“Go now to your uncle,” she said. “Let him believe you came to him first. Then send for me.”
He found his uncle in the library. His arrival at once occasioned surprise. It had been but two weeks since his wedding, and he was already returned to London.
“What has happened? Where is Anne?” his uncle demanded, in his usual brisk manner.
Darcy bowed, then requested that the butler invite Lady Eleanor to the library. She entered shortly after, still holding her embroidery, as astonished as her husband; when the bride and bridegroom had quitted London, Darcy had not expected to return for at least two months.
There was something in his countenance which spoke before he did. Even his rather indifferent uncle perceived that all was not well. He wondered if it were his expression that betrayed him; but what should the face of a happy man disclose? He was, indeed, happy—and at the same time, afraid. It was, perhaps, that fear which Lord Matlock discerned.
“I do not bring happy news, as you must already suspect. Anne left me as soon as we reached Pemberley.”
“What?” Lord Matlock sprang up so suddenly that he struck the small table beside his chair—an almost identical scene to that in Lady Eleanor’s parlour, which made Darcy and his aunt secretly smile at one another. Still, this time the table fell with a heavy crash, its contents scattered. A footman knocked at the door, but he was ordered away with such violence that the poor man did not dare enter.
Lady Eleanor moved to her husband’s side, endeavouring to calm him. At length, they seated themselves together upon a sofa, and Darcy placed Anne’s letter in their hands.
They read it side by side, their indignation increasing with every line.
“The girl is mad!” Lord Matlock exclaimed. “As is her mother!”
He broke off before the end, and Lady Eleanor, taking the letter from him, read the remaining page in silence. But when she raised her eyes to Darcy, they were perfectly serene, though she exclaimed,
“My poor boy! What distress!”
While Lord Matlock paced the room in restless agitation, she drew Darcy gently to sit beside her and took his hand as though he were still a child of her care.
“Do not be uneasy,” she said. “We shall settle this together. Only be calm—and you must not suffer…it is not, after all, a tragedy…nobody died.”
Indeed, it ceased to be a catastrophe and became, as she termed it, a matter to be managed; and the chief concern was not the opinion of London, nor the whispers of scandal, nor any stain upon family honour, but that he should not suffer. He could have kissed her hands in gratitude. Instead, he preserved the desolate composure he had assumed.
“It is a tragedy! What are you saying?” Lord Matlock cried, in mounting agitation.
“Sit down, George,” said Lady Eleanor, in a tone so composed and firm that he obeyed her instantly. The formidable temper, before which many had yielded, was quieted by a few words from his wife.
She made a discreet sign towards Darcy; it was time to discuss practical matters, and he set out clearly his plan to divide Anne’s fortune between Richard and himself. Then he handed his uncle Anne’s document to his uncle.
He read it silently; then, like a schoolboy, he looked at his wife for guidance.
“Of course, we shall have to invest in Bourgh estate and see how the estate is managed, but we can do it,” Lady Matlock said, as though Darcy’s conditions were already agreed upon.
“Then, you shall discuss what is to be done for the divorce—when the solicitors are to be seen—and what will happen afterwards,” she added, fixing her eyes upon Darcy. “You will come to my parlour. You must dine with us and see Georgiana and Sophia. They are at present visiting Lady Duhamel.”
There was something in her manner—clear, decisive, almost commanding—that reminded him of a general directing a campaign. He looked at her with gratitude; she returned his look with the same gentle smile she had given him in childhood, when he came to her with some small hurt.
His uncle proved less composed, but under his wife’s steady gaze, he nodded.
“That little serpent,” he added, with less anger than one might have expected in such a situation. “Why marry, if she meant to run away?”
Darcy could not answer him fully.
“And her mother!—she is in London,” Lord Matlock continued, with sudden vehemence. “It is her doing—she never knew how to form a proper woman.”
“I am not prepared to see her,” Darcy said, with an air of subdued distress.
The effect was immediate. His uncle turned upon him. “I shall see her—but I must be prepared with every detail.”
It was agreed that they would attend their solicitors the next morning, but announce the news to the world—and to Lady Catherine—only when they had formed a plan. Lord Matlock listened, with something like composure, to all that Darcy knew of the legal steps required. From time to time he inclined his head; the first violence of the shock already seemed to subside.
“Go now—speak with your aunt. You will need her help to face society,” he said at last. “And I require a little time for reflection before dinner.”
