The Guest | F. Darcy

Chapter 2: The Gentlemen at Rosings Park

Mr. Darcy sat in the study of his London townhouse, his eyes scanning the morning's correspondence with practiced efficiency. Among the neatly stacked letters, a particular envelope caught his attention—one bearing the elegant yet rarely seen handwriting of his cousin, Anne de Bourgh. His brow furrowed as he broke the seal, for it was most unusual for Anne to write to him. A sense of unease settled in his chest as he read, his eyes darting over the words repeatedly, scrutinizing their every nuance.

Before he could fully absorb the implications of the letter, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the staircase. The door to his study burst open, and there stood Georgiana, breathless, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her eyes alight with urgency.

"Ady is at Rosings Park!" she declared, barely able to contain herself. "And without any of us. Would you go to her rescue?"

Darcy, startled by her vehemence, let out a rare laugh.

"My dear," he said, holding up the letter, "I have just received word of the same from Anne. It seems she, too, calls upon me to play the hero. I daresay Richard will be delighted by the news."

The days at Hunsford passed in a predictable rhythm for Adele. The routine was well established—dinners at Rosings twice a week, visits to her ladyship, and long walks along her preferred path, where forget-me-nots and English roses lined the trail. Though Elizabeth often accompanied her on walks, Adele found herself yearning for a particular presence. She had loved Fitzwilliam Darcy for as long as she could remember, but at that moment, she longed not for a lover, but for a friend—someone to tease her, to share in lighthearted conversation, to relieve the strain of being under Lady Catherine's scrutiny.

She had kept much from Elizabeth, especially concerning certain encounters on the grounds of Rosings, and so, despite their closeness, there were moments when even her sister's companionship could not ease the solitude she felt. But news had reached them—Mr. Darcy was to arrive at Rosings within a few weeks, accompanied by his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. The anticipation of seeing an old friend, rather than a suitor, was enough to send her spirits soaring.

When the day of their arrival came, Mr. Collins had spent the entire morning pacing along the lane leading to Hunsford, positioning himself so he might be the first to witness the grand event. The moment he saw the carriage turn through the gates of Rosings, he hurried home in triumph, eager to spread the news of their arrival.

The following morning, Darcy sat in the morning parlour of Rosings, a cup of tea cooling in his hand as he stared absentmindedly at the intricate china pattern. Though he ought to have been weary from travel, he found himself restless, his mind occupied with a singular thought: Adele.

The journey from London had been a torment of impatient anticipation, his foot tapping the floor of the carriage with uncharacteristic nervousness, while Richard had spent half the ride making sport of his anxiety. Now, at last, he was here—mere miles away from her—and yet, propriety dictated that he wait. He needed a reason, an excuse to see her without delay.

As if the heavens had answered his silent plea, the footman entered and bowed.

"Mr. Collins has arrived, sir."

Darcy set down his tea with renewed purpose. Fate had presented an opportunity, and he was not about to let it slip away.

To the great surprise of all, when Mr. Collins returned, he was not alone—the gentlemen had accompanied him. Charlotte, having spotted them crossing the road from her husband's study, hurried into the sitting room, breathless with excitement.