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“Miss Elizabeth, it is all in vain. My sentiments cannot be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
She shoved the memory of his mockery from her mind. His face was paler than the white of his nightshirt, and he had lost weight since she’d last seen him. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and his cheekbones were sharply cut into the aristocratic planes of his face. She suddenly realized that she was staring rudely; she must explain her presence.
“I am sorry, Mr Darcy, for your current predicament. I have been talking to Georgie, you see, who is so deeply worried for you, and we—well, I determined that if I could talk my way in to see you, perhaps she might be reassured. I did not think I would be so successful, but when I brought the flowers, Smith—she seems to be running the place at the moment—thought I was a maid and ordered me to sit with you whilst the countess visits. I assume your visitor to be Lady Matlock.” She realised she was blathering and felt her cheeks redden—something she hated and had striven to conquer ever since John Lucas had told her she looked ‘red all over’ when she blushed. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself.
He opened his mouth—to speak, she thought—when suddenly there came voices from the corridor beyond the door she had left open. She thrust the flowers into his water glass—placed out of his reach, she noticed, even if he’d had the use of his hands—and hurried to stand before a little stool placed in the corner near his bedside just as two persons entered.
One of them was Smith, who glanced at the open drapes and gave Lizzy a quick glare before curtseying to the other woman. “Please ring or send the girl if you need anything at all, milady,” she said in a low-voiced humility, sounding nothing like her earlier tone. “I shall close these curtains.”
But the woman only gestured for her to go. “Leave them,” she demanded imperiously, and Smith skittered from the room.
Lizzy curtseyed and opened her mouth to greet her, but the woman did not even seem to notice her, walking directly towards Mr Darcy. She believes you are a servant, silly girl, she chided herself, clamping her lips shut and folding herself onto the low stool, doing her best to disappear.
The necessity of keeping her head meekly bowed impaired her view of the countess, but she could peer through the lace edge of her cap and see the lady’s profile. She was dressed in the latest style, a long-sleeved, high-necked gown of white French cambric, sporting an antique ruff collar of thin white muslin and a long scarf of light-blue silk tossed artlessly over her shoulders. A white chip hat decorated with white feathers edged in a matching blue perched atop the grey ringlets piled high upon her head. The effect was expensive elegance, designed perfectly for one who was habitually seen and admired.
“Well, Fitzwilliam,” she began, her voice the authoritative tones of those who were unaccustomed to contradiction. “I have been investigating brides for you.”
Lizzy could not help it, swivelling her head towards Mr Darcy in surprise; she could not see his face, however. Nonetheless, his manacled hands fisted. He said not a word.
“It was a short list of possibilities because you have all but retreated from society in recent months.”
Why would she be directing his choice of brides? And she is wrong about his sociability.He attended nearly every event we held. Perhaps he had not been overly convivial, but he was no hermit! Why does he not object?
“Had your insanity burst into fruition a year ago, my choices would be so much the more plentiful.”
Insanity? He appears as sane as she is.How can she speak of weddings while he is ill, manacled to a bed? This is in every way ludicrous! Perhaps he would voice opposition now, but though she waited, it did not come.
The woman warmed to her topic. “I considered Miranda Barkley. No living parents—her uncle is her guardian, you might remember—he certainly paraded her before you at every musicale and ballroom last year. Only a baronet’s daughter, but she is a biddable girl with no more will than these wall-papers. Easily influenced and ample fortune.” She sighed, shaking her perfectly coiffed head in disappointment. “Sadly, she is recently betrothed to Shelby’s second eldest.”
Mr Darcy answered nothing.
“Did you know that Lord Whitcomb has died? Which of course leaves the very amiable Lady Whitcomb available. But I have learnt that Lord Eastham has apparently already satisfied the lady’s penchant for virility—they are currently involved in an affaired’amour that has all the ton tittering. Truthfully, it is best she is out of the running. While I could manipulate her easily enough into wedlock, it would not be prudent to tie you to such a harlot. One would never be sure whether any heir she provided was truly a Darcy. Any wife I furnish will understand the import of providing heirs who are heirs. Society might consider you an eccentric and an eremite, but they will never think you a cuckold.”
Lizzy was blatantly staring at the pair now—not that the countess looked her way once during this fantastic speech. Mr Darcy’s hands remained fisted, his knuckles white. Then, finally, Lizzy saw it—Mr Darcy’s protest. His head began shaking, a negative motion. The countess took no notice.
“My third candidate is a young woman of delicious dowry, whose brother administers her portion. Again, no living parents, which is to the good. She is also the only one of the three who has managed to garner so much as a dance with you, so I can assume you find her pleasing enough. She is older, which is preferred—at one-and-twenty, she must be feeling the pangs of desperation. A bit headstrong, a great beauty—neither quality is ideal. Still, she would not be foolish enough to offend those of greater consequence. Her father, unfortunately, was in trade, but her brother was raised as a gentleman. It is, actually, a bit of a surprise she was not snatched up quickly on the marriage mart. Of course, had you wanted her, you could have taken her—but your wishes are no longer of any import.”
She took a deep breath. Lizzy noticed she had not once met Mr Darcy’s eyes.
“The earl has threatened to go to the authorities, even the Lord High Chancellor himself, if necessary, to have you declared non compos mentis, with Matlock as your guardian, of course. I suppose, were it not for his pride, he might already have begun the process. He has at last agreed with me that honour demands an attempt, at least, to salvage your line. Our hope is that if some small part of your mind has not been breached, you might recognise your duty when I bring you your bride. We are not monsters; we mean to do the thing correctly. We will raise your children, of course, as based upon Mr Younge’s observations, you must be permanently incarcerated, for your own safety as well as others’. The earl thinks the dowager house at Pemberley can be converted into a secure private residence for you. Mr Younge has agreed to move with you, when alterations have been completed.”
Mr Darcy shook his head in a much more exaggerated manner, a firm ‘no’.
The countess looked at him, really looked at him, Lizzy thought, for the first time, and her brow furrowed. “I must say, your eyes hold an expression of some intelligence. The doctor warned us, however, that while his medications do occasionally produce the appearance of lucidity, beneath the surface, only an animal resides.” Sighing, she shook her head, and whirled on Lizzy, startling her with the sudden acknowledgement. “Girl!”
Lizzy stood, keeping her head low, biting her lip to keep words of protest at bay.
“You are to see that he receives the best of care. I shall go down now and repeat the same to Mr Younge. If anything is lacking, I shall hear about it! Only the best, do you understand?”
Since she did not wait for an answer before turning away, Lizzy gave none. The countess sighed heavily and resumed dictating to Mr Darcy. “It is settled then. I shall begin making arrangements for your marriage. It might take time, for discretion is of the utmost import, and I shall have to approach the situation delicately. Still, I have no doubt of my eventual success.”
Again, Mr Darcy shook his head, more firmly now. How could she refuse to see it?
But though the countess still faced him, she did not appear to notice. “Miss Caroline Bingley will be the next Mrs Darcy by Michaelmas. Mark my words.”
Mr Darcy frantically began shaking his head in the negative, but he may as well have not even been present. Turning on her heel, the countess quit the room.
