Lady Catherine raised her eyebrows. “Has your friend encountered some difficulty?”
“His brother, rather. A small predicament.”
“I cannot approve, Darcy. One must never meddle in affairs of others.”
“I shall consider your counsel,” Darcy replied, the corner of his mouth nearly twitching as he contemplated the woman who had built her formidable reputation upon precisely such meddling. Before he could dwell on it further, the door opened with a gentle creak.
“Fitzwilliam, thank you for accompanying Anne.” Lady Catherine nodded approvingly at the two cousins entering theroom, her daughter’s pallid complexion a stark contrast to the colonel’s ruddy features. “We were just discussing how Darcy’s acquaintance has a brother facing difficulties. I was advising against his intervention.”
“Ah, but intervention is our cousin’s specialty.” Richard guided Anne to a comfortable seat by the crackling fire before claiming the chair beside Darcy, who fixed him with a stony glare from beneath his dark brows. “That expression shall not deter me. I presume we speak of Bingley; you do hover over him like a nursemaid with a favourite charge.”
“I never direct Bingley’s actions. His life is his own.”
Richard threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the coffered ceiling of Rosings’ drawing room. “Did you not confess, over a family dinner at Christmas, that you and his sisters schemed to separate him from a young lady of inferior rank? Ashton said you even called the society in that village savage.”
“In truth, most of them are gentlefolk farmers, as I am,” Darcy protested, a hint of colour rising on his otherwise composed features. “Rustic would have been the more fitting term, not savage.”
“Rustic or not,” Richard countered, eyes dancing with mischief beneath sandy brows, “Ashton also informed me that you insisted drastic measures were needed to pry the puppy from a mercenary mother’s clutches.”
“What mother is not mercenary?” Anne’s soft murmur drifted over from her corner by the fireplace.
Darcy spared his cousin a quick, apologetic glance, thankful their aunt had not caught the remark, for he dreaded another lecture on their supposed cradle betrothal.
Lady Catherine interjected, “You still count that tradesman’sson among your friends? You must end that acquaintance at once. By acknowledging him, you encourage him to think he belongs in a higher circle. A sensible man would not wish to abandon his proper sphere.”
“Bingley received a gentleman’s education, and he plans to purchase an estate so he can marry and raise a family,” Darcy replied, his voice measured despite the tightening of his jaw.
“That is the point, nephew. He owns no estate, and by inviting him to society events, you sully the Fitzwilliam and Darcy names. He could never attend without your patronage.”
“Lady Catherine, calm yourself.” Darcy's voice softened as he leaned forward in his chair. “Though I am friendly with Bingley, my closest companion is his brother-in-law, Mr. Reginald Hurst. You may recall me writing about him. We attended Eton and Cambridge together.”
“His father has an estate in Sussex, does he not?” Her tone eased marginally.
“Yes, he does, and it was through Hurst I first made Bingley’s acquaintance.” Darcy then turned to Richard, seizing the moment to divert the conversation. “What say you to riding out to Picket Farm tomorrow? When last I passed, their roof showed signs of needing new slate.”
“Mr. Howard mentioned as much,” Lady Catherine said, referring to her steward. “He also has concerns with regard to the south field, where many seeds have failed to germinate, threatening a meagre summer yield.”
“Thank you, Lady Catherine. I will discuss that with him tomorrow.”
With the topic securely shifted, Darcy relaxed his shoulders and resolved to answer Hurst’s missive when he had a quiet moment before retiring for the night.
The following morning, pale sunlight filtered through the lofty oaks as Darcy and the colonel rode the dew-slick grounds with Rosings Park’s steward. Mr. Howard, a lean man with a weathered face and bright, efficient eyes, pointed out drainage concerns along the western boundary and described his plans to produce a better yield in the fields that had experienced slow germination. Freed by Mr. Howard’s competence, Darcy turned his thoughts to the manor’s broader needs and reflected on his aunt’s ever-ready interference beyond the garden gates. Such actions only muddled affairs better managed by those with a steadier hand. If Lady Catherine would leave private livelihoods to the steward, the estate would hum with quiet prosperity.
By midmorning, the two cousins returned to the house, exchanged their dusty coats for crisp waistcoats, and stepped into the drawing-room where Lady Catherine sat beneath a gilded portrait of her late husband, her sharp gaze fixed upon the rector, Mr. Collins.
Mr. Collins himself was an odd figure: a pompous little man whose ill-fitting clerical coat fell loose over his shoulders, yet strained mightily around his stomach. Darcy vaguely recalled him as the ungainly partner to Miss Elizabeth at Bingley’s ball. More than once, the portly rector had stepped wrongly and collided with other dancers in their line, holding everyone up as he apologised profusely, causing acute mortification to stain Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks a vivid scarlet. The evening had concluded with the peculiar discovery that the Bennets had departed with nothing but a brief explanation from Miss Bennet to Bingley.
Their abrupt retreat had struck him as odd, especially given Mrs. Bennet’s earlier boasts that her eldest daughter would soon reign over Netherfield Park as mistress. He had fully expectedthem to linger until the last carriage was called up. Perhaps Miss Bingley’s insinuations about the youngest Bennet sister’s impropriety with an officer among the garden shrubs contained a kernel of truth. What else could explain such a precipitous departure?
Reluctant to interrupt their aunt’s discussion, Darcy and Richard began to withdraw.
“There is no need to hurry off,” she called after them. “Mr. Collins and I have nearly finished.”
At this, the rector turned with exaggerated delight. “Mr. Darcy! It is a pleasure to see you again. I cannot thank you enough for saving me that dreadful night when my cousin left me stranded with no means of returning to Longbourn. Had you not—”
“You thanked me at the time, Mr. Collins,” Darcy interrupted, his tone cool. “No further acknowledgment is necessary.”
“Of course, of course. “Mr. Collins bowed. “I understand.”
