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Fitzwilliam Darcy was not fond of London. Indeed, he remained in that loud, bustling city only at the behest of his old friend, Charles Bingley. Or, rather, at the behest of Bingley’s sister. Caroline was fretful for her brother’s health, and when Darcy had raised the suggestion of returning to Pemberley, she had grabbed hold of his arm, digging her fingers in like claws, and pleaded with him to remain.
“I dread to think what poor Charles will come to without you here, Mr Darcy! Please, you cannot think to leave us!”
Darcy opened his mouth to say that he certainly could think of it, and afforded his friend a little more credit than the notion, pushed by Caroline Bingley, that poor Charles would go to pieces at the news that his friend wished to return home. Something in Caroline’s manner stilled his tongue, however, so that all he could bring himself to do was to pat her, awkwardly, on the arm, and strive to extricate himself from her grasp. He might content himself to remain a little longer, he promised, until he could be assured of both Mr and Miss Bingley’s comfort and adjustment from their sojourn in Hertfordshire.
Hertfordshire. Therein lay the problem, after all. If only Charles Bingley had not taken possession of Netherfield Park. If only his sister had not pushed him into it! If only none of them had crossed paths with anybody named Bennet. Darcy scowled. If only, if only.
There was a knock at the door to his study, startling him from his reverie.
“Yes?” he barked, with more ferocity than was necessary.
His butler stepped lightly into the study, well used to Darcy’s moods and manners, and no more cowed by the abrupt summons than if his master had bid him enter with warmth and affection. The man did not press him into conversation, merely presented a note for Darcy’s consideration, before nodding politely and retreating, with nary a comment.
Darcy glanced at the note, half-expecting to see the flowery script of Caroline Bingley herself upon the missive, for since their joint visit to Hertfordshire, and their conspiracy to extract Charles from Hertfordshire before he did something they would all come to regret, Caroline had begun to act as if she and Darcy were more than mere acquaintances. Her admiration for him had never been particularly well hidden, but lately, her words seemed forever tinged with meaning as if she were playing some game with him to which he did not know the rules.
Writing to him unbidden, however, would have been a step too far, even for the most brazen young Miss, and Caroline Bingley had sense enough to restrain herself from acting in any way improperly. This hand was not hers, although it was familiar. Turning the letter over, he squinted at the seal, his heart sinking as he recognised his Aunt Catherine’s signature. True enough, as he smoothed the letter out, the letter’s author was evident from the very first address.
My dear Fitzwilliam, she wrote. Nobody else alive referred to Darcy as “Fitzwilliam”, unless they wished to tease him, and even then there were few who dared. His cousin, Richard, was perhaps the only one to do so with any frequency, and even then it was because he found idiotic amusement in a conversation between two “Fitzwilliams”. His Aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, on the other hand, could always be relied upon to keep to given names, ensuring a formality even amongst family members. Darcy glowered and read on.
I hear you are no longer to be found in Hertfordshire, and I rejoice at such a turn of events, for I do not know why you ever wished to remain there amongst strangers when you might instead visit a while with your own family. It is for this particular reason I write: to invite you to stay with us at Rosings. Anne misses her cousins dreadfully and remarks often how dull life is without the joy of your company. I have just heard in the affirmative that Richard will spare some of his leave to spend it with us here at Rosings, and so I implore you to join us. As you know I am not as young as I once was, and at times like this, it becomes so very important to have my family around me...
Darcy snorted, incredulously. His aunt was no spring chicken but he had never known her to be anything less than rigorous in energy and robust in health. The notion that she was a frail old lady who desired company in her loneliness was a fiction, and not a very good one. She demanded his presence and fearing request alone would not succeed, sought to sweeten the pot with the threat of ill-health.
He was about to cast the letter aside, not in any frame of mind to reply at present, when the convenience of the note’s arrival struck him. He might know that his aunt was hale and hearty as a woman half her age, but his friends would not. And, certainly, going to stay at Rosings was hardly comparable with going home to Pemberley, but it was certainly a more enjoyable prospect than remaining indefinitely in London, at the behest of his friends. Even Caroline Bingley could not object to his fleeing to his ailing aunt’s side, even if that did involve him leaving theirs.
Unable to keep a sly smile from tugging at the corners of his lips, he dashed off a reply, taking care to keep his words neat and legible, for if they were not, his aunt would certainly comment on it. Sealing the note, he stood, striding towards the door and summoning his butler as he did so.
“Send this to Rosings with all haste, won’t you? Good man. I am out to dine this evening with Mr and Miss Bingley, but you might as well warn the household that I shall be removing to Kent before the week is out.”
His orders undertaken, he walked with a jig in his step towards Bingley’s house, pausing to take a turn of one of the parks as he did so. After all, he would be leaving London soon. He ought to bid it a proper farewell!
***
MY DEAR -
“Lizzy!”
Elizabeth Bennet had scanned barely a word of Charlotte’s letter before her reading was interrupted by a plaintive wail from somewhere overhead. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she leaned back further into her window seat, allowing the curtains to fold around her and obscure her from view. Since Jane’s departure for London in the company of the Gardiners, Mrs Bennet had clung ever more tightly to her second-eldest daughter. Alas, unlike her sister, Lizzy lacked the patience and interest in the myriad of feminine delights Mrs Bennet longed to debate at length. She had taken to being often out of doors, or, as she was at present, discovering a tiny corner of Longbourn uninhabited by her mother and seeking refuge. She turned her attention back to her friend’s words, eager to learn the news of Hunsford from the pen of the new Mrs Collins herself. Mrs Collins! She still struggled to imagine Charlotte married to anyone, but to picture her matched for all time with Mr Collins? Lizzy pursed her lips in distaste. Still, her friend could hardly claim ignorance prior to their union. She had seen Mr Collins in action and knew enough of his foibles that she ought to have been inoculated against any charm offensive he might have launched. For there must have been something, some spell or incantation or persuasion deployed to ensnare her sensible friend. The vague thought of a fortune skittered through Elizabeth’s mind, but she batted it away just as quickly. Charlotte might be more pragmatic than Lizzy had ever fully credited but she was no mercenary. And Mr Collins no prize. Lizzy bit her lip, quieting her own thoughts such that she might attend once more to her letter and try to determine, from all that Charlotte did not say, as much as all she did, how well her friend fared in her new life.
She had progressed a little further when the door to the study flew open. Lizzy held her breath, confident that whilst her father’s heavy damask drapes hid her from view, the smallest sound might betray her hiding place. It was a suspicion, then, that it was her father’s own flat, heavy tread she detected in the doorway and not her mother’s or sister’s dainty step. That her father would be the one to find her and not one of the ladies of the house made her relax a little and the ensuing exhalation must have been enough to catch Mr Bennet’s ear, for there was a muttered “harrumph” followed by the quiet close of the door and two strides towards Lizzy’s window sanctuary. The curtain twitched and pulled aside, and Lizzy glanced up, guiltily, into the frowning features of her father.
“Good morning!” she whispered as if there was nothing unusual at being discovered playing hide and seek in her father’s study when she was at least a decade too old for such mischief.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” Mr Bennet said, with a formal bow. He sighed, his frown relaxing into the vague smile of resignation most frequently worn by the gentleman of a house dominated by ladies.
Mrs Bennet’s voice screeched overhead, causing both father and daughter to flinch.
“Your mother is looking for you,” Mr Bennet said, unnecessarily. “Quite energetically. She wishes to discuss a matter of great importance with you, pertaining to...” his lips turned down into a grimace of distaste. “Lacemaking.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth strove to conceal her laughter. “I was not aware I was wanted.”
Another screech forced her further into the window and betrayed her feigned innocence.
“She has even pressed me into service this day, begging me to help to find you.” An amused smile lit up Mr Bennet’s features, making him appear momentarily younger than his years. “Ought I to?”
Lizzy hesitated, but she had found an ally in her father, who peered out of the window, cleared his throat and called, loud enough that his wife might hear.
“The weather is quite fine this morning, my dear, I think it entirely probable that Elizabeth has found her way out of doors. Let us cease our searching for an hour or two. I assume she will present herself within that time.”
Lizzy mouthed a silent thank you and smiled as her father pulled a chair into the light of the window, reaching for his own book and affecting to read.
They sat in stolen silence for a few moments, both father and daughter enjoying the peace and quiet and never minding the sight deception they had gone through to secure it.
“Who is your letter from?” Mr Bennet enquired, not lifting his eyes from his book.
“Charlotte,” Lizzy said, reaching the short letter’s conclusion and turning back to its start.
“And how is Miss Lucas?”
“Mrs Collins,” Lizzy corrected him.
“Indeed!” Mr Bennet smirked. “How does married life suit her?”
“Well enough,” Lizzy said, not entirely believing her own words, for, despite the appearance of contentment that dripped from every word of Charlotte’s correspondence, Lizzy could not help but detect a small thread of sadness, of loneliness. Hunsford might be comfortable for Mr Collins and his new wife, but it could surely not feel like home for bright, amiable Charlotte. How could it, when she was so far from family and friends?
“Actually, Papa, she writes to ask me a question, as well as to share her news. She wishes to invite me to stay a short while with her and Mr Collins at Hunsford. I may go, mayn’t I?”
Mr Bennet leaned back leaned back in his chair, regarding his daughter curiously.
“Do you wish to? I was under the impression that you, like several of your sisters, could not be more delighted by the news of Mr Collins’ return to Hunsford. Do you miss your cousin so much that you long to undertake such a journey yourself to see him again?” Mr Bennet’s lips quirked as if he were concealing a sly smile at such a notion.
“Oh, I have no desire to see him!” Lizzy began, before pausing and reframing her response into something a little more agreeable. “That is, I will be pleased to see the home that he spoke of so often, to know how well he is settled into married life, and to see him in his own habitat.”
She bit her lip, her choice of words having the unfortunate effect of casting Mr Collins as some kind of foreign specimen, an animal best observed in nature, not brought into one’s home at an attempt at domesticity. She shook off the idea. “I am more eager to see Charlotte again, and who knows, perhaps I will be permitted to meet his patroness. I have long been curious as to the character of Lady Catherine.”
“Have you?” This was a surprise indeed, and Mr Bennet’s curiosity became suspicion.
“He spoke of her so often, Papa! Where you not at all curious as to whether his recollections were accurate? And, you know, she is an aunt to Mr Darcy. It will be amusing to see if I can trace some likeness between them.”
This last she uttered with such a studied affectation of calm that she congratulated herself at its execution. It suddenly seemed quite important to her that Mr Bennet not scrutinise her too closely, for she felt strangely aware of her own body as she spoke the name Mr Darcy and fancied her cheeks warmed, though there ought to be no reason for such a reaction. She swallowed.
“It is for Charlotte that I wish to go, Papa, and if Jane is gone to London, surely you can not begrudge me this small treat?”
Mr Bennet rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
“I see I have no choice in the matter, and truly I do not wish to keep you here against your will. But with Jane gone, and you following after, I see I shall have to carefully guard what remains of my wits. However will I manage with the loss of both my sensible girls?”
This was all the permission she needed, and with a grateful kiss to her father’s thin cheek, Lizzy slid to her feet, bidding him goodbye with a hearty, mischievous wink.
“Mama!” she called. “Did you call? Now, tell me all about this lace and I shall see if I may be of some assistance...”