It had taken but little persuasion, in fact none at all, to convince Her Ladyship of the benefits of issuing an invitation to the parsonage for Thursday evening. A word or two about the amiable effect of music on the passage of an evening and the entertainment to be had with more hands at the card table, and it was done. Richard had said nothing as he led Her Ladyship to the desired conclusion, but that very fact put Darcy on his guard. With the summons penned and a humble acceptance received, he could look to the next day’s necessary deprivation of Elizabeth’s company with an admirable calm.
Tomorrow! Tomorrow would witness the climax of months of desire, denial, and debate. His future would be settled and in a manner most satisfactory to his hopes: a union the like of which he had observed between his parents, both sympathetic of mind and warm of heart. Wrapped in his dressing gown, with a glass of good port before the bedchamber fire, Darcy allowed his fancy full play, composing for himself a heady picture of Elizabeth by his side as he introduced her to Pemberley. It would be daunting for her at first, he had no doubt; but he was equally certain that she would soon take command of his home the way she had his heart. He could see her among his mother’s flowers making Eden her own, in the music room filling it softly with song, and in the library sharing a book or merely each other’s company through a long winter’s evening. In truth, he could envision her gracing every room of Pemberley with her lively, delightful presence. Days spent in sweet companionship followed by nights…He stopped that thought with a sigh. And the servants would adore her, of course: the Reynoldses at Pemberley, the Witchers in London. Lord, she will probably have Hinchcliffe eating out of her hand in less than a fortnight! He grinned to himself. And Georgiana! Darcy’s smile deepened. Ah, there lay the one consideration in this matter that placed second only after his own happiness! Georgiana would at last have a sister — a friend — to love and confide in, one who had his full confidence and would take her best interests to heart.
Although, he checked the pleasurable flight of his fancy, her exposure to Elizabeth’s family would have to be judiciously limited. Darcy sipped at his port as a picture of the Bennet family formed uneasily in his mind. Naturally, Elizabeth would wish to see them, at least occasionally. There would be those times, he supposed, when he would send her off to visit them; but he did not yet like to think of their being parted. That very reasonable unwillingness gave rise to the foreboding thought that he would then be obliged to accompany her on these visits. He took another sip of the port. A week or two with his Bennet in-laws? No, that was simply not possible! They would have to come to Pemberley…when he had no other guests nor was in expectation of any. The thought of the nobility and gentry of Derbyshire, or even his Matlock relations, in the same room with Elizabeth’s family was more in the nature of a nightmare than a dream! He could well envision the astonishment on his aunt’s face should he require his aunt Lady Matlock to spend an afternoon or evening in the company of Mrs. Bennet and her younger daughters. His Lordship would simply stare him out of all countenance at the mere suggestion! That is, he reminded himself, if he was even on speaking terms with them after his undistinguished marriage! Slowly, thoughtfully, he finished off the port and set the small glass down on the side table. Was he really going to do this? Was he, in truth, going to dare his family, his world, to accept a woman of no distinguished birth, without even fortune to recommend her, as one of them?
“Mr. Darcy, sir?” Fletcher’s low-pitched inquiry brought him up out of the bog of unpleasant realities in which he had become mired. “Is there anything more you wish tonight, sir?”
Darcy looked at the clock; it was very late. He should have dismissed his valet long ago. “No, Fletcher. Good Heavens, man, you should have reminded me of your attendance an hour ago!”
“Not at all, sir.” Fletcher bowed but made no motion to leave. “Are you certain, sir? Your pardon, but you seem” — he paused and appeared to be searching for the right word — “unsettled, sir. Is there nothing you might wish to better prepare yourself for rest?”
Darcy tapped the edge of his empty glass. “You have well supplied me. No, I wish nothing more to drink.”
“A book, then, sir? Something from your shelf or, perhaps, the library?” Fletcher cocked his head toward the door.
“No, I think not.” Darcy yawned. “I could not concentrate long enough to make a good beginning. Good night, Fletcher.” He dismissed the valet firmly but then relented in the face of his concern. “All is well; I promise you.”
“Good night, then, sir.” Fletcher bowed again.
The dressing room door clicked softly behind him as Darcy turned slowly back to the fire. Unsettled. His perceptive valet had described him perfectly. The formidable task of reconciling all the relevant parties in his proposed marriage loomed larger with every tick of the clock toward that hour. He knew how it would be. Lady Catherine would be outraged, Lord and Lady Matlock stunned and severe in their disapproval, and all of them would importune him with every objection known to man. His friends would be shocked, his enemies would snigger, and Bingley would never forgive him for doing himself what he had so strongly advised him against.
“Plague seize it!” Darcy’s jaw set. He would make his offer and the Devil take the hindmost! Which, knowing his relations and peers, he most certainly would — and with pleasure! Darcy closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples, where the eddy of a headache was beginning to swirl. He must redirect his thoughts, or any hope of rest this night was lost. A book, as Fletcher had suggested? No, something shorter — poetry! Arming himself with a branch of candles, he stepped to his shelf and drew out the slim volume of sonnets Fletcher had packed. Taking the book over to the bed, he set the branch down on the table and, casting aside his dressing gown, made himself as comfortable as possible among the pillows and bedclothes. Which one was it? He quickly leafed through the pages, scanning the lines until he found the one that had, the other day, brought Elizabeth so forcefully to his mind that it seemed written for her. Ah, yes! He settled back and allowed the words their nourishing sway.
“If I could write the beauty of your eyes…”
“Darcy! Darcy, do you come?” Fitzwilliam’s voice echoed through the upper corridors of Rosings outside Darcy’s suite and penetrated through the mahogany door. Fitzwilliam’s person soon followed his voice as Darcy’s door was flung open to reveal his cousin elegantly clad for a walk. Darcy’s brow hitched up as he took in the vision before him. “What?” demanded Fitzwilliam, his self-possession fading somewhat under his silent scrutiny.
“I am honored.” Darcy sketched him a mocking bow. “Such refinement disposed upon a mere walk with your cousin in a country park! I would have thought to see you in buckskin, not breeches and a coat fine enough for London! And, good Lord, is that a striped waistcoat?”
“I would have you know it is not in the least outré.” Fitzwilliam bridled under his tone. “Even if you did set Beau Brummell about his business with that fancy cravat knot of Fletcher’s! Besides,” he continued indifferently as he sauntered into the room, “I thought we might continue on and drop in at the parsonage when we were finished. After tonight, you know, there will be no more la Bennet.” He looked at Darcy from the corners of his eyes. “And I, for one, shall miss her.”
“Humph!” had been all he had deigned Richard’s first remark worthy of, but the second was quite another matter. “Shall you really?” he drawled with just enough skepticism in his tone to bring up his cousin’s chin.
“Yes, really, Fitz! Miss Bennet is quite enchanting!”
“A description you have bestowed upon every woman who has caught your fancy,” Darcy challenged him. How did Richard truly regard Elizabeth? “What woman have you not squired about whom you did not find ‘enchanting’ at one time or another, only to be bored within a month?”
“Low hit, old man,” Fitzwilliam returned with a frown.
“Bang on the mark!” Darcy shot back, then relented. “And I have no quarrel with you there. Doubtless, you are justified in your final assessment.”
“It is my initial opinion, then, that you hold in so little regard?” Fitzwilliam cocked his brow at him. “I see.” He turned away for a moment, then faced his cousin again. “Since we both likely agree that I have the greater experience in these matters, having been so often ‘enchanted’ and then disappointed,” he proposed sardonically, “we might also posit that I have learnt something along the way.”
Darcy inclined his head in agreement to the supposition. “We might.”
Fitzwilliam nodded back. “Well then, from my vast experience, let me assure you that Miss Bennet is something out of the ordinary. Of course, she is lovely to look upon. Her modest style, in contrast to the expensive drapery we are accustomed to, only enhances her person. Oh, she lacks a bit of Town bronze for having been immersed in the country. She cannot speak of all the little inconsequentialities attendant upon life in London, nor take a part in the latest on-dits, but that is part of her charm. Those things compose the greater part of the conversation, so called, of most young ladies of our acquaintance. It is such a pleasure to converse with a woman of honest opinion on interesting subjects and to come away feeling still that you have been well entertained.”
“That is as may be here, in the country, with no other females about to offer competition,” Darcy countered. “What if there were, or you had met her at some assembly in London? Better yet, what if she were to come to London with no more to recommend her than you have seen here in Kent; would you seek her out, introduce her to your parents?”
“Would I pay a call? Unquestionably! Take her to the park or the theater? It would be a pleasure! But as to the other, I doubt that Miss Bennet would receive an invitation to any event hosted by the ton, and it would take more credit than mine to bring her to their notice. I hate to think of how she would fare among the cats and pigeons with so little, in their estimation, to support her.”
“Your parents, though, would you introduce her?” Darcy pressed him.
“I don’t know.” Fitzwilliam paused. “When could they meet? I suppose I could wring an invitation to tea from Mater, but that would appear damned odd of me unless I had very particular interests in that direction.” He looked curiously at his cousin. “Which I do not, or rather, cannot. Is that what you are hinting at, that I should be more circumspect? I know my situation, Fitz. More’s the pity!” He sighed. “I believe if her situation were different, they would be as enchanted as I, but then, it is not I who must hold up the family name. That task belongs to D’Arcy, and that privilege of first birth I gladly accord him!” He laughed. “But come, Cousin, are you ready? The dew is lifted and the grounds await!”
“I must beg your pardon, Richard.” Darcy shook his head. “Unless I am to postpone our departure yet again, I find that there are some matters that require my attention.”
“More ‘matters,’ Fitz!” Fitzwilliam whistled under his breath. “By all means, look to them, for I do not think that I can support another rapturous display from Her Ladyship. I believe that next spring I shall make arrangements to be unavailable. Would you hold a posting to Spain to engage Napoleon sufficient excuse? Yes, well, I thought not.” He grinned at Darcy’s snort of laughter. “Get about your ‘matters,’ then, while I enjoy the day. If I leave you to them now, will you be finished before Saturday?”
“I hope to have them well in hand by tonight, certainly by tomorrow,” he assured him. “Off with you!”
“Yes, sir!” Fitzwilliam saluted him with a tap of his walking stick against his brow. “And if I should meet the enchanting Miss Bennet, do you have any orders, sir?”
“Do not let your admiration run away with you!” Unable to prevent his voice from taking an edge, Darcy looked away but, after a calming breath, continued, “and extend to her my best wishes for her day.”
“Done and done, old man.” Fitzwilliam seemed not to have taken offense. “I shall make report of her reply when I am come back,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out the door. “Good luck with your ‘matters,’ Fitz, and good hunting to me!”
Darcy moved to the door Fitzwilliam had blithely neglected to pull shut and listened as the eager beat of his cousin’s boots faded into the reaches of the house. Minutes later, a heavy door slammed, and he knew that Richard was finally, safely gone. Lady Catherine had left earlier with Anne and her companion on a mission of beneficent interference in the lives of her neighbors, and he had Rosings more or less to himself, as he had hoped. A rising excitement gripped him. It was only a matter of hours! It was a matter of hours! Both perspectives contained equal portions of anticipation and dread, and preyed upon him in their turn. Richard’s words also had been of dual encouragement and warning as he had acknowledged Elizabeth’s superiority but tempered his regard with the realities of their world. It was possible his cousin might support him, but Darcy had no illusions that it would be without reservation. Why must this be so difficult? he importuned Heaven. Stopping before the French doors that opened into the garden, he stared out into it unseeing. He had been a creature of duty all his life and had met its demands without thought or complaint. It was only here, in this one, desperately important instance that he wished a reprieve. He wanted happiness — he wanted love. He wanted…Elizabeth! Instantly her image was before him, smiling in that maddeningly distracting manner, filling his mind’s eye and the deepest reaches of his heart.
“I am that sorry, Fitz! It clean escaped my mind.” Fitzwilliam pulled a penitent face at Darcy’s annoyance that he had spent an hour in Elizabeth’s company and still failed to offer her his greeting. “But we did speak of you, which is very like, is it not?” he offered in apology as they made their way to the stairs.
“Idiotish wretch! It is nothing ‘like’ in the least!” Darcy replied.
“Better a whisker than an outright Canterbury tale.” Richard grinned at him. “Oh, come round, Fitz! La Bennet will be here soon, and you can do all your wishing in person. Take warning, though; it will absolutely require you to open your mouth.” Darcy gave his cousin a withering look and proceeded down the stairs, his pace quickening as he went. She had spoken of him? He fairly burned with curiosity about what she could have said to Richard, but he dared not ask, not at this juncture. If Richard caught the least hint of what he intended this evening, he would have an audience for his every move.
It had been sufficiently unnerving under Fletcher’s anxious eye as his valet dressed him for the evening. Neither of them had spoken, an unusual enough state of affairs, but then every piece of clothing had been tugged and buttoned against his body with the utmost precision. His dark gray trousers fit smoothly tight, as did his subdued but elegant pearl-colored waistcoat. He had firmly refused another appearance of the Roquet, but the knot Fletcher had devised in its place seemed no less uncomfortable a work of art. The valet had then presented him his frock coat, easing it up his arms and over his shoulders with the utmost care to prevent a crease in the fine, jet-black fabric. Then down it had been drawn and the double breast buttoned snugly against his chest until he could barely breathe! Fletcher had passed him his watch and fobs, observing his every positioning of those accoutrements, and followed them with not one but two handkerchiefs.
“Two, Fletcher?” he had asked, breaking the unearthly silence.
“Yes, sir,” the man had replied diffidently. “One for you, sir, and one for the lady, should she require it.” Darcy had taken the holland squares without another word and quickly stuffed them into his breast pocket, wondering as he did so how on earth Fletcher knew of such things. When he was ready at last, his valet had escorted him to the door, and opening it, he had bowed him out with “My very best wishes this evening, Mr. Darcy, sir!”
“Thank you, Fletcher,” he had replied solemnly, and only then had the valet looked him briefly in the eye. “Your servant, sir,” Fletcher returned softly and, at Darcy’s grave nod, had closed the door.
Darcy reached the bottom of the stairs two steps ahead of his cousin and turned smartly to the right into the hall and then the drawing room. It was nearly time! Lady Catherine was already present, seated in her great chair at the end of the room, as were Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson on the settee nearby.
“Darcy,” called his aunt as soon as she saw him, “you must hear this, though you will hardly credit it, I am sure!”
“Your Ladyship?” He made his courtesy but did not take the seat to which she had waved him.
“One of the cottagers — Fitzwilliam, you must hear this as well — one of my cottagers has taken it into his head to apply to the parish! It is already common knowledge in Hunsford, evidently, that he has done so!”
“The poor man must be destitute!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed, only to receive a freezing glare from Her Ladyship.
“He cannot be destitute!” Lady Catherine passed judgment. “He is one of my cottagers, and therefore, it is impossible that he be in want. I told him as much last quarter, when my steward presented me the man’s petition to be forgiven his rents. ‘It is want of industry, not charity,’ I told him, ‘that finds you in this predicament. If I forgive you this quarter’s rents, I have no doubt I shall receive a petition for the next.’ ”
“I saw no petition, nor did your steward inform me that any had been presented,” Darcy interposed, his voice tight with displeasure. If such things were kept from his oversight, he could hardly move to relieve them before the situation of his aunt’s more precarious tenants became desperate.
“Of course you did not! Shall I suffer such a blot upon the name of de Bourgh for one man’s laziness? I shall not!” Lady Catherine pronounced heatedly.
“But it has now become unavoidable, Your Ladyship,” Darcy returned in tones of strong disapproval. “The man has been forced to apply to the parish, and it is, as you say, ‘common knowledge.’ Who is the man?”
For a full thirty seconds, as Richard was to inform him later, Darcy silently held Her Ladyship’s eye in a demand of the answer that was broken only by a cry from Mrs. Jenkinson that Miss Anne “not distress yourself and lie back a moment, miss.” At her words, Lady Catherine broke from the contest and looked to her daughter, saying tersely as she passed him, “Broadbelt, Rosings Hill,” before demanding an account from her daughter’s companion.
Concern for Anne drew Darcy over to the settee; but as he bent to inquire if he could be of any service, his cousin looked full up into his face and, to his astonishment, cast him a quick wink. Momentarily startled, he quickly covered his reaction with an air of sobriety and nodded his understanding. Evidently there was even more to his cousin than she had yet disclosed during this extraordinary visit to Kent.
“More ‘matters’ for you, I fear.” Fitzwilliam joined him at a goodly distance from the anxious group at the settee.
“Without question,” he returned. “I suspected of whom she spoke. The poor man has the worst land on the estate and, to complicate matters, a large family and equally large ambitions for them. He is trying to send to school as many of his sons as show promise, which makes for tired scholars and weary laborers.”
“And less income.” Fitzwilliam shook his head. “He shall have to keep them home.”
“He does, Richard. They school only out of season, but he keeps them to it on their own at night. It is his parcel. The land is truly wretched.”
“What is to be done?”
Darcy sighed. “I shall speak to the steward tomorrow.” The Sunday tenant visits Georgiana had wheedled him into this winter came to mind. He could not help but smile at the thought of the turn her more feminine Darcy sense of outrage would take at such a state of affairs. From observation of her ministrations at Pemberley, he could fairly guess what she would deem appropriate succor. He would see to it tomorrow.
The sound of the drawing room door opening behind him brought Darcy up straight, a mixture of excitement and panic jolting up his spine. Elizabeth! The knot of his neckcloth became suddenly unbearably tight, and he reached up to pull at it as he swung around to greet the arrivals. The old footman announced Her Ladyship’s guests in the overloud voice of one who was losing his hearing.
“The Reverend Mister Collins and Mrs. Collins, Your Ladyship.” The Collinses made their bows to the room, but Darcy only nodded perfunctorily, his eyes searching the darkened entrance for Elizabeth.
“Miss Lucas, Your Ladyship.” Little Miss Lucas, hesitant as always, made her brief curtsy and moved aside. The door closed behind her.
Where was Elizabeth! Darcy looked at the closed door in disbelief. She had not come? How — why could she not have come? For a moment he could not move but only stare at the offending portal.
“Fitz?” Richard’s questioning voice broke his trance. Ignoring his cousin, Darcy strode over to the knot of visitors and hosts with every intention of pulling Collins aside to charge him with an explanation when Lady Catherine unknowingly anticipated him.
“Mr. Collins,” she demanded stridently, “where is Miss Elizabeth Bennet!”
“Your pardon, Your Ladyship, Miss Bennet is quite distraught to be denied the honor of accepting your most gracious invitation this evening. It was with the greatest disappointment that —”
“Why, Mr. Collins, why is she not here!” Lady Catherine cut him off.
“Miss Bennet suffers a sick headache, Your Ladyship.” Mrs. Collins curtsied her interruption into the conversation. “She begs you will excuse her this evening.”
“A sick headache!” The rest of Lady Catherine’s opinion on sick headaches was lost to Darcy as he turned away in confusion. She was ill! This was an exigency for which he had not accounted. Ill? Richard had said nothing about her appearing ill this afternoon.
“Damned unlucky turn of events.” His cousin joined him at the window. “Instead of enjoying la Bennet we must suffer le Collins! Odd, though…she did not seem ill this afternoon.”
“How did she seem?” Darcy could not stop himself from asking the question.
“Thoughtful, a bit pensive perhaps,” he replied. Then he laughed. “We did speak of you, after all.”
Richard’s attempt at humor brought Darcy’s thoughts to a focus. She had spoken of him! She also knew there lacked but one day before he was to depart Kent. Could she have become uneasy in his delay? Or could she, in feigning illness, be offering him an opportunity? The idea was not an improbable one. It could very well be. On the other hand, she might truly be ill. He thought of her alone, waiting in expectation or resignation, and his course was determined. In either case, it was impossible for him not to go to her…and immediately!
Without a word, he wheeled abruptly about and strode away from the window. Intent upon the door, he ignored Fitzwilliam, who finally stepped in front of him and then took him by the arm. “Fitz! Where are you going?” he hissed at him. “You cannot just walk out!”
“Stand away,” Darcy shot back, his voice low-pitched but commanding. He would brook no further delay or debate.
“Fitz! Think what you are doing!”
“I have! I know what I am doing!” He shook off Richard’s detaining hand. “Make my apologies to Her Ladyship and the Collinses — or do as you wish! I am past caring what she thinks of my manners!” Darcy challenged his cousin, his eyes mirroring the implacable set of his jaw.
Fitzwilliam’s hand dropped from his arm, his face a study in apprehension. “Do as you desire then, and Heaven help you, Cousin!”
Responding only with a clipped nod, Darcy walked past Fitzwilliam, opened the door, and with hurried strides passed through the hall. He took the stairs in twos and threes, hitting the corridor that led to his rooms at nearly a run. Fletcher must have heard him coming, for the door to his chambers was unceremoniously yanked open a second before his arrival.
“Mr. Darcy!” the valet exclaimed, his eyes wide at his master’s almost wild appearance.
“Fletcher, my coat and hat — immediately, man!”
Fletcher said not a word as he hurried back to the dressing room to gather the demanded items, leaving Darcy to the quiet orderliness of his rooms. She had not come! He strode the length of the room and back. The more he considered that singular fact, the more plain its meaning grew. She had prevented him from making the mistake of declaring himself in an unseemly setting, and then what had he done but withhold himself from her, incommunicado, for an entire day! She probably had been expecting him, and his absence instead had confused her — or decided her. It would be just like Elizabeth to act to bring matters between them to culmination. Their sparring at Netherfield and, lately, at Rosings should, of all things, have taught him that!
Fletcher’s footsteps brought Darcy around. “Sir.” His gray coat was held out for his arms. Catching his sleeves, he plunged his arms into the sleeves and pulled the garment up over his shoulders before the valet could assist him. “Your gloves, sir.” Darcy pulled them on and reached for his hat, plucking it from Fletcher’s grasp and tucking it under an arm as he made for the door.
“Fletcher.” He stopped short at the portal and turned to his valet. “If anyone should inquire…”
“You were urgently needed elsewhere, sir,” Fletcher supplied smoothly. “And you will not be back —?”
Darcy nodded appreciatively at his valet’s astuteness. “An hour.” He considered the possibilities. “Several hours,” he amended as he smoothed his gloves. “Perhaps longer.”
“Very good, sir,” he replied, his confident, professional air a steadying calm upon Darcy’s churning thoughts. His long stride ate up the length of the hall, but at the top of the stairs Darcy halted. If he used the main staircase and doors, he risked being waylaid by Richard or spied by one of Her Ladyship’s servants sent to inquire after him. Turning on his heel, he retraced his steps to come to a stand before the door to the servants’ halls. Not since he was a boy had he traversed the small, dark corridors used by the staff in their unobtrusive service to the household, but surely he could remember the way!
“Darcy?” Fitzwilliam’s voice echoed up the stairs. He had no choice. In a moment he was on the other side of the door and making his way to the servants’ stairs and down, dodging several maids overburdened with armloads of sheets and toweling on their way up to the bedchambers. The servants’ hall was deserted, and Darcy stepped down into the long, low room, searching for a door to the outside. Finding none, he crossed the room to discover a short hallway, a step up on the other side, and the desired exit.
After putting some distance between himself and Rosings, he stopped and looked back at the manor house he had left in so precipitous a manner. Richard must be questioning his sanity! His cousin had guessed where he was going and had been alarmed at first. But he had wished him Heaven’s blessings then, had he not? When the time came, when he brought Elizabeth back on his arm his affianced wife, Richard would support him. Her Ladyship, now…Her Ladyship presented an immediate and highly volatile hurdle, her absurd notion of his being pledged to Anne only the first volley she would fire at him. The outrage she would marshal against his choice would be voluminous and well fueled by the bitter disappointment of her long-held designs. He thought better of his desire to bring Elizabeth back to Rosings this evening. It would be best not to expose her to his aunt’s wrath until Lady Catherine could be brought to silence on his choice of wife. His wife! The hard edge of urgency that had impelled him from Rosings softened at the joy that thought bestowed. Darcy turned and set his face toward Hunsford. There lay his future, his well-being, the comfort of all who were Pemberley. It was time to secure it!
He set off determinedly and soon covered the distance to the grove. The air among the trees was cool as he strode beneath their shelter, the memory of his walks there with Elizabeth bringing a secret smile to his lips. Soon…soon she would be his! The thought warmed him as he sojourned through the grove, but as the path began its descent toward the village, Darcy’s pace slowed. In order to obtain the devoutly desired lady, the offer must still be posed. Although Darcy knew he could depend upon her excellent understanding, he knew also that he must still say the proper words. The address he had composed for the familiar grandeur of Rosings had been worthy of its setting. Now those phrases and the sentiments to which they alluded appeared to him too large and studied to fit into the humble parsonage parlor. He did not wish to appear the fool in this most solemn occasion of his life.
You can still turn back! the voice of duty was quick to offer as he approached Hunsford village, but Darcy knew it for the lie it was. He could no more turn back now than fly. But the lid he had thought sealed on the multitude of objections to his course flew wide at the warning, and accusations of bringing disgrace to his name and family, of which he would rightly be charged, flew at him with the vehemence of repressed furies. The events of the Netherfield ball, the insults and impertinences to which he had been subject, the appalling behavior and lack of propriety he had witnessed — all returned to present their claims. The enormity of what he was about to do gripped him even as he approached the parsonage gate. He put his hand to the latch and paused. Here, only days ago, he had known his heart to be decided and had finally confessed to himself the illusion of completeness without her. He looked to the door at the end of the lane. Everything he desired, all that he most desired, was before him.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he instructed the wide-eyed maid who answered his ring. He was admitted into the front hall hurriedly and with an absence of ceremony, the maid ducking him an awkward curtsy and mumbling something about the parlor abovestairs. Taking her to mean that that was where he would find Elizabeth, he nodded and stepped back to give her passage. The sound of their shoes upon the stairs was overloud in his ears, much as it had been the day he had surprised her alone. This time, of course, he knew her to be alone, but the silence of the house struck him as akin to a breath held against the arrival of long-awaited news. The rattle of dishes, the closing of a door, any domestic sound would have been a welcome distraction to the beating of his heart and the plaguing doubts that were hammering at his brain. He came to the parlor door, pausing a moment to pull off his gloves and make a futile attempt to collect himself as the maid knocked and announced him. Then, with his beaver under one arm and his heart pumping violently in his chest, he stepped into the room.
Their eyes met immediately he crossed the threshold. “Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth dropped into a curtsy. Eager as he was to drink in the sight of her after almost two days, his bow was of the briefest sort. She motioned distantly to indicate he should choose a seat.
“You are not ill, then,” he affirmed hurriedly, stepping toward her. “They said you were ill; so I came to…I wished to hear myself that you were better.”
“As you see, sir, I am.” She returned his solicitude coolly, adding “I thank you” at the last, just before taking her seat.
He stepped away and lay aside his things before sitting down in a chair opposite the one she had chosen, his heart working madly as he considered the woman before him. Beautiful! So beautiful! Insistent, ardent impulses arose within his breast and trampled rationality underfoot, further muddling his thoughts. He wanted her; oh, how he wanted her! Her brow arched at his silence. Caught in open admiration, he looked quickly away. She said not a word, but the sound of his heart, his very breath, roared in his ears so that he could not think.
He must clear his head, regain command of his emotions! He stood and began pacing the room. Against wisdom’s counsel, he glanced over at her. Speak! his heart demanded. He stopped and turned to her, his address forming in his mind. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would you do me the honor — The full weight of the word descended upon him in a rush. Honor? The honor in this affair was all his, and he was preparing to put it wholly to shame in a way that the whole world would see and disparage! The icy displeasure of his family for the low connections he would bring into their midst, the cold embarrassment of his friends and peers when he was again among them, the derision of his enemies — all worked on him. He turned away to the window to stare unseeing into the early evening. But an hour before it had been so clear to him, and now he was back in the morass of doubt and indecision. His fingers slipped into his waistcoat pocket before he realized what he was doing. Nothing! Darcy’s lip curled in disgust with himself. Of course the silken threads were not there! He had given them to the winds. He turned back to the room, only to be immediately lost in Elizabeth’s lovely profile. Should caution follow them?
Beautiful, intelligent, graceful — she was all those things. Her voice thrilled him, her skill at the pianoforte soothed him, her disdain for artifice answered his own, her compassion was genuine, her mind delightful, her courage in carrying her point, even against him, excited his deepest admiration and desire. To have this embodiment of all the Graces as his own! Swelling pride at the idea of possessing her brought him away from the window. He must have her! He opened his mouth to speak, but the room seemed suddenly full of all her relations: her scheming mother, the wild younger sisters, her indifferent and tactless father, and the shadowy aunts and uncles in trade ranged themselves about her, rendering him mute. He fell back, feeling the eyes of all his own family upon his back, waiting in silent plea that he not do this thing. Near to choking with helpless frustration, he took back that step, then took another into the center of the room; and in that moment she looked up at him, her dark, magnificent eyes large and questioning.
Sweet Heaven, Elizabeth! Darcy’s heart rose in his throat, forcing the words out before it in an unstemmable tide. “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed.” Hardly pausing, he gasped in a draft of air, his voice thick with overpowering emotion. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” If it were possible, her eyes opened even wider at his words, and a deep blush colored her features. For his own part, the relief of confessing his feelings at last gave rise to such light-headed elation as might be afforded by a glass of strong wine. “Almost from the moment of our acquaintance I have felt a deep, passionate affection for you that has overridden all my efforts to the contrary.” His heart beat excitedly but now in a more steady rhythm, his words flowed freely. “It was not long before I knew myself to be enchanted by you, inexorably drawn and captivated. You have been in my mind and heart for months, Miss Bennet! I have gone nowhere, seen no one, and you are not there with me.”
He stepped closer and looked deeply into her eyes, wishing she would rise and meet his ardor. “Of the difficulties presented by the differences in our stations, the numerous obstacles presented by the inferiority of your family, I am only too aware. They are of such a nature that, indeed, no rational man may disregard their weight. I have struggled with them all and from the beginning, measuring inclination against my own better judgment and the knowledge that all of Society and my closest family will look upon our union as a degradation. It has been just these heavy impediments which have kept me silent until now upon the subject of my regard. They cannot be helped; neither can my sincere attachment to you, though I have done all in my power to conquer it.” He stopped for a moment and gathered himself before presenting the offer that would secure his future. “I am convinced that you are and will always be mistress of my heart, that our futures are entwined as threads and, like them, will be stronger for their being woven together as one. To that end, I pray and hope you will reward my long and arduous struggle with acceptance of my hand in marriage and consent to become my wife.” There! it was done! Let the world go to the Devil; he would be happy! His breath coming in short pants, Darcy leaned against the Collinses’ mantelpiece and looked to Elizabeth for the words that would secure at once that happiness he so desired and the disgrace he most feared.
A delicate blush had spread over her countenance during his declaration, but by its end, the blush was transformed to high color. She averted her eyes from his, looking instead at hands now clasped tightly together in her lap. Why did she not speak? Was she overcome? Had he expressed himself too ardently?
“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned.”
What? He could not have heard her aright! Darcy straightened from his position, confusion seizing him and making her words of no meaning.
“It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot — I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.” Her eyes flashed up at him. “I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which you tell me have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”
A flood of emotions at her easy dismissal of his months of struggle and the denial of all his hopes swept through Darcy in quick, powerful succession: numb disbelief, shock, acute embarrassment, and finally, an anger so searing that he could not trust himself to speak. In a pale fury, he stood at the hearth in pitched battle with his outraged sensibilities. He, who had forsworn so much to offer her the world and his heart, to be treated in such a careless manner! Who was she to spurn him so! His mind raced in circles, unable to settle into an ordered stream. Why? The question screamed in his brain. He looked back at her, but she seemed to have done with him. Oh, no, my girl! You are not done with me yet!
“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honor of expecting!” he demanded in a cold rage. “I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavor at civility, I am thus rejected.” He adopted a sardonic tone. “But it is of small importance.”
Elizabeth rose from her seat at his words, her face a shocking mirror of his own. “I might as well inquire why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you like me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?” She laid a hand on the table between them as if in need of its support. “Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil?” The fire in her eyes was no less hot than the blood that rose to Darcy’s face at her next accusation. “But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favorable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”
She knew! How? Richard — damn and blast! Darcy held his fire, knowing it would be useless to interrupt her.
“Can you deny that you have done it?” she demanded of him.
“I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister,” he answered with an air of tranquil superiority, “or that I rejoice in my success. Toward him,” he emphasized, “I have been kinder than toward myself.”
Elizabeth appeared to bridle at his insinuation but abandoned the affront to launch against him again. “But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham…”
Wickham! Cold, implacable hatred, easily distinguishable from that hot indignation which had previously engulfed him, rose to peer at Elizabeth from behind hardened eyes. “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns!”
“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an interest in him?” she countered.
“His misfortunes!” Darcy spat out the word contemptuously, his emotions rising dangerously at the intrusion of that hated name between himself and one he loved yet again. “Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.”
“And of your infliction,” Elizabeth cried. “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty — comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him…”
What tale had that devil told her? In what way had his name and character been abused that Wickham should so poison her, the woman he loved, against him? If ever the blackguard had dreamed of revenge, he had now surely achieved it, destroying Darcy’s deepest hopes and injuring him in the most intimate manner possible!
“…You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule.”
Enough! Pushing away from the mantelpiece, Darcy strode quickly across the room. “And this is your opinion of me!” he thundered. “This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed.” He checked in midstride and turned back to her, suspicion writ large upon his features. “But, perhaps, these offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed,” he continued acrimoniously, “had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything.” She stood so still under his barrage, still and defiant of him yet. “But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.” He stepped back from her and angrily gathered up his gloves, hat, and stick. “Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”
Elizabeth’s voice was eerily composed. “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.” Darcy started at her words. She might as well have slapped him across his face as presented him with such a charge. “You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
He looked down at her in mute astonishment, his incredulity at her words vying with the creeping heat of mortification that was fast gaining ascendancy over his conviction of the justice of his position.
“From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike.” Elizabeth’s voice rose. “And I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
She was lost to him — utterly, irretrievably lost! Darcy’s head reeled. Dear God — Elizabeth! The pain in his chest was growing intolerable. He must leave, get away. It was too much! “You have said quite enough, madam,” he managed to reply. “I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.” He bowed and backed away to the door. Laying a hand on the latch, he stopped, his head bowed, then turned to her, looking deeply into her eyes one last time. “Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time,” he said in a strangled voice, “and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.” Without waiting for her curtsy or a reply, Darcy pulled at the latch and hastily left the room. He took the stairs at no slower a pace, and in bare moments he was outside, the door shut solidly, irrevocably behind him.
The meadow was little more than a blur as Darcy turned from the parsonage door and set his face for Rosings. By the time he gained the path through the grove, he was able to marvel that his legs should continue to carry him onward without his conscious direction, that his body was, to all outward appearance, still whole and hale with life. But appearances, had he not just so bitterly been taught, were not to be trusted. He pushed blindly on, his shoulders hunched against the racking pain in his chest while his mind spun in tight, shocked circles like a child’s top, unable to fasten onto anything other than the soul-wrenching truth that she was lost to him. Not only lost to him, but never his from the start. From the very beginning she had taken him into dislike, before Wickham had defamed him, before even he had moved to detach Bingley from her sister. The last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry. Her words repeated themselves again and again in his brain, knelling the death of all the hopes for happiness he had cherished. Would he ever be able to wipe from memory his parting sight of her, his lovely Elizabeth, so fiercely adamant in her utter rejection of him? “Oh, God!” The pain drove deep, obliterating thought and mercilessly flaying his emotions, rendering his chest so tight that he could barely breathe. Elizabeth…all his being groaned.
The tiny stones of the manor’s graveled lane went scattering when Darcy struck the path in a driven gait, but it was not until the steps of Rosings confronted him that he even comprehended where he was. He slowed to a halt, confused to find himself so soon arrived. Looking up at the cold reality of the marble steps leading to the manor house’s imposing façade, he was at last brought to himself. Thoughts of self-preservation surfaced, warning him that he must rise above his anguish, keep his head, if he was to gain his rooms without incident. His stomach lurched at the prospect if he did not. Rapidly mounting the stairs, Darcy passed swiftly across the threshold, so intent upon avoiding delay or discovery in the public rooms that he neglected his usual nod to the old manservant at the door. In moments, he was across the hall and bounding up the stairs, but at the first landing and turn, his flight was arrested.
“Darcy!” Richard’s call to him was too clear to be ignored. He stopped and looked vaguely down upon his cousin, whose untimely appearance could only mean that he had been lying in wait for his return. “Fitz?” Fitzwilliam looked up at him warily, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “Is it well?”
“Well?” he repeated, unable at first to attach any relationship between the word and his condition; then he almost laughed at the irony. Good God, would he ever be truly well again? “Well enough, but you must excuse me.” He turned away from the balustrade and continued up the stairs before anything more was offered. The humiliation of Richard’s condolences would be one more burning coal lodged in the pit of his stomach; he would rather put a gun to his head!
The corridor to his rooms was empty, and in a breath, he was at his door and then safely behind it. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the solid mahogany, his limbs threatening to give way at last to the anguish that was consuming him. You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way. Darcy bit his lip against the moan that welled in his chest. No one, no one, must see him like this! He listened for any sound of occupation from his dressing room; all was silent save the ticking of the mantel clock. Pushing away from the door, he went to stand before the ornate timepiece. Was it possible? He glared disbelievingly into its face. Could it be that little more than an hour had passed since he had quit these rooms in a fever of expectation? He threw his stick and coat into a chair, his hat and gloves following soon thereafter. An hour! He snorted bitterly. More than enough time to lay waste to a man’s dreams.
Abruptly he turned his back on the clock and stalked into the bedchamber, his fingers plucking at his coat buttons and then the knot of his neckcloth. Pulling at it savagely, he unwound the length, dropping it on a table as he slowed to a stand in the middle of the room. What was he to do? he demanded to know. He looked about at the cold, aloof orderliness that was his life as if the answer lay there waiting to be discovered. A wave of revulsion washed over him. This grand sterility! It had sedulously fed his pretensions even as it had revealed the shameful exhaustion of a once honorable resolve, and he wanted nothing so much now as to be clear of it! He advanced upon the bell pull with the express intent of summoning Fletcher to begin packing when the absurdity of such an action struck him. It was dusk; the sun was already below the horizon. Such an obvious testimony to flight would in nowise support the indifferent façade he must, at all costs, maintain before the world.
Indifferent? A tremor rippled through him, setting him down hard on the edge of the bed, his head sinking into his hands. Indifferent to such a loss? Indifferent to the echoing hollowness within his heart? How could he continue, pretend that Elizabeth did not exist for him, when she had come to define his hope for the future? Darcy slumped back upon the unyielding bed, the stiff brocade of its covering harsh against his cheek, and stared at the canopy stretched above his head. What was he to do? What did life hold for him now?
Your arrogance! He flinched, Elizabeth’s charge cracking across his memory like a whip. Your conceit! He shook his head. How could it be? He had always abhorred such displays, yet this was Elizabeth’s opinion of him. She had despised him, had faulted everything about him from the start! Unjust…ungenerous — her litany would not cease — The man who has been the means of ruining the happiness of a most beloved sister.
“No! Not so!” The denial exploded from his lips, the force of his indignation bringing him upright, his conscience bristling at the injustice of Elizabeth’s indictment. As if it were his habit to make sport of the dignity and hopes of others, and especially those beneath his station! He should have answered her back, laid out the matter of her sister as he had so rigorously observed it, before her. He had had good and sufficient reasons to dissuade Bingley from his perilous course, reasons that had been based upon an impartial conviction, not whim or interest. Why had he not risen above the paltry syllables offered by his wounded pride?
Pushing himself from the bed, Darcy stalked to the window and leaned against the casing. Why? Because her attack upon him had left him almost speechless, first with shock and then with an anger that even now was seething dangerously in his vitals. Ungenerous! And what had she been? Every action of his was attributed to either malice or caprice! “Good God!” Darcy smacked the heel of his hand against the casing with such force that the pane rattled in its frame. Turning away, he strode over to the delicate crystal decanter, seized it by its throat, and wrenched out the stopper. The amber liquor sloshed into the ornate etched glass, spilling over the sides to spread in a pool on the table. Jamming the stopper home, he swooped the glass up to his lips as he resumed his strident gait.
Arrogant and conceited was he? What did she know of Society? Precious little! She could not have the slightest idea of what his life was like or what his position, his relations, and his peers demanded of him. Her country social circles and modest background bore not the slightest comparison to the milieu into which he had been born! He brought the glass up again, and then, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he slammed it down. And what had been her behavior toward him? She had bantered and fenced with him, accepted his attentions, encouraged in every way his belief that she but awaited his declaration, only to throw the true heart and immeasurable consequence he had offered to her back in his face! Darcy burned with the humiliation of it. He leaned back against the wall, his face aflame. A Darcy of Pemberley, to be dismissed like a damned tinker with only a basketful of shoddy goods to his credit when he had been prepared to entrust her with all that he was! Who was she to treat him thus, to hold him so cheaply? By what right did she accuse him of a whole catalog of ignoble offenses! The answer was not long in coming.
Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham.
“Wickham!” The hated name resonated through every part of his body, finally emerging in a growl of rage that brought Darcy’s helplessly disordered thoughts into a focus and propelled his fist straight into the wall. Wickham! Who that knows what his misfortunes have been…Darcy held the thought in a crushing grip as it set him again to churning up the carpets with his agitated pacing. Who that knows! Whatever the “misfortune” Wickham had manufactured for her ears and then laid at Darcy’s door, it had done inestimable damage to his name. His character had been grossly maligned, and for what? So that Wickham might tickle the ears of an obscure village and garner for himself a few sympathetic rounds of ale? What devil had prompted him to spin his deceit around Elizabeth?
“Mr. Darcy?” Darcy spun around at the untoward intrusion and delivered his valet a ferocious glare of displeasure.
“Fletcher! What do you here?” he demanded harshly. “I did not summon you.”
His valet glanced up at him, shocked surprise showing pale against the concern on his face. “Your pardon, sir, I thought — that is, I only just learned of your return and —”
“Spare me your thoughts, if you please!” Darcy angrily bit off each word. “Your services are not required tonight. Leave me!”
Fletcher’s face went ashen. “Y-yes, sir,” he choked out as he bowed and stumbled back in haste to the dressing room, but Darcy had already turned away, his mind again fastened upon the one indictment in this excruciating debacle of which he knew himself entirely innocent.
It must not stand! his honor declared hotly. If there were anything this day about which he was certain, it was that George Wickham’s lies impugning his character must be exposed and his name vindicated. Due pride might prevent him from answering all Elizabeth’s charges, but those based upon Wickham’s falsehoods and insinuations must, in justice to himself, be confronted and shown as the slander they were.
But how was it to be accomplished? He reached out and caught hold of the brandy glass as he passed. A private interview was not likely to be granted after what had passed between them, nor did he relish the idea. As he drained the glass, his gaze traveled over the room, resting at last upon the secretary and the precise stack of stationery that lay there. A letter! But would not propriety require that he place it privately in her hand himself? He wrapped an arm around one of the bedposts, his heart quickening. A letter of vindication, personally delivered…
Relinquishing his hold, Darcy walked over to the secretary and dropped into the seat as he drew a sheet of foolscap before him. Flicking open the inkwell, he rifled through the quills and pens until he found one to his liking and dipped it into the ink. He wrote her name with a flourish across the top of the sheet, then paused and leaned back in his chair. What he was about to do he would have considered unthinkable only hours before. In truth, he had never thought to put anything of his dealings with Wickham to paper, but now he proposed to do so and, further, do so for the eyes of a woman who had no connection to his family or share in their concerns!
Darcy set the pen down, the enormity of what he contemplated at war with the indignation of his soul. His honor required — no, demanded — that he prove his innocence to her, but to do so would require that he trust Elizabeth with that person dearest to his heart after herself. Georgiana! Darcy’s heart contracted with pain at the danger in which he would be placing her. A mere recital of Wickham’s habitual conduct would not serve his purposes, nor would a vaguely worded account of his entrapment of a nameless young woman. Such a tale could only be regarded as hearsay. No, it would have to be the entire, painful truth and his cousin offered in corroboration of it. By his own hand, she, who had misjudged him so severely, would be possessed of that damning knowledge whose discovery he had so assiduously protected from the world.
Closing his eyes against the world, Darcy searched his heart. Earlier today he had been entirely prepared to entrust Elizabeth with all: his heart, his home, his people, his honor — all. Now, despite everything, did he trust her still? Leaning forward, his eyes gently traced her name at the head of the sheet. Then, with a deep, resolute breath, he retrieved his pen and dipped it into the inkwell once more.
Darcy stared dully at the bright red sealing wax dripping onto his aunt’s fine stationery and thought it might as well be his blood that dripped onto that ivory sheet …. the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry. The words echoed with merciless clarity through his brain and then, like a dagger, plunged unerringly to his very heart. He removed his personal seal from his writing kit and, in like manner, stamped the crest of the Darcy family into the soft, red wax. It was done! The letter, which had cost him a night of agony, was ready to be placed into the hand of the woman who had so decidedly refused his.
Pushing back from the writing desk with a groan, he glanced out the window at the approaching dawn before rubbing at his dry, smarting eyes. Wearily, he picked up the packet and read the name written so carefully in his own hand. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He did not have to wait long for the pain to surge through him again. How could he have supposed that these emotions, awakened against his leave, were ever his to control? Had he not acknowledged that lack to himself and to Elizabeth as well, only a few hours ago, when he made his offer of marriage? He had hoped that writing his defense against her bitter accusations would restore him to mastery, but he now knew the exercise to be only one more vain hope in a long line of self-deceptions. Rising quickly, as if to shed himself of such naïveté, Darcy put out the guttering desk candle with his thumb, welcoming the small, quick burning sensation. He looked again at the letter lying in his hand, his rendering of her name flowing across the stark paper field. Yes, it was done! It remained only to deliver this last excuse for contact with the woman whom he had so unwillingly come to love and begin to put the pain and humiliation of yesterday behind him.
Laying the letter aside, Darcy walked to the silver ewer on the table and poured water into the bowl. He rolled up the wrinkled sleeves of his fine lawn shirt and bent over, splashing his face. Just as he began to towel off the dripping water, he caught the reflection of his face in the mirror above the bowl and almost started at the image. Slowly, he dropped the towel and, with one hand bracing him against the wall, leaned forward, willing himself to look into the mirror again. The face that looked back at him was one he had never seen before. His eyes were red-rimmed with weariness — nothing unusual in that. He had certainly spent enough nights studying at university to recognize sleep deprivation in his reflection. No, there was more…a certain helplessness that seemed to stare back at him from behind his eyes and a new grimness about his mouth that had changed his entire visage from the confident one he had always worn to greet the world.
Confident! What he had cultivated as confidence, Elizabeth had damned as arrogance. Darcy’s anger and wounded pride from the previous evening swelled anew as he pushed away from the wall and strode across the room. The accusations did not sting so much, but they continued to anger him. Arrogance and conceit! Those two qualities were held in abundance by most of his peers. They were almost prerequisites for acceptance into Society! He had always looked with disdain on those who led Society in affecting a boredom with life relieved only by the scandal sheets and games of social intrigue. Rather, he had worked diligently to attain a real superiority of understanding, which had earned him, so he believed, a respected place in the world. All this, only to be accused of the very things he abhorred and then painted as the coldhearted persecutor of certainly the most wicked man of his acquaintance!
Darcy stopped at the window and leaned against the casing. Dawn had come. The light of the sun glanced through the park, shyly promising an unusually beautiful day. As the delicate morning rays fanned his cheek, Darcy relaxed, his anger and its tension suddenly forgotten. In their stead stole the quiet knowledge that Elizabeth was certain to be sharing this dawn. She would be out early, walking the park in that sure and easy stride that did not apologize for its country origins.
Darcy smiled, taking pleasure in the picture his mind created as he imagined her traversing her favorite route. He remembered the first time he’d seen her come in from walking, her hair delightfully windblown, her eyes bright and unwearied, undaunted after a three-mile trek to nurse her sister. He had thought, at first, that her sister’s illness had been merely an excuse to insert herself into the Bingley household. He’d even flattered himself to think that he might be the reason she had come. It would not have been the first time a hopeful young woman had plotted to gain his notice. But Elizabeth had truly been concerned about her sister and had spent little time with Bingley’s entourage of relatives and guests. Her devotion to her sibling had been unmistakable, and he had added that devotion to a growing list of talents and graces that continued to draw him to the woman whom he had earlier dismissed as not handsome enough to tempt him.
The more he had looked, the more intrigued he had become. Every encounter with her began as a cautious dance and ended in verbal swordplay that often left him in doubt of her intent but never of her intelligence. Sometimes she had angered him with a challenging verbal thrust delivered with rough skill but uncomfortable accuracy. Other times, she had been so wide of the mark in her assertions concerning his character that he could only contain his frustration with her by putting some distance, either real or social, between them. No, Elizabeth had not been afraid of him as a man or awed by his position in the world. It was true; she had not, as she so strongly asserted, ever sought his good opinion. She was so different from every other female he had ever met, and he had found her irresistibly enchanting. Darcy remembered rising expectantly every morning last autumn at Netherfield wondering what direction their next verbal engagement would take.
The dawn was now well on its way to becoming morning, and Darcy turned quickly from the window. He must not miss her! The only quiet way to get the letter to her was to deliver it himself, but how was he to approach her after having been rejected so summarily? Such bitter words as had passed between them made the task almost impossible. Darcy tugged at his shirt as he walked toward his dressing room to look for his best walking clothes. He pulled on the fashionable waistcoat and polished boots with the solemnity of a knight arming for battle. He must plan the encounter carefully. He must not bungle the affair as he had yesterday. He would politely approach her, hand her the letter, and then — Darcy sighed as he slowed and came to a halt in his preparations — then he would disappear from her life and the loneliness, the cold duty that was all he had known before Elizabeth would return and swallow him up.
Darcy reached for a freshly starched neckcloth and returned to the mirror to begin the meticulous task of creating an acceptable knot without Fletcher’s assistance. He would not tamely accept such a future! There must be something to which he could devote the awakened energies of his heart, someone who would not damn him for being who he was. A much-cherished face wreathed in welcoming smiles appeared in the mirror beside his reflection. Georgiana! So much lay before her! Soon she would make her bow in Society. Her presentation at Court would occur within the year. It was imperative that he consult closely with his Aunt Matlock concerning her debut and then, when Georgiana was presented, begin the task of sorting out the fortune hunters from the acceptable admirers who were sure to descend upon an heiress. Darcy’s heart softened with the love he bore for his sister. He had much to learn about the young woman she was fast becoming. He had hoped that she and Elizabeth — No, he had to stop thinking about his hopes, about Elizabeth.
Darcy shrugged into his coat, walked back to the writing desk, and picked up the letter. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” He had so many memories of her: her smile for her friends, her brow sweetly wrinkled in concentration, her eyes wide with curiosity or rolled up in laughter. He had seen those eyes soft with love and affection as she gazed unobserved at her family. How he had wanted to be the object of that loving gaze, to feel the warmth of that smile directed at him! Unable to account for it, he brought up his hand to a wetness upon his cheek. He hurriedly brushed it away but then stopped and, to confirm his suspicion, looked down. The tear glistened brightly on his fingertip in the soft morning light.
The air was clean-edged, in keeping with the new spring, whose verdure was still endeavoring to blur the outlines of winter past. As Darcy once again slipped out the door of the servants’ hall, he paused to breathe in its cleansing freshness while he pulled on his gloves, but it was of no avail. The finality of the letter, written with firm detachment even in its salutation, continued to weigh heavily in his hand. Slowly, he let the useless breath escape back into the air. It would all be over soon, all but the cold emptiness that even now began to lay claim to that place within that had been suffused with first a warm expectancy and, lately, a scorching indignation. He swallowed hard at the thought and set out, eager to escape the notice of anyone connected with Rosings.
It was habit, rather than intent, that took him across the park and set him on the path through the grove, his weary mind refusing to grapple with anything more difficult than keeping his body in motion. But as the exercise sent his blood pumping through his veins, he became more sensible of his surroundings. Here they had walked; here he had courted her. Had any scene been witness to a more thorough deception than this plantation had been? Every tree stood in testimony to his humiliation. Had Elizabeth been that artful, or had he been that blind? He, whom the brightest of Diamonds gracing the most exclusive of drawing rooms had failed to entrap, to have been brought so completely to heel by a country-bred girl of no family, only to be spurned, suffer abuse of his character, and have his just scruples thrown in his teeth! The knot at his throat grew tight as the hot blood surged up into his face. Good God, what could have possessed him! Desire, his mind sardonically provided him. Desire had made a fool of him, and loneliness, the longing for intimate, feminine companionship, had fanned the fire of it into a blaze and left his pride in ashes. His pride. Would the ashes be stirred yet more by the inherent difficulties of the interview at hand? Darcy thought ahead to the inevitable moment toward which he was striding. Would Elizabeth receive him, or would she retreat from his intrusion upon her privacy? If she did consent to speak to him, would she accept the letter, and accepting it, would she read it? Bringing the letter up before him, he gazed upon her name written in his own hand. A careful, written defense had seemed of such necessity last night. Morning’s light now threatened to cast his long night of labor into as vain an exercise as his hopes had been the day before. With a shake of his head, he lengthened his stride. There was nothing for it but to continue as he had begun and hope that Providence or feminine curiosity would persuade Elizabeth to read his letter. It was not in his hands to effect anything more between them than a courteous salute and a dignified withdrawal. He hoped he was capable, at least, of that.
He was almost to Hunsford before he stopped to appraise his situation. Elizabeth was yet to be seen, and he had no desire to mount the steps to her very door in search of her. Shifting his malacca under his arm, he pulled at his watch fob and flicked open the lid. It was yet early; he could not have missed her, surely! It must be that she had yet to set out upon her daily walk, and he was to have the pleasure of walking an anxious, uncertain picket until she did so. Darcy tucked his watch back into his waistcoat pocket and turned off in an oblique direction onto one of several paths that led through the plantation from Hunsford village. He walked until he could no longer see the high path, then turned about and strolled slowly back. He did this several times, choosing various trails that converged at his watch point.
When he had exhausted them all, he stopped and stared down toward the parsonage, but the only movement he detected was that of a servant scattering grain or crumbs to the chickens. Then instead of returning to the house, the woman laid down the basket, dusted off her hands, and pulled forward a straw bonnet that had dangled unseen on its ribbons down her back. Elizabeth? Darcy narrowed his gaze on the distant figure as she tied the ribbons under her chin and, after casting a look over her shoulder to the parsonage, advanced to its gate and skipped quickly through to the meadow below him. Yes, Elizabeth! His blood ran warm and tingling, then suddenly cold. He took a step backward into the trees. The sight of her still affected him, his heart’s habit still urging him toward her; but then that other voice intruded, strongly maintaining that she must not spy him here tamely awaiting her as if he were dancing hopeful attendance upon her like some mooncalf.
He retreated even farther, until he lost sight of her altogether and leaned up against a great tree by the path to await her. Now that their meeting was at hand, it was imperative that he gather himself, ensure that he come away from the encounter with the credit and dignity due his name. A creaking of branches stirred by the spring breezes caught and distracted Darcy’s straining attention from the path to the tree under which he had taken up his post. By chance, it was the one he had noted the other day whose interior decay he had reported to his aunt’s forester. Evidently the man had come immediately at his word, for upon closer examination, Darcy saw there were charcoal marks indicating that the tree was to be cut down. With a grim turn of countenance, he looked up into the branches. The groan of limb against limb seemed a perfect echo of the nameless emotions that swirled painfully inside his chest. No, not nameless, his conscience prompted. Perhaps, retorted his heart, but certainly inadmissible.
A flurry of birds taking flight alerted him, and straightening from his pose against the tree, he pulled at his coat and waistcoat. Then, setting his jaw into lines that the assembly rooms at Meryton would recognize instantly, he strolled forward to meet her. But even though he retraced his steps to his former watch point, she was nowhere to be seen. Where in the world —! Vexed both that he had not waited to assure himself of her direction and that Elizabeth had perversely chosen another than her usual route through the park, Darcy stepped over to each divergent path in the hope of spying a flash of color. Nothing! He stopped in the midst of the last one, his jaw clenched in frustration as he considered his situation. Where had she gone? He had almost resolved to turn back to Rosings when, suddenly, she appeared. Evidently she had avoided the park entirely and had chosen instead a lane that ran for some distance alongside its boundary. In minutes, he quickly noted, she would pass by a gate. Coming out from among the trees, he determined to intercept her there.
Darcy knew the moment she saw him, for though some distance still separated them, he could almost feel her start of recognition and the quick beat of her heart when she turned away from his approach. “Miss Bennet!” He lengthened his stride, her name out of his mouth before thought could decide how to proceed. She stopped and, after a moment of hesitation, turned to await him. His relief that she did so was short-lived, for immediately upon his approach he was struck with the ease with which even now her person excited warm memories and desires within him. Then, as he neared her, his gaze came to focus upon her pale, strained countenance and withdrawn eyes. The reality of their situation quickly asserted itself. His jaw tightened. He brought forward his letter.
“I have been walking in the grove some time, in the hope of meeting you.” His voice fell cold even upon his own ears. “Will you do me the honor of reading that letter?” Wordlessly, Elizabeth’s hand came up. He strongly suspected it did so most unwillingly, but he placed the letter in her grasp and watched her fingers close around it. Done. It was finished! His brief flight into hope was at an end, and he would never look upon her again. The truth of it smote him to his soul. Darcy clamped down forcefully upon his jaw lest any sound should escape and, bowing slightly, turned back to the plantation and park and strode away. Even when he was sure that she could not possibly see him, he strictly overruled the impulse to stop or look back. Instead, he quickened his gait, refusing to think as well as feel. Survive…just survive but the rest of this infernal day, he told himself, and then you may leave. Yes, by Heaven, leave!
“Well, here you are at last!” Darcy spun around sharply at the disembodied voice arising from behind one of his suite’s hearthside chairs.
“Richard!” The scraping of boots against the floor was soon followed by his cousin’s lanky form struggling up out of the deeply cushioned chair. Darcy quickly closed the door, advanced to face his intruder, and demanded, “What are you doing here?”
“Lying in wait for Napoleon!” Fitzwilliam answered him sarcastically. “Looking for you, old man; and don’t raise a breeze! You have been damned elusive, Fitz. Not like you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You have even Fletcher worried. I’ve never seen him look so Friday-faced! What?” Fitzwilliam demanded at Darcy’s quick grimace.
“Nothing of your concern, I assure you.” Darcy shifted his gaze away from his cousin’s intense examination. “I have called for the carriage to be at the door by nine tomorrow. Can you be ready?”
“We do leave tomorrow then?” Darcy raised a sardonic brow at his cousin before turning to divest himself of his coat and gloves. “You have changed your plans once already without bothering to consult me,” Fitzwilliam protested to his cousin’s turned back.
“We leave tomorrow at nine. There will be no change of plans.” He turned and faced Fitzwilliam. “I find myself quite desirous of getting back to London as soon as may be possible. I have left Georgiana to Lord Brougham’s care long enough,” he offered.
“I cannot disagree with you there,” Fitzwilliam relented. He threw his hands up at the frown on Darcy’s face, then cocked a brow at him. “It will not do, you know. You cannot intimidate me with that frown of yours. Oh, it is an excellent fierce one, I assure you; but you forget that you are dealing with the Highly Disappointing Issue of His Lordship, the Earl of Matlock. Not even in the same race as Pater, Fitz.” He returned to the hearth chair and fell back into it. “So pack it away, and tell your old Father Confessor. What is it, Cousin?”
“I am sure that I have not the slightest idea…”
“Damn and blast, Fitz,” Richard cut him off, “do not poker up at me like a missish old maid. Here.” He leaned forward on his elbows and looked at him earnestly. “It has to do with Miss Bennet, does it not?”
A thrill of apprehension coursed up Darcy’s spine, stiffening his jaw and adding coolness to his reply. “Miss Bennet?” Richard’s answering grimace and exaggerated sigh clearly displayed his disappointment. Knowing his cousin to be capable of a ferocious tenacity when his interest was piqued, Darcy cast about in his mind for some means of diverting him. Richard could not know how far he had carried his foolishness with Eliza — Miss Bennet. And, Darcy determined, he never should; but he did need Richard’s help. Should she ever apply to him for the truth of his letter, Richard would die rather than reveal anything that touched upon Georgiana. Darcy quickly laid hold of the bone that would answer for both of them. “Yes, Miss Bennet,” he repeated slowly and paused, eyeing Richard’s alerted countenance. “I find myself in need of your assistance.”
“Yes,” his cousin replied encouragingly, “go on.”
“You may have noticed that Miss Bennet and I have a tendency to quarrel,” he began tentatively.
“Ha!” Richard snorted. Darcy glared him into an embarrassed cough and an “I beg your pardon; continue, Fitz.”
“Miss Bennet and I have, unfortunately, stumbled into a tangle of misunderstanding that could be resolved with honor on both sides only by the revelation of our family’s past dealings with George Wickham.”
“Wickham! Good Lord, you do not mean…” Fitzwilliam looked at him in shocked disbelief.
“Yes, Georgiana.” Darcy allowed his revelation to sink in.
“I knew she was angry with you.” Richard shook his head slowly. “But…Georgiana?”
“What!” It was Darcy’s turn to be surprised. “She told you she was angry with me?”
“Yes, well, in so many words. Yesterday, when I was touring the park, I encountered her by chance; and in the course of conversation, it became apparent that you were not in her good books. I tried to warn you.” So, Darcy thought, she had been overset before he had even left from Rosings, and probably by the rendition of his efforts on Bingley’s behalf he had suspected was courtesy of Richard. “But what does Georgiana have to do with it?”
“Nothing directly!” Darcy sighed and rubbed at the insistent pain centered between his brows before continuing. “Richard, it is all a veritable Gordian knot; and you must believe that only a matter of vile slander would induce me to breathe a word concerning Georgiana.” He walked to the mantel and, grasping its edge, leaned down to stare into the embers glowing upon the grate.
“I know, Fitz,” his cousin quietly granted him. “In what way do you wish my help?”
Darcy solemnly looked up at his cousin. “Should Miss Bennet ever apply to you for the truth of what happened last summer, you are to tell her. In your own words and with nothing held back, tell her.”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes did not waver from his cousin’s. “You trust her that much?”
“I do,” he answered him, withdrawing his gaze.
Fitzwilliam turned away, paced the room in thought for a moment, and then looked back. “And it will restore your honor in Miss Bennet’s eyes?”
“Perhaps,” Darcy answered quietly, his eyes glancing up from the glowing embers, “your testimony and time will prove the just mind I believe her to possess.”
“Then do not fear, Cousin.” Fitzwilliam advanced upon him and thrust out his hand. “She shall have my word on it — today!” The firm assurance of Richard’s clasp was like balm to Darcy’s wounds, the first indication that survival of the soul-wrenching events of the last twenty-four hours was more than a dream.
At his cousin’s insistence, Darcy retrieved his coat and gloves, and once Fitzwilliam’s were procured, the two set off for Hunsford. The distance was traversed in a companionable silence. Darcy, though dreading a second meeting and the proof it would likely afford of the ineffectual nature of his written words, kept pace with the determined gait of his cousin, whose face was almost beatific in its focus on the knight errantry upon which he was set. Sooner than Darcy would have believed, they were mounting the steps at the parsonage door. Fitzwilliam, in the advance, gave him a bracing grin as he pulled at the bell.
“It shall be all right and tight, Fitz. I promise you!” he assured him. “Should I say anything further on your behalf ?”
“I pray you, do not,” Darcy answered him quickly, “else this errand will have been for naught!”
Fitzwilliam shrugged and turned back to the door, which was now opening. “Good day!” he greeted the serving maid. “Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy to see the ladies and Mr. Collins.”
“It shall be done, Your Ladyship.” Darcy bowed over his aunt’s hand, bussing it with his lips before stepping back to allow Fitzwilliam the same honor. He was desperate to be gone, but Lady Catherine was in no temper for their expedient removal. A vast and varied number of remembrances to other family members had been pressed upon him literally at the last moment. Commentary and recommendation had followed on any aspect of their imminent travel that might delay the departure Her Ladyship so lamented and Darcy so keenly desired. There had been nothing for it but to take matters quite actually “in hand” and grasp Lady Catherine’s extended fingers with a curt promise to do as she bid him. It was now Richard’s turn, and Darcy stepped away to allow him his full opportunity as object of Her Ladyship’s concerns, messages, and lectures.
The day, to this point, had seemed to tick forward at half its usual pace. From Fletcher’s call this morning through breakfast and the packing of the carriages, everything and everyone had seemed determined to draw out the process of departure when, in contrast, his every motion and thought had been performed to the beat of an insistent, internal drum call to leave. Darcy’s forbearance was wearing perilously thin. Looking out the window while Richard suffered their aunt’s instruction, he saw the first carriage swing onto the drive, the horses already in unison as they pulled away from Rosings for London. Fletcher and Fitzwilliam’s batman, Sergeant Barrow, both well versed in the requirements of their gentlemen, had seen to its packing with a military precision and were now on their way. But even Fletcher had seemed to move through his duties at a dull pace. “Friday-faced” had been Richard’s accurate description of his usually confident and prescient valet. Although Richard could not know why Fletcher looked so, Darcy did; for his own failure to secure Miss Bennet’s hand had doomed his valet’s hopes for matrimony as well. Fletcher’s fiancée had been quite adamant, it seemed. Until her mistress Miss Bennet was happily married, she would not be parted from her, despite all Fletcher’s considerable skill in persuasion. Darcy had, of course, spoken not a word to his valet on the subject of his interview with Miss Bennet, nor had Fletcher alluded to the fever that had overtaken Darcy this last week or its sudden demise. Aside from such a thing being the height of impertinence, there had been no need. Fletcher had surmised the truth almost immediately, and it had taken the heart right out of the man. Excepting the days surrounding the death of his father, the last thirty-six hours had been the most silent in their nearly eight-year relationship.
“Thank you, Ma’am; His Lordship shall be delighted to hear it! Incredulous, but delighted.” Darcy turned back to the room and his cousin’s last bow over Lady Catherine’s hand. Evidently, their aunt had called a truce of some sort. She usually did so after having amused herself with tormenting her Matlock nephew for the entirety of their visit. Darcy suspected that her condescension had more to do with securing their annual return for the relief of her frightful loneliness than with any real conciliatory motions on her part.
“Farewell, then.” Lady Catherine conceded the ceremony to be at an end. “I look to see you in the autumn. Anne is so wonderfully improved that I venture to say we shall attempt to join you at Pemberley!” At this she looked meaningfully at her daughter and then back to Darcy. He briefly glanced over at his cousin. Her aspect continued leaden and withdrawn, but he knew it now for the subterfuge it was. He had waited on her earlier to tender his good-byes, knowing that nothing of the true state of their understanding could be expressed at his formal leave-taking. Anne might be frail, but beneath the façade beat a heart filled with passionate, beautiful words the world would never have suspected. If any good had come of this visit, it was this revelation.
“You are welcome at Pemberley any time, Ma’am,” Darcy returned. “Fitzwilliam?” he queried Richard, who cheerfully nodded his readiness.
“Ma’am, Anne.” Fitzwilliam bowed quickly in his cousin’s direction, and they were finally away.
“Heigh-up!” James the coachman flicked his whip, snapping the end just above the leader’s ear. The carriage jerked forward once, twice, and then settled into a rhythmic sway as the horses brought their efforts into accord. Darcy swallowed hard and set his eyes straight ahead. He was leaving, finally leaving this scene of the worst humiliation of his pride and the deepest wound to his heart he had ever thought to experience. In minutes, they had swept down Rosings’s drive and now were slowing briefly to take the turn into the road that skirted Hunsford village. In moments they would pass the parsonage. Darcy’s heart began pounding loudly in his chest. He would not look, by God, he would not!
“Look, Fitz! It appears we shall end as we began!” Richard’s bark of laughter forced him to look up.
“What is it? What do you mean?” Darcy leaned over, reluctantly following his cousin’s gaze out of the window.
“Old Collins, waving like mad from the parsonage gate. Now I call that a proper sendoff! I only wish…” Fitzwilliam’s voice fell silent as the carriage whisked them past their aunt’s ducking and waving clergyman.
Darcy leaned back against the squabs. “You ‘only wish’ what?”
Fitzwilliam colored. “My curst tongue!” he castigated himself and then looked over apologetically to his cousin. “I only wish I could have done you the service you requested of me and spoken to Miss Bennet yesterday. Had she been home, I would have, at once! I am that sorry, Fitz!”
“Do not be hard upon yourself.” Darcy shook his head. “In the end, it likely will matter little.” He looked away then, his gaze ostensibly upon the passing scenery. “I doubt I shall ever have occasion to encounter her again.”