Page 7 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy
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 Anne, who had been sitting pale and withdrawn, flushed a furious shade of pink.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 defyyour 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, isthat 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.”
