Into Kent (15 page)

“You do not see the need to maintain the family’s standing as demanding the highest sacrifice of personal inclination?” he objected. “The demands of being head of family can be of the first importance, I think. Is not that very nearly a principle—at least in English society?”

“That, of course, depends on the family, and who is its head—take my father, and his heir: with my father there could be no doubt, but we can only pray that George is spared making any personal sacrifices in the name of his family’s honour. Yet who could stop him from following his inclination, if it came to the point? And that is the problem, Darcy, when seeking an absolute—one can hardly call a thing a principle when it is flouted so often and with so little ill-consequence. In the particular instance of marriage, we would have no word for a misalliance it if it did not happen—and with some regularity, I might add.”

This was one of the reasons Darcy enjoyed his cousin’s company so; his was a sharp mind, and he was nearly as devoted to logic as Darcy was. Unfortunately, this discussion had not got Darcy much farther in his quest for a resolution to his dilemma; by Fitzwilliam’s reasoning, the question could not be resolved on the basis of first principles and logic: it remained a matter of mere choice and convention, so he was left pretty much as he started. “That still does not make it proper behaviour!” he protested, coming all the way back around to his own beginning, from as far back as Netherfield.

“Well, true—but to what degree is it improper?” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied. “Does not civilisation ascribe degrees of impropriety? An act of murder is so improper as to be punishable by death: what is the punishment for an imprudent marriage, besides having to eat breakfast with one’s mistake for the rest of one’s life? Marrying beneath one is not illegal, after all. Eating with the fingers is improper, too, and will likely leave one wanting for dinner invitations, but I should not think any one so uncouth would be troubled by that; my meaning is, if the consequences are not sufficiently dire, there is little to deter one from following one’s inclination.”

“So, marrying beneath you is somewhere between murder and eating with one’s fingers! Well, that certainly narrows the field of discussion.” Darcy said with a wry expression.

Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed. “Very well, what would be the penalty? Say my brother marries some glazier’s daughter, or the scullery maid—which, God knows, given his taste and sense of decorum, is not wholly out of the realm of possibility—what would happen?”

Darcy saw this as being somewhat akin to his own situation; he put aside his frustration to consider. “Well, the family would cast him out, I should imagine.”

“Probably, as it is George—Father is close to throwing him out almost all the time; that would just about push the matter far enough. And as long as my father lived, he would likely be denied the estate, I dare say. But given that he hardly ever leaves London, I should not imagine that he would much care. And after Father’s death, he would still inherit. But this is all conjecture: George is far too conceited to marry a nobody. No, my point was this: irrespective of how foolish the marriage might be, very little of import would result from it.”

“I doubt his great friend Mr. Fox, and the rest of them at Boodles, would continue his acquaintance.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam gave his cousin a look indicative of great disbelief, but said mildly enough, “Oh, I doubt that would be an issue, Darcy. Even the highest-placed of his friends have…well, let us say they have rather broad-minded attitudes towards the ladies. In their eyes, his only real impropriety would be to ask them to countenance the girl; if he kept her safely away from their notice, I doubt any of them would pass on his very liberal friendship. If he went on and kept mistresses, as so many among them do, they might even congratulate him on choosing a wife whose family could scarcely object to his infidelity.”

Darcy’s sense of propriety was highly offended by this representation of the society to which they both belonged, notwithstanding his generally poor opinion of London morals. “Good Lord, Edmund; what a cold way you have of seeing these things!”

“I spend rather more of my time in Town than you, Darcy, and may know more of its workings, I think; and the army is a favourite place for families to hide ne’er-do-well sons, so I have got to know more about that sort than I might wish.”

“Hmmph…Aunt Catherine would never countenance the marriage,” said Darcy pensively. This was something he had mulled on his own account.

Colonel Fitzwilliam gave a snort: “Is that a punishment? Seems rather a boon, to me.” The two men laughed, but Darcy’s laughter ended too soon, and he made a grimace of frustration. The Colonel, noticing, asked, “Darcy, is all well? What is wrong?”

Darcy shook his head; he knew not what to say. “It is nothing, Fitzwilliam; you must not mind me; I have not been myself of late.”

“I have been aware of the fact,” his cousin said. “Ever since you came back from Hertfordshire…” understanding lit his countenance. “Dirks, you
are
thinking of offering for some one, are you not?”

Darcy did not answer immediately. After staring out the window a moment, he said, “I do not know, Edders; not precisely—more like wishing I could offer.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean there is some one whom I would consider offering for, but who is too far from me in standing to be a match.”

“Really?” the Colonel was puzzled. “You surprise me, Darcy. How could you have come to know a lady from outside our own circles well enough to wish to offer for her?”

“Oh, she is a gentleman’s daughter, but still…”

“How bad could it be, then? I cannot imagine how any gentleman’s daughter could be so far out of reach.”

“Well, it is more her relations than herself.”

Fitzwilliam considered. “So all this has been about you?” he surmised.

“Edmund,” Darcy admonished him, “do you imagine I would offer you a fabrication? The situation I described was perfectly real; but, I must own, the question has been on my mind.”

“So what will you do?” his cousin asked, echoing his father.

“Heaven knows; I certainly do not.”

The Colonel gave a quiet laugh. “Well, for my part I suggest you marry the girl and be damned. At least you would be softening the blow for the rest of us when George brings home whatever beast of a woman his choice will be.”

Darcy laughed as well, and the two gentlemen fell silent. Darcy continued his thoughts; by now, having run through every path and by-path he could think of to traverse his difficulty, he very quickly came to the crux: could he, as head of the Darcy family, put his wishes before the good of the family name? His notions of propriety told him that there could be no argument—that to put one’s private interests in front of the well-being of an entire family, dishonouring even one’s ancestors, could never be supported. Even under his cousin’s more forgiving calculation, he had rather come down on Lord Andover’s side than on Lord St. Stephens’s. His father had always admonished him to “remember, you are a Darcy!”—such a deep-laid imperative, reaching all the way back to childhood, could not be lightly cast aside. His musings carried him the rest of the way to Hunsford village.

Chapter Eighteen

As the carriage turned past the lodge guarding the entrance to Rosings, Darcy spied a figure standing in the Parsonage garden, making an ostentatious and excessively formal bow towards the carriage; in a moment his memory supplied him with a rather disgusting recollection of that same bow being made him in Bingley’s ball-room at Netherfield. The new parson! —Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s cousin, who had so thoroughly embarrassed her and repulsed Darcy at Bingley’s ball. He had quite forgotten this individual, but now it came back to him: the parson’s dance with Elizabeth, and his presumptuous introduction…Collins was his name. They would probably have to put up with his company during their time at Rosings, Darcy realised; this did not augur well for their stay.

The trip from the Lodge to the house was a short one, and, as Kent was not Derbyshire, had little to offer the eye beyond a well-kept greensward. Composed on classical lines, Lady Catherine’s home was a large, newer edifice, with a sharp symmetry echoed by an extensive, rigidly formal garden set directly in front of the house; nor were there any trees or shrubs set near the building that would detract from its precise mathematical splendour; this made the house excessively warm in summer, but then, Lady Catherine was always one to favour appearance over comfort.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh was the sister of Darcy’s mother; she too, was a woman of some strength of character, but unfortunately lacked Mrs. Darcy’s good sense and forbearance with the faults of others. While Darcy did not consider her a foolish woman by any means, in his estimation she tended to ignore those things she ought to attend to, and attend to those things she ought not. A deep and abiding regard for her own dignity and consequence, and a decidedly lesser regard for nearly every thing else, were the leading aspects of her character; her favourite pursuits, therefore, were those which gave her leave to issue commands to her fellow beings, while those affairs which involved regulating her own actions, held only a passing and easily extinguished interest for her. Darcy’s father had made a yearly pilgrimage to Rosings, which usually coincided with the visits of the two young cousins, for the purpose of keeping the guidance of her estate from resting exclusively in the hands of her steward; it was now become Darcy’s place to administer this duty.

Lady Catherine and the gentlemen’s cousin Anne spent almost all of their time in Kent, rarely coming up to London. The excuse Lady Catherine offered was that the London air did not suit Anne, although Darcy rather suspected that she herself preferred the country, where her undisputed precedence of place was assured, and she could inflict her opinions and edicts on all and sundry without fear of challenge.

Their aunt and their cousin met them at the front entrance, outside of which all the servants had been arrayed in great state down the steps, to pay their tribute to the two young gentlemen. “Darcy! And Fitzwilliam!” cried Lady Catherine. “Such a pleasure to see you both! Anne, say hello to your cousin Darcy.” Miss de Bourgh made a curtsey to her cousin, stiff, awkward, and silent; Darcy was exceedingly startled to see every member of the staff emulate this compliment, bowing or curtseying in concert with Miss de Bourgh: such an orchestrated display was a new, breathtakingly eccentric feature to his arrival; indeed, he could hardly imagine it could occur on any other estate, any where. While taken aback, he bowed with formal reserve to his cousin Anne, careful to avoid the Colonel’s eye lest his composure fail him. Lady Catherine beamed down upon the whole scene, with the air of an artist admiring her work. They were invited in directly; they passed through the entry hall, lined with pictures of widely varying subject, taste, and colour—but perfectly matched in size—and into the antechamber of fine, inlaid Italian marble, which Darcy, after a trip abroad some years ago, had recognized as having been copied from the tomb of the Medicis. They followed Lady Catherine as she led them to the stairs with her stately, almost regal, bearing.

“You will want to change, of course, before we sit down,” said she. “Hollister will show you to your rooms.”

Darcy and his cousin ascended to the landing; there they parted, as Darcy was to be in the west wing, near the library wherein he spent much of his time at Rosings, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was staying in the rear wing: while smaller, it was also quieter, more removed from the household, and nearer the courtyard and stables. Darcy’s room was at the front facing south, making it brighter and warmer for the fresh spring weather; it also afforded a pleasing prospect of the grove that stretched along the palings bordering the lane to the turnpike road.

After settling into their respective apartments and cleaning off the dust of travel, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Darcy met at the landing. The Colonel was beforehand of Darcy, and was dawdling at the top of the stairs, waiting for his friend. As Darcy approached, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “I thought I might as well wait here, so we could go down together.”

“Quite so,” agreed Darcy, “better to wear out the carpet here than face Aunt Catherine alone.”

The Colonel snorted, “It is not her—it is that chatterbox, Anne. A man can never find a moment’s peace with that one around.” Darcy chuckled, and the two friends went to assail the drawing-room where their aunt presided.

That great lady, overcome by the joy of having her favourite relations about her, actually rose to greet them. “I am so glad to see you both; it has been far too long! No, no, Fitzwilliam, sit here,” she told the Colonel as he was about to sit in the chair next to his Cousin Anne. “Darcy, you sit there.” The gentlemen did as they were bid; that Miss de Bourgh noticed the alteration was not immediately obvious.

“Was your journey tolerable? Not too cold? The evenings here have been quite brisk; I must remember to instruct your menservants to lay out warm clothes for this evening. Anne, have not the evenings been surprisingly cold for the time of year? I worry about you when you go out.” To Darcy she said, “Anne has a very cunning new phaeton, and makes a point of taking an hour’s drive each day. I am convinced, and Dr. Lampley quite agrees, that it has improved her health very decidedly.” Miss De Bourgh shifted in her seat, but to Darcy’s eye this was the only sign of vigour about his cousin’s air or person. Mrs. Jenkinson, who was Miss de Bourgh’s companion, apparently took this fit of activity as a signal to wrap a shawl around her charge’s shoulders, though to Darcy the room felt rather warm than otherwise.

Darcy had never been sure what to make of Cousin Anne: he had never been able to tell whether she truly was as dull as she seemed, or whether her protracted illnesses had depressed her spirits, or whether perhaps her withdrawn manner was the natural consequence of living with a mother whose personality was so much stronger than her own. Whatever the reason, she had ever kept to herself, and, when in company, spoke but rarely. Even as a child, she had never been truly animated. Over the years he had tried to draw her out on various occasions, but had never seen anything resembling real character in her. When he was younger it had been a point of some interest, as both his mother and his aunt had spoken of his marriage to his cousin as an established fact. But with his mother’s death, his own maturing years, and his father’s perfect indifference, by the time Anne had reached a marriageable age he no longer considered their union as at all likely, let alone a certainty.

Not so Lady Catherine. She said, “Darcy, is not your cousin Anne looking well? At this rate we shall see her at St. James’s by autumn, or November at the latest; what say you—would not a betrothal party be an excellent start to next year’s Season?”

To Colonel Fitzwilliam this was the signal to intercede; the two cousins had long before arranged that it fell to the Colonel, during these visits, to redirect Lady Catherine’s conversation whenever the topic of Darcy’s marriage to Cousin Anne should come up.

“How does that hunter do, Ma’am?” Fitzwilliam asked quickly. “I was planning on putting him through his paces while I am here.” Lady Catherine turned away from Darcy to the Colonel; Darcy, also per arrangement, then relieved his cousin of the need to continue, saying to her directly, “Lady Catherine, I believe I met your new parson while in Hertfordshire last November. Mr. Collins, is it not?”

The lady was momentarily distracted between her two nephews, but she answered Darcy’s question, and let the Colonel’s wait. “Indeed, yes; I had forgotten that you had met. He has his new wife with him, as well.”

Darcy, who had been congratulating himself once again on the successfulness of their simple tactic, now felt his heart still: remembering Collins’ attentions to Miss Elizabeth Bennet at Bingley’s ball, he asked: “‘His wife’? Who is the lady?” He tried not to let the concern he felt reveal itself in his tone.

“You know her as well, I believe; they met while he was in Hertfordshire.” To Colonel Fitzwilliam she said, “The hunter? I have no idea, Fitzwilliam, you must speak to the groom.” She then instructed Mrs. Jenkinson on the correct placement of a screen for Miss de Bourgh. To Darcy, this pause was very trying to his anxious apprehension; the thought of meeting Elizabeth again under such circumstances was dreadful to consider. He held in his alarm as best he could through it, until at length he was forced to prompt her with: “Yes? The lady—Mrs. Collins?”

“Oh…her maiden name was Lucas; her father was knighted not long ago, but I do believe he had been in trade. But she is a good girl, notwithstanding—not handsome, of course, and her bearing is quite common, but she has some sense about her.”

Darcy hoped his relief did not show, as he asked, “A Miss Charlotte Lucas?”

“Yes, that is she.”

“Ah…I did know her; her father and mother, as well. I agree; she struck me as being a lady possessing some sense.” He did not voice his surprise at her choice of husband; he supposed that Mrs. Bennet’s “four-and-twenty families” had failed to produce a more suitable match. And, his thoughts pursuing the topic a little farther, he wondered at how such a sudden transference of interest had come about: in November Mr. Collins had given every appearance of paying court to Elizabeth, and by March he was married to Miss Lucas. Further proof, if any were needed, of Collins’ oddity.

“They have some others of your Hertfordshire acquaintance staying with them at present,” said Lady Catherine.

“Indeed? She has some of her family with her, I presume?” said Darcy, hardly caring, but happy still to divert the conversation away from Cousin Anne and himself.

Lady Catherine nodded. “Her sister, Miss Maria Lucas; and a friend—a Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Once again Darcy’s heart stilled: Elizabeth—here? “I beg your pardon; did you say Miss
Elizabeth
Bennet?”

“Yes—Pleasant sort of girl: surprisingly genteel, although certainly nothing to Anne,” said Lady Catherine. “She mentioned you had met.”

Darcy nodded, but his thoughts were running far ahead and he did not speak. He was perfectly divided between delight and despair. He had been chiding himself five times a day for months, when his thoughts sought to dwell too long on his memories of her, all the while certain that he should never see her again—and here she was, almost in the same house with him! So near they would, or could, see each other daily. Nothing has changed, he reminded himself firmly. You must not allow yourself to make your feelings known to her. But his mind immediately began presenting him with schemes and notions involving Elizabeth and himself, which he just as directly sought to suppress.

Fortunately for Darcy, conversation at dinner was always dominated by Lady Catherine, and she had planned a simple evening of cards for their first night together; no conversation was wanted on his part, therefore, which was as well, as his thoughts were thoroughly occupied by
Elizabeth, and what her being in the neighbourhood must mean to him.

There was no denying that his principal sentiment had swung towards delight; to see her, hear her wit, and receive her smiles once more, to be the object of her attentions: these were pleasures he had been certain he would never again experience. But hard on the heels of his anticipation came all the old cautions and distress, strengthened the more by the awareness of her nearness. He was highly distracted by the unruly clash of such thoughts throughout the evening—so much so that Colonel Fitzwilliam reproached him for his stupidity and inattention at cards. Nor was he able to shake his preoccupation on retiring—his first night at Rosings was a long one, indeed.

In the morning, after a late and leisurely breakfast, at which Lady Catherine alluded to the nuptials of her daughter and Darcy not less than half a dozen times—severely testing the gentlemen’s ingenuity in turning aside her thoughts—at last they were offered an interesting diversion in the form of a visit from Lady Catherine’s new parson. On being introduced, he bowed deeply to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and deeper still to Darcy; but this was nothing compared to the obeisance he made Lady Catherine on entering the drawing-room: he very nearly prostrated himself before her. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at his cousin Darcy in amazement; that gentleman held up an admonishing finger and said quietly, “Wait—his speech is better still.”

Mr. Collins did not disappoint: after the initial introductions were made, he offered his fulsome and protracted compliments to each member of the company, not excepting Miss de Bourgh, whose return curtsey was a marvel of restraint. When he came to address the Colonel, he said, “Colonel Fitzwilliam, I am
deeply
honoured to make your acquaintance; your revered aunt has often spoken of you in the
highest
of terms.”