Chapter 5
Darcy raised his eyes from the array of paperwork on his desk, his gaze settling on the garden located just beyond the open doors. Verdant, lush and fragrant, it was his quiet haven from the filth and clamour of London. Of late, he spent much time gazing into, or sitting in his garden. Meeting Elizabeth by chance in the wood had focused his thoughts in a more positive direction. He had begun to imagine Elizabeth in his garden, sitting among the fragrant summer flowers, holding out her hand to him. He smiled to remember her soft hand beneath his lips and the look of surprise and pleasure in her beautiful eyes when he kissed her wrist. Darcy leaned back in his chair for a moment, enjoying the memory of their brief encounter. He thought of her wiping the dirt off his face, and his hand went to the waistcoat pocket where her handkerchief was always placed, a memento of her unexpected gesture. He could almost feel her light touch against his cheek. Surely she would not be so kind had she found him completely repulsive.
A fortnight ago, he had arrived in Brook Street, determined to do what he knew to be right. Soon after, he had told Bingley of his role in keeping Miss Bennet from him. Bingley’s expression of hard, cold anger had been a surprise, especially when he stalked out of Darcy’s townhouse without a backward glance, and many days had passed since their meeting. It did not bode well for their friendship. Darcy now understood how important the happiness of Miss Bennet was to her sister, as important as his own sister’s happiness would be to him. He shook his head and sighed at his own arrogant presumption. Now he hoped that there would be more for him than Elizabeth’s soiled handkerchief. And even that, he had taken without asking – she had not offered it to him.
But further admonishments were spared by the entrance of his butler bearing a calling card placed upon a silver tray.
“I am not at home,” he said with uncharacteristic crossness, his eyes searching the desk for a suitable distraction.
“As you wish, Mr Darcy. Nevertheless, sir, I have taken the liberty of informing you. I thought you might like to know.” The butler had no intention of leaving until Darcy read the card. The man was singularly stubborn, Darcy thought in resignation as he snatched the card from the tray. The butler stood motionless, his expression bland and inscrutable borne of years of experience and training. He was an admirable servant, very valuable indeed. Darcy cleared his throat and felt the man’s gaze upon him, waiting to do his bidding.
“I will make an exception. Where have you placed our visitor?”
“The small drawing room, Mr Darcy.”
“I will see her now, then. And thank you.”
“Very good sir, right away.” And as the butler bowed, Darcy thought he could detect the faintest smile on the man’s usually stoic countenance.
Darcy sat back in his chair, allowing the butler some time to escort his guest, and steeling himself for this meeting, which he anticipated and dreaded both. He had written to her of Lady Catherine's death – she had been unable to attend the funeral, for she had been travelling in Ireland with her husband. It had seemed providential for her relations with the Fitzwilliam family became strained when she had married the former drawing master of his cousin, over the objections of nearly everyone. Darcy considered the wisdom of his own actions in the matter, and was not at all pleased with the conclusion. With the exception of George Wickham, his judgment in affairs of the heart had been faulty without fail. He hoped this was not to be yet another confrontation. He rose from his chair, and made his way along the elegantly appointed, cool, dark hallway, his step deliberate and slow.
Darcy paused at the open door to observe his guest standing by the window, her profile illuminated by the sun. Their last parting had not been friendly. Although their relations had been healed somewhat through an unspoken agreement formed by words passed through mutual acquaintances, Darcy held no expectations of their meeting. Much to his own surprise, he was happy to see her. His breath caught as he regarded her, her remarkable beauty undiminished by age. Although the jewels of successive generations had once been bestowed upon her, she had discarded them in favour of simple adornments, fine and new. They suited her perfectly. At the sound of the door closing behind him, she turned from the window. Catching his eye, she smiled, extending her hand in greeting.“Mr Darcy, I am glad you would see me. I thank you for the intelligence of Lady Catherine's accident.” Her voice was low and melodic, reminding him of another, younger voice.
Momentarily taken aback by her formality, he bowed and kissed her hand, copying her form of address. “Of course. I am very happy to see you, Mrs Tyrone. It has been far too long.”
She smiled slightly, inclining her head, “I am glad to hear it. I was afraid you would not think it long enough. Certainly our last meeting did not leave me with the best of memories.”
“Perhaps it is best forgotten, then. Please.” Colouring slightly, he motioned for her to sit, and seated himself nearby.
She looked around the room. “You have not changed much here, have you?”
He shook his head. “No, I never saw the need.”
She smiled, as if to herself, regarding the elegant, subdued decoration and said,
“And of course, when you marry, no doubt your bride will have something to say about that. Young ladies always have very particular ideas about decorating, and very often their husbands suffer the consequences. I do not doubt it will be the same for you,” she laughed softly and shook her head as if in remembrance. As she turned her gaze to Darcy a moment later, her smile was replaced by a look of concern to see him staring down at the floor, solemn, grave and a little sad.
“Oh, my dear, have I offended you? Are you unwell? You do look tired.”
“No, no, it is nothing. Nothing at all. But,” his eyes rose to meet her own, “you wished to speak to me about something in particular?”
She shifted in her chair slightly, and cleared her throat, softly, her fingers playing with the fabric of her gown. “I should very much like to see Georgiana, to talk to her. Last we discussed this, neither of us had much inclination toward civility, and I cannot recall that meeting without a great deal of regret.”
Darcy looked down, biting his lips.
“I was angrier with you than I ought to have been. I lashed out at you, knowing that you were enormously disappointed – nay, furious – with my decision to marry, especially given my choice of husband. And I will not tell you that it has always been – easy – isolated from my family and so many of my former acquaintance,” and here she paused, waiting until she caught his eye again.
“But I know that my choice, while difficult, was the right one. And it is my dearest hope that someday you will understand this and accept my decision.” She looked at him very directly for a moment, and Darcy felt his face grow warm. Whatever she saw in him satisfied her for she continued with a small smile. “And it has its amusements – as when those who have shunned him in the past now beg Mr Tyrone to paint something – anything – of theirs.”
Darcy raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Oh yes. Indeed, the Earl himself has asked Mr Tyrone to paint his portrait. I have told him to charge the most exorbitant fee and to make the Earl look bloated and dyspeptic. You know, of course, that the appearance of the Earl is relatively unimportant – what will matter is that Mr Tyrone has painted the portrait.” Darcy caught a flash of impertinence in her look, replaced a moment later by cool elegance as she continued, “Of course Mr Tyrone will paint a flattering countenance, for my husband is a man of honour and with far better manners and more insight than most of the Fitzwilliams will ever hope to have.”
Darcy shrugged his shoulders and said in a quiet voice, “Perhaps more insight and better manners than the Darcys as well, madam.”
His guest raised an eyebrow and inclined her head as if in agreement, pausing for a moment before she said, “You are very different, my dear. I sense some sadness, discontent or dissatisfaction. Tell me, have you been able to put that other business behind you?”
“Sometimes I fear we shall always have a reminder”
“Yes, but you have done your best, have you not? Some wounds can only heal with time.”
Her words had the effect of rendering Darcy speechless, and in this, she took the opportunity to remind him of her request.
“But you have not answered my question. I have been given to understand that Georgiana has remained at Rosings. Would you mind, do you have any objection were I to see her?”
“I have no objection, madam. I would not wish to be the cause of any further separation.”
She gave him her thanks, and Darcy accepted an invitation for an informal dinner the next evening. The conversation had turned to more mundane matters and his guest was on her feet and preparing to leave as the door opened wide to admit Colonel Fitzwilliam, flushed and warm, having just stepped out from his carriage. Mrs Tyrone smiled in immediate recognition, her manner decidedly less formal.
“Richard, my dear. What an unexpected pleasure to see you!” she cried, walking toward him.
“My Lady,” Fitzwilliam bowed over Mrs Tyrone's proffered hand.
“No, no, not that, I beg of you! I despise it. Mrs Tyrone is quite good enough.”
“As you wish, madam.” He shifted the small, red book in his hand, catching Mrs Tyrone’s attention.
“And have you been drawing? Will you not let me see?” She pointed to the book.
“These are the work of an acquaintance, and they are quite good. I had hoped to show them to your husband, in fact. But I would be pleased to share them with you as well – Darcy is acquainted with the artist.”
Examination of the art would have to wait, however, as Darcy’s butler entered to announce the arrival of Mrs Tyrone’s carriage. She extracted a promise from Colonel Fitzwilliam to accompany his cousin to dinner on the following evening, bearing samples of his own work as well as those of his friennd. Mrs Tyrone kissed Fitzwilliam briefly on the cheek and it seemed she might do the same for Darcy, but awkwardness ensued and she could only press his hand as she left, the fine fabric of her gown rustling softly behind her.
Darcy, by turns surprised and oddly bereft walked to the decanter and poured his cousin a brandy, and then served himself. “You seem to be on good terms.” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but found he was a little offended by Mrs Tyrone’s obvious affection for his cousin.
“I never had an issue with her marriage. She was quite free to marry as she wished. Do you not think it is time to put the past behind you? It is well beyond the time to reconcile.”
Darcy looked into his glass. “Perhaps. She wishes to see Georgiana.”
“Excellent. Georgiana needs a woman’s influence.”
“She has Mrs Annesley.”
“A paid companion; Georgiana needs someone to guide her; a strong woman. They have been separated long enough.”
Darcy turned to look into the fire. “I cannot allow Georgiana to be abandoned, not again.”
“Cousin,” Fitzwilliam said gently, “you effected the separation.”
Darcy shut his eyes and leaned his head against the mantle.
“I do not blame you; you did what you felt best. And Mrs Annesley is an exemplary companion. Still, I did not like Georgiana’s behaviour to the Misses Bennet – she was not herself – she was rude and haughty, and I do not think those manners came from Mrs Annesley.”
“So I gathered from your letter. Georgiana mentioned nothing.”
“No? She would not discuss it with me, either. At the very least, I think it would be best for you to return to Rosings. Come back with me, in fact. I plan to return before week’s end.”
“I am giving it serious thought, given my previous visitor’s appearance. Perhaps we should all descend upon Anne.”
“Anne might like it, Darcy. She looks very well.”
“It certainly would distract her. I shall think on it.”
Here he stopped for a moment, then turned to his cousin to ask, “How long have you been in town, by the way.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked a little sheepish. “I just arrived….Darcy, may I stay here?”
“Of course! You know you are always welcome! But why not stay with your parents?”
“Yes. My parents. My brother and his wife and their noisy brood are there presently. I do not mind the children, they are still amusing, but their mother….” Distaste showed on his face, calmed by a drink from his glass. “The only way to tolerate that woman is with large quantities of brandy, and I want a clear head.”
“I thought she was determined to find you a wife from one of her circle.”
Fitzwilliam drained his glass and set it on the table “I want nothing to do with those women. I cannot tolerate them – all arts and artifice and snobbishness. And they are singularly unaccomplished. Not an ounce of wit or real beauty or manners in the whole lot of them.”
Darcy laughed. “I will not argue on that point. Still, I thought at one time you considered such a match. You could do far worse.”
Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I might as well travel to the continent and offer myself up as a sacrifice to Bonaparte himself.” He sighed and sat back in one of the large chairs. “Darcy, you do have the most comfortable furnishings. Were I to have a room like this, I might even take up reading.”
“If I knew you to be serious, I would help you acquire such a room. What I do know is that you are evading me. Now, please tell me why you have come to London?”
Fitzwilliam cast a rueful look at his cousin. “I came to see Tyrone – in fact, he has been engaged by my father to do a portrait.”
“So I gathered from his wife. I find it curious that Tyrone would agree, in fact. Surely he does not need the commission.”
Fitzwilliam shook his head. “Not at all. I suspect she encouraged it, to make a point.”
Darcy smiled. “Ah yes. Of course. And what is your business with Tyrone?”
“I require advice.”
“And what advice do you seek from your former drawing master?” Darcy said in a cynical tone.
Fitzwilliam shook his head, a warning note crept into his voice, “Darcy, you know he is more than that. But I will satisfy your curiosity. I am seriously considering the possibility of taking up art as a profession.”
Darcy turned and looked at his cousin in surprise. “What of the army?”
“Many younger sons have some profession. We cannot all marry well. I want some stability, a home. I want to enjoy these things before I am too damaged to do so. But I do not wish to discuss it further. Come, look at these drawings.” He handed the book to Darcy and swirled the brandy in his glass.
Darcy felt the pain return. He knew of the attraction between Elizabeth and his cousin. Surely he could not be thinking of Elizabeth as the source of his stability? He willed the thought away and leafed through the sketchbook, seeing images of London. He alighted on a page and seeing a familiar face, was inclined to laugh at the perfection of the image in an improbable setting. The feeling was replaced rather quickly by an odd discomfort, however. He knew of only one person currently in Kent who could have drawn such an image, and only one person who could also be considered as Fitzwilliam’s “friend.” Thus he took a deep breath and tried to speak in a voice devoid of concern.
“Indeed, these are quite good. If not for the clothing, I would swear it to be an excellent likeness of the sister of my friend, Bingley.” He paused, to look up at his cousin. “Fitzwilliam, who is the artist here?”
His question was ignored as a Fitzwilliam’s thoughts moved in rapid succession. “This could be Bingley’s sister? Are you sure, Darcy?”
“Yes, and a very good likeness too.” Darcy was impatient to know, and frustrated that his cousin kept him on a tether.
“I must know, Darcy, who was the young lady you were so keen to separate from Mr Bingley?”
“It was Miss Jane Bennet,” Darcy said in a tired voice. To himself, he hoped he had the strength to get through this.
“Miss Jane Bennet? You separated Miss Jane Bennet from Bingley? Of what were you thinking, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam paced the carpet, eyes flashing. Whether it was anger, or satisfaction at discovering an answer, Darcy knew not. Again, he tried to keep his voice neutral as he spoke:
“I did not feel that she cared for him. She was pleasant enough, and well-mannered, but I thought that she would take advantage of him to improve her own family. I observed no evidence of any feeling beyond a friendly affection.”
“Did you speak to Miss Bennet herself? Did you overhear a conversation perhaps? How did you know this to be the case?” Fitzwilliam’s voice rose.
“I observed Miss Bennet closely on several occasions, and I did not think she cared for him sufficiently.”
Fitzwilliam stood still for a moment, shaking his head. “I cannot believe it, Darcy. What arrogance! What presumption! How could you?”
Darcy felt a familiar feeling of dread at reliving the nightmare of his proposal to Elizabeth. He was tired and weary; his head pounding. He looked up to Fitzwilliam from where he sat. “I do not know. I did what I thought to be the best to protect my friend.” He sighed. “Do not think that I do not regret it now. I have made many people unhappy. In fact the only person who may be happy about it is Bingley’s sister. Still, I did what I thought best.” He took a drink, and leaned back in his chair, preparing for the barrage of anger.
But Fitzwilliam’s demeanour changed. A thought seemed to occur to him, and he resumed his course back and forth along the carpet. “Of course! Last April, I revealed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet that you were congratulating yourself on helping Bingley avoid a disastrous marriage. And it was her sister all along. Good Lord. No wonder she developed a horrible headache. And you said she quarrelled with you later that day. Yes, it all makes sense now. But Darcy, how could you do such a thing! How incredibly arrogant of you to draw such a conclusion without evidence. And how bizarre. ”
Darcy closed his eyes for a moment. He had no wish to remember his conversation with Elizabeth, but when he did not respond, Fitzwilliam spoke again,
You know, I should be furious with you.” He shook his head and stopped moving. “But I cannot be! I am actually grateful.”
Darcy looked into his glass, a feeling of gloom settled over him. “And it is Miss Bennet that you care for? You have seen her in Kent and have renewed the acquaintance.”
“I have been spending time with Miss Bennet., I find her very appealing, lovely, accomplished. You have seen for yourself her work – those are her drawings.”
“Yes, yes,” Darcy said, “she is all those things. I thought that I had recalled, however, that she told our Aunt she did not draw.”
Fitzwilliam stopped. “When did she meet our Aunt? Darcy?” His eyes narrowed. “Unless she can speak to the dead.”
Darcy said in a tired voice. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Is that not of whom you speak?”
“No! Darcy, did you not know that Miss Elizabeth’s elder sister, Miss Jane Bennet had accompanied her into Kent?”
Suddenly Darcy felt the release of a great weight. He felt as though he might jump up and laugh and even kiss his cousin. “Miss Jane Bennet? These are her drawings? I am astonished. She is very talented. And even more astonishing, for you have a serious interest in her.”
;“I do. I am thinking of asking for her hand, but I must make sure I can offer her something.”
Darcy remembered Miss Bennet’s cool demeanour, and despite what Elizabeth had told him, he could not but help himself. “But does she return your feelings, Fitzwilliam? You must be very careful here.”
“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam’s voice took on a warning tone. “I am not Bingley.”
Darcy had the grace to blush a little. “My apologies, cousin. But do take care. I should not like to see you give your heart and get nothing in return.”
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