Chapter 1

Autumn 1812, Matlock House

As Darcy sipped his wine, he rated the diners in the manner he imagined Commodus would have after a triumphant gladiator stood over his wounded opponent: thumb down, up, up, down, down, up, up, down. He surrendered after eight; the long table was at capacity and his love of enumeration was not enough to rise to the challenge. He hid his displeasure while both his dinner partners sparred with each other for his attention. The utter vulgarity of these so-called ladies. It would not do to leave early as Matlock House was not Rosings Park; his aunt would never forgive him, and unlike Lady Catherine, Lady Matlock had teeth. And does not hesitate to bite.

He ensured his rare utterances were of no more than two words and remained perfunctory, regardless of the subject. Thankfully, Hopton and Fitzwilliam have rallied to my care. He blinked away his wool-gathering and returned his attention to the discourse.

Animal husbandry? At the dinner table? Shocking!

“Were I to put a ranking to livestock, an estate would profit most from—in descending order—cattle, horses, goats, pigs, and last, sheep,” declared Lord Langston Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s eldest cousin on his mother’s side. As the earl’s heir, Viscount Hopton’s opinions drew the diner’s immediate notice. “I offer my position to all challengers.”

Darcy glanced at his best friend and next Matlock cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. The slight smile he flashed momentarily gave Darcy all the information he needed. The Fitzwilliam brothers were at it again. Most would see them competing over their knowledge of estate management and livestock. Darcy knew better. They were Hermes and Mercury—mythological tricksters masquerading as mortal twins.

Darcy sighed inwardly but maintained a neutral expression as he took another sip of wine. Although he was as knowledgeable about agriculture as his cousins and knew enough to hold his own in such discussions, he feared the consequences of participating in their game.

“Fitzwilliam here seems to disagree with your ranking, Hopton,” said Andrew Carlisle, a younger cousin of Lady Matlock and a family favourite.

“Oh, dear brother,” said Fitzwilliam with a smirk. “I believe you have overlooked the potential profit from geese.”

“Geese?” repeated Hopton with raised eyebrows.

“Yes, indeed,” continued Fitzwilliam. “An estate sells their feathers for bedding material, and their eggs are highly sought-after delicacies.”

Hopton seemed taken aback by this revelation; Lord Matlock looked thoroughly amused by the debate, if the grin he wore on his countenance was any indication.

“And let us not forget their ability to protect a property,” Fitzwilliam added, winking at Darcy.

Darcy covered his mouth with his fist to cover his smile. His cousin knew all too well how much he valued security on Pemberley’s vast grounds, his prize mastiffs a point of pride.

Hopton raised an eyebrow and flicked a quick nod. Fitzwilliam tapped his nose, then reached for his wineglass.

Oh, no! Here they go. Darcy closed his eyes. Spare me, I beg you.

“Excuse me my poor behaviour,” said Fitzwilliam, addressing the table at large.

He nodded to his dining partner. “Ladies first. It would not do for one of the King’s own to be flogged for ungentlemanly behaviour,” he replied, then continued, sotto voce, “Especially by his mother.”

Fitzwilliam held up his wineglass to Lady Matlock, who smiled at her son and then narrowed her eyes at Darcy. In silent response to his aunt, he pondered, What did I do? It was Fitzwilliam mocking the company, not I. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was all so exhausting.

“I would never dispute the superiority of horses,” said Lady Sarah Rawlings, a heavily dowered dumpling representative of the Kesteven fortune and their pig iron mining interest, known for her penchant to speak her mind. It was a poorly-kept secret that her mother attended to ensure the present company did not take insult at her daughter’s words.

“Smelly, dirty, ghastly beasts are sheep,” continued Lady Sarah. She shuddered. Darcy nearly rolled his eyes. Lady Matlock appeared to be fighting back a smile as well.

“I agree with Lady Sarah,” announced Lady Cecilia Swinton. “It is widely known our Lister estate boasts much success with their cattle herds. It is truly an exemplary example of proper, selective breeding.” She peered at him, then lowered her gaze.

Darcy averted his eyes, desperate not to draw any more attention to himself. It was futile. The discourse had now turned to the success of Lady Cecilia’s family estate, and she seemed determined to make sure he knew.

“Yes, we have been much informed. At least three times at this meal alone, is that not true, Brother?” asked Hopton.

“Of Lister cattle we have. But not of Lady Cecilia’s actual opinion. That we have yet to hear,” replied Fitzwilliam. He turned to her. “Do you have one?”

Does she not comprehend his insult?

“It is my belief that sheep would degrade the superior setting that has existed for generations,” she opined. “Surely everyone can agree with the viscount that sheep are inferior to other livestock.”

No, it seems she does not.

Darcy chanced a look at Fitzwilliam. His silent glee matched his brother’s. A quick glance at Lord Matlock showed him to be no longer in concert with his sons, as the earl’s frown was clearly evident. Apparently, Lord Matlock garnered the slight, which meant Lady Matlock did as well.

Miss Arabella Carlisle inclined her nose, her gravity-defying blonde coiffeur causing Darcy to worry that her chair would tilt backward. She had been overly indulged by her parents; their deaths had left Carlisle to marry her off, a herculean task. “Andrew would never allow our country estate to be polluted by such loathsome creatures. Sheep? Really.” She turned to Darcy, her tone implying that she expected him to agree with her. “I am sure Mr Darcy sets the standard for his superior choices regarding the viscount’s enumeration.”

Darcy dreaded the delight that flickered across the faces of both his cousins. Hopton and Fitzwilliam simultaneously turned and stared at Carlisle. Was that a snigger? Would Carlisle fall into their trap? Wait! Was he part and party to their mischief?

Carlisle cleared his throat and sipped wine before answering, “I might agree with Arabella on this matter. I find the breeding of cattle far more profitable than that of sheep.”

“There you have it, Hopton!” exclaimed Fitzwilliam triumphantly. “A man of large property has countered your opinion.”

Hopton flicked a lackadaisical hand outward. “I recall Carlisle qualified his opinion with the word ‘might’ and not ‘must’.”

“That I did,” admitted Carlisle.

Hopton leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “But we must also consider the aesthetic value of sheep versus cattle.”

“Aesthetic value?” repeated Lady Cecilia incredulously.

“Yes, my dear Lady Cecilia,” replied Hopton with an air of superiority. “Surely you cannot deny the picturesque perfection of a fluffy white flock grazing in a pasture?”

Darcy bit his top lip at Hopton’s hideous alliteration.

Lady Sarah’s eyes widened. “A gathering of filthy creatures ruining the landscape? I think not.”

Darcy remained silent. He was Homer, forced to pass between Charybdis and Scylla, a too-familiar dilemma, having grown up with the Fitzwilliam brothers. Maybe now I shall be forgotten?

“I say, Darcy. Does not Pemberley boast the largest flock of sheep in all the northern shires? At least ten thousand?” Carlisle asked, his smile never dimming.

Traitorous friend!

“Andrew!” cried Miss Carlisle. “Mr Darcy would never condescend to own such base animals as sheep.”

The ladies nodded in solidarity. Darcy pressed his lips together. Leave it be, Cousin. For my sake and my sanity, leave it be.

“How goes the shearing and lambing, Darcy?”

He marvelled at Fitzwilliam’s ability to ask a killing-stroke question without guile. How does he get away with such impertinence? Darcy cleared his throat. I might as well end the evening by contributing to their pleasures.

“Quite well. Quite well.”

He focused on his wineglass. The cut of the crystal is exemplary. Is it Cumbria or Bohemian?

The younger ladies gasped. After a moment of silence, they offered reversals of their opinions. Just as my cousins no doubt expected they would. Lady Sarah and Lady Cecilia talked over each other like fishwives; Miss Arabella was silent, her jaw hanging open.

And that, ladies, is check-mate.

He looked up at his aunt; her eyes were closed. Had Lady Eleanor Rutledge or Lady Phoebe Edgecombe—their more proper albeit youngest Matlock cousins—been present, Hopton and Fitzwilliam’s antics would have died an early death.

Lady Matlock dabbed her lips and dropped the folded serviette beside her plate.

Darcy’s stomach clenched at his aunt’s obvious displeasure in the antics about the table; Hopton and Fitzwilliam immediately sat up straight and lowered their eyes, chastened by their mother’s silent reprimand.

Lady Matlock stood. “Everyone,” she announced coldly. Darcy scrambled to his feet, as did the other men. She was livid; thus, the separation of the sexes was not to be had. She threw him a venomous look.

It was not me! All he saw was her back, the remaining females trailing her into the withdrawing parlour.

“Badly done, Nephew,” Lord Matlock hissed into his ear as he passed.

Darcy reached for Fitzwilliam but Hopton took his arm and guided him to a window. “Allow my brother to recover fully, Darcy.”

“Of course.”

“How may I be of service?” asked Hopton.

Darcy glared at him. “Have you not done enough already?”

Hopton rolled his eyes. “Our mischief is nothing to you.”

He is correct. “Why is Lady Matlock not pairing you with these ladies?”

Hopton scoffed. “Surely, you jest!” He leaned in. “If mother had selected one of them for me, would they thus seek your attention?”

“You do have a point. How may I avoid such efforts?”

“Get leg-shackled.”

“To whom?”

“You are such the noddy. You know of whom I speak.” Hopton huffed impatiently.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet despises me.”

“You do not know that. Your actions have been contrary to your earlier declaration. Think on it,” Hopton advised. “Stay here a moment more. Allow me to rally the forces. Save you from yourself.”

“Thank you, Hopton,” he said to his cousin’s departing back. Darcy sighed. After a few moments, he entered and settled himself closest to the door.

The ladies were poised to exhibit. He was intimately familiar with the available sheet music; he had purchased many of them for Georgiana while she had resided at Matlock House after Ramsgate.

Darcy girded himself for an evening of disappointment. He was sure none of the exhibitors had a modicum of his sister’s talent. Once the first round of libations had been served, Lady Sarah stood at the pianoforte. “Mr Darcy, will you turn the pages for me?”

“That would be my duty, Lady Sarah,” announced Hopton. “What shall you regale us with?”

Lady Sarah’s slight frown turned to a smile. She sat and began a Mozart composition.

Fantasy in D Minor, how predictable.

Lady Sarah played with mostly adequate skill, adding frequent looks in Darcy’s direction to her performance. He sighed. Her playing reflected her character—imperfect and unoriginal.

I wish I were at Lucas Lodge. Elizabeth played with such passion.

Lady Cecilia relieved Lady Sarah and chose a more sombre Haydn sonata. She looked at Darcy and smiled. For the sake of all things holy.

“Allow me, Lady Cecilia,” announced Fitzwilliam. “Such is the complicated piece you have chosen; it requires a trained officer to keep the distractions at bay.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” she replied. Her smile turned brittle.

Lady Cecilia played well, but Darcy did not enjoy the piece. She rendered him a surreptitious wink after a difficult passage. Her behaviour was untoward. He felt he was sucking a lemon through the rest of her performance; his cheeks pained him.

He chanced a look at Lady Matlock. She was not amused. Cannot any young lady remember her place? Her manners? Her dignity? One such as Miss Elizabeth Bennet, maybe?

Darcy shook off his conscience, re-joined the audience, and added his own light applause to that of the room.

Miss Carlisle took her place at the pianoforte. “Mr Darcy, will you assist me whilst I play?”

“Allow me, Arabella,” replied Carlisle. He looked at Lady Matlock, who nodded her approval.

Miss Carlisle turned to search for the music sheets. Carlisle bit his lip watching her.

What now? Darcy wondered.

Miss Carlisle performed a long, pedantic Beethoven sonata for half an hour—thirty painful minutes of overt, inadequate attempts to make love to him. Her performance was riddled with errors as Carlisle had repeatedly bumped her shoulder when her behaviour neared the lines of decency. She finally stood to light acclaim; tears filled her eyes. Carlisle took her to a distant couch and whispered in her ear, causing her face to lose all colour.

Knowing he would likely be reprimanded by Lady Matlock for his lack of manners, Darcy excused himself and left.