Chapter 8

Eight

Darcy sat by a window in the library, the warm sunshine on his skin, yet even the comfort of a good book could not settle his restless mind. As much as he enjoyed reading, he would have preferred to be outside, riding horseback or strolling along the lanes. But at the mere thought of the latter, a wave of agony spread across his head, leaving him to wonder why something he had once loved now filled him with such distress. Had he not always taken pleasure in that very diversion?

Seeing the door open, Darcy breathed a deep sigh of relief that it was his aunt Lady Catherine and not his cousin's friend, the young Bennet woman. She was always with a book in hand, causing him to suspect spending copious time in libraries was a favorite pastime of hers when she was not traipsing about the countryside. He shook his head, endeavoring to ward off the onset of a headache.

Odd how thoughts of this stranger are such a source of discomfort to me. And why on earth would I suspect walking is something the lady enjoys?

Darcy reflected on having spent at least an hour in the library with Miss Bennet two or three times without having given himself the trouble of speaking to her. What would have been the point, he reasoned, while asking how it was possible she was one of Anne's intimate friends? He had not entirely persuaded himself that the colonel was not the young woman's primary purpose in being at Rosings. His reason for feeling as he did, he could not pinpoint. There was something odd about her albeit disturbingly familiar. Whatever it was, he could not wait for her to be gone, for he was beginning to feel the danger of paying the stranger too much attention. It simply would not do.

Lady Catherine sauntered to where Darcy sat and said, "Nephew, it is nice to see you up and about, appreciating this beautiful day."

"Might I say the same of you? It is a pleasure seeing you looking more like yourself. You must allow me to apologize once again for causing you such suffering, what with my riding accident."

Her ladyship scoffed. Taking a nearby seat, she said, "If you have learned nothing else in the wake of your unfortunate accident, no doubt it is to appreciate your own mortality."

"I do not dare argue your point, Lady Catherine. Life is fragile indeed. Tomorrow is not promised to any of us."

She nodded knowingly. "There is all the more reason for you to cease your abominable procrastination where my Anne is concerned. The sooner the two of you are married, the sooner you can beget an heir to all of this. You know it was the favorite wish of your mother and me that the two of you are to be wed."

"I know it very well. It is not as though Anne and I are not betrothed, albeit in a peculiar sort of way. I am more than ready to make it official, especially in light of recent events."

Here, he spoke of nothing but the truth. Not that he recalled hearing the speech about being destined at birth for Anne from his beloved parents, but he had certainly heard it enough from his aunt. Indeed, such was her ladyship's favorite refrain.

Lady Catherine's countenance took a satisfied turn, and their conversation culminated with a determined citing that she would speak to her daughter at once to set all the pertinent matters in motion.

Before standing in preparation to quit the room, she looked at her nephew pointedly. "I daresay you ought to show more enthusiasm, Nephew, now that you have determined to do what everyone has long expected of you. You certainly took long enough."

How remarkable, Lady Catherine thought, that the accident had imparted some sense to her nephew. What a stroke of luck indeed! Good fortune cloaked in misfortune's clothing was the only way she could think of it.

Lady Catherine was looking out the window, admiring her favorite garden, when she espied her daughter walking arm in arm with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Such a sight was met with a mixture of wonderment and, indeed, a measure of delight. Owing to her health, Anne did not make friends easily. Aside from Mrs. Collins and Anne's companion, Mrs. Jenkinson, she hardly ever engaged with anyone beyond her family circle. It surprised her to that day that Anne had gone as far as to invite the Collinses' guest to stay at Rosings as her own guest, but Anne rarely asked for anything. She was so agreeable, so amendable, so gentle that Lady Catherine never denied her daughter anything she requested.

As accommodating as her daughter was, Lady Catherine was certain Anne would be just as eager as she was that the one thing that had eluded her for years was now hers for the taking.

Sitting across from Anne a quarter hour later with talk of special licenses, the grandest wedding breakfast in the land, and the like, her ladyship was more than a little disappointed that her daughter did not share in her glee.

"Pray, child, what on earth are you about? Your cousin has finally come to his senses and is ready to fulfill our family's favorite wish and make you his wife. I rather suspected you would be ecstatic! I most certainly am."

"No, Mother," Anne said.

"No? No? Pray, Anne, what does that mean?"

"It means, no—I am not ecstatic. It is not as though this is the first I have heard about my cousin's change in opinion."

"What are you saying? How long have you known? Pray, why is this the first I have heard of it?"

"For heaven's sake, Mother! Do you dare pretend to be unaware of my cousin's condition?"

"Save a few scrapes and bruises, there is nothing much the matter with him. The physician has assured me that my nephew is well on his way to a full recovery."

"Physically, perhaps. But his suffering extends far beyond what the eyes can see."

"Are you referring to his concussion? What of it? The fact that he has forgotten some minor detail of his recent past is a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things!"

How Anne wanted to tell her mother all that she did not yet know—that forgetting one's own love interest was hardly a small sacrifice. Instead, she said, "Replacing actual memories with false memories that he and I are betrothed is no trivial matter."

"If your cousin thinks the two of you are engaged to be married, where is the harm in that? It is exactly as it is supposed to be and on some level he knows it too, else he would not have taught himself to believe it. I say we seize upon this moment that fate has so generously bestowed—indeed satisfying the hopes and dreams of everyone who is anyone to us."

"No, Mother!" Anne stood from her chair. "I shall not and I will not take advantage of my cousin's ailment in such an egregious manner. Shame on you for thinking, for even a second, that I would. What must you think of me?"

"I am thinking of what is in your best interest—just as I have always done. I cannot be expected to live forever. I am depending on Darcy to marry you. Do anything but allow me to depart this earth, leaving you alone in the world."

"If my marrying someone in order that I might not be alone in this world is your primary goal, then you shall be happy to know that I have no intention of remaining unmarried." Steeling herself, she added, "I have my own hopes and dreams for my future, Mother, and they will not be defined by you or anyone else. I will not marry my cousin, at least not the cousin you have in mind!" Anne gasped, having no desire to inform her mother of her tacit engagement to the colonel—not in that manner, and certainly not at that time.

Lady Catherine scoffed. "I cannot begin to imagine what you mean by such a cryptic remark! And I will not waste my time trying to decipher it. The favorite wish of so many is about to come true. Your cousin Darcy and I are of one mind on this. The two of you will be married, and that is final."