Page 20 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

The carriage returned Darcy home at half past three. He gave his hat and gloves to Hewitt, walked directly to his study, and found his cousin in the chair he kept for visitors.

Richard looked up from a volume of Swift that had been in the library when Darcy had left the house at noon.

“How was your call?”

“You were waiting?”

“I was. I have had a glass of port and read three chapters of this.” He held up the book.

“Why are you here, Richard?”

“I think you know.” He closed the Swift and set it on the small table positioned at his elbow. “You will be glad to hear I am not here on a Miss Bingley question, a Miss Macomber question, or any other question of my aunt’s creation. I am here on the Hertfordshire question.”

“There is no Hertfordshire question.”

Richard shook his head. “I knew you would say that. My brother owes me five pounds.”

“Very good. You can see yourself out.”

Richard did not rise.

Darcy sighed and dropped into his own chair behind the oak desk.

“You were in Hertfordshire for six weeks,” Richard said. “You returned ill at ease, and my aunt has noticed. I do not know what she thinks because she has not confided it; I know only that she did not enjoy her own dinner last night, which is so rare an occurrence as to be marked down in my journal.”

“And?”

“Wickham took tea with her on Saturday.”

Darcy did not understand what that had to do with anything. “I did not know that.”

“I should have been astonished if you had. He met me at the club this morning; he was pleased because Em is entirely recovered and he can stop fretting.” Richard looked at him steadily. “He told me he had spoken with Bingley on behalf of your mother.”

Darcy did not look up. Finally, he closed his eyes, and asked, “I was with Bingley today, and he did not mention it. What did Wickham have to say?”

“We were not alone so he did not relate the complete story, but he mentioned an insult at an assembly and something else about a dance at a private ball. He found the telling amusing, by which I infer you made a right arse of yourself.”

The light at the window was growing darker—evenings fell early in December. A footman came in, silently lit the Argand lamp on the desk, the candles on each side of the fire, and went out again.

He had heard Richard command his men once or twice. That voice was the one he used now. “Here is what you must do, Darcy. Speak with my aunt. Now, in fact, before you have time to lose your nerve. Tell her the whole story, including everything Wickham omitted. She will be much more inclined to forgive you if she hears it from your own lips, and, with any luck, she may confine her displeasure to you, as you are the man who actually deserves it.”

Darcy leaned over the desk and put his head atop his folded arms. Was his ineptitude to follow him everywhere? “I cannot.”

Richard grunted. “Very well. You must do as you think best. But if your mother turns her eye on me, I shall develop some sudden and pressing business for the Crown in Scotland, and you shall be entirely on your own.” Richard moved to the door, but it opened from the other side before he reached it.

Hewitt stood there with a small silver salver. “Mr. Darcy, sir. A message from Lady Anne.”

Darcy took the note. Fitzwilliam, please join me in the morning room at your convenience.

Richard frowned at him. “Should I leave by the servants’ stairs?”

“Probably,” he said—not because he thought Richard ought to, but because it was amusing to think of Richard dodging the coal delivery on his way out.

He read the note again. At your convenience, in his mother’s idiom, meant immediately. Darcy waited for Hewitt to exit before he made his way up the stairs.

The morning room was warm, the fire well-kept, the curtains drawn. His mother sat on the small sofa by the window, very upright, a closed book in her lap.

“Sit down, Fitzwilliam.”