“Well, here you are at last!” Darcy spun around sharply at the disembodied voice arising from behind one of his suite’s hearthside chairs.
“Richard!” The scraping of boots against the floor was soon followed by his cousin’s lanky form struggling up out of the deeply cushioned chair. Darcy quickly closed the door, advanced to face his intruder, and demanded, “What are you doing here?”
“Lying in wait for Napoleon!” Fitzwilliam answered him sarcastically. “Looking for you, old man; and don’t raise a breeze! You have been damned elusive, Fitz. Not like you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You have even Fletcher worried. I’ve never seen him look so Friday-faced! What?” Fitzwilliam demanded at Darcy’s quick grimace.
“Nothing of your concern, I assure you.” Darcy shifted his gaze away from his cousin’s intense examination. “I have called for the carriage to be at the door by nine tomorrow. Can you be ready?”
“We do leave tomorrow then?” Darcy raised a sardonic brow at his cousin before turning to divest himself of his coat and gloves. “You have changed your plans once already without bothering to consult me,” Fitzwilliam protested to his cousin’s turned back.
“We leave tomorrow at nine. There will be no change of plans.” He turned and faced Fitzwilliam. “I find myself quite desirous of getting back to London as soon as may be possible. I have left Georgiana to Lord Brougham’s care long enough,” he offered.
“I cannot disagree with you there,” Fitzwilliam relented. He threw his hands up at the frown on Darcy’s face, then cocked a brow at him. “It will not do, you know. You cannot intimidate me with that frown of yours. Oh, it is an excellent fierce one, I assure you; but you forget that you are dealing with the Highly Disappointing Issue of His Lordship, the Earl of Matlock. Not even in the same race as Pater, Fitz.” He returned to the hearth chair and fell back into it. “So pack it away, and tell your old Father Confessor. What is it, Cousin?”
“I am sure that I have not the slightest idea…”
“Damn and blast, Fitz,” Richard cut him off, “do not poker up at me like a missish old maid. Here.” He leaned forward on his elbows and looked at him earnestly. “It has to do with Miss Bennet, does it not?”
A thrill of apprehension coursed up Darcy’s spine, stiffening his jaw and adding coolness to his reply. “Miss Bennet?” Richard’s answering grimace and exaggerated sigh clearly displayed his disappointment. Knowing his cousin to be capable of a ferocious tenacity when his interest was piqued, Darcy cast about in his mind for some means of diverting him. Richard could not know how far he had carried his foolishness with Eliza — Miss Bennet. And, Darcy determined, he never should; but he did need Richard’s help. Should she ever apply to him for the truth of his letter, Richard would die rather than reveal anything that touched upon Georgiana. Darcy quickly laid hold of the bone that would answer for both of them. “Yes, Miss Bennet,” he repeated slowly and paused, eyeing Richard’s alerted countenance. “I find myself in need of your assistance.”
“Yes,” his cousin replied encouragingly, “go on.”
“You may have noticed that Miss Bennet and I have a tendency to quarrel,” he began tentatively.
“Ha!” Richard snorted. Darcy glared him into an embarrassed cough and an “I beg your pardon; continue, Fitz.”
“Miss Bennet and I have, unfortunately, stumbled into a tangle of misunderstanding that could be resolved with honor on both sides only by the revelation of our family’s past dealings with George Wickham.”
“Wickham! Good Lord, you do not mean…” Fitzwilliam looked at him in shocked disbelief.
“Yes, Georgiana.” Darcy allowed his revelation to sink in.
“I knew she was angry with you.” Richard shook his head slowly. “But…Georgiana?”
“What!” It was Darcy’s turn to be surprised. “She told you she was angry with me?”
“Yes, well, in so many words. Yesterday, when I was touring the park, I encountered her by chance; and in the course of conversation, it became apparent that you were not in her good books. I tried to warn you.” So, Darcy thought, she had been overset before he had even left from Rosings, and probably by the rendition of his efforts on Bingley’s behalf he had suspected was courtesy of Richard. “But what does Georgiana have to do with it?”
“Nothing directly!” Darcy sighed and rubbed at the insistent pain centered between his brows before continuing. “Richard, it is all a veritable Gordian knot; and you must believe that only a matter of vile slander would induce me to breathe a word concerning Georgiana.” He walked to the mantel and, grasping its edge, leaned down to stare into the embers glowing upon the grate.
“I know, Fitz,” his cousin quietly granted him. “In what way do you wish my help?”
Darcy solemnly looked up at his cousin. “Should Miss Bennet ever apply to you for the truth of what happened last summer, you are to tell her. In your own words and with nothing held back, tell her.”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes did not waver from his cousin’s. “You trust her that much?”
“I do,” he answered him, withdrawing his gaze.
Fitzwilliam turned away, paced the room in thought for a moment, and then looked back. “And it will restore your honor in Miss Bennet’s eyes?”
“Perhaps,” Darcy answered quietly, his eyes glancing up from the glowing embers, “your testimony and time will prove the just mind I believe her to possess.”
“Then do not fear, Cousin.” Fitzwilliam advanced upon him and thrust out his hand. “She shall have my word on it — today!” The firm assurance of Richard’s clasp was like balm to Darcy’s wounds, the first indication that survival of the soul-wrenching events of the last twenty-four hours was more than a dream.
At his cousin’s insistence, Darcy retrieved his coat and gloves, and once Fitzwilliam’s were procured, the two set off for Hunsford. The distance was traversed in a companionable silence. Darcy, though dreading a second meeting and the proof it would likely afford of the ineffectual nature of his written words, kept pace with the determined gait of his cousin, whose face was almost beatific in its focus on the knight errantry upon which he was set. Sooner than Darcy would have believed, they were mounting the steps at the parsonage door. Fitzwilliam, in the advance, gave him a bracing grin as he pulled at the bell.
“It shall be all right and tight, Fitz. I promise you!” he assured him. “Should I say anything further on your behalf ?”
“I pray you, do not,” Darcy answered him quickly, “else this errand will have been for naught!”
Fitzwilliam shrugged and turned back to the door, which was now opening. “Good day!” he greeted the serving maid. “Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy to see the ladies and Mr. Collins.”
“It shall be done, Your Ladyship.” Darcy bowed over his aunt’s hand, bussing it with his lips before stepping back to allow Fitzwilliam the same honor. He was desperate to be gone, but Lady Catherine was in no temper for their expedient removal. A vast and varied number of remembrances to other family members had been pressed upon him literally at the last moment. Commentary and recommendation had followed on any aspect of their imminent travel that might delay the departure Her Ladyship so lamented and Darcy so keenly desired. There had been nothing for it but to take matters quite actually “in hand” and grasp Lady Catherine’s extended fingers with a curt promise to do as she bid him. It was now Richard’s turn, and Darcy stepped away to allow him his full opportunity as object of Her Ladyship’s concerns, messages, and lectures.