by Pamela Aidan
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 itsel
f. 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.
