Chapter 12

It was nearly noon before the shooters returned to Pemberley. Darcy entered the grand foyer only to hear the carrying tones of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s extreme displeasure.

“The green rooms which belong to me and my daughter, taken up by two girls of no particular distinction? Reynolds, you will move them. There is no reason people such as they ought to be in the family wing. It is not done.”

“They ought to be in the family wing because Georgiana invited them, and particularly chose their accommodations,” came Lady Matlock’s much calmer but unyielding voice. “Had she any idea that you were coming, perhaps different arrangements might have been made. Nevertheless, she did not know, because you failed to tell her.”

“I ought to be welcomed any time I choose to come.”

“And so you shall be, in the yellow suites in the guest wing.”

“The sitting room attached to those chambers is most inconvenient for the evening, in summer. The windows are full west.”

“Which will not matter a whit, unless you mean to stay upstairs in the evenings, which I have never known you to do,” Lady Matlock said implacably.

Darcy glanced at his sister, who was wringing her hands; even the unflappable Mrs Reynolds appeared slightly confounded. Servants with trunks milled about, no one entirely certain, it seemed what to do. Lady Matlock was plainly furious at being countered. There were no Bingleys present, nor the Ridleys nor Miss Lushington, but Miss Bennet appeared as though she only waited for the combatants to pause to draw breath so that she could volunteer to move to another country. Miss Elizabeth, he saw, with a charge to his gut, watched them all with a sort of expectant merriment, while his cousin Anne stared at no one and nothing.

Miss Bentley entered the fray. “It is lovely to see you again, your ladyship.”

“Who are you?” Lady Catherine snapped rudely.

“Miss Sarah Bentley,” she replied evenly. “We met at the Digweeds’ musicale last February.”

“Ah. I remember you now. Lord Hampton’s—” She stopped, mid-sentence, spotting Darcy. “Darcy, there has been some grave error of confusion. My rooms have been given to others. Others not of the family.”

“It is easily rectified,” he said, conscious of Miss Elizabeth’s eyes upon him with that same droll amusement. Lady Catherine seemed pleased.

“Very good. You will order those less welcome persons out at once, then, so that Anne and I may occupy our usual accommodations.”

“I will give no instructions of the kind. An alternative has already been presented to you. The yellow suite has been recently redone and is perfectly suitable.”

“Those rooms are not in the family wing! I shall not go away till you have given me the rooms I require.”

There was only one way to deal with his aunt, as he had learnt long ago. One could only out-bully the bully. It was humiliating that he should be forced to show himself uncivil before Miss Elizabeth for the second time that day—not that he should care what she thought, of course.

“Then your surprise visit shall also be a brief one. Take the rooms offered, or not. You will not be given others.”

His uncle entered the foyer at last, laughing softly as he went immediately to his wife, pressing a kiss upon her cheek. His wife gave him a look, conveying a world of frustration with a single brow.

“Catherine, what a surprise,” he said drily, turning to his sister. “What brings you here?”

Darcy noted, as usual, his uncle’s mixture of sternness and of authority in the simplest enquiry. Even Lady Catherine was not immune to it.

“Lord Hargreaves,” she answered sulkily. “You boasted to him of the grouse at Pemberley. Lady Hargreaves said you were bringing guests.”

She said the word ‘guests’ with peculiar emphasis. Somehow, Darcy decided, she had deduced his aunt’s entire scheme to present him with a marriageable bride from a brief conversation with her cronies, and was determined to have her share of the wooing for Anne.

“Hoisted on my own petard,” the earl said easily. “My lady and I shall show you to your rooms.”

“It is not necessary,” she retorted. “I know the way. When my sister was alive, I would never have been treated so coldly. Anne, come.”

Anne, with her ever-present companion, Jenkinson, trailing, obediently followed.

Shortly after his mother’s death—when he was but a lad of nineteen—Lady Catherine had begun campaigning in earnest for a betrothal. Darcy no longer required his father’s intervention; he had very gently but very succinctly made his intentions—or rather, the lack thereof—clear. He would never marry Anne. They would not suit.

Lady Catherine raged, declaring him a cruel disappointment. Anne had sobbed. It had been horrible, but at least, he had told himself, it was over and done with. He would henceforth be spared awful insinuations and impossible expectations.

Unfortunately, the reprieve only lasted about a year before his lady aunt began, again, a crusade for a betrothal. The cycle had repeated itself again and again. For a few years, he had also repeated his formal refusals, earning him the same accusations, tears, and fury as the first time. He had finally given up arguing about it; he simply pretended not to hear. When rumours circulated—from his aunt, of course—he denied them most vehemently. All of society knew his lack of intention, and if Lady Catherine and her daughter wished to expose themselves to the scorn of the world, he could not prevent it. But it wrenched him inside, every time Lady Catherine and Anne took up their cause. Why would they not surrender the idea?

If I were married, she would have to, he thought. Unbidden, he glanced at Miss Elizabeth. She appeared to be comforting Georgiana, drawing out a smile from his shy, mortified sister. Miss Bentley and Miss Bennet then joined her, and soon the four young ladies had departed for the out of doors, the sound of their laughter echoing in the now somehow forlorn foyer.

The earl sighed. “Perhaps we could retire to your library, Darcy, just for a few moments. I believe my sister, for once, was quicker to ascertain the, er, situation, than was I.”

“I shall allow you gentlemen your privacy,” said Lady Matlock, plainly opting for escape.

Matlock raised a brow at her. “I would not dream of proceeding without your ladyship’s wise counsel,” he said.

Reluctantly, it seemed to Darcy, she agreed.