Page 6 of The Difference of a Darcy
She had wished he were not her brother.
And part of him feared that, perhaps, she meant it.
Chapter 1
Darcy House, London—December 4th, 1811
Darcy sank into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk in the study of Darcy House. The fire in the grate crackled softly, giving off a steady warmth that failed to settle the agitation in his chest. A thin beam of afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows, catching the gilt edge of a book left forgotten on the windowsill. It might have been peaceful, had he not just returned from White’s and a thoroughly unsatisfying luncheon with Charles Bingley.
They had not quarreled, precisely. But Bingley had been restless and melancholy, folding and refolding his napkin with increasing agitation as the soup course went cold.
Darcy had known what was coming before Bingley spoke a word.
“She is the loveliest creature I have ever known,” Bingley had said abruptly, with a note of strained defiance. “And I do not care what Caroline or Louisa says. I intend to return to Hertfordshire and offer for her before Christmas.”
Darcy had weighed his words with care. “You know I hold Miss Bennet in high regard, Bingley. But I must ask: are you certain of her affections?”
Bingley looked genuinely distressed. “I… I believe so. Ithinkso. Do you not?”
Darcy had hesitated. “Her manner is amiable, but I have observed it to be the same with all. It would be… ungenerous to presume too much upon her kindness.”
Bingley had faltered, his hopeful smile fading. “Do you truly think she does not care for me?”
Darcy had met his gaze evenly. “I cannot say with certainty. But I know you would not wish to press attentions upon a lady whose feelings are not engaged. That is not in your character.”
Bingley had not answered. Not properly. The soup had cooled, the fish dried beneath its sauce, and their conversation limped toward other matters before they both gave it up entirely and parted ways with strained civility.
Now, alone in his London study, Darcy unbuttoned his coat and leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk. His gut twisted uncomfortably. He had done what was best—for Bingley. For Miss Bennet, too, surely. If her affections were not deeply engaged, she would recover in time. If they were…No, they are not.
Or is that just wishful thinking? a voice in his head taunted. After all, if Bingley were to marry the eldest, you would often come in company with her sister.
He shoved the thought of Miss Elizabeth away and reached for the stack of letters awaiting his attention. They had been set aside by his man of business and were meant for review before being forwarded on to Netherfield. He glanced at the topmost one—his steward’s familiar hand, steady and neat.
Sir,
The lambing pens are in place, and the eastern pasture has been reinforced as you directed. Mrs. Anstruther has recovered from her fall and sends her gratitude for yourgift of wine. The tenant families have been informed of your usual Christmastide gifts, and all anticipate a parcel from Pemberley on the Eve…
He read on a while, soothed by the simple routine of caring for his home.
Another letter followed, this one from the parson in Kympton, reporting minor repairs to the parsonage and informing him which tenant families still needed help preparing for the winter. Darcy drafted a short note of approval on a half sheet and set it aside.
The next letter in the pile, however, made him groan aloud.
The script was unmistakable: bold, slanted, and underlined with imperious flourish.Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Darcy hesitated a moment before breaking the seal. The wax cracked like a pistol shot in the quiet room. He opened the thick parchment and read, brow furrowing as the lines progressed.
Fitzwilliam,
Your cousin Anne has taken ill. I do not speak of some trifling ague or a winter cough, but of a malady which may claim her life before the Easter season begins. She grows thinner by the day and takes no nourishment of substance. The physician has confessed that she may not survive the month. You are her nearest kin, and if you wish to see her again in this life, you must come at once.
Your uncle’s family will not expect you for Christmas; I have already written to my brother. Your sister will be at the Matlocks. You have no excuse to delay. I have taken the liberty of arranging for Mr. Collins to remain in residence at the parsonage through the holiday, should the need arise to procure a common license.
I expect you no later than the twenty-third.
—Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Darcy’s jaw tightened. So, it was to be this again. He had no desire to spend the holiday in the draughty halls of Rosings Park, tripping over his aunt’s schemes and Anne’s feeble protests. But the letter struck a note that could not be ignored: if Anne truly was ill, if there was any real danger…
