Page 4 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
Darcy straightened his cravat with perhaps more force than necessary. “Very well. I shall hold my tongue. Though if she mentions it, I will consider myself released from this promise.”
“Even if she mentions it,” Fitz insisted.
He was silent for a moment, considering whether that was possible. “I promise to try,” Darcy said finally, which was the best he could manage.
When they entered the drawing room, Lady Catherine was enthroned in her favourite chair, with his cousin Anne arranged carefully on a chaise beside her. The spring sunshine streaming through the tall windows did neither of them any favours. Lady Catherine appeared more imperious than ever, while Anne seemed happy to fade into the upholstery.
Darcy’s gaze assessed the room with a familiar aversion. His aunt’s preference for ostentation was entirely absurd. Every object here competed for attention, from the gilt-edged mirrors to the elaborate Aubusson carpet. No one could really discern the colour of the walls, for they had disappeared beneath a riot of portraits of cherubs and garlands, while crystals dripped needlessly from every sconce and the chandelier. A half-dozen delicate tables dotted the room, none of them with any purpose save to display porcelain figures. But even here there was little thought for grouping like things together. Shepherds and milkmaids sat next to leering satyrs and drunken cherubs of Bacchus who clutched barrels of wine. Even the chair cushions had been embroidered within an inch of their lives, forcing guests to perch awkwardly lest they damage the needlework.
It was, Darcy thought, rather like the folly itself—all show and no substance, proof of wealth without evidence of prudence, every choice made for appearance rather than comfort or practical use.
“Darcy! Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine extended her hand with royal grandeur. “You are late. I expected you hours ago.”
“The roads were in poor condition from the recent rains, Aunt,” Fitz said, bowing over her hand.
“Nonsense. They cannot have been so bad.”
So said the woman who only ever travelled to the village a mile away. They had made very good time.
“Come, sit down. Mrs. Jenkinson, ring for tea.” His aunt fixed her sharp gaze on Darcy. “Well, nephew? Have you nothing to say to your aunt?”
“It is good to see you looking so well,” Darcy managed, though the words felt stiff on his tongue.
“Hmph. You seem out of sorts. Though I suppose I know why.” Lady Catherine’s fan tapped against her knee. “You passed my lovely folly on your way in, did you not? Still standing, you see, despite all your dire predictions. How many years has it been now?” Her smile was unbearably smug.
Darcy felt Fitz’s warning gaze boring into him. He took a careful breath, remembering his promise. “Lady Catherine,” he began with every intention of changing the topic, but she was not finished.
“Really, Darcy, you must learn to admit when you are wrong. The finest architects in Kent assured me it would stand, and stand it has. Such a beautiful addition to the landscape. Everyone says so. Why, just last week, Lady Metcalfe was remarking on how picturesque it is.”
Finest architects indeed. Only one architect had been willing to take the money and make no protest. The tea arrived, and he accepted a cup mechanically, barely tasting the drink as Lady Catherine continued to extol the virtues of her folly. His aunt’s voice droned on, each word stoking his frustration like fuel added to a fire.
“—and Lady Metcalfe’s second cousin, who has travelled extensively in Italy, declared she had never seen its equal. Such perfect proportions! Such elegant simplicity! Though of course, one cannot expect everyone to appreciate such an artistic vision.” Here she cast a meaningful glance at Darcy.
The tea scalded his tongue and burned his throat, but he barely noticed.
“When the morning light strikes the limestone, it positively glows. Like marble from Carrara itself!”
As if the woman knew anything about Italian art. The folly was a replica of—
He leaned slightly forward, intending to speak, but Fitz kicked the heel of his boot sharply against Darcy’s ankle and glared at him. Darcy glared back, and when Lady Catherine at last paused to draw breath, he could contain himself no longer.
“Aunt,” Darcy said, his voice carrying the weight of seven years’ frustration, “it is not the appearance of the folly that is at issue.” It was, but it was not the most important problem. “You cannot continue to ignore the structural concerns.”
“Nephew,” Lady Catherine interrupted, waving away his words as she might dismiss an impertinent servant, “I find your persistence on this matter quite tiresome. The folly has stood for many years without the slightest indication of instability.”
“Seven years is nothing in the life of such a structure,” Darcy pressed, setting down his cup and rising to pace before the great fireplace in an attempt to cool his temper. Fitz, still seated with his own tea, caught his eye with another warning look that Darcy ignored. “The weight of the stone, combined with the former chalk mines in the area—”
“I consulted Harrison before we began,” Lady Catherine declared, her spine straightening impossibly further. “He assured me the location was perfectly suitable.”
“Did he?” Darcy’s tone sharpened. “Or did he simply bow to your wishes and take your money, knowing you would accept no contrary opinion?”
Anne coughed delicately from her position near the window, and Mrs. Jenkinson arranged a shawl over her shoulders despite the increasing warmth of the day. “Perhaps, Cousin Darcy, we might discuss something more pleasant? The gardens have bloomed beautifully in the past fortnight.”
“Indeed, they have,” Fitz added quickly. “The primroses are particularly—”
“The primroses will look considerably less fine when that monstrosity comes crashing down the hillside,” Darcy cut in, his patience fraying.
Lady Catherine’s fan snapped open with the sound of a pistol shot. “Really, Darcy, you speak as though I had erected some merchant’s folly, some tradesman’s fantasy. This is Rosings Park. Everything here is built to the highest standard.”
