How very strange. A quarter of an hour ago, she had run away from him, but now he drew her in. She could not look at anything else.
She watched him lay his hand against the knotted trunk. “I believe she might always stand.”
“It is a she?” Elizabeth asked.
He spared her an unreadable glance. “Like all earth goddesses. Like all things that bloom and bear fruit.”
Elizabeth caught her breath. He returned his attention to the wood, feeling about the craggy edges of the trunk with his long fingers, callused now after his months in the mountains. He was not on his knees before her anymore. That was something.
That was…safe, somehow. She was safe.
“I believe it might even be here, still.”
“What might?”
“The treasure.” He kept feeling around the old tree’s cracks and crevices, his hands spread wide across her trunk. “Ah!” He pulled something out from deep within the heart of the tree, something covered in vines and rot and creepy-crawlies. “Look.”
She looked. A few farthings, two ha’pennies, a thruppence, some assorted bits of old glass, and an impressively sizable chunk of Blue John, the semi-precious mineral native to Derbyshire. She smiled in relief. “A veritable dragon’s hoard!”
Mr. Darcy smiled down at the dirty things in his hand. “So it would be, to a boy of eight or nine. I had remembered it all being so much bigger.”
“And so it would be, to a boy of eight or nine.” She took up the Blue John, which shimmered with velvety violet depths in the dim light of the forest. “How very beautiful.”
“It was Wickham who found that,” said Mr. Darcy. “A little way up near the stream. We used to play buccaneers…” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “I have spent this whole year trying to imagine a way it might have gone differently.”
“Yes. As have I.” But it must have been so much more difficult for Mr. Darcy, who had known Mr. Wickham all his life. “All the tiny changes I might have enacted to save his life. Had I not agreed to go outside with him, had I not quarreled with him, had I not convinced him to stay in Meryton and attend the ball—”
“Had you not quarreled with him?” Mr. Darcy repeated, incredulous. “Miss Bennet, he may have brought you to harm. To ruin—”
“I know,” she broke in, softly. So they were back to Miss Bennet. She had not thought she would miss the sound of her Christian name in his mouth. But at least this was solid ground. “Do not worry. Those musings never got me far. There were a thousand roads not taken, some paved more smoothly than others. But it does not signify. Only what actually happened matters.”
Darcy was quiet for a long moment, and then he took back the chunk of Blue John, turning it over and over in his hands. “What cuts me deepest is the fact that he spent his last breaths spreading lies about me. It is as my cousin once said, his poison lasts beyond the grave. I thought I hated him for what he did to Georgiana, but how deeply he must have hated me—”
“No,” said Elizabeth, and this time it was she who touched him, placing her small gloved hand on his bare sleeve. “I have worried through this topic on many a sleepless night. I do not believe it was intentional. I—I think he was delirious, or that Colonel Forster heard what he wished to hear from the mouth of a dying man. Perhaps he heard only that you two had fought and that I was there. It would be an easy conclusion to draw. I do not think Mr. Wickham meant to wound. Not in those hours.”
Mr. Darcy, who had been staring quite fixedly at her hand on his arm, raised his eyes to her face.
Elizabeth suddenly felt brave enough to go on. “I believe he disliked you as much as you hated him. But imagine that the situation were reversed. You would not have wasted your last breaths on such pettiness.”
“George Wickham and I are not the same.”
She well believed that! Standing here, in the shadow of the yew, with the smell of moss and earth all around them, she found it impossible that she had ever thought of the other as superior.
“Then imagine what regrets might have plagued him in those final moments. You were fighting. Not even I knew its true cause at the time—”
“Its true cause?”
“The hatred you still bore over his attempted elopement,” she clarified. “You fought because of Georgiana.”
Mr. Darcy chuckled. “I fought him because he dared to lay a hand upon you.”
She drew back. “It reminded you of the incident with your sister.”
He gave her a sly little half-smile. “You may believe that, if you like.” Abruptly, he turned and replaced his “treasures” in the hollow of the tree. He stood there, staring at the trunk for a long moment. “I have been too long alone with these thoughts. Relentless worms, gnawing away at any moment of peace. You were right to seek out another to talk to. You and Georgiana both.”
Elizabeth regarded his straight, proud back. “You may speak to me, any time you wish. I hope this conversation has brought you peace.”
He laughed again, a soft, almost sad sound. “No, Miss Bennet. You do not bring me peace. I do not know what it is you bring me, but it is not peace.”
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. Had she not told Georgiana to leave the man alone to his lands, to allow the soft rhythms of Pemberley and the comforts of home bring him back to himself? And here she was, invading it and dredging up all of the memories best left in the past. Her throat was dry when she at last managed to speak. “Do you wish for me to leave Pemberley?”
He turned, his eyes wide. “Leave?”
“I am an artifact of a terrible time.”
He snorted. “You are my sister’s dearest friend. I may not have chosen it for her, but I cannot imagine my choosing better. The girl has lost so much in sixteen years. Let her not lose you, as well. Not over her brother’s foolishness.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. Georgiana’s happiness depended upon her brother taking his rightful place at Pemberley. She would never be at ease until this entire affair was put to rest. But if Elizabeth’s very presence only served as an uncomfortable reminder of all that had befallen them since last summer, how were the Darcys ever to move forward?
“You should return to the house,” he said at last.
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. “Georgiana will soon wonder where we have gone.”
“I am not coming back. Not yet. The house holds account books and clothes-fittings and servants whose names I have forgotten. I should like to remain here, in the silence.” He touched the tree again. “I have told you how astounding I found the silence in the mountains. Nothing to distract the mind but one’s breath and the beat of one’s heart. Nothing but the wind and the voice of God.”
Her brow furrowed. “I—I do not know, but I suppose I am glad to hear it.”
He gave her a curious glance. “Of course. Of course you would not. Good morning, Miss Bennet.”
And, once more, he was every inch the gentleman. He might be nodding to her across a ballroom floor. But she had glimpsed what lay beneath.
Elizabeth retreated. She found the path again, after a few minutes of wandering about in the woods, then hurried back to the house, as quickly as her feet could carry her. Her ankle ached a bit from the incident with the tree root, but she did not bother to favor it now. She just wished to see the walls of civilization around her again. The Pemberley woods, which had once seemed so golden and serene, possessed a darkness, a wildness she had not before known.
Much like its master.
What could Mr. Darcy have meant, about his having told her of his fondness for Alpine silence? Of course, that wasn’t even the strangest occurrence of the last hour. If her aunt and uncle had known the impropriety which might descend upon Pemberley, they never would have left her alone here.
He was so strange now. Strange and… sad. Angry and harsh, and then so gentle when helping her out of the hole. One moment conversing easily about a long-ago pastime, but only a few minutes earlier dropping to his knees as if he were about to d
eclare himself to her.
Of course, that was folly. Mr. Darcy was not proposing. That was ridiculous. She felt foolish now for reacting as she had. She wished the Earth would open up and swallow her.
Again.
He was only upset… and overcome, perhaps, with emotion. She could well imagine how hard it must be, to return home only to face all the reminders of the incident which had driven him away. To think of George Wickham as he had been here at Pemberley—young and full of life—especially if Mr. Darcy had, as he’d intimated, imagined that Georgiana and herself blamed Mr. Darcy for any part of the other man’s death.
How foolishly Elizabeth had behaved! It was only the sight of him, on his knees before her, in his shirtsleeves and crying out her name—such things had never happened to her in the whole course of her life. Mr. Collins’s proposal she could scarce remember, as it had come during such a horrid morning, but had he so much as bent his knee? That was what they were supposed to do, was it not? Get down upon a knee?
But Mr. Darcy would never propose to her.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, and saw only the image of Mr. Darcy staring up at her, his face framed in forest light…
No wonder she ran. She could not trust herself to think with such a sight before her. She had told Mr. Darcy he was not dangerous, but it had been a lie.
He was a very great danger to her.
Chapter 26
Alone, Elizabeth entered the house and slipped up to her room. There, she changed and washed and tried to gain some semblance of control over her heartbeat.
She was in love with Mr. Darcy.
It was true. She had not wanted to admit it, even to herself, but she could not deny it any longer. No, not even given the hopelessness it brought. Not even for what it meant for her ability to stay here, to remain friends with Georgiana.
She was in love with Mr. Darcy.
Her foolish, reckless heart!
There was a knock at the door. “Elizabeth?”
Georgiana.
“Just a moment!” Elizabeth glanced in the looking glass, patting down her hair and biting her lips. Her cheeks were in high color. But the smudges of dirt, the leaves in her curls—all traces of the forest had been banished. The traces on the outside, at least. She crossed to the door and opened it for her friend.
Georgiana appeared fresh as a daisy. “The butler said he’d seen you in. You must have gone walking very early this morning. I did not even see you at breakfast.”
“Yes, well—” She had never been at such a loss for words. Why had she left so early? She could hardly recall, so much had happened since. Ah yes, of course. “It was a lovely morning. And I thought that you and your brother might want to be alone…”
Georgiana sighed. “He was not here for breakfast either. Did you happen to see him on your walk?”
Yes. Yes, all too much of him. “I did,” she managed. “I believe he was headed into Pemberley woods.”
“Ah, the course of medicine begins!” Georgiana looked triumphant. “Are you quite well? You look distressed.”
“I think I am fatigued,” she said, and held a hand to her cheek. “From…the walk.”
“Perhaps some tea? You must be famished.”
She couldn’t possibly eat now.
“I will have something brought to my music room. You may sit and rest, and I will play for you.”
On any other day, that would be like heaven. But now… “I believe perhaps I ought to lie down.”
“Of course. May I have anything sent up for you? A tray? Tea, or broth, or…bread?”
“Dear Georgiana,” said Elizabeth. “You are so caring.”
“You are so caring,” she replied. “I should have suffered grievously these past few months without your friendship. You have been so sensible, calming me when I thought I might run mad, and making me laugh at myself when I allow my concerns to carry me away. If Pemberley is my brother’s medicine, you are mine.”
Elizabeth pulled away. “I shall have to go home soon, though. Very soon.”
Georgiana’s face fell. “What is it? No bad news from Longbourn, I should hope!”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “But I, too, miss my home. I, too, need my own siblings—” She could say no more.
How she had deceived herself! Was she like Jane, befriending Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst and convincing herself that she liked them, all because she so liked their brother? She had told Charlotte and Mrs. Gardiner and everyone else that she liked Georgiana for herself alone, and that she would have been friends with her regardless of any connection to Mr. Darcy.
But she had also told herself that her only feelings for Mr. Darcy were one of polite concern and gratitude for what he had done.
Was it all a terrible lie? Was she in actuality the worst friend in England?
Georgiana bustled around her, fluffing pillows and smoothing coverlets, as any of Elizabeth’s sisters might when another was unwell. She produced a cool cloth and a basin, and rang for soup and tea.
“Really, Georgiana, you need not wait upon me. I am quite well.” She did not deserve any of this. To think of Georgiana as a sister was the very height of folly—to love her as she had done, in place of the gentleman who truly owned her heart.
“Oh, please, Elizabeth. My brother will not let me care for him, and you know as well as I do how sorely he needs it.”
Elizabeth looked at her friend in shock. Perhaps she was not the only person in the room who made a habit of lavishing attention on another because Mr. Darcy was not there to accept it.
“If you send me away, I shall have nothing but concertos to occupy my time all the long afternoon. Concertos and worrying about the rest of you. Resign me not to such an unpleasant fate! Allow me to do this, and then I shall leave you to sleep.”
Elizabeth admitted defeat. Dear Georgiana. Dear, sweet girl. If she really cared for Elizabeth, she would send her away. Pemberley was not a good place for her. Mr. Darcy had scarcely been back a full day and she was harboring the most outlandish thoughts.
Elizabeth lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She was usually so skilled at finding humor in every circumstance, but on this occasion, it seemed hopeless.
Who would make her laugh at herself?
Darcy did not return to the house before dark, and thus he was spared another dinner across the table from Elizabeth and her quizzical glances.
The servant who met him at the door informed him that Miss Darcy had left instructions that he was to call upon her when he returned, no matter what the hour.
Left instructions, had she? Left orders for him, more like. Every moment brought another surprise from that quarter. Georgiana had become all too used to being the lady of this house. But he was still master. He would see Georgiana when he chose.
He told the servant to have a tray of food brought to him, and strode into his study, only to stop dead upon the threshold when he caught sight of Colonel Fitzwilliam there, drinking his brandy and reading in his favorite chair.
“Oh, you are back,” said his cousin, putting down his book. “You will forgive me. I have been used to making myself at home in this house.”
“You are always welcome here,” Darcy replied stiffly. He crossed to the table where the brandy was kept. Good brandy. Well done, Fitzwilliam. “I know not what Georgiana would have done without your help these past few months.”
His cousin cleared his throat. “I did what I felt I must. What I would have expected from you, were our situations reversed.”
“For which you have my undying gratitude and love.” He raised his glass but did not take a sip.
His cousin appeared unamused. Not ready to forgive him yet. None of them were.
They had spoken at length the previous evening, and now seemed doomed to do so again. About the state of Pemberley and his other holdings. About the state of Georgiana and her upcoming entry into society. About what the Fitzwilliam side of his family expected from him going forward. About what—if any—
whispers still circulated in town.
It seems that Darcy had benefitted mightily due to some shocking goings-on with some dandy baron who fancied himself a poet and gave society someone else to talk about. The man had apparently written something quite sensational and well-loved about a sad, disaffected young man who had traveled abroad in search of meaning.
Darcy rather thought he’d like it. Maybe he would even like Byron. He was sick of running from scandal.
Of course, to hear Colonel Fitzwilliam tell it now, his family expected that he would fall into line, now that he was home. That the whole Switzerland expedition was nothing more than some momentary madness. Lady Catherine had hinted heavily that he could end all speculation in an instant, if only he were to prudently marry. Say, Anne de Bourgh.
“There may not be any need to sacrifice yourself so thoroughly,” said his cousin, after relating their aunt’s thoughts on the matter. “But I’m sure there are any number of debutantes in London, or even in Derbyshire, who would do for you.”
There was a girl in Derbyshire, but he doubted very much his aunt would like the idea.
And he was certain the girl in question would not like it at all. How could she, after what he had put her through since he’d returned? Screaming at her, accusing her of destroying Georgiana when all she’d tried to do was help the girl? Acting like a wild man and practically chasing her through the forest?
She was probably plotting even now how best to escape Pemberley and never set eyes on another Darcy again. He had ruined the finest friendship his poor sister had ever known, because he’d lost all ability to keep his impulses regarding Elizabeth Bennet to himself.
If he were honest, he’d lost that battle the night of the Netherfield ball. He knew he must follow her and Wickham outside into the garden, and everything that followed came from a single impulse: Elizabeth. Elizabeth above all.
“I am not ready for London,” he said, staring into his glass. He was sick of brandy. He put it down. “I am not ready for debutantes, come to that.”
In Darcy's Dreams Page 18
