“Look, they have taken the road to Hunsford,” Anne said, surprised.
Her mother, who rarely smiled, now looked at her with an almost gleeful expression and said, “Do not trouble yourself over that. You had best begin packing. Soon, you will leave for London to be betrothed.”
Her voice carried such certainty that Anne felt a pang of unease. She hoped her cousin had been firm enough when he had told her mother they would never marry. Unfortunately, Lady Catherine was not one to be easily discouraged.
After spending two blissful months in London, Anne dreamt of returning and building a life of her own in town, like the young women she had known there.
She had a deep affection for Darcy, but it was the affection of a sister—no different from how she felt about the colonel or Viscount Oakham. For now, having a loving family around her was enough. In any case, Darcy loved Miss Elizabeth. She had not required a wealth of life experience to perceive that her cousin was in love with the lady, and in secret, she rejoiced for them both. From the first moment, she had liked Miss Elizabeth, yet she did not feel sufficiently confident to take the first steps towards a friendship, though she earnestly wished for it. Anne dreamt of seeing her as his wife, and she sometimes imagined being able to accompany them to Pemberley, which she adored.
That last morning, quite unintentionally, she had overheard her cousins speaking of a letter Darcy intended toleave at the Parsonage. Although the colonel had seemed firmly opposed to the idea, the two had set off towards Hunsford nevertheless, a clear sign that Darcy had prevailed. She was not particularly well-versed in matters of the heart, yet her cousin’s affection for Miss Bennet had been evident from the first evening at Rosings. A letter was a clear sign that between the two there already existed a deeper relationship than a simple acquaintance, which would not have permitted him to write to her. Anne was happy for them. Unfortunately, the letter Darcy had just placed in Miss Bennet’s hands was far from a love letter.
∞∞∞
The return journey to London was among the most harrowing experiences the colonel had ever endured. The ten miles on horseback were a constant torment, for not knowing what was happening with Darcy proved more painful than witnessing or sharing in his suffering directly.
At long last, after a tiring ride, they halted at the first posting station, where Darcy’s coachman was awaiting them.
Famished and chilled to the bone, they resolved to make a longer stop, to eat and rest before a generous fire.
“You must say something,” the colonel spoke at last after eating in silence for twenty minutes.
“Because you imagine there is anything left to say?” Darcy replied, his face and voice both betraying the inner storm in which he floundered. Yet, where the colonel had seen anguish the day before, he now perceived the anger that had grown since the letter had been delivered to the Parsonage into the hands of Miss Elizabeth.
“Yes, I believe there is much left to say,” the colonel answered with determination, more resolved to provoke hiscousin than to allow him to remain trapped in that destructive silence.
“Richard, I am in no mood to talk.”
“Then you will listen.”
And although silence once again settled between them, it no longer felt so impenetrable. By a stroke of luck, they were alone in the establishment’s dining room; no other travellers were around, and the innkeeper, having brought them their food and drink, had gone about his business. It was a large, clean room with several tables, better kept than most places of its kind; fresh tablecloths adorned the tables, while a few sprigs of wood anemone in a pitcher lent the place a cheerful air.
Darcy, after idly toying with a crust of bread, set it down on the table and, to the colonel’s surprise, looked up at him as though inviting him to speak.
“What purpose did the letter serve, after all you said yesterday? Did you apologise?”
“No!” Darcy cried, though his anger seemed to wane; he looked merely weary now.
“Then?”
“I do not regret what I said, for I spoke nothing but the truth.”
“Darcy!” the colonel exclaimed reproachfully. “The truth is no justification for causing pain.”
“Ordinarily, no,” Darcy admitted, though without conviction. “But when choosing a wife, a partner for life, I do not believe one ought to lie.”
“No one asked you to lie, only to have been more gracious, to allow her to understand your doubts and perhaps to find a solution together.”
“What solution could we possibly have found?”
The colonel looked at him, astonished; whilst he had always considered Darcy intelligent and well-adapted tosociety, he now seemed utterly bewildered and incapable of understanding some of the simple rules that society was based on.
“Has it ever occurred to you that Lady Catherine behaves precisely as you proclaim Mrs Bennet does? That it may not be a sign of malice or impropriety but simply the natural behaviour of a mother wishing to see her daughter, or daughters, married?”
“Let us not exaggerate,” Darcy replied.
“In what? In comparing our overbearing, proud, and disdainful aunt, who despises all beneath her station and is determined to see you married to Anne, with Miss Elizabeth’s mother—”
“Who is utterly devoid of decorum.”
