"She does not. She is currently hiding the good china." Georgiana took a step into the room, then stopped. "Is she truly coming?"
"She is." Darcy stopped pacing. He looked at his sister. "You do not have to be here, Georgiana. You can go to your room. Or to the Gardiners. I am sure Mrs Gardiner would welcome you."
"And leave you alone?" Georgiana straightened her spine. It was a brave gesture, though her voice wobbled. "No. I shall stay. I shall support you."
"Thank you."
"However," she added, eyeing the heavy velvet drapes, "if the shouting reaches a certain volume, I intend to hide inside the linen cupboard. It is spacious, smells of lavender, and has a lock."
"A sound strategy," Darcy agreed. "I may join you."
"You cannot. You are the patriarch. You must stand and fight."
Before Darcy could argue the merits of hiding in cupboards versus facing his aunt, the sound of a carriage thundered outside. It was not a polite town carriage. It sounded like a war chariot.
Heavy wheels ground against the cobblestones. Horses stamped. And then, a voice that could shatter glass at fifty paces, boomed from the street.
"Careful with the step, you imbecile! Do you want me to break an ankle? Anne, stop dawdling! Look at this house! The windows are filthy!"
Darcy closed his eyes. "She is here."
"Cupboard," Georgiana squeaked, and vanished into the hallway.
Darcy straightened his coat. He checked his reflection. He looked pale, but determined. He thought of Elizabeth and her hand in his. He took a deep breath.
The front door opened. Mostyn, looking as if he had just swallowed a lemon whole, announced: "Lady Catherine de Bourgh. And Miss de Bourgh."
Lady Catherine swept into the room. She was a small woman, but she occupied space like an expanding gas. She wore a travelling habit of severe black, a hat with an aggressive feather, and an expression of supreme dissatisfaction.
Behind her trailed Anne. Darcy hadn't seen his cousin in a year. She looked bored. She was pale, yes, and thin, wrapped in three shawls, but her eyes were not the eyes of an invalid. They were the eyes of a woman who had heard the same lecture four thousand times and had simply stopped listening.
"Fitzwilliam," Lady Catherine barked, presenting her cheek.
"Aunt Catherine," Darcy bowed, avoiding the cheek and kissing her hand airily. "Welcome to London. Anne."
"Cousin," Anne murmured, drifting to the nearest sofa and collapsing onto it like a discarded marionette.
"Well," Lady Catherine said, stripping off her gloves and tossing them at Mostyn, who caught them with impressive reflexes. "We are here. It was a dreadful journey. The roads were abominable, the inns were flea-ridden, and the tea was tepid. I require refreshment immediately. Cherry tarts. And tea. Strong tea. Not that London swill."
"I shall ring for MrsCrauford," Darcy said.
"Do. And tell her to be quick about it. We have much to discuss, and I do not intend to waste time on pleasantries." She sat down in his favourite armchair, claiming it as a throne. "Sit, Fitzwilliam. Stop hovering. You look like a nervous groom."
Darcy sat. He kept his back straight.
"Now," Lady Catherine declared, fixing him with a stare that could peel paint. "Let us settle this business."
For the next ten minutes, Darcy sat in silence while his aunt consumed three cherry tarts and outlined the rest of his life. It was a fascinating experience, in a horrified sort of way. Lady Catherine did not negotiate. She dictated.
"We shall place the announcement in theMorning Posttomorrow," she decided, brushing crumbs from her bodice. "A discreet notice. 'Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley is engaged to Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park.' Simple. Elegant. It will stop the rumours."
"What rumours?" Darcy asked calmly.
"Do not play coy with me! The rumours that you are wandering about the countryside making eyes at nobodies! I heard you were in Hertfordshire. A savage place. Full of mud and militia." She shuddered. "But that is over. You are a Darcy. You have a duty."
Anne sighed loudly from the sofa. "Mother, do we have to do the duty speech? It is so long."
"Silence, Anne! This concerns your future!" Lady Catherine turned back to Darcy. "The wedding will be at Easter. At Rosings, of course. Mr Collins will officiate. It will be a union of the two great estates. Your mother and I planned it while you were in your cradles. It was her dearest wish."
