Page 4
Then, Lady Catherine came.
She had summoned him to the drawing-room merely hours after her arrival, planting herself on the sofa, and declaring that the time had come for him to honour her sacred wishes and those of his mother. He was ordered to marry Anne without further delay.
Darcy smoothed Orion’s mane, his lips tightening at the memory. He had protested vehemently, informing his aunt with unwavering firmness that his late mother had never uttered a single syllable regarding such an arrangement.
He remembered Lady Anne with clarity. When he was fifteen years old and sitting beside her sickbed as she grew increasingly frail, she had imparted a very different sort of wisdom. She had held his fingers, smiling through her pain.
“Fitzwilliam,” she had whispered, her tone feeble but resolute. “Do not marry for consequence. When you are older, you will have enough consequence for ten men. Find a woman who makes you laugh. Find a woman who challenges your solemnity.”
Miss Elizabeth Bennet challenged his solemnity at every turn. Anne de Bourgh, conversely, rarely spoke above a whisper and spent her days attempting to escape her mother’s overbearing presence by hiding behind volumes of gothic fiction. He had no intention of marrying his cousin, and he knew perfectly well that Anne harboured no desire to marry him.
Yet Lady Catherine persisted, thrusting the coughing, miserable girl into his path at every conceivable opportunity.
Darcy sighed and rode Orion out of the woods and onto the main gravel drive. The magnificent stone façade of Pemberley rose before him, bathed in the afternoon sunlight. It was a house of order and elegance, currently occupied by a woman determined to dictate his existence. He rubbed one temple, trying to soothe the headache behind his eyes.
He rode into the stable yard, dismounting with a heavy exhalation. He handed the reins to a waiting groom, offering a brief word of thanks, and proceeded to the house. As he reached the paved courtyard near the secondary entrance, the door opened and Georgiana emerged.
She seemed distressed. Her blonde curls were pinned up in a severe, tightly wound style she never favoured, and she walked with an unnatural stiffness.
Darcy hurried to her side, his concern instantly masking his own discomfort. “Georgiana? Are you unwell?”
His sister stopped two paces away from him and abruptly slumped forward, releasing a loud groan of pure agony, rubbing the lower portion of her back.
“My spine hurts!” she complained, her face twisting into a grimace. “Aunt Catherine insisted I sit on the backless stool in the morning room for two hours to improve my posture. She claims my natural carriage is far too relaxed for a woman of my station.”
Fraternal irritation mingled with Darcy’s headache. “You need not obey her every command, Georgiana. This is your home. You are permitted to stand as you please.”
“It is easier to obey than to endure a lecture on the moral failings of slouching.” Georgiana rubbed her neck with a weary smile. “She is gone, thankfully.”
“Gone?” Darcy arched an eyebrow, surprised. “Has she decided to return to Kent?”
“No such fortune.” Georgiana shook her head, linking her arm through his. “She must have grown bored with correcting my spine. She ordered the carriage and dragged Anne and Mrs Jenkinson to Lambton.”
“Lambton?” Darcy pondered the absurdity of his aunt visiting a common market town. “Whatever business could she possibly have there? The village has nothing that could meet her exacting standards.”
“That is precisely the point.” Georgiana’s lips twitched in a small smile. “She intends to survey the public establishments. She announced her intention to inspect the local inns and express her disapproval regarding whatever inadequacies she undoubtedly uncovers. She suspects the local baker of using inferior flour, and she means to investigate the matter.”
Darcy chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing marginally. “That is her favourite pastime, I suppose. Other ladies take up watercolour painting or knitting. Our aunt judges the masonry of strangers.”
Georgiana laughed, a sound that always managed to elevate his spirits. They walked together to the rose garden, enjoying the temporary reprieve from familial dictation.
Suddenly, Georgiana stopped. The amusement drained from her features, replaced by earnest solemnity. She turned to him, gripping his sleeve.
“Brother,” she whispered, her blue eyes wide and pleading. “Promise me you will not marry Anne.”
Darcy covered her fingers with his own, offering a reassuring squeeze. “I have no intention of doing so, Georgiana. You need not fret.”
“She is miserable here.” Georgiana pressed the issue, her concern for Anne genuine. “Aunt Catherine blusters her. Neither of you wants this union, and neither of you will be happy. Please do not let her force you into an unwanted marriage.”
“I am not easily managed, my dear.” Darcy offered a comforting smile. “I promise you, I shall not marry our cousin.”
Before Georgiana could express her relief, the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel echoed.
Darcy turned, a sinking sensation forming in his stomach. The reprieve had ended.
The de Bourgh carriage drew to a halt in the circular sweep before the main entrance. Astonishingly, a second, less ornate conveyance followed closely behind it, halting near the stone steps.
“She has returned,” Georgiana groaned, her posture stiffening into the alignment Lady Catherine demanded. “And she appears to have acquired followers.”
