Chapter I
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mother whose son returns home injured must at once consider him unfit for any exertion more taxing than the taking of tea. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had survived both battle and the surgeon’s knife with enviable composure, found himself quite undone by her solicitude.
“The only thing that surprises me about this affair,” said Darcy, his voice tinged with amusement, “is that you did not expect your mother’s behavior when you came home with an injury.”
Fitzwilliam, who was pacing the room—a curious activity given the cane supporting his injured leg—turned a glare on his cousin. Darcy, he noted, appeared insufferably smug. To say anything would be to provoke his cousin, so Fitzwilliam eased himself into the chair across from Darcy’s and fixed him with an unfriendly glare.
“If I do not escape her mothering, I shall be fit for bedlam within a fortnight.”
“Aunt Susan will see reason,” replied Darcy, still sporting a faint smile. “If you recall, she has been uncomfortable with your profession since you purchased your commission—now, after you returned with a bullet in your leg, she not only wants to see to your recovery, but shehas all the satisfaction of being proved right in her concerns for your safety.”
With a grunt, Fitzwilliam sat back, staring at the flames in Darcy’s fireplace, though seeing nothing of their dance, hearing no crackling, and smelling nothing of burning wood. As a man who had always enjoyed a close relationship with his parents, he could confess that his mother’s fright over his injury was nothing but a woman fearful for her child’s safety, even if that “child” was now approaching thirty. It was not her care and attention for him but the way she lingered about him, her insistence on his inactivity—as if a man might heal without testing an injured limb—and her increasing attempts to induce him to give up his profession. Fitzwilliam was not so insensible as to enjoy the prospect of battle, the possibility of returning home in a wooden box, but it was his chosen life—duty compelled him.
“I need to get away from London for a time,” muttered Fitzwilliam, considering his situation. “If I go to my father’s estate, my mother will only follow me there.”
Fitzwilliam grimaced. “Perhaps I should go to Rosings. At least there I will only need to endure Lady Catherine’s harangues about my carelessness rather than Mother’s excessive coddling.”
Darcy snorted a laugh. “If you will pardon me, Cousin, I cannot imagine that enduring Lady Catherine would prove less aggravating than abiding your mother.”
“Then we are in agreement,” replied Fitzwilliam.
“Some distance may be advisable,” said Darcy as if considering, “but I do not believe you would appreciate three days in a carriage with the roads jolting your injury every few moments.”
“That is the truth,” said Fitzwilliam.
“Then what of Hertfordshire?”
Fitzwilliam was not slow of thought—he understood Darcy’s meaning at once. “Stay with Bingley?”
“Bingley is no longer in Hertfordshire,” replied Darcy.
Perhaps it was merely his perception, but Fitzwilliam thought Darcy a little evasive. Darcy continued to speak, leaving him no opportunity to ask about it.
“The estate, however, is still in his possession. If you want, I could ask Bingley if he would allow you to stay for a few weeks.”
Considering this, Fitzwilliam said: “Netherfield Park, as I recall. Where is it?”
“Southwest of Stevenage, near a small market town called Meryton. Meryton is perhaps an equal distance between Stevenage and Luton.”
“Is there something wrong with the place?” asked Fitzwilliam. “Most families spend the winter at their estates. I might have thought Bingley’s harpy of a sister would be eager to lord over her brother’s estate so she could crow to all her friends about his new consequence.”
Darcy’s hedging persisted; he shifted in his seat as if the question were uncomfortable, before he ventured a response.
“There is nothing the matter with Netherfield. It is not Chatsworth, but it is a serviceable estate of perhaps five thousand a year, suited to a man in Bingley’s position. While I think Bingley enjoyed his time there, his sisters did not agree, claiming the society was savage.”
“And your opinion?” pressed Fitzwilliam, wondering if Darcy would reveal anything.
Darcy’s shrug was not unexpected. “It is a typical country society, though there are no estates of any considerable size in the district other than Netherfield. The people are not polished, but they are no worse than country gentlefolk in any other part of England.”
“As you know,” said Fitzwilliam, “I do not concern myself much with those who consider themselves polished. If Miss Bingley considers them savage, that is almost a point in their favor.”
“I care little more for Miss Bingley’s brand of insolence than you do,” replied Darcy.
“Then it sounds perfect. The difficulty will be convincing my mother to allow me to go alone.”
“Tell her that a friend has offered the use of the estate. She cannot invite herself to stay at a place that you are only borrowing.”
“Then I shall prepare. If you will arrange a meeting with Bingley, I shall be much obliged.”
