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In his anxious state, several seemingly disparate facts that jarred with this conspiracy theory intruded into Darcy’s thoughts but were dismissed irritably. When the apparent contradiction of her uncle’s conciliatory letter was remembered, he concluded that Elizabeth was playing a very deep game. When he wondered what she was waiting for—she had had several chances to throw herself at him when they were momentarily alone in his bedchamber—he speculated she was possibly losing her nerve.

As he listened to her narrative, Darcy became more and more certain that his lectrice was indeed Elizabeth, but he still hesitated to confront her before Finn’s final confirmation on his return from Hertfordshire. His valet would no doubt have discovered that Miss Elizabeth had left Longbourn for London. Darcy began to think how he could most accurately describe Miss Elizabeth to Finn: chestnut hair with lips like cherries and impertinent brown eyes; a figure that lacked symmetry with more décolletage than bottom. His hand gripped the coverlet. He did not know what he wanted to do more: kiss her or strike her. He imagined reaching out to snatch the book from her hand and pull her across his lap, lifting her skirts and giving her rump a smart slap for her subterfuge. But somehow this act of retribution turned lewd. Images of him rolling on top of her in the bed intruded.

Clara is sitting in the room, he reminded himself. Clara is sitting in the room. A vein throbbed at his temple.

Darcy’s troubled thoughts were interrupted by a raised voice drifting up from the vestibule. He seemed to recall that he had heard a carriage pull up in the square. Soon the unmistakable thump of a walking stick and a heavy tread on the stairs left him in no doubt. Farley’s harassed voice issued from the doorway.

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh to visit you, sir!”

Elizabeth, still holding the book open, let it drop to her lap. A grand old dame dressed in a dark green silk robe à l’anglaise filled the doorway. A feather sticking out of her jewelled turban brushed the lintel. The expression on her face was ludicrous, her eyes popping, her mouth pursed like a prune.

“Why was I not told?” she demanded shrilly.

Behind his tinted glasses Darcy rolled his eyes. Steeling himself for an episode, he calmly replied, “If you are wondering why I have not written to tell you that I am blind, Aunt Catherine, it is because I am having a little difficulty seeing the paper.”

“That is no excuse!” Lady Catherine admonished, advancing into the room. “You could dictate it!”

Her eyes swung immediately to the well-dressed young lady in Darcy’s chamber, who did not avert her eyes in the manner of a servant. “Who is this?”

“If you are referring to the lady reading, she is my lectrice,” said Darcy, careful not to properly introduce Miss Gardiner now that he was fairly certain that she was Elizabeth. He was already regretting having introduced her to Almeria.

“Oh! I believe Napoleon had one of those!” said Lady Catherine before pausing. “You may go!” she added dismissively.

From the sounds near the door, Darcy inferred that it was Clara who had been ejected.

“Sit there, Anne!”

Elizabeth watched as a stick-thin undersized girl entered the room to replace Clara. Her peach silk travelling cloak could not disguise her emaciated body. Examining her face, Elizabeth thought she looked ill, and older than she had originally surmised based on her sylph-like figure.

“I learnt only yesterday of your illness by the most roundabout means!” declared Lady Catherine. “Why I should be dependent on information from the family of my parson’s betrothed is beyond me! Sir William has informed Mr Collins that Mr Belfry is to give up Netherfield after his tour to the Continent went sadly awry; that you were struck down by a terrible affliction in Vienna! I posted to London immediately to demand information from your uncle. You can imagine my surprise when he told me that you had arrived home; had been in residence here in Grosvenor Square for the best part of a month without so much as a word to me! It is the outside of enough!”

“I have been recuperating, Aunt,” replied Darcy calmly. “If it makes you feel any better, I have only just caught up with the correspondence I received in my absence and have certainly not written to anyone.”

“Well!” huffed Lady Catherine, seemingly placated. “I am sorry to see you reduced to such a state, Darcy. But the Lord works in mysterious ways, as I have just been telling your uncle! Now is the time for you to marry Anne. She can help look after you; give you some comfort in your afflicted state!”

Darcy inhaled slowly, choosing his words. “Aunt, you know we have discussed this topic many times before. Anne and I are not suited. I do not believe it is healthy for cousins to marry.”

“Pish!” said Lady Catherine. “Who will have you now that you are a blind cripple with venereal disease? You had much better take Anne!”

Elizabeth was agog. Lady Catherine certainly did not believe in beating about the bush! Did Mr Darcy have venereal disease? Perhaps brain fever was just a polite euphemism? More importantly, why would a mother want to marry her sick daughter to a man with venereal disease? Elizabeth glanced at Darcy. He looked as if he was about to have an apoplexy.

“Out!” he yelled, pointing at the door. “Get out! Now!”

Lady Catherine looked at her previously mild-mannered nephew in astonishment. Clearly his mind had been more affected than her brother realised.

“I will just leave the two of you here to discuss it,” Lady Catherine said in a conciliatory tone. She began to wonder if her brother Geoffrey could use his influence via the trust to arrange the marriage. She believed that did not end until Darcy was thirty, although there might be grounds for having him declared mentally incompetent.

“You will chaperone,” Lady Catherine ordered Elizabeth imperiously. Without waiting for an answer, she made a sign at her daughter, shooing her in the direction of the bed. “Go on, Anne!”

Miss de Bourgh got up reluctantly. After her mother closed the door, she took a couple of hesitant steps towards her cousin.

“I am so sorry, Fitzwilliam,” she said timidly. “You know that I agree we would not suit. Indeed, I am very sorry you are ill. Does it hurt to be blind?”

“I do not have venereal disease,” replied Darcy tersely.

“I am not sure what that is,” replied Anne uncertainly.

Elizabeth hardly dared breathe. She was mortified on Mr Darcy’s behalf, having his clandestine affairs aired in front of a stranger. The duchess had been bad enough, now this! She became aware that it had started raining lightly outside.