Page 26 of A November to Remember

“I know,” Robert said. “I could tell.”

“Oh, but Jane—my Jane, mistress of Netherfield—” Mrs Bennet had gone luminous. “And I do not know if you have noticed—”

“I notice everything, I assure you,” Robert replied, knowing exactly where Mrs Bennet aimed.

“Erm... your cousin, Mr Darcy, my lord. He was enthralled by Lizzy. I mean, he insulted her at one gathering, requested a dance at another, and agreed with her publicly at the last. It is odd, is it not?” Mrs Bennet kept staring at Robert, her expression innocent, but her fingers clutching her pearl necklace revealed her underlying hopes.

“Mrs Bennet, you are the most insightful lady in the kingdom.” Robert bowed to her from the hearthrug.

Miss Kitty, Miss Lydia, and even Miss Mary leaned in to listen closely.

“Our purpose, ladies and Brother, is twofold.” Robert gesticulated broadly. “We must create opportunities for both pairs to become better acquainted, with propriety first and foremost.”

All the heads nodded vigorously.

“We need absolute secrecy.” Robert looked around sternly.

All the heads nodded affirmatively again.

Robert stared at Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia, who nodded some more for good measure, their eyes sincere.

“Leave them to me! They shan’t breathe a word!” Mrs Bennet assured him.

“Very well. It shall be done,” he declared, inclining his head.

“It must have a name, my lord. A grand undertaking must have a name. I am very fond of names, as I told Mr Bennet just yesterday,” said Mrs Bennet.

“Then it shall have one.” Robert lifted his teacup. “Ladies, I give you the Alliance.”

“The Alliance,” matrons and misses chorused, cups aloft, lace quivering.

Richard raised the final slice of seed cake in solemn salute to Miss Mary, and ate it.

And if, beneath the toast, all Robert wanted was to push Jane Bennet towards Charles Bingley out of guilt for daring to want her, that was another matter altogether: private and painful. All that mattered now was that the Alliance was founded, and Hertfordshire would never be the same.

Chapter Six: The Fraudulent Stallion

October 29th, 1811

The guest bedchamber at Netherfield Park was a cavern of crimson velvet, but to Fitzwilliam Darcy, it felt like an antechamber for the damned.

He stood before the tall mirror, staring blankly at his reflection, while his valet worked with infuriating serenity behind him. Dawson had an unshakeable calm that belonged to saints or people with poor hearing. He was currently brushing Darcy’s coat with a soothing motion that made Darcy want to throw a vase at the wall. Naturally, he did nothing of the sort.

“Is this elaborate cravat mandatory this morning, Dawson?” Darcy asked, his voice tight. “Perhaps a simply tied neckcloth would suffice. Or a migration to the Continent.”

“The Continent has a different dampness in October, sir. You are better suited to the local climate,” Dawson replied placidly, moving to inspect a cufflink. “A gentleman of your status cannot look like a shopkeeper. Besides, you thrive on formality. I suggest the charcoal superfine. It is a discouraging colour, if you are thinking of Miss Bingley’s advances. It might subtly convey your desire to be left in peace.”

“There is no fabric on earth discouraging enough to deter Caroline Bingley,” Darcy ground out. “If I walk into that breakfast parlour, she will have arranged a display of Derbyshire flora next to my teacup. She will attempt to engage me in a passionate discourse about the soil quality of my own estate. I shall be forced to sit there, losing the will to live, while Bingley paces back and forth, fretting over his romantic dilemmas.”

Dawson picked up a silver-backed brush. “If the breakfast parlour presents such a hazard, sir, might I suggest avoiding the interior of the house altogether?”

Darcy met his valet’s gaze in the mirror. “Are you suggesting I climb down the ivy, Dawson?”

“I am suggesting a ride, sir,” Dawson corrected. “The head groom was saying that your stallion is in a spectacularly foul temper this morning. He bit a stable boy’s hat and attempted to kick his stall door off its hinges. The beast requires immediate and strenuous exhaustion.”

Darcy sighed, though a vital spark of relief flared in his chest. Roc was a massive animal, named for the mythical bird of eastern legends said to be so large it could block out the sun. The horse was notoriously difficult, refusing to be ridden by anyone save Darcy and his sister Georgiana, but his speed and endurance were unmatched.

“A foul-tempered beast for a foul-tempered morning,” Darcy mused, turning away from the mirror. “You are an invaluable man, Dawson. If anyone asks, you have not a clue where I am. I thank you for helping me preserve my sanity.”