Darcy turned. Standing in the doorway, wrapped in furs and looking ready for combat, was his aunt.
"Lady Matlock," Darcy breathed.
"Fitzwilliam," she nodded to him. She swept into the room, ignoring Lady Catherine entirely for a moment to inspect the remaining cherry tarts. "Stale. Typical."
Then, she turned to Lady Catherine.
It was a meeting of unstoppable force and immovable object. The Countess of Matlock versus Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Sister against sister-in-law. Velvet against bombazine.
"Catherine," Lady Matlock said coolly. "You are shouting. It is very vulgar."
"Eleanor!" Lady Catherine pointed a trembling finger at Darcy. "He is ruined! He is destroying the family! He refuses Anne! He speaks of marrying a... a Bennet!"
"Yes, I know," her sister-in-law said, removing her furs and handing them to a terrified footman who hadappeared in the doorway. "We met her. Charming girl. Excellent teeth. And she made the Earl laugh, which is more than you have done in five and sixty years."
Lady Catherine gaped. "You approve? You sanction this pollution of the shades?"
"Oh, stop talking about shades," her ladyship snapped. "You sound like a gothic novel. And yes, I approve. Your brother approves. In fact, we are quite delighted. It turns out the girl's uncle imports excellent brandy."
"Brandy!" Lady Catherine shrieked. "You are selling our nephew for alcohol?"
"It is very good brandy," her sister-in-law noted. "And frankly, Catherine, anything is better than forcing him to marry poor Anne, who looks as if she is about to expire from boredom."
"I am," Anne contributed helpfully. "I really am."
"They are engaged!" Lady Catherine stomped her foot. "It is a compact!"
"It is a fantasy," the Countess countered, stepping closer. She was taller than Lady Catherine, and she used it. "There was no compact. Anne Darcy told me herself, before she died, that she hoped her son would have the sense to find a wife who could handle him. She never mentioned your daughter. Not once."
"Liar!"
"I do not lie, Catherine. I merely have a better memory. Now, sit down before you have a fit of apoplexy. You are turning a very unflattering shade of puce."
Darcy watched, stunned. He had expected a battle. He had not expected his aunt Matlock to arrive with artillery.
From the hallway, he saw a small movement. Georgiana was peeping around the doorframe, her eyes wide, checking for flying objects. Darcy winked at her.
She giggled.
The shouting match continued for another five minutes. Lady Catherine invoked duty, honour, and the Prince Regent. The Countess invoked common sense and the fact that Lady Catherine's hat was three seasons out of date.
It was a stalemate. Until the cavalry arrived.
"What in God's name is going on?"
The Earl of Matlock stood in the doorway, blocking the light. He looked grumpy. He looked cold. And he looked very annoyed that his morning had been interrupted.
"She is shouting, Henry," his wife said, gesturing to Lady Catherine. "She is upsetting the servants."
"I am upholding the dignity of the family!" Lady Catherine roared.
"You are startling the pigeons," the Earl rumbled, walking into the room. He looked at Darcy. "Well? Did you tell her?"
"I did, Uncle."
"And?"
"She disagreed."
