Page 17
“I fear they have only just begun,” Darcy replied, matching her quiet volume.
She nodded and proceeded up the staircase. Darcy remained watching her ascend until she disappeared into the upper passage leading to the guest wing.
The moment she vanished from sight, the crushing weight of reality descended on his shoulders, his mind racing. He had secured her permission to court her. He possessed the greatest prize he had ever dared to hope for, yet he was unable to celebrate his victory. He could not court the lady openly, nor could he demonstrate his affections in the drawing-room, while his aunt continued to parade Anne as his future wife.
If Lady Catherine detected even a hint of his romantic intentions towards Miss Elizabeth, she would unleash a storm of vitriol that would make the incident with the roasted chicken seem pleasant. She would insult Miss Elizabeth’s family, demand the Gardiners leave Pemberley, and create such an unpleasant atmosphere that Miss Elizabeth would likely flee Derbyshire forever.
Darcy made his way to the master suite. He found Fletcher standing by the large wardrobe. The valet held a white linen cravat, examining the starched fabric with intensity.
“Good morning, sir,” Fletcher said, placing the cravat on the bed. “I trust the gardens provided suitable diversion?”
“The gardens provided a revelation, Fletcher.” Darcy sighed, moving to the washstand and pouring cold water into the basin. “Followed by a reprimand from my aunt.”
“Her ladyship was quite audible from the second floor, sir.” Fletcher retrieved a fresh linen shirt from a drawer. “I gathered she strongly disapproved of your lack of outerwear. I have selected the dark grey morning coat. It projects an aura of impenetrable dignity, which I believe you will require today.”
Darcy splashed the cold water onto his face, scrubbing both dust and anxiety from his skin. He accepted the towel Fletcher offered and dried his face.
“I require more than a grey coat for that, Fletcher,” Darcy murmured, tossing the towel aside. “I require a miracle.”
Fletcher paused in his duties, holding the shirt suspended in the air, studying his master’s face. “Has the situation with the young lady from Hertfordshire altered, sir?”
“It has altered.” Darcy could not prevent the small, triumphant smile from breaking across his features. “I spoke with Miss Elizabeth in the rose garden. We cleared the misunderstandings that plagued us in Kent. She has accepted my apologies, and she has granted me permission to officially court her.”
Fletcher lowered the shirt, his eyes widening a fraction of an inch—the maximum display of emotion the man ever permitted himself while on duty.
“That is magnificent news, sir. I offer my most sincere congratulations. Miss Elizabeth is a lady of superior wit and fine understanding. She will bring a great deal of much-needed light into this house.”
“My aunt will cause nothing but trouble if she discovers the truth,” Darcy countered, the smile fading from his lips. He removed his waistcoat and shirt. He moved to the dressing chair and sat down heavily. “I am trapped, Fletcher. I cannot pursue this courtship while Lady Catherine occupies the drawing-room, loudly proclaiming my impending marriage to her daughter. It is an insult to Miss Elizabeth, and it is a cruelty to Anne.”
Fletcher resumed his duties, assisting Darcy into the fresh shirt with practised movements. “The situation presents a delicate challenge, sir. Her ladyship thrives on ruling everyone in her vicinity. She treats Pemberley as an extension of Rosings Park, and she views you and Miss de Bourgh as pieces on her chessboard.”
“She views me as a stubborn piece that refuses to move,” Darcy corrected, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. “I have told her repeatedly that I will not marry Anne. My mother never arranged the union. It is a complete fiction.”
“Her ladyship does not care for facts when they contradict her desires, sir,” Fletcher observed, moving to the bed to retrieve the cravat. “However, if I may offer an observation based on many years of observing your aunt?”
“You may always speak freely, Fletcher. You know this.”
Fletcher stepped forward, draping the fabric around Darcy’s neck. “Lady Catherine is a tyrant, sir. That is an undeniable reality. She berates the servants, she terrorises the gardeners, and she attempts to dictate your life. But she loves her daughter.”
Darcy paused, staring at the valet’s reflection in the tall looking glass. “She hectors Anne. She forces the poor girl to eat buttered meat and wraps her in shawls in this heat.”
“She does, sir,” Fletcher agreed, his fingers working deftly to fold the cravat into an intricate knot. “Because she believes those actions will improve Miss de Bourgh’s constitution. Lady Catherine is afraid of losing her only child. Her methods are atrocious, but her primary motivation remains maternal protection.”
Darcy frowned, absorbing the valet’s astute analysis. “How does this knowledge assist me in my predicament?”
“It provides the key to your strategy, sir.” Fletcher smoothed the finished knot, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Lady Catherine demands this marriage because she trusts you. She knows you are an honourable gentleman and she believes that when she passes, you will protect Miss de Bourgh, manage her wealth, and ensure she is never taken advantage of by fortune hunters. She views the marriage as the ultimate safety measure for her fragile daughter.”
The truth of the statement was devastating. Darcy had spent years viewing his aunt’s demands as greed, a desire to merge two great estates for the sake of mere consequence. He had never considered the underlying fear of a mother attempting to secure the future of a sickly child.
Darcy put on his waistcoat and buttoned it.
“If you refuse the match, sir,” Fletcher continued, retrieving the coat, “Lady Catherine will fight you with every ounce of her considerable strength. She will view your refusal as a threat to Miss de Bourgh’s safety. She will never yield.”
Darcy stood, allowing him to ease the coat over his shoulders. “Then what do you suggest, Fletcher? How do I dismantle this arrangement without inciting a war?”
“You cannot fight her, sir.” Fletcher adjusted the lapels with precision. “You must secure Miss de Bourgh’s explicit refusal before you engage your aunt.”
Darcy turned to face his trusted servant.
