Page 6 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
They stood for a moment longer, gazing out over the lawn, watching as the lengthening shadows heralded evening’s approach.
“Lizzy,” Jane said at length, her voice hesitant. “Do you think Papa will ever—”
Elizabeth shook her head sharply, cutting off the question.
“Do not think on it now,” she said firmly, although she knew her plea was as much for herself as it was for Jane.
They parted soon after, Jane retreating to her room and Elizabeth returning to her father’s study to leaf through a pile of neglected letters awaiting attention. She sat at his desk, the faint scent of ink and old parchment bringing memories of happier days, when her father had presided over this very desk with his customary sardonic wit and a glass of brandy in hand.
Elizabeth allowed herself a rare indulgence, she rested her elbows on the desk and lowered her face into her hands. For the first time since the accident, the enormity of it all threatened to overwhelm her. Longbourn, her family’s sanctuary, felt so fragile now. And Jane’s quiet heartbreak, her mother’s anxieties, her own burdens—it all rested too heavily on her.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Elizabeth composed herself at least. She could not—would not—give in to despair. There was too much still to be done.
But one thought echoed persistently in her mind, one that she could no longer dismiss. Longbourn—its people, and its legacy—deserved better than Mr Collins’ mismanagement.
Elizabeth resolved that when the dust settled, she would ensure that the estate’s future was safeguarded. But for now, she could only press on and hope for the best.
Chapter 5
Darcy
Several 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 herfavourite 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 intothe 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?”
