The ton could invent so many stories that a year would be insufficient to hear them all, so he decided to remain calm and face the crowd, not letting them see his turmoil. It was a satisfaction he would not give them, but inside, his heart was a tempest of emotions, a storm he struggled to contain.
As he entered the club’s large hall, the first person he saw was a certain baronet well known for his cruel delight in vicious gossip. If Darcy had a choice, he would have turned and run like a child; instead, he composed an amiable mask and headed towards the slanderer. The baronet was in a group of three, obviously spreading tales. Darcy had an impression that he was the subject, but to his great surprise, they all turned to him and bowed with an obliging look on their faces, no trace of their usual malice in the face of a scandal.
All the men wanted to shake his hand. As this was less a sign of greeting than a mark of unusual affability or intimacy, it meant only one thing: the subject of their gossip was not his marriage or Elizabeth. They exchanged polite words as the club’s superintendent, Mr Crosby, hurried to them. He positioned himself rather far from the group, but seeing his attitude, Darcy found an excuse to leave his acquaintances. He turned to the superintendent, who spoke in a clear voice that could be heard by anyone in the lobby:
“His Grace is waiting for you!”
Darcy bowed, relieved to take his leave yet utterly perplexed by the demeanour of those around him. However, that matter could wait; for the moment, he needed to concentrate on the meeting ahead; he had to compose his appearance and master his feelings.
∞∞∞
The duke stood the minute Darcy entered the room and did not even let him bow; he took his hand in such a friendly manner that Darcy made an effort to recall all his memories and try to understand the duke’s benevolence. But on the occasions he remembered, nothing significant had happened.
“Do sit, my boy!” the duke said, warmly addressing Darcy as only close family would. If Darcy expected a confrontation, it became clear the encounter was quite the opposite.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Darcy said respectfully.
The steward prepared drinks and retired, leaving the two men face to face with glasses of brandy in their hands.
“I know it is early for brandy, but we shall break the rule this late morning. Now, tell me all about your engagement and the exquisite creature you have the good fortune to marry soon.”
Darcy hesitated for a moment. Was it wise to let the man before him know details about London’s stubborn dislike of Elizabeth? And what could be his interest? The duke was arguably one of the most influential peers in London: he could support or destroy reputations at a whim. Yet, the warm reception and his friendly attitude made Darcy trust him.
“I understand your reticence in telling such an intimate story to a stranger, but please believe me that I have only good intentions towards you—in fact, the best!”
Darcy, usually reticent in society, decided that the duke could help him, mainly to stop the rumours. People would continue gossiping, but that tittle-tattle would only be among families and little groups and would not affect his reputation.
So he smiled and said, “Sir, it is not a dramatic story, and mostly it is offensive towards my future wife…”
He let that sentence hang in the air as it was nearer the truth.
“I am sorry to say, but my family has developed a dislike for Miss Elizabeth, especially Lady Catherine de Bourgh, my aunt…”
“Hmm”—the duke was evidently shocked—“Lady Catherine de Bourgh, you say, formerly Catherine Fitzwilliam.”
It was Darcy’s turn to be surprised, a question pending on his face.
“Yes, Catherine Fitzwilliam and I are old acquaintances,” the duke said. Darcy could not but observe the duke’s choice of words: ‘acquaintances’…not friends!
The duke took a long sip of his brandy. “Enough stories. Let us think about loving people around you and forget the others.”
“You speak the truth, sir. I have family and friends and…future family.” He smiled with bright eyes that told the duke everything.
“Good for you and for them. I am so pleased you have people around you who love you. You may be surprised at my reason for inviting you here.”
Indeed, Darcy came with that question in mind but did not dare to ask.
“I only wanted to know you better—no other motive. Nevertheless, it seems fate had a plan. Lately, I have profoundly disliked the attitude some people have towards your future wife. Do not worry, Fitzwilliam Darcy. People under my protection are not subjected to gossip in London, and this meeting had this reason, to let them see you and your family are under my protection.” The duke’s words were like a balm to Darcy’s troubled soul, offering a glimmer of hope in all his turmoil.
As he stood and strolled to the window, the duke grasped his shoulder in reassurance. As he returned, lit by the sunlightstreaming from outside, an epiphany hit Darcy: the duke’s imposing stature was familiar. It was not unusual as Pemberley had a gallery of ancestral portraits, almost all in a martial stance. Still, his memory seemed stronger than a mere resemblance to a painting.
As he returned to his armchair, the duke assured him he would not allow gossip to circulate. They could not control a family’s chatter, but Elizabeth would be treated like a royal blood princess in society. Darcy understood the significance of the duke’s influence in London. For the first time in days, he had a sense of relief as his life and Elizabeth’s were finally entering a calmer realm.
Like the group he met in the club’s hall, London would treat his story decently, if not benevolently. How the duke might achieve such results was a mystery to Darcy, but he appeared to have the means to influence the world around them.
“I am grateful, sir, for your support, and I hope I truly deserve it.”
“You deserve it, my boy,” said the duke, “I am certain.”
