The noises that seeped out from under the dressing room door were unmistakable. Turning over heavily, Darcy burrowed into the pillows in one more futile attempt to find a comfortable position in the great bed before Fletcher —
“Good morning, sir!”
Too late! Darcy groaned into his pillow and then, with his customary resolve, slid his hands flat against the sheets and shoved against the bedding. In one fluid movement, he rolled off the instrument of his nightly torture and was on his feet.
“It is a lovely, bright Sunday morning, sir. Just as it should be for Easter.” Fletcher reached up and twitched back the heavy damask curtains, which had, until that moment, held off the morning. He turned to his master, a smile pulling at the corners of his eyes. “Her Ladyship desires me to remind you that the barouche will leave at ten precisely and that breakfast will be served en famille at nine in the morning room.”
“As they have been every Easter since I was four years old at least,” Darcy groused under his breath while he stretched out the aching muscles of his back. A yawn overtook him as he ambled to the window to judge the accuracy of Fletcher’s assessment of the coming day. Squinting fiercely, he peered out into the sun-drenched park. Yes, it would be a glorious day. The only clouds that troubled the expanse of blue sky were fleecy white and thoroughly benign in temperament. A slight breeze teased the leaves of the grove that separated Rosings Park from Hunsford village, their beckon causing him to wish that he had had his horse Nelson brought down and could meet the promise of such a day as it deserved.
“It is seven o’clock, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher’s voice interrupted his vision of grassy hills and tree-lined lanes taken at a full gallop. “Shall I prepare…”
A hearty knock at the chamber door drowned out the valet’s question, causing both men to look over in surprise as the door cracked open and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s head appeared. “Oh, excellent, Fitz! You’re up! But, Fletcher…” Fitzwilliam stepped into the room and closed the door behind him softly. “You have not got him shaved yet! It is seven, you know.”
“Yes, sir, I was just about —”
“Well, go to it, man! Time marcheth on.” He grinned at the valet, who bowed his acknowledgment of the orders of a superior officer and smartly took himself off to prepare the barbering gear. Richard turned back to his cousin. “Did I say ‘marcheth’?” he asked wryly, then feigned a sigh. “Too long a soldier, I suppose. Soon I will not be at all fit for good company!”
Darcy snorted and turned back to his view of the park. “No fear of that! You seem to be doing quite well.”
“Yes, actually, I am!” Fitzwilliam beamed. “And that is why I am here. I wish to hurry things along this morning so that I may perhaps have some pleasure of the parsonage females before services begin.” He paused for his cousin’s comment, but receiving none he pressed on. “I daresay, the delights of la Bennet will be more than adequate compensation for the irritation of Mr. Collins’s sermonizing.”
“Had a surfeit of him at last, have you? You have called at least twice this week,” Darcy murmured, his gaze traveling the distance of the path through the grove. He could just see a corner of the church tower above the sway of leaves in the distance. The parsonage would lie just to the right, would it not?
“A surfeit and more, to be sure! But I would have braved his tiresome prattle more often than twice if it had been proper…if you had thrown over the accounts and accompanied me, Fitz, and kept old Collins occupied as a devoted cousin should! Dashed if la Bennet couldn’t easily keep my attention for quite a — What?”
Darcy suddenly rounded on his cousin. “Is it possible that we might have a conversation without the subject of Miss Elizabeth Bennet continually figuring in it?”
Fitzwilliam regarded him wonderingly. “I imagine so, Cuz; but I never knew you to be averse to discussing a fine-looking young woman before. If that is what you wish —”
“I do so wish,” Darcy interrupted emphatically and started for the dressing room. Surely Fletcher was ready for him by now, and if his shave would discourage Richard’s line, so much the better.
Fitzwilliam shrugged his shoulders in compliance and crossed his arms, assuming an apologetic stance. “Very well, but then it comes about that I bear you ill tidings.”
Darcy stopped at the doorway, his forehead creased in mounting annoyance. “What do you mean, Richard?”
“After you pled fatigue and left us last night, I suggested to our aunt that she invite the parsonage to tea this evening.” He stopped, considering with amusement the curious look upon his cousin’s face, then continued with an impish grin. “So not only will you be forced once more to bear Miss Elizabeth Bennet figuring in the conversation, you will have to bear Miss Elizabeth’s figure —”
Darcy closed the dressing room door sharply upon his cousin and then leaned heavily against it, only to hear Fitzwilliam’s laughter on the other side as he left the bedchamber. He glanced over his shoulder. The dressing room lay empty, and he was blessedly alone. Dropping his forehead lightly against the door, Darcy closed his eyes. The last five days had been some of the most afflicting in his experience, and the discomfort of his aunt’s great guest bed only incidental to the troubled passage of the nights. Shaking his head at the vagaries of Providence that had brought Elizabeth once more into his circle, he pushed away from the door and dropped into the barbering chair. Leaning back, he cocked his head up and began a minute examination of the ceiling.
After the disastrous exchange with Elizabeth concerning her sister, Richard had seen that his cousin wished to be away from Hunsford and smoothly facilitated their departure. But the moment they were out of earshot of the parsonage and the occasional stray villager, he began to tease his cousin about his odd behavior. “Leave off, Richard!” Darcy warned curtly. Recognizing his tone, his cousin did his bidding. But if Richard was alive to the letter of the law, he was blithely indifferent to the spirit of it and had instead taken the tack of enumerating Elizabeth’s manifold charms, calling upon Darcy for his agreement at every point until he had been ready to do his cousin an injury.
“Yes, she is all very well,” Darcy agreed tersely from between clenched teeth, “but do you have a care, Richard. Her situation is open to me, and I warn you that she has very little in the way of expectation and exceedingly poor connections. You, my dear cousin, are much too expensive for her.” He had stopped then in his long strides toward Rosings and turned a fierce scowl upon his cousin. “And she is a gentleman’s daughter!”
Fitzwilliam had held up his hands in protest. “Of course, Fitz! Good Lord, you don’t think I’d trifle with a woman right under the parson’s roof, do you?” Darcy offered him only a piercing stare in reply and turned back to the path. “Well, you can have no objection to visiting!” his cousin declared, catching up with him. “Rosings is so deadly dull. It has been the same every year since we were boys. Now, finally, on its very doorstep, is a diversion charming and witty enough to make this interminable obligation pass more quickly.”
“I cannot spare the time to make calls, Richard. There are accounts to overlook, the estate manager to interview, and the farms to inspect. I could use your help!” Darcy said.
“And you shall have it, Fitz,” his cousin earnestly assured him, “but you won’t need me all the time. I’m a damned nuisance when I’ve nothing to do, which you well know! So, in the interest of avoiding coming to blows, I’ll toddle off and call at Hunsford when I’m not needed. Oh, I shall be careful!” he exclaimed at Darcy’s narrowed regard. “The model of discretion and decorum!”
And so, while Darcy had buried himself in his aunt’s affairs for the last four days in a determined effort to keep himself so busy that thoughts of Hunsford’s guest did not intrude, Richard had been enjoying her company — twice! Both times he had come by Rosings’s book room, which Darcy habitually commandeered for his yearly task, to ask if Darcy would care to accompany him to the parsonage. And both times Darcy had managed to look extremely busy and wave him off, only to watch jealously from the window as his cousin strode out of sight down the path leading to Hunsford…to Elizabeth. Then Darcy had returned to the table and the ledgers spread about on it and marked each minute until Richard returned. The blackguard cheerily hailed him from the doorway and informed him of the delightful time he had spent with “la Bennet,” as he had christened her. How Darcy resented that appellation! Even though she had long been “Elizabeth” in his private thoughts, she ought to be “Miss Elizabeth Bennet” in public discourse; but if he should raise an objection, Richard would be upon him like a hawk.
Even so, his intense curiosity about all things that concerned her almost caused him to betray himself. It was maddening to hear Richard’s bits and pieces dropped in conversations and not be free to pluck them up for closer examination. Just the previous evening, during their after-dinner brandy, his cousin had made reference to a book he had procured for her from their aunt’s library. “Indeed!” Darcy replied, his eager interest apparent enough to cause Richard to stop in his discourse. He burned to ask the title, how his cousin came to know she desired it, how she received it; but instead he turned back to his brandy and silently cursed his tongue. He knew she read, she embroidered, she wrote, she walked; he’d known all that since Hertfordshire. What he wanted to know was what she read. Had she resumed Milton? What did she think about it? What pleasures did she find in her needlework and her rambles? What concerns were on her heart that set her applying pen to paper? He wanted to hear her voice and enjoy her smile and lose himself in her eyes…
A rapid staccato on the steps behind the serving entrance door alerted Darcy to Fletcher’s imminent return. He straightened his posture as the valet entered, but with swift economy of movement, Fletcher soon had him leaning back in the chair again, a warm, damp towel softening his night’s stubble. His valet’s familiar ministrations…at least some things were not in turmoil!
“Mr. Darcy?” Fletcher’s questioning voice penetrated through the comforting warmth. “I was thinking that the blue might do — the new one from Weston’s, sir? And the cream nankeen breeches and waistcoat.” Darcy had had the same in mind himself. It was Easter, after all! He pushed the thought that he would be certain to encounter Elizabeth again to the edge of his conscience.
“It is Easter, sir,” the valet said when he did not respond.
“So it is. The blue it shall be, then.” Darcy smiled to himself as he found a comfortable position and lifted his chin for the razor but then stayed his valet’s hand in sudden caution. “You will take care this morning, Fletcher!”
“Of course, Mr. Darcy. If you will remain still!”
Lady Catherine’s traditional Easter breakfast en famille proceeded in its grand manner as it had for over twenty years. The only difference Darcy noted that morning was his own impatience to have it done and be on their way to Hunsford Church. That Richard also chafed to be gone was an unwelcome novelty that even Her Ladyship observed.
“Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine set a stern eye upon him. “I have an excellent digestion, equal to any in the kingdom, a fact in which I pride myself and encourage in young people; but if you will not cease fidgeting, I will be put off my breakfast entirely.”
“My apologies, Ma’am.” Fitzwilliam flushed and cast a beseeching glance at Darcy.
“I also understand that you arose this morning much earlier than is your wont,” she continued. “Why is that, I wonder. I have never heard that you were a religious man, Fitzwilliam. Your mother’s letters have long lamented your absence from the family pew. It cannot be that you have taken leave of your senses and become an ‘enthusiast,’ I trust! We shall have none of that nonsense in our family!”
“My dear aunt —” Richard began to protest.
“Then you can have no cause for impatience. Collins will wait! What else has he to do?” Having no answer, Richard lapsed into studied stillness until, being able to bear the inactivity no longer, he reached for another slice of toast and heaped it with an unconscionable amount of jam. With a look at his cousin that dared him to say anything, he thrust it into his mouth and began chewing on it as vigorously as possible without arousing his relative’s ire once more. Darcy bit down on his lip, struck with unease and anger as Lady Catherine proceeded to declaim upon her next subject. It had been wise, after all then, that he had decided against Georgiana accompanying him to Kent. Regardless of his own reservations concerning her new interest in religion, he would not chance his sister’s recovery to their aunt’s crushing opinions. He stared at her as she continued her discoursing, wondering if he’d ever truly seen her before, and silently vowed never to allow Lady Catherine to bully his sister about that which had brought her back to herself and back to him.
The closer the hands of the Ormolu clock crept toward the hour appointed for departure to Hunsford Church, the more needful it became to Darcy for some manner of activity to stave off his mounting impatience. Unable to countenance any longer the confinement of his aunt’s table and conversation, he rose abruptly from his chair. To the astonishment of his relatives, he excused himself and, forestalling Richard from accompanying him with a frown, left the morning room for the air of Rosings’s garden. Once beyond the doors, he stopped, filled his lungs with the sharp morning air, and then turned his attention to the garden and his own disordered emotions. The crunch of the white graveled path beneath his boots was the only sound that accompanied his thoughtful meander through the geometrical beds and hedges that Lady Catherine deemed correct in a polite garden. No suggestion of wildness, neither the veriest hint of the natural was tolerated here, only the mathematical order of sharp angles and precise beds. A formal, logical garden, Darcy mused, as he put as much distance between himself and Rosings Hall as the garden could afford. Would that the geometry of the garden might seep into his bones, discipline his unruly thoughts and emotions, and return them to the figures in which they had run before he’d ever heard of Netherfield. He slowed his stride; the path went no farther but divided right or left to circle the garden’s perimeter. With a sigh, he turned back to face the manor house and the truth.
He was wild to see her; there was no denying the truth of it. But it was also true that he feared to see her. The memory of that moment in the parsonage, when her presence and his desire’s imaginings had caused him to doubt his reason, had been a continual torment and tease. The scene had intruded on his every thought and accompanied his every action. One moment, the remembered delight would be such that he would give much to be caught up so again, and the next, when the reality of the situation reasserted itself, he swore that he would give anything not to be. Darcy clenched his fists. This mad swinging of his thoughts and desires was becoming intolerable! His resolve had melted in the candescence of her eyes. His self-physic of duty and busyness had been an utter failure. Is there no means of quenching this fascination?
The only response to his plea was the sudden, shrill call of one of the peacocks allowed to roam the park. On its heels followed a faint “Darcy!” from the house. Looking in that direction, Darcy spied Fitzwilliam at the opposite end of the garden, striding purposefully toward him. Come to plague him, most like. But as Richard advanced, something he had said earlier that morning teased Darcy’s memory. What had it been? Something about having had a surfeit of Collins? Darcy seized upon the thought. Might that be the solution to his obsession with Elizabeth?
“Fitz! It is time to be off! What the devil are you doing out here?” Richard demanded querulously as he came upon him. “Why did you abandon me to the old she-dragon? Fitz!” He addressed him again when he got no reply. “And what the devil are you smiling at?”
It was indeed a fine Easter morning. So mild was the weather and so light the breeze that Lady Catherine consented to Darcy’s request that the calash of the barouche be let down. The beauties of the Kent countryside, thus displayed in their full glory, were duly observed under the lady’s express direction and commentary, but Darcy never heard her during the sojourn to Hunsford, nor he suspected, did his cousin. This was of no consequence, for an unfocused stare and an occasional nod were all Her Ladyship expected or desired from her nephews. Any more fervid a response would have given rise to a suspicion of “artistic” tendencies, which the lady deplored almost as much as “enthusiast” ones in men of rank.
The distance to Hunsford by carriage was not long, but it was obvious from the agitated demeanor of its rector as he fluttered about the threshold that they were late. Since Darcy’s turn in Rosings’s garden had hardly delayed their departure, it was plain that Lady Catherine’s timetable had been designed with a grand entrance in mind. Members of the elevated strata of the local gentry stood with Mr. and Mrs. Collins outside the church doors in order to greet Her Ladyship and her distinguished nephews, but Elizabeth was not among them. Darcy tensed as the barouche swayed to a stop and it became apparent that neither was she to be seen within the threshold of the church. Chagrined, he glanced at Fitzwilliam, who was scowling with annoyance, first at his aunt and then at the crowd gathered on the church step.
“Too late!” Fitzwilliam grumbled under his breath as one of Rosings’s scarlet-clad servants hurried to open the barouche’s door. “And a bloody gauntlet to run as well!” Once the door was opened, he bounded out of the equipage, forgetting his duty to his aunt for the length of two strides before Darcy caught his arm. “Richard!” he hissed to him. Fitzwilliam stopped short, a question on his lips that Darcy answered with a silent cock of his head. “Oh, good Lord!” Fitzwilliam whispered fearfully and, pasting a smile on his face, stepped back to the carriage and offered his waiting aunt his hand down.
“I shall write to your mother, Fitzwilliam,” Lady Catherine announced as she took his hand and descended from the barouche, her eye sharply inspecting his now blanching countenance, “and inform her of your unusual behavior. Further, I will advise that she read it to His Lordship.”
“My Lady” — Fitzwilliam bridled — “I beg you to believe that I haven’t turned Methodist.”
“I should say not!” interrupted his aunt. “You were baptized in the Church of England, sir, of which fact I was a material witness, and there is an end to it! Now, no more of such nonsense!” She took his arm and nodded toward the church door. In seething obedience, Fitzwilliam escorted her forward.
Impatient to be past Richard’s aptly labeled “gauntlet,” Darcy turned to his female cousin and extended his hand. Anne’s ephemeral touch drifted down upon his forearm for only a few seconds and, to his surprise, was quickly withdrawn when she gained the ground. He looked down at her curiously, but her gaze was averted from him, hidden by the brim and gathered flowers of her bonnet. It came to him suddenly then that she had not spoken a single word during their breakfast or sojourn, nor had he observed her attend to anything but the passing scenery or her own glove-clad hands, which had lain clasped in her lap. Even now she said nothing, merely stood like Lot’s wife where she had alighted from the carriage, waiting.
“Shall we walk, Anne?” he asked evenly. The bonnet moved slowly up and down, and Darcy almost thought he heard a sigh as he once more offered his arm to his cousin. Two thin fingertips came to rest on his blue coat sleeve, but he knew so only by sight; their weight was undetectable. He started forward slowly, expecting a reticence from her that would require he coax her on, but she responded to his signal and walked in unison with him to the church door. Still without looking at him, she paused, anticipating his need to shift his walking stick to his other hand and remove his hat at the threshold. He nodded curtly to the assemblage there, forestalling any attempted conversation, and led her inside.
The sudden, cool dimness of the entryway beneath the bell tower was a welcome respite from the glare of public scrutiny, but Anne seemed to shrink even further within herself as a shiver caused the fingers pressed so lightly on his arm to tremble. He looked sharply down, maneuvering to catch a glimpse of her face, but the semidarkness and her bonnet still shielded her from him and for the first time Darcy felt some concern for his cousin. Something was wrong, that was very evident, but what could it be? Sudden shame flooded him as he realized that he could not possibly guess her trouble, for he had never taken even a passing interest in her concerns. She had always been merely Anne, his “unintended,” his sickly, female cousin: a pitiable thing with which any healthy, young male would have had little to do. And, to his dishonor, he had not.
Hunsford Church was a respectable edifice. The structure itself was not a grand one, nor the nave a particularly long one. But it might as well have been Westminister for the time it seemed to require Darcy to escort his cousin to the de Bourgh pew and Lady Catherine’s side. Relieved at last to have completed the promenade, he handed Anne into the box, and was free, so he thought, to blend himself into the rest of the congregation as he searched it for Elizabeth’s profile. Doubtless, he thought as he set aside his walking stick and hat, Richard had already found her and he needed only determine in which direction the Rudesby was gawking. But a surreptitious glance past Anne to Fitzwilliam on her other side told Darcy that, far from engaging in a nave-wide flirtation with Elizabeth, his cousin’s habitual good humor had quite fled. In all Darcy’s past experience of Lady Catherine, it was only his father who had ever been able to stand against her and even bring her to some semblance of womanly reserve. Since his passing, those more feminine aspects of her nature had been overthrown completely by her imperious disregard of all but her own opinions, of which Richard now suffered the brunt of her latest rendition.
A flurry of movement and song from the rear of the sanctuary brought the congregation to its feet. From habit, Darcy’s limbs also heeded the call, and he rose even while he discarded the puzzles of his cousins to take up the more intriguing one of finding Elizabeth in the crowd. Thankful again for his height, he began to search the meadow of flowered and fruited bonnets for the one that sheltered her glory from the casual eye, but at that moment the small boys’ choir began the processional, their voices — only occasionally on key but earnest and clear — echoing against the ancient walls. Darcy’s gaze flicked down the aisle. Behind them, in stately stride, came Mr. Collins, his white surplice starched to within an inch of its life and his eyes cast reverently heavenward. So he proceeded until he drew even with the de Bourgh pew, at which point he startled both Darcy and Fitzwilliam with a sharp turn in their direction and bowed deeply to each member of the family of his noble patroness. It was just as the ridiculous man was rising from these embarrassing flatteries that Darcy saw behind him and across the aisle a flash of blue belonging to the ribbon of a straw bonnet decked with freshly picked lilies of the valley. As the brim came up, a pair of velvet brown eyes appeared above a pert nose and beguiling lips held back from exposing their owner’s amusement by delicate, glove-clad fingertips. The sight was pure enchantment, and he was more than disposed to allow it to have its way.
Filled now with the sight of her cousin Mr. Collins, Elizabeth’s lively eyes danced with the diversion. But not content with beholding his fawning attentions, her eyes swept up to observe his effect on others and, to Darcy’s surprise, she began their examination with his own face. The expectancy in her eyes and the sweet curve of her lips shot through him like a bolt, pinning his senses to the moment, and in that eternal second he could only wait and watch for what would come. A puzzled frown lightly touched her countenance. Although it allowed him some respite, her bewildered regard excited his curiosity. What intrigued her?
The end of the morning’s collect signaled that the assembled might resume their seats, giving Darcy only a few seconds to cast another surreptitious glance in Elizabeth’s direction. The curiosity that had enlivened her face had been replaced by a thoughtful character focused on the intricacies of the stained-glass window, a gift of Sir Lewis’s grandfather that hung majestically in the apse beyond the pulpit. It well became her, and he would have given much to know the nature of the thoughts that produced such an arresting display, but hard upon this observation was the guilty realization that he was once more engaged in a blatant invasion of her privacy. With reluctance, he withdrew from his secretive foray without catching her eye and gave his attention to Hunsford’s unfortunate rector. Darcy’s previous exposure to the presuming little man had not included a taste of his formal sermonizing; therefore it was, in a sense, the rector’s “maiden speech.” Darcy’s expectations were not high, but as Mr. Collins arranged and rearranged his sheaf of notes upon the pulpit, the visitor was prepared to give him the benefit of a judgment reserved.
His papers finally arranged to his satisfaction, Mr. Collins turned to the family of his patroness and, to Darcy’s consternation, bowed to them yet again, whereupon Lady Catherine nodded her permission to proceed. With growing apprehension, Darcy watched the rector arrange his face into the most solemn of lines and turn it upon his congregation. “My text this morning comes from the Epistle to the Colossians, chapter three: ‘Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth.’ My subject for this Easter morn, my faithful congregation, is affection — or, more properly, what has been called Religious Affection. That is to say, I speak to you today in stern warning against the vulgar excesses of ‘Enthusiasm!’ ”
“Oh no!” Fitzwilliam groaned as he shrank down in the pew, but Darcy came to a tense attention. This was his aunt’s doing, he was sure of it.
“The text,” continued Her Ladyship’s mouthpiece, “directs us to set our affection on things above. This may not be construed as leave to indulge in flights of emotion. Heaven forbid! Religion is of a more steady nature; of a more sober, manly quality. She scornfully rejects the support of something so volatile, so trivial and useless as a lively imagination and the uncontrolled flow of, you will pardon the expression, ‘animal spirits.’ Such things find their home in the heated, disordered brain of the Enthusiast rather than in the dispassionate, rational understanding which the Supreme Being requires of the true man of religion.”
Heated, disordered brain? Darcy crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a piercing stare at his aunt’s minion.
“No, dear listeners.” Collins brought his palm down upon the pulpit with a theatrical thwack. “True wisdom, true religion directs us to the reining in of passion and its disorders for the calm cultivation of moral virtues. Only fulfill the conditions on your part of duty and honor, become proficient in this lesson of the Gospel, and all will be well. Self-reformation is affection set on things above, not this vain, self-aggrandizing fervor.”
Self-reformation! Darcy shifted, the pew having grown unrelenting in its discouragement of the slightest bodily comfort. Honor and duty were the air he’d breathed all his life, yet had he not been lately tempted to abandon them? How close had he trod to succumbing to the wiles of Lady Sylvanie, whose tragic madness had, nonetheless, shown him the shocking depths of hatred he harbored in his own heart? And what success had he found over these intervening months in rooting it out?
“I tell you, it is no more than the low canting of wild fanatics like that infamous Newton or Whitefield of the last century or Bunyan and Donne before them.” Mr. Collins swept men his theological and literary superiors aside with a wave of his hand. “And I need not remind you where that led!” He paused dramatically, then spat out, “Regicide!”
Another groan arose from Fitzwilliam. “Dear God, now she’ll write His Lordship that I’m planning to kill old George!”
Darcy’s brows slanted dangerously, and his eyes narrowed into mere slits. If this reflected Lady Catherine’s view, and he had little doubt that Collins’s sermon had been written under her direction, she must never be permitted to stay two minutes alone with Georgiana!
“Trust, rather, in Reason, the Divine’s handmaiden, and in your spiritual fathers — I am honored to be so appointed and advised by Her Ladyship, Lady Catherine de Bourgh — to prescribe to you what is proper affection, acceptable in the sight of Heaven. Thus endeth the lesson. Amen and amen.”
After the benediction, the choirboys struck once more an attempt at their proper notes and began the recessional down the aisle, Mr. Collins in their wake. A small sigh near his shoulder recalled Darcy to the service of his cousin. Putting his displeasure aside, he quickly gathered up his hat and walking stick and reached for her prayer book, then glanced over at Elizabeth as he stepped out of the de Bourgh pew. If it were possible, she looked even more thoughtful, more lovely than before, and he profoundly wished that he might approach her, greet her at least, before he must leave. But duty and propriety demanded that he escort his cousin to the barouche. He must deny himself now, but this evening, he vowed, he would deny himself nothing of her that she would give.
“Cousin Anne.” Darcy quietly addressed the apparitionlike figure beside him and offered her his arm.
The return journey to Rosings was accomplished in a weighty silence on the part of all in the barouche save its most noble occupant. Constrained by all of history and custom to keep silent within the walls of the church, Her Ladyship more than compensated for that charge of Scripture with an unending stream of commentary on her neighbors, their relatives, their servants, and their friends as the carriage wended its way down the lanes and up the drive of Rosings. Both Fitzwilliam and Darcy looked pointedly away during her considerable holding forth and gazed stonily out upon the countryside. Occasionally, Darcy would cast a glance at his cousin in the hope of discovering something about her person that would give him some insight into her troubles. She also gazed out upon the passing scene and never once looked in his direction that he could detect, the wide brim of her bonnet still acting as a shield against his inquiry and her thin hands clasped in a knot of gloves and the strings of her reticule. As worrisome as Anne’s behavior might be, it was clear he could do nothing at present about it.
The deft motions of Fletcher’s whisk across his shoulders ceased their brisk rhythm, signaling to Darcy that, according to the exacting standards of his valet, he was prepared to leave his rooms and present himself to his aunt. In terms of his apparel, this was undoubtedly so. Gone were the blue coat and cream breeches of the morning, and in their place, snugly buttoned to his frame, were an understated but expertly tailored black frock coat and trousers. Darcy regarded his reflection in the mirror as his valet, awaiting his opinion, stepped back. He stretched his chin up and away from Fletcher’s knot, loosening it just enough to allow for some comfort. Truth be told, he had directed Fletcher to select trousers for the express purpose of setting Her Ladyship to moralizing upon his lack of proper evening dress and the lamentable casualness of young persons in this new century. Displeased with his appearance, perhaps she would be less attentive to his conversation, especially when he had opportunity to engage her rector’s humble guest. But there was the rub! His exterior self was well accoutred, impervious to examination. But as his gaze traveled up from the elegant lines of his coat, past the exquisite knot of his neckcloth, to look into his own eyes, he saw in them the expectancy of pleasure and challenge that the evening would surely afford. It, in fact, ran rampant through his inner man, exciting pleasurable but disorderly sensations throughout his body. He closed his eyes and, beginning with idiot, silently applied to himself any number of epithets until the beat of the blood in his veins returned to a more steady rhythm.
“Mr. Darcy, is aught amiss?” Fletcher asked quietly from behind him.
“No, I am well pleased, Fletcher,” he assured his valet as, with relief, he opened his eyes upon a visage more like his own self. Although it had taken an unusual degree of summoning, his habitual reserve had come to the fore and asserted itself. How long it would last in Elizabeth’s presence was not something he wished, at the moment, to contemplate. He left the mirror and, pulling at his watch fob, strode to the door.
“It is six, sir,” Fletcher offered. Darcy tucked the watch back into its pocket. They should arrive in a half hour, leaving enough time to settle Lady Catherine’s complaints and engage in some calming, cousinly banter with Richard. Anne, as well, he remembered guiltily. She would not contribute to the conversation, he knew, but perhaps in her attention to their exchanges, he might observe something that would offer insight into her troubled sighs.
The servants were lighting the hall lamps as Darcy made his way to the stairs. Six and a few minutes, he calculated. In less than half an hour…He could not help but think on what it would be to see her here among his relations and in the stately apartments of Rosings. She would not be completely at disadvantage; he understood that she had been in Rosings’s drawing room at least twice before, but the contrast in situation from that to which she was accustomed must affect her. If not situation then the temerity of Lady Catherine’s invasive questions and imperious opinions coupled with her rank and station must dampen her vivacity. He tried to imagine Elizabeth, her magnificent eyes downcast, listening in quiet deference to his aunt’s pronouncements; but the exercise only caused his mouth to arc into a smile. Well did he know from their conversations at Netherfield her fascination with the inconsistencies of human nature. Of such assorted follies, Lady Catherine was an abundant mistress. Was Miss Elizabeth Bennet diverted by them? Did she dare hold her own; and if so, how did she do it and continue to enjoy his aunt’s favorable regard? The evening ahead was poised to be probably the most intriguing he had ever spent under his aunt’s roof.
A loud click and a “Damn and blast, Fitz! Trousers!” alerted Darcy to his cousin’s entrance into the hall. Fitzwilliam stood away from him, amazement causing his eyebrows to disappear beneath the fall of curls across his brow. “You know what Her Ladyship thinks of ’em, old man.”
“Which is why I chose to sport them tonight, Richard, so that you” — Darcy paused and indicated his cousin’s correct breeches, clocked stockings, and pumps — “will shine as an example of stability and manners in contrast.”
“Oh.” Fitzwilliam paused to consider the prospect, then smiled at his cousin. “Very decent of you, Cuz. Anything to stop the old she-dragon from going on about writing His Lordship. I can’t fathom where she picked up the notion that I’d turned Ranter.” He shook out the modest lace at his cuffs. “Sure I look the part, are you?” Darcy could not help laughing at his cousin’s unwonted concern as he nodded his assurance. Wryly acknowledging his amusement, Fitzwilliam returned him a crooked grin. “Well, you would be anxious too, if it were you Her Ladyship had in her sights.”
“So be your most charming self tonight and you’ll soon be back in her good graces.” Darcy grinned. “Shall we go down?”
On beholding their entrance, Lady Catherine’s dry smile fell into a disapproving line, but she did no more than sniff deprecatingly at Darcy before commanding her nephews to sit on the settees that had been drawn up in a worshipful circle around her great chair. Anne and her companion Mrs. Jenkinson, were before them, seated across from Her Ladyship in their usual swirl of shawls, but tonight Anne was dressed in a particularly becoming gown that favored her pale coloring and slight figure. “Does not your cousin look charming tonight, Darcy?” Lady Catherine’s question to him as he bowed to Anne froze the smile he had summoned up for his cousin before it reached his lips. The sincere compliment he had been about to offer would now appear only a command performance, emphasizing once again their strained relationship.
He rose from his bow to a much-distracted Anne, who was looking in every direction but his, her fingers clutching at her shawl. “Cousin Anne.” Knowing he must succeed in commanding her attention, induce her to look into his face, he addressed her in the softened but earnest voice he used with Georgiana. “Anne,” he repeated, and slowly she raised her eyes to his. “You, indeed, look well tonight.” She blushed faintly at his words, and her eyes quickly dropped, but not before he detected a flash of gratitude and, perhaps, even a little pleasure in his compliment. So, he thought, Anne was not as indifferent to attention as she would have the world believe! But then, her world was admittedly very small, circumscribed as it was by her health and Her Ladyship’s sensibilities and tastes. Honest, ingenuous compliments were, he was certain, a rarity.
Turning from Anne, Darcy eyed the settees that circled his aunt. None of them appeared sturdy enough to contain the anticipation coursing through him in currents that increased in force as the hands on the clock swept toward the appointed time. The need for a decision, however, was postponed by the sudden opening of the drawing room doors, causing Darcy’s heart to lurch at the sound. “Traitor!” he murmured under his breath, attempting to shame it into submission even as his eyes were drawn inexorably to the doors.
First, of course, came Mr. Collins and his wife, the former with an aspect of abject deference. Mrs. Collins, however, improved her husband’s standing by accompanying his excessive display with a more appropriate air and a simple curtsy of the correct degree. Miss Lucas followed immediately behind her sister, her frame trembling visibly as she caught Her Ladyship’s eye, and then came Elizabeth. The bonnet and pelisse had been left with the footman, but her frock was the one of the morning. Delicate, creamy muslin flocked with flowers embroidered in blue and edged with lace, it flowed gracefully about her person, draping her figure in a most intriguing manner. He watched as her eyes swept the room and she awaited her turn to honor its occupants. She began with Her Ladyship, turned briefly to Anne and her companion, and brightened at Fitzwilliam. Then, she observed him. Their gazes locked, the avid expectancy in hers such a mirror of his own that Darcy’s heart bounded violently in what felt like a mad attempt to unite with hers. Aghast, he pulled his eyes away, preempting her curtsy with his own stiff bow. Cure himself with a surfeit of her? How had he miscalculated so completely?
“Mr. Collins, pray be seated.” Lady Catherine languidly beckoned her guests forward and indicated the seats to her left.
“Thank you, Your Ladyship.” Mr. Collins bowed again before scuttling across the room in a manner that put Darcy strongly in mind of a quail he had disturbed while riding the previous morning. “You are all condescension, Ma’am, a fact widely known among all those —”
“Mrs. Collins, Miss Lucas.” Her Ladyship interrupted his fulsome address. Mrs. Collins followed her husband to their assigned places, while her sister, Darcy noted, quickly sank into the seat that promised the best concealment from Lady Catherine’s regard. But his eyes could not be long away from their desired object, and dangerous as it had proved to do so, he looked once again to her. She stood quite still, her aspect cool as her relations abased themselves to his aunt; but then, as he watched, he saw her lips twitch. A secretive smile began to tug at them, matched by a new brilliancy in her eyes. That familiar expression was soon followed by a deliberate pursing of her lips, a strategy he knew her to employ to gain control over her features, that they not betray her unseemly amusement. In beholding her delightful battle for mastery, Darcy pressed his own lips tightly together to forestall the grin that attempted to accompany his exaltation at one of his questions answered so quickly. Collins might quake and Her Ladyship’s peers might tremble, but Elizabeth Bennet stood in no awe of Lady Catherine. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Lady Catherine nodded her acknowledgment. As Elizabeth walked with confident grace to take a seat, he marveled that she had sketched his aunt’s character so handily in so short a time. Whatever would happen next?
Fitzwilliam answered his question by slipping round the guests and claiming the place next to Elizabeth on the settee. “Opportunist!” Darcy growled to him before lowering his frame into the last place available, that nearest his aunt and across from Elizabeth and his cousin. Swallowing his disappointment, he resolved instead to retrieve his situation by observing how she handled his cousin and what Fitzwilliam’s behavior toward her might reveal. But almost immediately, Lady Catherine engaged him with some particulars of little consequence to anyone but herself. Long inured to her manner, he set himself to satisfy her demands while pursuing his own ends but found that the lady succeeded in irritating him more than she had ever done before. He could make nothing of the conversation opposite him, save that it was a lively one of earnest discourse punctuated by laughter on both sides. Fitzwilliam was delighted with Elizabeth; that was obvious. Darcy knew all his moods and their telltale signs. Richard might have begun in a flirtatious vein, but he was now captivated, and worse, intrigued, and not only by her person. The thoughtful expression on his face told Darcy that he was beginning to discover her mind as well. He shifted in his seat. It was inevitable, he conceded. Elizabeth did not simper, nor did she exude the fashionable ennui that one encountered in most females of the ton. No, her charm had a substance about it, a directness that a man could quickly appreciate with his mind as well as his senses. And Richard, deuce take him, was appreciating it quite enough!
“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of?” Lady Catherine’s querulous demand startled Darcy into the realization that he had not paid his aunt the least attention for several minutes. “What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
Yes, thought Darcy with an unholy satisfaction, do tell us, Richard!
“We are speaking of music, Madam,” Fitzwilliam replied absently, his attention centered upon his companion to such a degree that he did not take his eyes from her for more than a moment in his answer.
“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music.” Lady Catherine settled back into her chair, her captious impulses seemingly appeased by the latitude afforded by the topic. “There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste.”
Darcy looked sharply at his aunt, scarcely believing his ears. Could she really think that anyone with sense would accept such a ridiculous statement? Or was she engaged in a test of the credulity of her guests? Regardless of the answer, neither explanation spoke well of her.
“If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient,” continued Her Ladyship with assurance. “And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully.” She paused to give her audience the opportunity to second her pronouncements, but unwilling to be long silent, she took up another, related subject in which to hold sway. Turning to her other nephew, she inquired, “How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”
“Very well, Ma’am,” he returned quickly. “Georgiana’s music is a great joy to her and to those privileged to hear her, which is, alas, a small circle indeed.” From the corner of his eye, Darcy could see that, at the mention of his sister’s name, Elizabeth had withdrawn somewhat from Richard and was now attending to him. He pressed on in the same vein. “She will play only for family,” he explained for Elizabeth’s benefit, although he did not look to her. “But in the last several months she has made remarkable progress in her skill and expression.”
“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her.” Lady Catherine snatched at the reins of the conversation. “And pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel, if she does not practice a great deal.” Irritated by the gratuitous counsel, Darcy replied that his sister stood in no need of such advice and that she was very constant in her practice.
“So much the better. It cannot be done too much,” Her Ladyship persisted, “and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account.”
And I shall lay down instructions that any such letters be intercepted, Darcy resolved, his jaw tightening. Never had he allowed anyone who did not also command his own highest respect to interfere with Georgiana’s education or peace. Lady Catherine’s incessant advice he had always weighed judiciously and, save for matters of etiquette, usually found it wanting. In the past, he had marked this down to lack of occupation and, perhaps, excessive concern for family protocol. But the words that had fallen this morning from her clerical mouthpiece, today from her own lips, and during the course of this visit signaled to Darcy that she meant to insert herself into his life in a more direct manner. And that he would most certainly not allow.
“I often tell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice,” Lady Catherine grandly informed her audience as she pointedly turned to Elizabeth, the tense silence of the room only serving to encourage Her Ladyship in her discourse. “I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never play really well, unless she practices more.” Darcy’s eyes flew to Elizabeth’s, certain that whatever would follow was sure to be officious if not insulting. How would she countenance it? How respond? “And though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room. She would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part of the house.”
Shame at his aunt’s show of discourtesy so mortified Darcy that Elizabeth’s reaction was lost in his confusion. Unable to look upon her or countenance his aunt’s words, he rose from his place on the settee and took himself to one of the great windows, which commanded a view of the carriageway. Such improper behavior! Such disregard of what was due one’s inferiors and guests! His jaw flexed harshly.
Voices, pitched low but animated, gradually reached his ears, and he turned back to the room to see Richard on his feet offering his hand to a gently amused Elizabeth. Well then, it appeared that she, at least, had acted the gentlewoman and had not allowed Lady Catherine’s incivility to ruffle her. Nor, did it seem, was she daunted by her hostess’s criticism, for Richard was even now leading her to the grand but disused pianoforte that stood in state in the corner of the room. She was to play! Drawn by his anticipation, Darcy approached only as close as the settee and, not trusting himself, resumed his seat. He watched closely as she laid her fingers upon the ivory of the keys, and as the lashes of her eyes swept her cheeks and her bosom gently swelled with breath for her song, he knew pleasure once again. But it was short-lived, for after listening to no more than half of Elizabeth’s offering, Lady Catherine resumed her interview of all things pertaining to his recent activities and the welfare of Pemberley. He answered her vaguely, his replies terse, and looked pointedly away to the performer, but Lady Catherine was not to be deterred. If she did not cease, he told himself in growing vexation, he would miss Elizabeth’s song entirely, and that, he determined, he would not be denied!
“You must excuse me, Ma’am.” Darcy stood abruptly, cutting off Her Ladyship in midsentence, and with deliberation turned on his heel and strode toward the pair at the pianoforte. Once in motion, he could scarcely stop in the middle of the room, and so there was nothing for it but to join them. Reaching the instrument, he quietly took up a position that afforded him the best view of his fair tormentor and abandoned himself to the savoring of her performance.
“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me.” Elizabeth challenged him from under arched brows. “But I will not be alarmed though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
Recognizing her tone from their duels of old, Darcy smiled but did not hesitate to meet her en garde with a parry and thrust of his own. “I shall not say that you are mistaken because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you.” His smile widened as she pursed her lips at his reply. “And I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which, in fact, are not your own.” The joy of her laughter at his sally was reward in full for the discomforts of the evening.
“Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me.” Elizabeth turned to Fitzwilliam. “He’ll teach you not to believe a word I say.” Richard shook his head in immediate denial and joined her in looking up at his cousin. “I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit,” she continued. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire — and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too — for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.” A hoot of laughter from Richard greeted her assertion, but Darcy was not deterred. It was too delicious!
“I am not afraid of you,” he said, smiling down at her.
“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried his cousin. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”
“You shall hear then.” She deftly accepted his counterchallenge. “But prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball — and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances! I am sorry to pain you, but so it was. He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.” She looked up at him with a sweet daring sparkling in her eyes. Perhaps he had been too hasty in agreeing to swords. Her accusation was all too true, her complaint of him all too valid. But, deuce take it, how was he to know that a stupid country dance among strangers would come to figure in his life to this degree?
“I had not at the time the honor of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party,” he offered.
“True. And nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom.” She dismissed him and his defense. “Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”
Rankled by her reply, Darcy could not let it rest. “Perhaps I should have judged better had I sought an introduction; but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” she inquired of Fitzwilliam, her eyes alight at Darcy’s tactical feint. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”
“Oh, there is no difficulty in that,” Fitzwilliam assured her. “I can answer your question without applying to him.” He smirked up at Darcy. “It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”
Just wait until you are in need of funds next quarter day, Darcy silently promised him. But what should he say? His only certainty was that he did not desire for things to stand in this manner. What would she do with the truth? Perhaps it was time to learn. He focused upon Elizabeth’s face, willing her to understand. “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess of conversing easily with those I have never seen before,” he confessed. “I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”
Returning his steady regard, Elizabeth took a breath. “My fingers do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault — because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.”
Darcy stood very still as she spoke, astounded by her words. She was perfectly correct; he knew that immediately. But it was more than the accuracy of her perception that was causing his heart to beat so erratically and the blood to skip and surge through his veins. Before him sat Diana and Minerva, courage and wisdom together, perched like an enchanting muse upon his aunt’s piano bench! What a singular woman! Not only had she courageously taken apart his truth and shown him his self-delusion but she had done so with exquisite tact and grace. As he looked down into her magnificent, waiting eyes, he knew instinctively that any thought of control over his heart was a mere pretense and that he could no more suppress the smile that now spread over his face than he could deny her her due.
“You are perfectly right,” he said. “You have employed your time much better.” Then, looking as deeply as he dared into her eyes, he extended her metaphor. “No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”
That night, as Darcy lay in his aunt’s disagreeable guest bed, he was grateful for the discomfort, for it allowed him time to rehearse the tumultuous events of the evening. He must settle his mind and come to terms with his feelings for Miss Elizabeth Bennet! The candle beside him flickered, sending shadows dancing across the canopy above his head as he stretched out and stared into the darkness, his fingers laced beneath his head. Here, in the silent reaches of night, he could think clearly, see her clearly, without distraction. There had been little exchanged between them after she rose from the pianoforte save what was polite and expected, but each glance, each word that fell from her lips, each courtesy in which they engaged was etched upon his memory. He could see her still as she sat at the instrument, the flames of the candles upon it playing in the brilliancy of her eyes. He reveled in each smile, each thoughtful pull of her brow, each song she had sung. In every way she had shown herself wholly possessed of the poise, intelligence, wit, and grace he had cataloged under Georgiana’s insistent questioning. He knew Elizabeth Bennet to be compassionate and unfailingly loyal to those with the slightest claim upon her. To that, she had this night added forbearance and civility in the face of the unwarranted criticisms and insults of his aunt. And she had made him know himself.
What did he feel? Where did he ultimately stand in this agonizing tangle? The shadows flickered across the canopy, teasing him with the mystery of the effect this girl from Hertfordshire had exercised upon his life. It had been Georgiana, in her romantic innocence, who had first put it to him. Did he…love her? I hardly know had been his answer. At the time he had forestalled his sister and sought escape in abstractions upon the emotion, but now —! Now the truth was essential to his peace! Perhaps if he started from the beginning? He admired her, that was certain. He was impossibly attracted to her. Yes, every fiber in his body could testify to that. Her conversation and wit he found exciting, challenging, and intensely pleasurable. Fourthly, Darcy paused for a long moment. Fourthly? Laughter echoed in the silence of the bedchamber as he suddenly saw himself for the ridiculous man he was. What was he doing — acting the part of a miserly accountant, adding up the assets of his lady on one side of the ledger! Admit it, man. He watched the shadows dance to the flicker of his candle, giving himself just a little more time before committing himself to what would change his life forever. “You love her.” He whispered the words quietly to himself so he could hear them from his own lips. “You love her.” He spoke them again.
It was done. His life was never to be the same. How many months had he tormented himself, denying his feelings even as he imagined her at his side? What had he not done to cure himself of her, even going so far as to spend a horrifying visit at Sayre’s in a dangerous search for a woman who could banish her from his mind and soul? The quest had been a farce from the beginning, for even as he had vowed to forget her in the arms of another woman, he had been unable to consign her silken threads to the flames or even leave them behind. Oh yes, he had finally found the strength to release those threads to the winds, but what had it profited him? Immediately, the substance had slipped into their place, and he was entangled more firmly than before. He loved her and all the lovely things she was! And he wanted her. The sharpness of his desire for her soft comfort, her warm welcome, caused the breath to catch in his chest. Her presence at Hunsford and Rosings had given him a taste of the excitement that being daily near her would afford. The thought of returning to his previous existence, continuing to fight against this longing for her for the rest of his life, was insupportable! Greatly agitated, Darcy flung back the blankets and rolled out of the bed, his feet barely hitting the floor before he was striding back and forth across the room.
“There is a solution,” he told the darkness. “Make her your wife!” Where before the answer had always been that such a thing was unthinkable, it was no longer so. “Why not!” he demanded aloud of the night. He knew how it would be. Had he not seen her by his side a thousand times as he walked Pemberley? She belonged there, her hand in his. He fell silent, letting the possibilities of a life with her thrill through him. They took his breath away. Make her mistress of Pemberley, sister to your sister, mother of your children, his heart pled with him. He stopped his pacing and sat down heavily upon the bed. Could he trust her with so much and his heart as well?
Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. The opening line of the Bard’s sonnet recalled itself to him. “Impediments,” he repeated, lying back again into the pillows. Enormous difficulties existed. Though his heart might desperately wish otherwise, his mind forced him to admit to them. He thought of Bingley. How he had worked to dissuade him from a connection with the very family that would become his! Then there was the degradation of his family, the diminishing of its honor, which he was sworn to uphold. He would be properly censured by his relations and, in particular, his mother’s sister, Lady Catherine. Would they ever accept Elizabeth, or would she and Darcy both be cut off, their marriage and children forever strangers to their heritage? Finally, there was the reality of the indignities he had suffered at the hands of Elizabeth’s family and the pervasive want of propriety they had so readily exhibited at Netherfield’s ball as, one by one, they had exposed themselves to the contempt of their neighbors. Their behavior would attach to him, make him what he most feared, an object of derision by all of his society. The memory of the rest of that night assailed him, of Elizabeth’s shamed eyes rising from the study of her gloves, sending a flush of heat through his chest. Dear God, he loved her! How he had wanted to protect her, comfort her, even then! The Bard’s plea became a demand. Let me not…He wanted her at Pemberley. He wanted to revel in her warmth and liveliness, her heart and her mind. He wanted Georgiana’s wish to know her to come wonderfully true. He wanted the sweetness that only life with her could give. He loved her. But, was it enough? The emotions warred to and fro in his chest, duty and desire —
A yawn suddenly overtook him. Darcy glanced at the mantel clock, his eyelids suddenly heavy. It was well past two, and despite the urgency of his heart, it was neither possible nor wise to make a decision tonight or even, he admitted, tomorrow. He lay again in the bed, grasped a pillow, and turning on his side, forced the mattress into a more submissive shape. There was time — he could easily prolong his visit — and he would use it to full advantage to observe her more closely, discover her mind on more specific issues, test the strength of his emotions against her reality. There was time. But he would decide, he vowed, before ever he left Rosings.
The doors of Rosings shut firmly behind him, Darcy grasped his favorite malacca by its gold griffin-head handle and, taking the steps two at a time, struck out in long strides across the park to the grove and the path that led to Hunsford. Despite his late-waged turmoil, he had awakened that morning curiously invigorated and eager for the day. Upon opening his eyes, he lay quite still, the memory of the confessions of the night rising to flow through him like a river of sweet, heady wine. Here and there, its currents swirled against the shores of his mind and emotions, bringing them exquisitely, wonderfully alive. Different — he felt so very different. How, exactly? Darcy felt his mouth curving into a smile at the utter predictability of his rational, logical self. What did it matter how? He felt so extraordinarily…alive!
The familiar sounds of Fletcher’s preparations in the adjoining dressing room gently distracted him into another line of thought. Soon his valet would be coming through to inform him that all was in readiness for his morning ablutions. Darcy turned his head, regarding the empty pillow beside him. Fletcher’s routine would certainly need to change when — No, he firmly took himself to task, he must not think of that now, for he could not allow such anticipation to color his thinking. First, he must put his hard-won decision into action, and to do that required that he take steps to be in Elizabeth’s company, not lie abed daydreaming. He must see Elizabeth! This morning! “And without Richard,” he firmly informed his heart. Flinging aside the bedclothes, he arose and opened the dressing room door, startling Fletcher with the information that he wished to begin the morning ritual immediately. Shaved and dressed in record time, he descended to a blessedly empty breakfast room, where he downed a cup of coffee between quick bites of coddled egg and toast. Now, finally, he was on his solitary way.
By Heaven, the day was glorious! Darcy slowed his pace as he entered the grove, the trees having taken him out of view of any chance observer at Rosings’s windows. He left Fletcher with the information that he was going out on a walk should anyone inquire, but his destination he kept to himself. Now, under cover of the grove, he could strike off in any direction without being seen. The morning sun slanted through the branches above his head, gilding the motes of dust that filtered down before him as if offering him a faerie road to his heart’s desire. Faeries, indeed! Darcy snorted at the foolish turn his thoughts had taken and shook his head, but the thought would not be banished, nor would the image that followed on its heels. Lady Sylvanie. He had once likened her to a faerie princess, and she had proved as dangerous. Her midnight tresses and stormy gray eyes invaded his reverie in the tempting guise to which he had so nearly succumbed in Norwycke’s gallery. He shook his head again, this time to clear it. No, no faerie lay at the end of this path but a wonderfully real woman in whose heart lay no such darkness as had possessed the other.
The more pleasing vision of Elizabeth from the evening before, her brow arched above teasing eyes, slowed him further, until he no longer moved down the way but stood in the middle of the path, seized by a sudden disquiet. Yes, the real, human, unpredictable Elizabeth lay at the end; the Elizabeth who never failed to draw swords when they spoke. And he was proposing to visit her alone — without Richard. Save for that agonizing hour in which they had silently shared Netherfield’s library, he had never been alone with her — without her family or friends present, without the support of his own friends or relatives. The uncommon usefulness of his cousin struck him forcefully. Perhaps he ought to go back, wait until Richard was up and about, and propose a visit to Hunsford. He almost turned when the import of his thoughts stopped him. She had challenged him to practice, had she not? Was he then to beg off at the first opportunity? Every emotion within him rose up in vociferous denial. Practice, then, he most certainly would! How better to further learn her mind and gauge the strength of his own feelings? Darcy started forward, his confidence increasing as he reminded himself that Mrs. Collins and her sister would be there. “And likely Collins as well. Depend upon it,” he told himself. “Three ladies to one gentleman are conversational odds exceedingly in your favor, man!”
In short order, Darcy reached the end of the path and entered the main road of Hunsford village. The lane to the parsonage was hard by, and he turned into its narrow entrance, his boots brushing the closely bordered flowers as he walked in sure strides up to the door and rang the bell. The maidservant from his first visit opened the door. “Mr. Darcy, to see the ladies of the house,” he informed the girl, who ducked him a curtsy and stepped aside. Taking off his beaver, he waited for her to relatch the door and take him up. The house seemed very quiet.
“This way, sir, if you please, sir,” the girl gulped out and led him to the stairs. The sound of his boots upon the steps emphasized again to him the quietness of the place. No voices, no rattle of china or sound of steps masked his advance up the stairs and down the short hall. The maidservant stopped before the parlor door and, opening it, curtsied to the occupants. “Mr. Darcy, miss.”
“Thank you,” a hesitant voice from inside replied. Darcy stepped past the girl and into the room, upon which he immediately went cold. His heart’s lady stood there in perfect loveliness and, Heaven help him, perfectly alone! Surely the others were about — somewhere! Darcy swallowed hard and did his courtesy, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as he rose. No, no one! He looked back to Elizabeth, whose eyes seemed to reflect his own discomposure. Apologize, fool!
“Miss Bennet,” he began stiffly, “I must beg your pardon for intruding upon you. I had understood that all the ladies were at home.”
As the door to Hunsford cottage shut and the latch fell into place behind him, Darcy paused briefly to settle his beaver firmly upon his head and look about him before setting off down the lane and back in the direction of Rosings. The unfamiliar elation that had threatened to turn him giddy in Hunsford’s parlor was now somewhat abated, allowing him at last to think. He drew in a deep breath of the fragrant spring air and thanked Heaven for the renewed sense of control that his body, set in motion, bestowed. It was done, their first private interview! He had acted like a foolish schoolboy, of course, as unable to control his unruly emotions as the most callow youth suffering the pangs of a first love. To where did the man who had “lived in the world” disappear, he chided himself, leaving that curst fool behind to babble on, revealing every nook and cranny of his heart?
What had he said? He struggled to remember how it had begun. His brain seemed to have gone to sleep, for he was able to think of nothing intelligible to say. He replied to her inquiries with little grace and no originality. They discussed the Collinses, he seemed to recall, then the cottage, and something concerning Lady Catherine’s efforts toward its improvement. Darcy fought a surprising rush of pleasure as he recalled sitting across from her, her eyes and attention on him alone. Elizabeth. So beautiful in her spring green gown, her distracting lips in a gentle curve that invited him to smile with her at her friend’s practicality in marriage. Her hair — what would it be to see it down about her? “Gad, you are the veriest fool!” He cursed himself again as he battled against dwelling on the image his thoughts so easily created. This would not do! Darcy hefted his malacca into his palm and slashed at the bemused figure of himself he saw before him. His future could not be based on her hair or lips, or every objection and sneer he would later face would be richly deserved! And, he brought his thoughts to heel, you must not forget what followed.
He had meant it only as a passing observation, the business about fifty miles being “an easy distance” between Elizabeth’s friend and her family, but it had excited such a vehement reaction that some devil in him decided to tease her with it. “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire.” He had smiled, prodding her. “Anything beyond the very neighborhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.” Oh, how becomingly she had blushed at his sally! Darcy slowed his ground-eating stride and then stopped altogether. He had arrived at the end of the path unless he meant to walk on in the other direction. The sheltering grove lay behind him and the path descended from this point into an open field, then the formal park, with Rosings lying beyond. He could be seen, and he was unwilling, as yet, to expose himself to the possibility of an encounter until he had it thought out.
Stepping back into the shadows, he leaned against one of his aunt’s trees and stared into space, re-creating that moment. Could that blush, so enhancing the creamy loveliness of her face and sending her magnificent eyes into a sweet confusion, have been the reason he had blundered on so recklessly? Or had it been her admission that she did not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family? She hinted at her own feelings, did she not? That she was not bound to Hertfordshire, especially if fortune made the distance inconsequential? Had she not couched her protest in terms of her friend’s attachment and not her own? The implications were obvious, even to such an addlepated idiot as he had been at the start of their interview. His delightful fencing partner was offering him her sword! Oh, not in every instance of their relationship, nor would he desire it; but in this, the most basic battle between the male and female of the race. Not only was she aware of his interest but she was signaling her anticipation of it!
Darcy closed his eyes, remembering the intoxicating thrill that had raced through every fiber of his being. Whatever Wickham’s lies had encompassed, she was pleased with his attention. The blush had been wonderful to behold, but it had been her surrender that had taken hold of him and, yes, pushed his tongue past the careful guard his mind had always posted upon his emotions. He had said it then, had even drawn his chair closer to her to catch every word, every breath that would result. “You cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. You cannot have been always at Longbourn.”
As he pushed away from the tree, the alarm he had experienced at the import of his own words returned. He might as well have declared himself then and there; a more transparent intimation of a shared future was hardly possible! Darcy stalked back several yards down the path toward Hunsford and then returned, only to repeat the exercise. The look of surprise on her face had confirmed to him that she had, indeed, taken his meaning and that a retreat from the position his emotions had led him to was immediately necessary. It was too soon. He had not weighed things to his satisfaction as yet! At the same time, he dared not trifle with her feelings or expectations! So, what had he done to retrieve himself ? He had plucked up a newspaper to mask his confusion and then asked her about being pleased with Kent!
Good Lord, what a blundering, caper-witted ass! Darcy stopped his pacing, a scowl upon his face, and rapped the malacca into his palm with stinging force. If the lady of the house and her sister had not returned soon after, there was no telling in what further ways he might have made a cake of himself! In self-disgust, he collapsed against a tree, but his gaze was drawn back down the path he had come. What, in the end, was the result of his morning’s foray? She is entirely receptive, open to your attentions. She may very well expect them to continue after your rash words! It remained only that he come to the point for her to be his, for the sweetness he longed for to become truth. But, for the life of him, he could not as yet follow through. The social impediments remained; and they were mountainous, the familial ones hardly less so. All their claims fell upon him, and he felt keenly the justice of their reproaches. For what did he not owe to his name, his relations, and his posterity? Such an unequal match contracted merely to satisfy his appetites! Could the happiness it held out to him survive the opprobrium he would face the rest of his days? “No more!” Darcy groaned. He knew himself to be incapable of bringing peace to the warring parties within him. Both reason and emotion had failed him; there was nothing for it but to let fate run its course. “No more,” he repeated, no longer a plea but this time a command. “Proceed as you have begun, and trust to God that fate will intervene, that something will happen to end this!”
“Fitz! Fitz, is something the matter?” Richard’s voice echoed from among the trees in the direction opposite that which Darcy had taken to Hunsford. In moments Fitzwilliam was before him, his breath coming in puffs.
Coloring briefly, Darcy hastened to assure him, “Richard! No, nothing is amiss!”
“Then why the blazes were you yelling?” His cousin looked at him accusingly. “I thought you were being attacked or had fallen or something!” He looked to his coat and waistcoat, giving them a tug back into place.
“Nothing of the sort,” Darcy answered, “but I thank you for the heroic charge to my defense. I fear that I was thinking aloud.”
“Thinking! All that racket was thinking?”
“Aloud, yes.”
“Thinking.” Fitzwilliam’s dubious regard almost put him to the blush again, but he stood firm. “Fletcher told me that you had gone out for a walk and was mum as the dead on where this walk was to take you. Now I know it was not in that direction.” He pointed behind him. “For that is the way I took until it was obvious that you had not chosen it. Which leaves only that direction.” He pointed beyond Darcy. “Unless you went blazing a new path.” The Colonel eyed his cousin narrowly. “It appears to my admittedly simple military brain that you are dressed uncommonly fine to be cutting new paths through Her Ladyship’s grove, leaving me to conclude that you have been to Hunsford already this morning!”
“Yes, that is true,” Darcy confessed but said no more.
“And the ladies were at home and in good health this fine morning, Cuz?” Richard cocked a brow at him.
“Yes, all are in perfect health, I can assure you.” Darcy smiled back innocently.
“Which prompted you to thinking — aloud, as it were?”
Darcy returned his cousin’s questioning stare with a calmness of mind that he knew would infuriate him as little else could do.
“My dear Cuz,” Fitzwilliam drawled, “it would give me no end of pleasure to plant you a facer for depriving me of a most agreeable visit this morning, and I would gladly do it if I did not fear spilling your blood over this new frockcoat of mine!” He tugged again at the front corners of the garment but then paused, a wicked smile slowly lighting up his face. “But I shall have my revenge for your taking leave this morning to visit without me! I have here” — Fitzwilliam patted his chest, surprising a rustling sound from underneath his coat — “a packet of letters that arrived express after you left. From London.”
“Georgiana!” Darcy immediately regretted his teasing. “Here, Richard, you must give it me at once!”
“Oh, must I?” Fitzwilliam laughed, placing his hand protectively over the place where it lay.
“Richard!” Darcy breathed his name menacingly, then all of a moment threw down the malacca, sent his hat after it, and unbuttoned the first button of his frock coat. Suddenly, the idea of a brawl with his cousin was very appealing. It answered more than one sort of agitation he had suffered this morning.
“Fitz, what are you doing?” Fitzwilliam took a step backward.
“Obliging you, if you can get over my guard.” The second button was undone as he spoke, and Darcy started on the third. “But I suggest that you follow my lead if you are concerned about blood!”
Darcy refolded the letters carefully and, without thinking, reached for the delicate ivory knob of the desk drawer before being brought up short by the sudden pain. Grimacing, he drew back slowly, a low groan whistling through his clenched teeth. Richard had a damned punishing right! The purplish bruise on his midsection would be a week in healing, but he discounted the annoyance as well worth the satisfaction of not only denying Fitzwilliam his “facer” but also prevailing so thoroughly in their contest that he had forced the surrender of the letters under the most favorable of terms. Darcy smiled at the memory of Richard’s protests and petulant agreement to those terms, but it faded as his regard returned to the letters still in his hand. One, indeed, was from Georgiana. Her precise script had arrived once more wrapped in a letter from Dy Brougham, sent express by His Lordship. Although it was wise to open Dy’s letter first, he had set it aside immediately, broken the seal on that of his sister, and settled in as comfortably as he might to give it his full attention. It opened with her best wishes for his health and that of their cousins and aunt, and continued on with an account of the extension of her studies beyond music.
My Lord Brougham has been so kind to suggest other books worthy of my perusal and has undertaken to better my understanding of art as well. To that end, we read together often and attend exhibitions and lectures of both historical and artistic subjects. You will also be happy to know, dear Brother, My Lord is not satisfied until I am able to ask intelligent questions of the subject at hand or I can answer his.
“I am to be happy to know, am I?” Darcy frowned down into the delicate paper balanced between his fingers. “The deuced hedge-bird!” What was Dy up to? This was doing it far too brown. He’d asked him to watch over her, not live in her pocket! Darcy had almost decided to send off a pointed note to his overly conscientious friend when a name farther down Georgiana’s letter caught his eye and sent a chill up his back.
Her Ladyship begged an introduction of D’Arcy, who obliged her and presented her to me as the new wife of a friend of yours from Cambridge, Viscount Monmouth. Lady Sylvanie Monmouth was most attentive, asking about my music and other interests. She particularly asked after you, Fitzwilliam, and was desirous of knowing when you would be returning to London. I was about to inform her when Lord Brougham, who had gone to procure some punch, came upon us and had the misfortune of spilling one of the glasses on Her Ladyship’s gown, quite ruining it, I fear. Needless to say, Lady Monmouth was forced to retired to her carriage but promised to call upon me later this week.
“Sylvanie!” Darcy closed his eyes. “Good God!” He had hoped rather than believed that Tris would keep her at one of his estates for at least a half year before daring the gossips of London. Nothing of the events at Norwycke Castle had reached those itching ears, but the Viscount’s hasty marriage was enough to set the London cats among the pigeons. More to the point, what did Sylvanie want with Georgiana? Why concern herself with an introduction to a girl who had not yet come out? That there was a purpose behind this contrived introduction, he had not a shred of doubt. Might she see Georgiana as a potential vehicle for her revenge for the death of her mother Lady Sayre? “Thank God, Dy was there!” Darcy blessed his friend, knowing better than to suppose the punch an accident, and reached for his letter.
Darcy,
Sending Miss Darcy’s note express, old man, because something is up and I cannot like it. I wish you had confided to me what happened at Norwycke, for it would put me in a better position now to serve you. But enough. I have my own resources and will set about to discover what the new Lady Monmouth is about intruding upon Miss Darcy’s notice. I swear, my friend, I left her for only a moment — you must thank your idiot cousin for the introduction, but what can one expect from a man who would offer for Lady Felicia? I succeeded in sending Her Ladyship packing before the conversation had progressed very far. Unfortunately, Lady Monmouth indicated that she intends to pay a call. Never fear; I will lay down instructions with your butler — maybe Hinchcliffe as well — to say Miss Darcy is not at home. Now there is a formidable fellow but very soft where your sister is concerned! Good man, that! Of course, I shall also enlist the excellent Mrs. Annesley, and I shall double my vigilance. My friend, you may place full confidence in me with regard to this matter, and I vow to keep you apprised. No need to toddle back to town. All is in hand.
— Dy
Darcy eased his body forward and grasped the knob, pulling the small drawer wide. Carefully, he placed the letters inside and shut it. “All is in hand.” As flighty as Dy appeared at times, Darcy knew that his word on a matter made it as good as done. He could not be pleased about the meeting of his sister and Lady Monmouth, but rushing back to London might be just what Sylvanie desired by it. No, he would stay in Kent, for Kent was where his future was to be decided.
“Darcy? I say, Darcy!” It was the laughter in Fitzwilliam’s voice rather than his call that dragged Darcy’s attention away from the marvelous way the sunlight was playing among Elizabeth’s luxurious curls. “I have never seen you behave so stupidly, Cousin! I swear, madam.” The Colonel turned to Mrs. Collins. “He is not usually so boorish as to ignore his hostess completely! Why, I have known him to string some half dozen words together at a go in a most cogent manner.”
“That, my dear Cousin, is because the military can rarely be depended upon to retain the meaning of a communiqué composed of any more,” Darcy shot back, now fully aware of his cousin’s amused gaze upon him. Impervious to the barb, Fitzwilliam feigned a swoon, bringing the entire room to renewed laughter. Blast Richard! But it was true. He had become distracted and had been full of nothing save the woman sitting across from him, haloed in the morning light from the nearby window. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am. Did you require something of me?”
“’Twas nothing of great import, Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Collins’s smile was sincere, but so was the curiosity that marked the rest of her features. He would have to exercise better care over his wandering attention. No, not wandering, he corrected himself. His problem was the reverse; it was so very focused…and entirely upon Elizabeth. Her face, her figure, her hair, the way her voice trilled up and down the scale so enchantingly, the delicacy of her hands as her sure fingers bent to her needlework. He dared not even consider her eyes and those lips that now curved up at his repartee with Richard — or was it at his distraction? Blast! Darcy turned his face away to the window. This was his third call at the parsonage this week, the second with Richard, and he was no further toward making a decision than he had been Sunday. The problem, he decided, was that there were too many other people about! Although from his late experience he knew private interviews to be fraught with dangers and difficulties, how else could he gain the answers he required? How was this to be accomplished? He could not depend on another happy accident, nor would he skulk about the shrubbery hoping to catch her alone.
“Oh, you must never think so!” Mrs. Collins’s reply to something that Fitzwilliam had opined interrupted Darcy’s bemusement with his conundrum. “Miss Bennet is a very hardy sort, as are many of Hertfordshire’s young ladies. I have known her to walk from her home to Meryton and back twice in one day!”
Walk! Of course! How could he have forgotten? The memory of Elizabeth’s wind-kissed cheeks and bright eyes when she had been ushered into the dining room at Netherfield returned with a disconcerting clarity. She walked often and alone there in Hertfordshire. Did she walk Rosings Park alone?
“Is it true, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam lifted a brow at him as he pulled him by force back into the conversation. “Is Miss Elizabeth Bennet such an excellent walker as Mrs. Collins would have us believe?”
“Unquestionably,” Darcy answered him, and then, suddenly, inspiration struck! If she did walk and alone would that not afford him the privacy with her he desired? “I can vouch for her personally in regard to her enterprise in Hertfordshire, but whether Miss Bennet finds Kent worthy of her rambles, she must confess.”
“Ah then, does Kent tempt you, Miss Bennet?” Fitzwilliam smiled at his object. “Or perhaps I should ask, does Rosings Park? You must forget that we are Her Ladyship’s relatives and tell the truth!”
Yes, she took great pleasure in her walks, and the fields and groves of Rosings Park were become as dear a ramble as any in Hertfordshire. Darcy smiled as the scene in the Hunsford cottage replayed itself in his mind. Elizabeth’s confidential tone to Lady Catherine’s relations had been one he knew to be sincere, and the satisfaction which came with the assurance that he knew her mind, could interpret her meaning, was deep and abiding. Her delight had been unfeigned. So, here he was traversing the park as soon as the dew had lifted in a welter of anticipation of meeting her…alone. The rapid beat of his heart had nothing to do with the length or pace of his stride and all to do with his hopes. That unruly organ had resisted every attempt to bridle it, rein it in to a more seemly rhythm, from the moment he had awakened this morning.
At the least, he had not startled Fletcher. His valet had been prepared for his early ring, receiving him into the barbering chair with no more comment than a “Good morning, sir.” He had half expected some telling Shakespearean barb whose meaning he would be expected to ponder, but Fletcher had proceeded with quiet alacrity and sent him off expertly attired with only a wish of “Good fortune, Mr. Darcy.” That had been a bit unusual! Darcy could not remember such a parting benediction ever falling from Fletcher’s lips before, but the sight of a flash of yellow through the trees ahead drove that curiosity from his mind and set his heart to beating an even faster tattoo. Gripping his malacca tightly, he quickened his pace. Then, as he rounded a curve of the path, there she was, a vision of cream and yellow drifting pensively among the lacy ferns and wild violets that carpeted the grove. Darcy slowed, making a last attempt at composing himself before she became aware of his presence, but it was for naught. Elizabeth’s head came up from her study of nature just as he rounded upon her. Her eyes, wide with surprise, locked unerringly with his over the distance between them, in that moment unleashing so true a dart that Darcy felt it cleave clean through his chest to lodge deep inside and bring him to a complete stop.
“Mr. Darcy!” The surprise and uncertainty in Elizabeth’s voice penetrated his awareness.
“Miss Bennet,” he heard himself reply, and in so hearing, command of his limbs returned. He swept her a bow. Curiosity overruled the surprise in her eyes as he replaced his beaver and walked toward her. “Do you anticipate your walk this morning,” he asked, his voice not at all as steady as he would wish, “or are you at the end of your ramble?”
“I was just about to turn back, sir,” she informed him, her gaze now reaching beyond him down the path he had come. “Does Colonel Fitzwilliam not accompany you?”
“No, my cousin does not find the early morning light agreeable,” he replied, anxious to have done with any talk of Richard. He forced himself to press on and take command of the conversation. “If you mean to turn back, Miss Bennet, may I offer you my escort?” Elizabeth’s countenance again betrayed uncertainty. “It would be my pleasure,” he added quietly and extended his arm. Slowly, she nodded her acquiescence and placed her hand upon his arm. Darcy could barely restrain himself from reaching over his other hand and covering it protectively. Instead, he motioned that they begin her return journey. “Shall we?”
“Yes, thank you, you are very kind,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Not at all,” Darcy replied absently, his concentration centered upon stilling the clangorous din of his heart while at the same time enjoying every sensation her closeness afforded.
“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth tilted her face up to his. “There are any number of walking paths in Rosings Park, are there not?”
“Yes, I believe that is so,” he replied and then quickly looked away down the path in order to hide the smile that threatened to appear on his face. Gad, this was going to be impossible! How could he not grin like a fool with Heaven poised there on his arm?
“As I thought.” Elizabeth’s self-congratulation on this seemingly elementary deduction puzzled him, but the mystery was soon rendered clear when she continued. “Although I have not walked all the paths of Rosings, I do beg leave to inform you that this particular path I find to be quite efficacious for quieting the spirit and for solitary reflection.”
“Indeed!” Darcy looked away, desperate to prevent the grin that again threatened to spread over his face. Thank Heaven that his height and bearing concealed it from her view! It would not do to be too obvious, to reveal openly the extent of his pleasure in what she had so delicately conveyed to him. It was settled, then! He was to meet her here if he wished to further his designs for private conversation and mutual understanding.
“You favor solitary walks, then, Miss Bennet? Do you not wish for companionship?”
“Oh, at times! The right companion can make all the difference in the pleasure a ramble affords. But if that companion may not be had, I prefer my own company, sir, and quiet.”
“We are of the same mind in this regard as well then.” He nodded. The right companion — ah, better and better!
Elizabeth looked up at him, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. “I do not catch your meaning, Mr. Darcy.”
“It was you who noticed it first, I am sure.” The puzzled crease remained, and as he could not bear that that should be so, he explained. “You told me once that you saw a great similarity in the turn of our minds. I beg to remain silent on your particular observations that evening, but in general, I believe your assessment to be correct.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Elizabeth, whose turn it now was to look away. The remainder of their way back to Hunsford was accomplished in a silence that seemed to Darcy a companionable one, which neither side broke until they reached the gate of the pales opposite the parsonage. This he opened with his free hand, and only then did he succumb to the temptation to clasp in his own the hand that rested on his arm. Taking it, he held it as he did his courtesy. Then, releasing it quickly, he stepped back.
“Good day, Miss Bennet,” he said softly.
“And to you, Mr. Darcy,” she responded. He returned her a quizzical smile as her eyes once more curiously probed his, then with a tip of his hat, he turned back to Rosings Park. Once more in the shelter of the trees, Darcy smacked the malacca smartly into his left palm. This was progress! By Heaven, he could hardly wait until tomorrow!
The next morning it rained, and although the landowner in Darcy was grateful for it, the rest of him was reduced to pacing the halls of Rosings and growling at his cousin for little or no reason. Finally, when Richard could take no more of his bad humor, Darcy retreated behind a book in a corner of his aunt’s well-stocked but little used library. Doubtless she would have read them all if she had been a great proficient, Darcy thought wickedly and then chastised himself for his lack of charity. What was wrong with him? He knew what was wrong with him! He wanted to be in the grove with Elizabeth, her hand again on his arm, her closeness filling his senses.
Letting out a great sigh, he turned back to the book he had carelessly selected and tried to concentrate on the printed words before him, but a soft click of the bolt in the doorknob brought his head up out of it with a start. Was Richard trying to sneak up on him, the nod cock! The door swung open only inches before revealing the hand behind such stealth. Darcy’s eyes widened in surprise. Anne! The slight form of his cousin slipped inside the library and hastily, though softly, closed the door behind her. But no Mrs. Jenkinson! Darcy’s brow crooked in surprise. This was likely the first time he had ever seen Anne without her companion hovering over her. Not pausing to look about her, Anne walked straight to the shelves between the north-facing windows and began an anxious scan of them, book by book. The rigidity of her figure and the small sighs of frustration which carried across the room made it clear to Darcy that she was not meeting with success in her search of the lower shelves and would soon require the library stairs. His sympathy now bound to his curiosity, he rose from his chair.
“May I be —” He got no further. Upon hearing him, Anne cried out in alarm and whirled about to face him with such a look of fright upon her pale countenance that Darcy feared she would faint on the spot. For a moment both of them stood motionless, staring at each other until Anne’s eyes shifted away and she seemed, to Darcy, to shrink in upon herself.
“Cousin.” He began again, his voice pitched low. “May I be of some assistance? Tell me what you are looking for that I may help you search.” Anne looked up at him then, seeming to measure his sincerity. “Anne?” he pressed her gently.
“Wordsworth,” she whispered finally. “The first volume of his poems. Mrs. Jenkinson took it away before — Mamá does not approve…” She stopped and blushed. “Please, I must find it.”
“Certainly,” Darcy assured her and turned to the shelves she had been searching. “Do you have reason to believe it here?”
“Mrs. Jenkinson always puts the books I have read here. Mamá then knows what I have been reading.”
“I begin to understand!” Darcy smiled down at her before stepping closer to the shelves. “The book shall be found, Cousin.” The look of relief and gratitude Anne cast upon him was sad to see, and it tugged at Darcy that until this visit he had little considered how her life must be. The least he could do was find her book, and he set about it with a will.
“Aha! Found it!” Darcy plucked his quarry from between the two books where it had been wedged on a shelf above even his head. “Anne, here it is!” he cried and held it out to her. His cousin reached up, but he released it too quickly, and the volume fluttered to the floor, pages scattering everywhere. “Anne! Forgive me.” Darcy immediately bent to retrieve the pages.
“No! Do not concern yourself!” His cousin bent to the ruin of her book, but Darcy was before her. Turning over the volume, he saw that not a single page was missing. Puzzled, he took up several of the sheets of paper that lay around them.
“No! Please, give them to me,” Anne begged him. “Darcy!”
He rose then from the scatter and stepped away, his eyes traveling between the sheets he held in his hand and his cousin’s distraught countenance. Although he had spared them only a glance, he knew what they were. “Anne, allow me to look at them.”
“You will laugh at me!” she charged him.
“I promise, I shall not laugh,” he countered, looking straight into her fearful eyes. Taking the downward cast of her eyes as reluctant agreement to his request, he walked with them over to the window and began his perusal. He could feel Anne’s eyes upon him as he did so, her anxiety an almost physical thing occupying the distance between them, but he read on, unhurried. Several minutes passed until, turning over the last sheet, he looked to his cousin.
“These are quite good, you know. I especially like this one.” He handed her the top sheet.
“You do…truly?” Anne looked up at him uncertainly.
“Yes, truly. How long have you been writing poetry, Cousin?”
A hint of pleasure shone in Anne’s face at his words. “Almost a year now.”
“And have you shown these to no one?”
Anne shook her head. “No one, not even Mrs. Jenkinson. Mamá does not approve of poetry, and Mrs. Jenkinson must answer to her. It is best if she does not know. I was working on these today and was surprised by her while I was consulting Wordsworth and so secreted my poems in its leaves.”
“But, Anne,” Darcy protested, “you cannot keep this forever to yourself! Share them with your family, at the least!” He sat down next to her and took her hands in his. For the first time, she did not flinch or pull away. “Anne?”
“You need not fear being saddled with me as your wife, Cousin. I know Mamá wishes you to believe that I am becoming well, but I fear she is deluding herself. I am not better, Cousin, and I have come to the conviction that I will never be healthy enough to marry anyone.”
“Anne! My dear girl!” Darcy held her hands tighter.
“That was when I began to write,” she whispered near his shoulder. “I wanted finally to say something, create something…something beautiful, perhaps…without Mamá’s interference or her criticism.” She paused, her breath catching in her throat. “I know people think little of me; and I do not blame them, for there is little to see or admire. But, I feel things, Cousin, deeply; and when I became convinced of my future, those feelings seemed to gather and burst through to paper.” She looked up at him, only a hint of a tear shining in her eyes. “I will never marry, never have children. These are my legacy, poor as they are. And I am not yet finished, not finished feeling, not finished writing what I feel. I could not bear Her Ladyship’s scorn nor, should she change her opinion, that she puff me about. Can you understand, Cousin? Will you keep my secrets?”
“Dear God, Anne!” Darcy stared at his cousin, then at their clasped hands as helplessness consumed him. Of course he would remain silent, but what did that signify in the face of her confession? “Can you be mistaken?” he finally managed.
“There is no mistake, Cousin.” Anne looked at him with the compassion he should have been offering up to her.
He looked down at her small hand resting in supplication upon his sleeve. There must be more comfort he could give than his vow. “I promise. Your secrets are safe, Anne. I would that there were more than my mere silence to merit your gratitude. I have avoided and ignored you shamefully, and I am heartily sorry for it.”
Anne gently disengaged her hand from his clasp and rose from the settee. “Do not berate yourself, Cousin. It was a game Her Ladyship forced upon us. Whereas I had not the strength or courage to gainsay her, you have handled her brilliantly. For that, you have my thanks.” A weary sigh escaped her lips, causing Darcy to rise in concern. “No, I am just a little tired. Please, I must return to my room. I am supposed to be resting.” She cast him a rueful smile. “It has been good finally to tell someone, Darcy. Strange that it should be you.” And with a curtsy, she was gone from the library, its door shutting softly behind her, leaving Darcy to the contemplation of the rain spattering against the great windows.
Anne did not appear at dinner that evening. Mrs. Jenkinson arrived late in the salon outside the dining room with her charge’s plea that she be excused due to a sick headache and fatigue. Dinner was, therefore, a desultory affair, for which the inclement weather was held accountable and for which an evening of billiards was prescribed as the most promising means of relief by an emboldened and fidgety Richard. His hopes were to be dashed, at least temporarily, by a demand from his aunt that he and his cousin undertake to relieve her boredom by presenting themselves at the card table in the drawing room immediately after their brandy.
“Will you be in humor to play after Her Ladyship retires?” Fitzwilliam looked at his cousin from under gathered brows before tossing down the remainder of his glass and motioning to Darcy to refill it. “Cards with the she-dragon and Mrs. Jenkinson is rather not my idea of the way to retrieve a day characterized chiefly by its deadly dullness.” He took another sip. “Lord, I wish the parsonage had been able to come! Then we should have had some fun!”
“Although I cannot supply you the fascination, I will endeavor to answer your need for entertainment,” Darcy responded drily as he filled Fitzwilliam’s glass and set down the decanter, bridling as he did so at Richard’s allusion to Elizabeth. He could not like the easy manner in which his cousin spoke of her, and he determined to bring it to an immediate halt. “Or is it that quarter day is too distant a prospect?”
“No, my pockets are not to let quite yet, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam’s chin came up at his cousin’s ungracious jab. “And you are off the mark on the other as well. I have found you to be excessively fascinating on this visit to Kent.”
The brandy in Darcy’s glass sloshed back and forth. “Then the military life must not be as demanding a profession as is claimed,” he retorted, meeting Richard’s sharp-eyed regard, but almost immediately he regretted it. This tack would only encourage his cousin’s curiosity, and his accusation was more than provocative! “Your pardon, Richard, that was uncalled for.” He leaned back in the chair. If only he could retreat to the library or his rooms! The tension between the demands of his heart and his name, coupled with the intensity of his disappointment in not seeing Elizabeth that day, were causing him to act like a prize gudgeon.
“My apologies as well, Fitz.” Richard sat down heavily and motioned out the nearby window. “It must be this damned, drizzily rain. Has us both up in the boughs. Pax, old man?” He raised his glass.
Darcy nodded and tipped his glass up in response. “Pax.” They both took long, slow swallows. “Do you think we dare test this peace of ours and indulge in a few racks later?” He noted to his cousin then, with a motion of his hand, that the brandy was causing a reddish flush to spread over Richard’s cheeks.
Fitzwilliam rubbed at his jaw and laughed. “Perhaps we had better examine our tempers and our sobriety after Her Ladyship has tried them at the card table. We may both be ready to commit mayhem by the time the last card is played!”
The tedium of Lady Catherine’s card play and its accompanying monologue drove both men to seek the sanctuary of their rooms rather than hazard their tempers at the billiard table. It was undoubtedly one of the wiser decisions he and Richard had made recently, Darcy thought as he passed through the bedchamber door and was quietly greeted by his valet. The day’s revelations and disappointments could only make Darcy receive with relief Fletcher’s quick promise of hot water and a soothing concoction of his father’s recipe the moment he had divested him of his evening attire. Later, his ablutions completed and seated before the bedchamber’s low fire wrapped in his dressing gown, Darcy made a halfhearted attempt to collect his thoughts. But the hour, the fire, the warmth of the drink sliding smoothly down his throat all conspired to send them straightway down the path, through the grove, and past the pales to a certain residence where eyes alight with a welcoming smile waited to comfort the ache in his heart at their too-long absence.
“Oh!” The single exclamation was more than enough to bring Darcy round from his study of some insect-wrought damage to several of the trees, which he had noticed while awaiting Elizabeth’s appearance. The trees were still sturdy enough, but if something were not done, they would eventually be reduced to hollow shells and become a danger to any who passed by. He had just finished his assessment and made a mental note to send for Lady Catherine’s forester when Elizabeth had come upon him as he rounded one of the damaged trees.
“Miss Bennet.” He bowed, his entire being coming suddenly alive with pleasure at the sight of her as well as relief that he had not missed her. Further, judging from the direction she had come, she was at the fore of her walk, which meant that he would have her company for the greater part of an hour. Excellent!
“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth ducked him an awkward curtsy. Was that a frown upon her face? Darcy waited impatiently for her to raise her head, but when she did, her expression was all that a well-bred young female’s should be on such a meeting. The tense muscles surrounding his stomach relaxed somewhat, and he stepped forward.
“You are just beginning your walk, I gather,” he began quickly, too ebullient to pause for her to either confirm or deny it. “Rosings Park has been the work of generations. It was, as well, a haunt of my youth; therefore” — his voice dropped — “I know it rather intimately.” At the last word he regarded her earnestly. “It would be my pleasure to act as your guide and begin to acquaint you with some of its lesser-known beauties.”
Elizabeth blinked up at him, seemingly a little stunned by his offer. “You are most generous, sir, but I could not ask for so much of your time. It must be an imposition.”
Her appropriate concern pleased him. “Not at all! I am at your disposal, Miss Bennet.” He offered her his arm, and as the other day, her hesitant acceptance of it delighted him with its delicacy of manner and eschewal of expectation. “Of course, we may only make a start of it today. A complete exploration would not be possible even during the entirety of this, your first visit. I promise you, it will be quite some time before you will have seen all that Rosings Park has to offer.” This observation seemed to impress her, for her only reply was a faint “Indeed!” as he indicated the direction in which they were to go.
They walked on in silence, Darcy in a quandary as to what sort of topic he should introduce now that her company had been secured. Really, he was quite satisfied, for the present, with her nearness and the exciting pressure of her hand upon his arm; but convention and consideration required they converse. And he would, upon reflection, be very happy to receive so close to his ear whatever observations or opinions on most any subject that she might entertain. Learning more of her was, after all, the reason he had given his conscience for these almost clandestine meetings.
“Do you enjoy your stay at Hunsford, Miss Bennet?” He finally broke the quiet with a safe, mundane inquiry.
“Yes, yes I do,” Elizabeth answered him with feeling. “Charlotte — Mrs. Collins — is a dear and longstanding friend who knows my disposition very well and is quite comfortable to leave me to my own devices.”
Just so! Darcy luxuriated in Elizabeth’s assurance that this and future encounters would not be endangered by Mrs. Collins’s unexpected presence. Further, and as he had suspected, the rector’s wife had some inkling of how things stood and had signaled to Elizabeth her cooperation in the matter. He looked down upon the straw bonnet that bobbed at his shoulder, a sense of contentment overtaking him. Would not this be what it would be like, this sweetness, this sense of completeness arising from her presence beside him in mutual support, mutual pursuit of a fully shared life? If only the din raised by his duty could be silenced!
They had reached the first bypath, barely discernible even to his familiar eye, and he gently turned her in to it, smiling reassuringly at her questioning brow. “Patience!” was the sum of the explanation he offered her. Carefully pushing aside the occasional wand that had grown across the way since his last visit to this particular place five years before, Darcy ushered Elizabeth down the faint trail. For the most part, it proceeded straightforwardly, not winding save around the odd great rock or tree jutting from the earth; for it was one that he and Richard had blazed as boys whose object it was to arrive at their destination as quickly as possible rather than to excite pleasure in the going. Within minutes, they reached it, the glade that had been so many places to him in his boyhood — Crusoe’s desert island, a wilderness fortress under the gallant Wolfe in America, a castle to be defended alongside Arthur — and he turned to see her reception of it. Elizabeth’s exclamation of delight was all he had hoped for.
“Fitzwilliam and I found this place the summer I was ten years of age, despite some forceful dissuasion from Her Ladyship’s forester.” She turned from him, then, and he watched silently as she explored, confident that she understood what had now become his first gift to her.
Someday he would tell her the rest, how Lady Catherine’s forester had tried to keep Richard and him from roaming the wood that long ago spring with tales of a fearfully wild boar that inhabited it. Of course, such stories were all they had needed, and they had taken off like a shot to find the creature. How, by the time they had reached the main path through the grove, they had so thoroughly scared each other with imagined sounds of snorting in the brush that they had fallen as much as run down the small hill with not the least idea which direction they were heading and so stumbled upon this hidden glade. Someday he would tell her…but not today. Today what he wished was to share with her that mysterious, magical spirit he had always felt possessed by this patch of wood.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy. It is quite lovely.” Elizabeth rejoined him after several minutes, gratitude resting lightly upon her face. “I would never have found this place on my own.”
“It is my pleasure, Miss Bennet,” he returned as she stepped away from him and began threading her way back to the path by which they had come. Darcy acknowledged the wisdom of her unspoken message; they should not stay longer here in the glade alone. Giving his old haven a grateful nod for doing well by him, he turned to start after her. The rustling sound of leaves mixed with the clicking of branches gave warning that spring winds were stirring overhead. From long acquaintance, Darcy knew they would soon rush down into the glade. Instinctively, he grasped the brim of his hat and looked to Elizabeth to call a warning, but the words caught in his throat as the winds swirled about her in teasing, intimate play with her bonnet and frock.
At that entrancing sight, everything within him suddenly urged him after her, strenuously assuring him that all he wanted would be answered if he would just this very moment enfold her in his arms and bring her within their shelter, if he could caress her cheek and search out the soft reaches of her lips! He started forward, the contentment he had felt now displaced by desire, oversetting him so that it was not until he was almost upon her that his rational mind succeeded in bringing himself to order.
The sound portion of his mind which still remained warned him that the struggle to attend to rationality was becoming increasingly desperate in anything touching upon Elizabeth. That much was too obvious to ignore any longer, and the sudden realization of this lessening of his self-command cooled his ardor as no indignation on Elizabeth’s part ever could have done. He slowed his pace, keeping his distance as they walked up to the main path of the park. It was not that desire was gone; he still knew that ache, but he was more himself and able to think with some degree of collection.
“Mr. Darcy, I think I should return to Hunsford.” Elizabeth greeted him with her decision as he joined her on the upper path. Darcy could only thank God for her announcement. His equanimity alone in her presence had been tested enough for one day. “Mrs. Collins mentioned she would have need of me, and I should think she is well ready for my help by this hour.”
“Of course, you must go to the aid of your friend,” he replied solemnly. But despite the danger that still remained, he could not prevent himself from adding, “Allow me, I beg you, the peace of mind seeing you to her door would afford.” Her brow rose at that; nonetheless, she accepted his proffered arm, and together they turned back to the village.
Again, only silence and the path were shared between them. Now and then he would steal glances at her as they wended back to Hunsford, but he could make nothing of her steady, calm features. Occasionally, he thought he detected the frown he had suspected earlier, but Elizabeth’s diffidence prevented confirmation, and he set it down to a lapse by her into thought. They walked on, but try as he might, Darcy could not recapture that sense of contentment he had experienced earlier on the path. He was still too much aware of her, he ruefully concluded, and wondered whether marriage might temper the emotions tumbling about within him and direct them into more happy channels. There was a question! Would marriage, after all, make him happier? It was fervently to be hoped, although he could not say that he had observed it to be true in his married friends. Rather, their marriages, arranged for reasons of family, connections, or fortune, had so little to do with his own situation that he could have no point of reference. Of the happiness of wives, he had even less idea, save for the disconcerting evidence supplied him by the many lures matrons of various ages had cast to him since his majority. Perhaps the answer lay in some other direction.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy began and then fell silent, no longer certain how to broach his question, but he was spared the embarrassment, for it appeared that she had not heard him. He began again.
“Miss Bennet, what, may I ask, is your opinion of the happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Collins?” Elizabeth’s stride faltered for a moment, almost dislodging her hand from his arm.
“How do you mean, sir?” She turned his question back, her voice curiously tight.
“Your friend, Mrs. Collins.” He narrowed his inquiry. “Would you say that she is happier in the married state and with Mr. Collins than before becoming so?”
“Happiness, as with distance, Mr. Darcy, is a relative term.” She left his question hang, her eyes searching out the path ahead of them, but then she relented. Without looking at him, she answered, “Yes, she is happy, sir, as hard as it is for me to admit that something I could not at first rejoice over has redounded to her benefit. Given Charlotte’s nature, expectations, and understanding, she considers herself perfectly happy in her marriage, and I must agree with her.”
“So, you would posit a couple’s happiness in marriage with the agreement of their natures, their expectations of life, and the mutuality of their understanding?”
Her silence at his question was such that he feared she again had not heard him. Finally, her answer came so softly that he had to bend to hear her. “It is a beginning, at least. Without them, I believe the chances for happiness are quite remote.” She glanced up at him briefly, then looked away; but Darcy was well satisfied. Had she not, in her attempt to sketch his character, compared their dispositions and remarked on their similarity? Her ready wit and intelligence, her understanding, were well and delightfully established with him. What of her expectations of life? She could not be mistaken in his interest, yet she behaved with a restraint and a modesty that excited his intense admiration and gratitude. Contemplation of how this would stand her in good stead as his wife, as mistress of Pemberley, and as a leading figure in Society occupied him as pleasantly as did that of her profile until they passed the pales and came upon the parsonage gate.
“We have arrived, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth’s voice, low and hesitant, recalled him from his thoughts.
“We have, indeed, Miss Bennet,” he answered earnestly, and as before, he possessed himself of the hand upon his arm and raised it to his lips. “Good day, Miss Bennet.” He bowed.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied quickly and left him standing among the flowers at the parsonage lane’s entrance.
He did not turn back until she was safely inside, and even then, he lingered. Despite her family, her lack of fortune and connection, he saw now that he would always be proud of her, could always put his trust in her because she understood him, she was like him…and he loved her. “Part of my soul, I seek thee,” the lines from Milton returned to seize him again with their power and veracity, “and thee claim, my other half.”