Page 5 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
That was not in the least true, but she would never listen. “The finest craftsmanship cannot overcome the basic laws of nature.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes flashed, and Darcy, chagrined, understood that she was quite enjoying their battle. “I find it extraordinary that you presume to tell me what cannot be done on my own estate. I, who have managed Rosings these thirty years.”
“Twenty-four,” Anne murmured, her correction almost inaudible.
“I have overseen improvements that have made it the jewel of Kent. Fitzwilliam, do you not agree that the folly adds a classical dignity to the landscape?”
Fitz, caught between his desire for peace and his loyalty to Darcy, cleared his throat. “It is certainlystriking, Aunt.”
Coward.
“You see?” Lady Catherine gestured triumphantly at Fitz. “Even your cousin appreciates it. Anne, my dear, did you not say just yesterday how much you enjoyed taking the air there?”
Anne’s pale features registered resignation at being applied to for her opinion. “I believe I mentioned that the view from my window was pleasant,” she said carefully.
“There, you see?” Lady Catherine turned back to Darcy. “The folly provides my Anne with respite and contemplation. Would you deny your cousin this small pleasure?”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. “I would deny her the pleasure of being buried beneath thirty tons of stone, yes.”
Fitz coughed to hide what might have been a laugh. He did that quite often at Rosings.
“Really, Darcy,” Lady Catherine said dismissively. “I begin to think you argue merely for the sake of argument. The folly stands, it will continue to stand, and I will hear no more about it. Now, shall we discuss more agreeable matters?”
It was just like his aunt to bring up the disagreeable matter and then refuse to finish the conversation. Darcy nearly growled.
She ignored his obvious frustration. “Tell me, is it true that you have met Mrs. Collins’s pretty houseguest? I am told you were introduced in Hertfordshire last autumn.”
Darcy, who had just lifted his tea again to keep himself from saying something truly unforgivable, nearly spilled it. “I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. Quite decided opinions. Impertinent, really.”
“Mother likes her,” Anne whispered.
The room seemed suddenly airless. Darcy set down his cup with excessive care, aware of Fitz’s shrewd glance in his direction. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he repeated, his voice strange to his own ears. “Is here? At Hunsford?”
“So you do know her,” Anne confirmed.
He nodded.
“Yes, yes.” Lady Catherine waved her fan, appearing annoyed that Darcy had already been introduced. “You recall I wrote you of Mrs. Collins? Yes, well, Miss Bennet has come to visit her. A young lady of quite modest circumstances, I understand, though she plays and sings a little. Not very well, of course, for she has had none of the advantages that Anne has enjoyed. Still, one must make allowances. The girl seems to have some conversation.”
This was nearly a paean from Lady Catherine.
Darcy stood abruptly, then realized he had no reason to do so. He moved to the window, ostensibly to examine the gardens, but his eyes were drawn to the path that led to the parsonage. She was here. The very woman he had fled to London to forget, whose impertinent wit and fine eyes had haunted him all winter.
“Cousin?” Anne’s soft voice broke through his thoughts. “Are you quite well? You look rather pale.”
“The journey,” he said curtly. “The roads. If you will excuse me, I believe I will take an opportunity to refresh myself.”
“You have already done so,” Lady Catherine complained. “Not even you are so fastidious, Darcy.”
He strode from the room without answering. He heard Fitz making his apologies, but Darcy did not slow his pace.
He had come to Kent seeking distraction from his troubled thoughts, only to find their source waiting for him. And knowing Miss Elizabeth’s clever observations, she would no doubt take particular delight in watching him wage his hopeless campaign against his aunt’s folly. He could almost see her raised eyebrow, imagine the barely suppressed smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she witnessed him being treated like a child.
Miss Elizabeth—he would always think of her as Elizabeth—here at Rosings. It was as if fate itself were laughing at his attempts to put her from his mind.
He reached the staircase beyond the drawing room and stopped, pressing his fingers to his temples. A headache had begun to pulse behind his eyes, a combination of the journey, his aunt’s intransigence, and the revelation that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was so near. She was even closer now than she had been in Hertfordshire.
