Catherine stared at him, her expression frozen in disbelief and mounting indignation. “This is preposterous! You will regret these words, Fitzwilliam. Mark them. You dare to defy your family for what? Your pride? Your fancies? Do not think I will forgive you for this folly!”

Darcy stepped forward, his voice turning frigid. “I seek no forgiveness, Aunt. I ask only to be left in peace. Pemberley will remain my concern, my duty. As for Anne,” he turned briefly to her, softening his tone, “I wish her only the freedom and happiness she deserves, far away from the shadows of expectations neither of us should bear.”

Anne’s hands twitched, but she gave the faintest of nods, though her gaze never rose.

With that, Darcy made his decision clear. “This conversation serves no further purpose. You may rage as much as you like, Aunt, but I have spoken, and nothing will compel me to change my course.”

Lady Catherine remained briefly in her chair, glaring after Darcy with visible frustration, before rising with dramatic force. Her skirts rustled violently as she swept past Anne without so much as a word and stormed from the room. The distant slam of the door reverberated through the air, a loud punctuation mark to her indignation.

Darcy, now alone with Anne, released a slow breath, his carefully composed demeanour softening. Turning to his cousin, he noted her slight form still hunched in the chair, her head bowed.

“Anne,” he said gently, moving to stand beside her, “I owe you an apology. None of this was your doing, and yet you’ve borne the brunt of it all. My objection is not, and never was, to you. It is to this relentless forcing of a marriage I do not wish for.”

To his astonishment, Anne raised her head and looked at him—truly looked—her pale blue eyes filled with weariness and something else, a glimmer of relief.

“I know,” she said quietly. “And I agree with you entirely, Fitzwilliam.”

This startled him. “You do?”

Anne folded her hands neatly in her lap, gazing down at them. Her voice wavered but grew stronger as she continued. “I never wanted this union either. But you know how Mother is, her wishes have always dictated my life. I do not have your strength… I do not know how to stand against her.”

Darcy felt a pang of sympathy for his cousin. “You are stronger than you realise, Anne. Living under Aunt Catherine’s rule would test the fortitude of anyone.” His voice softened. “I wish my uncle were still alive. He was a sensible, kind man. With him by your side, things might have been so different.”

Anne nodded, blinking rapidly as though fighting tears. “Father was my ally. He had a way of softening Mother, of tempering her more… forceful inclinations. Since his death, I have felt unmoored.”

Darcy frowned, memories of his late uncle, Sir Lewis de Bourgh, resurfacing with clarity. The man had been the epitome of patience and quiet wisdom, able to coax even Lady Catherine into moderation on occasion. His loss had created a void, not only for Anne but for the entire family.

“I am sorry, Anne,” Darcy said sincerely.

Anne inhaled deeply and squared her shoulders slightly, her next words surprising him further. “But the truth, cousin, is that even were I capable of defying Mother, I could never agree to marry you.”

Darcy tilted his head, curious. “Oh?”

She gave a nervous laugh, clasping her hands tighter. “Because my heart is not my own to give. It has long belonged to another.”

He blinked, entirely unprepared for this revelation. “To whom?”

Her pale cheeks coloured. “Richard,” she confessed, her voice trembling. “For years, he and I have understood one another as few else can. But Mother would never countenance such a match, not with his lack of fortune or standing. She deems him unworthy, though I know in my heart he is far more than I could ever deserve.”

Darcy stared, momentarily at a loss for words. The sheer audacity of Lady Catherine’s obstinacy struck him anew. To deny Anne the freedom to marry a man she clearly held in high esteem, a man of honour and integrity like Colonel Fitzwilliam, was unforgivable.

Anne looked up, concern clouding her expression. “You’re shocked, I know. But please, do not feel burdened by this knowledge. My affection for Richard changes nothing here. If anything, I am relieved that you and I are of one mind.”

Darcy managed a faint smile, admiration growing for his soft-spoken cousin. “Shocked, yes,” he admitted. “But more than that, I see a reflection of my own struggles in your circumstances. Richard is a fine man, Anne. You needn’t feel unworthy of him—he would be fortunate to have your regard.”

Her lips curved into a faint, but genuine smile. “You are very kind to say so.”

The cousins sat quietly for a moment, an unspoken accord passing between them, both grateful that this long-held tension was now dispelled.

When Darcy rose to his feet, Anne looked up at him inquisitively. “Where will you go now?” she asked.

He adjusted his coat and straightened his shoulders, his tone firm. “To Darcy House. There are matters I must address, and I fear I’ve delayed them far too long.”

As he stepped away, Anne called softly after him, “Fitzwilliam.”

He paused at the door, turning back to meet her gaze.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Take care, Anne.”

And with that, he departed Rosings, leaving behind the turbulence of Lady Catherine’s schemes and turning his focus towards making amends where they were most urgently needed.

***

The following day, Darcy made his way down to the breakfast room, enjoying the peaceful calm at his London house. He stepped into the breakfast room to find buns, butter, and lemon curd already set out on the table. The aroma of eggs wafted up from below stairs, bringing a smile to his face. His cook knew him well.

He took his seat just as Mr Jones, the butler, entered carrying the morning paper and placed it neatly on the table.

“Good morning, sir,” Jones said, his gaze lingering on Darcy. Something seemed to be on his mind.

“Good morning, Jones. I trust you are well?” Darcy replied.

“I am, sir,” Jones answered, hesitating slightly as he glanced at Darcy again. It was obvious something was weighing upon him.

“Out with it, man. What is it? Did you see something dreadful in the paper?” Darcy asked, sensing an unusual tension in the room.

Jones hesitated, then finally confessed, “Yes, sir. I could not help but notice the announcement. Please let me be the first to offer my congratulations.”

“Congratulations?” Darcy raised an eyebrow, bewildered. “On what?”

He furrowed his brow, a sinking feeling of dread forming in the pit of his stomach. “What precisely are you congratulating me on, Jones?” he asked again, a biting edge to his tone.

Jones hesitated but stood firm. “On your impending nuptials, sir. I shall look forward to welcoming the new lady of the house.”

Darcy froze, his heart beating unevenly as a cold chill washed over him. “My what?” He reached for the paper, snatching it from the table with such force that Jones flinched slightly. Flipping feverishly through to the announcements, his eyes fell upon it, a bold and unmistakable proclamation:

It is with great pleasure that we announce the forthcoming union of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire, to Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park, Kent. The nuptials are to be celebrated with joy and propriety in a ceremony at Rosings in the coming months, as agreed by the families of the bride and groom. This alliance, uniting two venerable estates, promises to uphold the highest traditions of the landed gentry.

Darcy’s jaw clenched as he reread the words, incredulous. His aunt Catherine’s scheming hand was clear in every line. Fury bloomed hotly in his chest as he threw the paper onto the table. He had warned her—repeatedly—that such manipulation was unwelcome, even abhorrent. And now this.

“Jones, bring me writing materials at once ! ” Darcy demanded. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he strode to his study, pacing like a lion in a cage while Jones swiftly arranged his desk. Seating himself abruptly, he dipped his pen into the ink with such force that a blot appeared on the paper.

His hand moved furiously, the letter forming rapidly, every stroke of his pen a vehement denunciation of his aunt’s brazen actions.

Madam,

Your latest attempt to force my hand exceeds all bounds of decency and decorum. That you would publish a fraudulent announcement of my marriage without my knowledge or consent is not only a grievous insult to me, but an affront to truth itself. I will not be complicit in this dishonourable charade. You have jeopardised my good name and that of Miss de Bourgh by such reckless presumption.

I demand that you publicly retract this announcement immediately, else I shall be compelled to take steps to set the record straight, no matter how uncomfortable they might prove for you. Your conduct is unbecoming, madam, and does no credit to the noble house you claim to serve.

F. Darcy

Darcy’s fury drove him on, nearly blotting another word when a knock on the study door interrupted him.

“Sir,” Jones began with clear hesitation, “Mr Beecham has arrived and wishes to offer his congratulations.”

Darcy slammed his pen down. And so it began. Mr Beecham, his godfather, was usually a welcome guest. However, on this day Darcy wished to see nobody—certainly not until he had sorted out this disaster. He would have to publish a retraction. Of course, that would harm Anne greatly. But he had to do something. Otherwise Beecham would be the first of many.

“Send him away, Jones. Tell him I am indisposed—and do not admit any other visitors.”

“Yes, sir,” his butler replied, retreating swiftly.

Alone once more, Darcy pressed his head into his hands, the frustration was overwhelming. This was nothing short of a disaster. The wheels of rumour were already turning, and he could only imagine what the next days would bring.

How could his aunt’s brazen tactics be undone without leaving reputations—his and Anne’s—in tatters? For the first time in many years, Darcy felt completely outmanoeuvred.