Pemberley, Derbyshire
1801
“Father,” eighteen-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy pushed the door to his father’s study open and waited for the familiar nod to enter. Being careful to secure the door behind him, he entered and approached the front of his father’s large mahogany desk. It was amazing how each time he stood before it, it seemed less and less imposing. It was likely due to his getting older. “Must I go to Rosings with you? I know Aunt Catherine will speak of nothing but my betrothal to Anne, over and over again.”
George Darcy briefly looked down to where his hands played with a quill pen. He understood his only son’s frustration with his aunt. Still, the lady was family and family was important. He brought his gaze back up to meet Fitzwilliam’s. “I am sorry, Son, I know that is aggravating, but Lady Catherine is your mother’s sister and you must honor the connection. I will steer the conversation away from you, as I always do.”
Fitzwilliam breathed in through his nose. He was not surprised that his father refused his request. Fitzwilliam understood his father’s position, but Lady Catherine de Bourgh frustrated him beyond reason. He tried once more, feeling almost desperate. “But, she will hunt me down and get me alone to do it!”
“Fitzwilliam.”
It was only his name, but the tone in which it was delivered told him that his plea was not going to be granted.
“You are too old to whine. You will go. I will protect you as best I can.”
Fitzwilliam sighed. He knew family was important, but visits to his aunt were such a trial for him. Perhaps when he married someone other than Anne, they might become more pleasant. “Yes, sir. I am sorry for complaining.”
“Apology accepted.” Darcy smiled sympathetically. “Go on up to the drawing room and wait for your sister and me. I suspect the bell for dinner will be rung soon.”
Fitzwilliam nodded his acceptance and walked to the door, stopping before he stepped into the hall and looking back at his father, who was watching him closely. “Is she correct?” he asked, his posture tense and his voice so low as to almost seem a whisper. “Did my mother make an arrangement? Am I engaged to Anne?”
“No, Son, you are not.” Darcy hesitated as a thought entered his mind and almost escaped his mouth. Holding it back, he twisted his neck a little, feeling as though his cravat had tightened a bit. He continued speaking, with a touch of vehemence in his voice. “You will never be; it is not possible. However, I want you to be very careful at Rosings; do not allow yourself to be left alone with your cousin for any reason. We are taking Richard with us, and I want you boys to stick together like glue. Do you understand?” At his son’s surprised nod, George willed himself to calm before he spoke again. “She cannot force a marriage, your aunt, but Anne’s reputation could be damaged if Lady Catherine attempted a compromise between you and your cousin. None of us wish for that.”
Fitzwilliam’s shoulders relaxed at his father’s words. “No, sir. I would not want any harm to come to Anne. I simply do not wish to marry her. Thank you.”
George chuckled as he watched his only son and heir almost dance into the hallway. He picked up the letter he had been perusing when Fitzwilliam knocked, reading again the words of his old friend from University, Thomas Bennet. “So her mother is forcing her to learn to stitch, and she is resisting?” He shook his head. “She has always been a feisty one. She will be good for my son. He is growing far too cocky; he needs someone to knock him down a peg or two now and then.” Chuckling once more, he folded the letter up and tucked it into the desk drawer, turning the key to lock it and dropping the key into his waistcoat pocket.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire 1801
Elizabeth Bennet, called Lizzy by her family and closest friends, slipped into her father’s book room and silently closed the door behind her. Sliding quietly between a freestanding cabinet and the wall, she approached her father’s desk, sitting in a well-worn and comfortable chair beside it.
Thomas Bennet looked up from the letter he was perusing to examine his second-eldest daughter over the rim of his spectacles. “I see your mother has discovered your whereabouts this morning.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Yes, she has. How, I shall never understand, but she did anyway.”
Bennet chuckled. “Indeed. Do you suppose the tear in your hem might have given you away?”
“What tear?” Lifting her arms, Elizabeth looked down at her gown. “Oh.” With a defeated sigh, she let them down again. “That tear. Yes, I suppose that might have done it.”
“Well, my dear, it appears that you need to do one of several things. Either perfect your method of sneaking into the house, stop tearing your hems and muddying your skirts when you are out and about, or give in to your mother’s desires and behave as a lady.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “So it seems. I wish she would stop. I am not ready to be out; I am only fourteen, and I do not want to marry.”
“You will someday; marry, that is. You must. It is the way of things; and, to marry, you must first be out.”
“But does it have to happen today?”
Bennet laughed out loud at Elizabeth’s petulant tone. “No, not today, but practice does make one perfect. You might want to think about that,” he finished with a nod.
“Yes, Papa; I will.” Elizabeth finally noticed the letter in her father’s hand. “I am sorry; I did not see that you had a letter. Is it interesting?”
“It is! It is from my old friend Darcy. He is always good for a laugh or two, despite being so serious so much of the time.” Bennet smiled at a memory from his days at Eton, before Darcy graduated and went on to University.
Elizabeth’s head tilted, and she smiled as she watched her father’s animation. “That is a good quality to have.”
“As I know that you are eager to hear what he says but too polite to ask after my private correspondence, I shall favor you with a tidbit or two.”
Elizabeth grinned. “You know me too well. I confess I am eager to hear what your friend has to say this time.”
Bennet adjusted his reading glasses to make it easier to see the letter. “Well, it seems his son balked at going to visit his aunt at Easter.”
“He has several aunts, as I recall. Which one did he not wish to see?”
“His mother’s only sister.” Bennet looked over the top of his spectacles to gauge Elizabeth’s reaction. “Lady Catherine is her name.”
Nodding slightly, Elizabeth looked at the desk, scanning her memory. “I do recall some mention of her before. Did Mr. Darcy give a reason for his son’s reluctance?”
“Lady Catherine holds hopes that Fitzwilliam will marry her daughter. Darcy is against the idea, but has never told the boy this.”
“He should, though! It is only right that his son knows. But, what if he falls in love with his cousin?”
“Darcy doesn’t feel that will ever happen, for reasons he has asked me to keep private.”
“If he asked you not to tell, then you should not, but I cannot help but be curious. I shall have to make up stories in my head to solve the mystery.” Elizabeth flashed a mischievous smile at her father again.
Before Bennet could reply, his wife was heard calling for Elizabeth, her shrill tone rending the air and causing him and his daughter to grimace. “It seems your reprieve is over, my child. You had best get out there and see what your mother wants.”
“May I go up and change my clothes first?”
“You may. I will stall her as long as I can.”
“Thank you, Papa.” Elizabeth stood, ran the few steps to his side to kiss his head, and snuck out the far entrance to the room, ducking into the servant’s stairs and up to her bedchamber.
Watching her leave, Bennet shook his head. I am going to miss you one day, when you have moved to Derbyshire. He turned his attention back to his letter. He knew Darcy had not spoken of the engagement to Fitzwilliam, because they had made an agreement. He had, however, spoken of Darcy’s son to Elizabeth. She was not a girl who reacted well when told what to do; Bennet knew he had to take the time to plant the seed of who Fitzwilliam Darcy was and what his character was like, or his willful daughter would refuse to marry, despite the consequences. They could not risk that.
A quarter hour later, Elizabeth entered the drawing room with all the grace of a woman instead of the impulsiveness of a girl. She sat demurely in a chair, taking up her sewing. When her mother eventually noticed her, Elizabeth received the expected tongue lashing, but instead of responding angrily, she simply smiled to herself and let it wash over her.