Page 31 of The Difference of a Darcy
Lady Catherine sniffed. “Mrs. Rothley,” she said, disdain in her tone. “No, I have not seen her since her wedding. I still cannot believe she has been wed to an old baron’s son. Heir to nothing, I am afraid—but it was all she was fit for. And even that she has bungled.”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Collins murmured.
“She has not quickened,” Lady Catherine said flatly. “Six months, and still no sign. Her physicians say she is too delicate. I believe the weakness must be from the de Bourgh side. She takes after her father, poor girl.”
There was the clatter of a cane against gravel, and Elizabeth held her breath. Darcy’s sleeve brushed hers as he leaned closer. She did not look at him. She could not.
Lady Catherine gave one final harumph, then: “See that your wife improves her curtsy. And for heaven’s sake, do not let her speak in public until she learns to mind her tongue.”
“Of course, your ladyship.” Mr. Collins opened the front door. “Come, my dear,” he said. “You must rest before dinner. It would not do to appear fatigued when next her ladyship calls.”
Elizabeth watched the other her—still stiff, still silent—step inside.
The door shut. Then came the sound of retreating footsteps, the crunch of carriage wheels, and silence.
Snowflakes drifted down in hushed rhythm, settling on cloaks and hedgerows alike. Neither she nor Darcy moved.
Until suddenly—he did.
Without a word, Darcy surged to his feet and turned, striding swiftly away down the lane in the direction of the departing phaeton.
∞∞∞
Darcy’s boots slipped slightly on the snowy gravel as he climbed the lane at speed. His mind spun. His breath came in quick clouds.
She had been there. Elizabeth—yet not Elizabeth—ushered into the parsonage like a stranger in her own life. Her mouth had not smiled. Her eyes had not danced. And Lady Catherine—his aunt—had treated her with the same disdain she reserved for any poor relation barely elevated above servitude.
The phaeton was just cresting the hill, its wheels dragging through the snow.
“Lady Catherine!” he called.
The driver turned, startled—but made no motion to stop.
Darcy broke into a jog. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh!”
At last the phaeton jerked to a halt. The horse snorted and stamped. Lady Catherine turned her head sharply.
The door swung open.
Darcy reached the carriage and planted one gloved hand on the side. “Aunt, what is happening here?”
Lady Catherine stared at him, then frowned. “Do I know you?”
He blinked. “What?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you? What business do you have addressing me with such familiarity?”
Darcy reeled. “It is I, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Your nephew.”
Lady Catherine sat straighter in her seat, fury overtaking confusion. “I have no nephew.”
“You do,” he said, heart thudding. “You must! My mother was Anne Fitzwilliam, your sister.”
Her lips curled into a sneer. “My sister had one child: a weak, foolish girl who shamed the family and ran off with a fortune hunter this year. We do not speak her name.”
“No… no, that is not—” He faltered. “That is not how it happened.”
Lady Catherine raised her cane and rapped it against the inside of the phaeton. “Driver, take us on. And see this lunatic off before I summon the constable.”
