“Well, it is not the lintels, rafters, or joists. They have all been pulled apart for nothing.”
“And the roof?” Fitzwilliam enquired.
Darcy looked at him sharply. “I sincerely hope there is nothing wrong with that.”
“What is the scaffolding for, then?”
“To stop the whole lot falling down.”
Fitzwilliam gave a dismayed exhalation identical to his brother’s. “You ought to have been more explicit in your letter. Father would have come with us if he had known.”
“It was not this bad when I wrote. Matters seem to be going downhill with alarming rapidity.”
“And the architect is returning on Friday, you say?” Linseagh asked. When Darcy confirmed it, he continued, “Then we shall stay until then and hear what he has to say. I shall send word to Branxcombe for my father to co—”
“Do not trouble him,” Darcy interrupted. “Jacobs knows his business, and your father is not well enough to make the journey.” He did not add that he, too, knew his business. He wondered sometimes how his cousin would manage when Lord Matlock eventually succumbed to one of his many ailments. Though four years Darcy’s senior, Linseagh still tended to defer to his father in most matters. His own father having been dead for above five years, Darcy had learnt to be considerably more self-sufficient. Moreover, his aged and sickly uncle was likely to be more hindrance than help, and he had no need of any more difficulties.
“Does it not present a problem having so many people in the house?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“No indeed. They are taking my mind off things,” Darcy replied. His cousins did not need to know it was not the work on the house from which he needed to be distracted.
“Rather you than me. I would find so many loiterers a royal pain in the backside,” Fitzwilliam persisted.
“It is easy enough to keep everyone out of this wing. Besides, Georgiana would not thank me for sending her friends away. And Bingley has not found another house to go to yet. Cox’s is being renovated. Garroway’s sister is confined to her bed. And Aldridge has been waiting all week for you two to arrive. AndIcertainly have nowhere else to be.”
He must have allowed too much bitterness to creep into his voice at the last, for it drew a curious look from Fitzwilliam. “We had better go in and dress for dinner, or we shall be late,” he said quickly and walked away before his cousin could ask him what he meant.
* * *
“What did you mean, when you said earlier that you have nowhere else to be?”
Darcy repressed a sigh. He ought to have known Fitzwilliam would not let it go. “Precisely what I said.”
His cousin grunted. “Funny thing to say.”
Darcy played his turn at billiards and did not answer. Only his cousins and he were present; everyone else had either gone to bed or was still playing cards in the drawing room. Linseagh was, as always, taking the game far too seriously, and proceeded to score a run of cannons and hazards while Darcy stood by and watched.
Fitzwilliam was sitting out, having lost the previous game to his brother. “I shall tell you another funny thing. Bingley told me at dinner that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was here last week,” he said from his seat in the corner.
“Did he,” Darcy replied flatly.
“He did. And I was wondering, as I am wont to do, for I am a philosophical sort of fellow, why you did not mention it yourself.”
Linseagh struck his cue ball noisily, potting all three balls and scoring the maximum of ten points. He made a small noise of triumph before laying his cue down and turning around to lean against the table with his arms folded. “Somebody is going to have to enlighten me as to who Miss Bennet is, and what is the significance of her being at Pemberley.”
The fire crackled and popped as though quieting the room for a speech. The dimness outside of the glare of oil lamps above the table made it hard to see his cousins’ expressions, though Darcy could feel both sets of eyes on him. He gripped his cue tightly. There was a time when he had been unwilling to speak of his affection for Elizabeth because he was ashamed of loving her. The only shame he knew these days was for the conceit that had made him think in such preposterous terms. He cared not if the whole world knew what she meant to him now, yet that made it no easier to speak about.
Fitzwilliam began for him, his voice considerably gentler than it had been moments before. “She is a young lady Darcy met last autumn, while he was staying with Bingley in Hertfordshire. She has four sisters, no connexions of which to speak, and no money, but her father is a gentleman—he owns an estate in Hertfordshire. Her cousin is Mr Collins—Lady Catherine’s parson.” He hesitated between each new fact, as though waiting for an instruction to stop, but Darcy said nothing. “She was visiting Mr Collins and his wife when Darcy and I were at Rosings at Easter. We both spent quite some time with her. She is an exceedingly lovely young lady, but Darcy holds her inparticularlyhigh regard.”
There was a longer pause, then he said abruptly, “Darcy, I am going to finish this tale if you do not say something.”
“Finish it. I have no stomach to tell it myself.” Darcy tossed his cue down next to Linseagh’s and stalked to lean against the mantelpiece with his back to the room.
“Very well,” Fitzwilliam acceded, somewhat warily. “Our cousin made Miss Bennet an offer, but it transpired she did not return his regard. In short, she said no.”
“Ouch,” Linseagh said quietly, neatly summing up the entiredébâcle.
“Indeed,” his brother replied. “I understand there were recriminations on both sides. In fact, they parted ways in a manner which, at the time, seemed as though it would preclude all future contact.”
