Page 8 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy
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 flinchedslightly. 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.
