These Three Remain

by Pamela Aidan

  “Yes, sir.” The man bowed and approached him. “May I assist you, sir?” Nodding, Darcy unbuttoned his coat as he turned his back. Fletcher’s sure fingers carefully stripped him of the garment. “Your fobs and watch, sir.”

  “What?” Darcy demanded and then looked down at his waistcoat. “Oh, yes, of course.” He pulled the items from their pockets and laid them on the table. What he needed was time, more time, and time that would not be interrupted or curtailed by others. Time, he mused, staring down at his watch while Fletcher removed his waistcoat, a commodity that, regrettably, was not in his power to command or create.

  “Is there aught amiss with your pocket watch, sir?” Fletcher scooped up the mechanism and peered at its face before pulling out his own and comparing the time.

  “No, Fletcher. I was woolgathering, musing over the inflexible independence of Time.” He let out a short sigh and began unbuttoning his shirt while the valet worked at the knot of his cravat.

  “ ‘Inflexible independence,’ sir?” Fletcher pulled at the neckcloth and then tossed it onto a chair.

  “Yes.” Darcy bent and removed his shoes. “Men invariably need more or less of it but cannot command it to be still or bid it go faster. Time proceeds as it will and will not be bridged or created.”

  “Indeed?” Fletcher responded. “Is man then merely ‘Time’s fool’?”

  “You misquote the Bard, Fletcher,” Darcy snorted. “I believe he said ‘Love’s not Time’s fool.’ ”

  Fletcher smiled. “Forgive me, sir, as I trust the Bard would also. But as the only love that is subject to Time is man’s, it is all one. As for its ‘inflexible independence,’ that is a matter of perspective; is it not, sir?”

  “What can you mean? Sixty minutes always equals one hour!”

  “Yes, sir. But an hour with the toothache is an eternity; whereas an hour with one’s beloved is as a moment gone.” Fletcher’s voice dropped. Then he shook himself and continued firmly. “No, I believe Time is perfectly flexible if we have the wit or nerve to mold it to our use.”

  Wit or nerve. Fletcher’s prerequisites for the command of Time repeated themselves in his mind as Darcy lay unsleeping in his bed. The clock on the mantel chimed out the hour. One o’clock. Time, more time, was what he needed in order to determine Elizabeth’s mind, but he could count on no more time than what tomorrow afforded. Tomorrow, dawn to evening, was all that he could foresee; therefore, it was tomorrow that he must bend and mold. If you have the wit or nerve to do so, he reminded himself grimly. His mind ranged over the next day’s schedule. Accomplishing anything to his purpose at dinner was summarily dismissed. Too many interested parties about for the privacy he desired! Further, waiting until then left him even less time to bend. Morning and afternoon, then, were all that remained to him.

  It came to him all in a moment: the picnic Caroline Bingley had been so eager to marshal! All of his guests would be gathered at the river for her alfresco, at which time he could send a servant with his regrets that he had been called away and to proceed without him. Ah, yes, there was the wit; what about the nerve? He would call on Elizabeth and the Gardiners. Nothing unusual in that! He would ask for permission to escort her, or all of them if need be, on a stroll of the village path which followed the Ere. Then, when opportunity arose, he would thank Elizabeth privately for her kindness to Georgiana. Her response and subsequent conversation would, he hoped, reveal something of her estimation of him that might be built upon at dinner that evening.

  Darcy heaved a sigh as the mantle clock chimed out the quarter hour. It was not an elegant plan. Rather, it was fraught with countless opportunities to go wrong. But it was all he had, and he meant to use it.

  “No, Fletcher.” Darcy looked over the clothing his valet held out for approval. “Riding clothes, if you please, ones fit for a call.” He finished drying off his freshly shaved chin and cheeks and ran a hand through his damp hair.

  “Riding clothes, sir? I was not informed, sir!” Fletcher frowned mightily at such an oversight. “Shall I send notice to the others?”

  “No, only I shall be out. The others are still to attend Miss Bingley’s alfresco.” He paused to see what effect the announcement produced in his valet. Fletcher, however, appeared more concerned with the new demand placed upon his art than with its cause. Grateful for Fletcher’s lack of interest, Darcy channeled away the man’s thoughts with a question suited to his other talents. “How is that progressing…the picnic?”

  Fletcher rolled his eyes. “The staff has been harried through four refinements of the menu and three changes of location since last evening, sir; but they press on with good humor,” he said, disappearing into the closet in search of the required clothing.

  “Good humor?” Darcy called after him.

  Fletcher emerged, a complete ensemble and several alternates in hand. “They have eyes, sir, and ears, and know you have all our best interests in hand.” Darcy cocked a brow at him. Clearing his throat, Fletcher continued. “Forgive me, sir, but we…ah, the staff, sir, can bear with whatever the lady may demand during the short time she will be here.”

  “I see.” Darcy strode to the window and leaned against the frame. What faith they all had in him! What hopes were invested in his every decision! He sighed and bowed his head. The happy future that his people wished him and themselves was not so easily accomplished, for they were not privy to the irony that ruled their hopes. Yes, Elizabeth’s place in his heart was sure, but that place meant little to the woman who had last spring, without a moment’s hesitation, refused the offer of his hand and the prestige of Pemberley. He could make that same proposal to Caroline Bingley or nearly any other woman in England and be assured of success. Yet here he was, setting out to pursue the one exception…perhaps for that very reason. He knew her worth. If Elizabeth’s opinion of him had softened, if she turned toward him in any way, he would not let her disappear from his life. He would pursue her, court her as she so richly deserved, and God willing, win her respect and her heart.

  Turning back to his valet, he examined the attire held out for his inspection. Doeskin breeches, of course, and boots polished to the highest gloss were at the ready. “The silver-gray waistcoat, I think, and that coat.” Fletcher’s brow went up in question. “The green one, yes.” He nodded as the valet held it out. “Now, hand me the breeches…hurry, man!”

  The interior of the Green Man was dark and still cool when Darcy took off his beaver and bent to enter the inn’s door. For the first time in his adult life he had escaped the elaborate attentions of its proprietor and been greeted only by a servant, to whom he conveyed his desire to be conducted to the rooms occupied by the Gardiner party.

  “The Gardiners, sir?” Forced to disoblige the village’s most esteemed patron, the young man looked panic-stricken. “The Gardiners ’ave gone out awalkin’, sir.” Disappointment that Elizabeth was not immediately available put a check upon his eagerness, but Lambton was not large. He should be able to find them; it was the loss of time he rued.

  “Which direction —” he began to ask, but the nervous boy interrupted him.

  “The young lady is still above, sir. Would you be awantin’ to be taken up for jus’ her?”

  He could not stop the laugh that welled up inside him at the lad’s apologetic tone. Did he want to be taken up just for Elizabeth? His heart expanded. This was perfect, much more to his purpose than he could have hoped or planned for.

  “Yes, if you please.” He grinned down at the boy and gestured that he should take the lead up the inn’s stairs.

  The upper hall was quiet, the public room below not yet belabored with patrons and the inn’s other guests out about their business. The tread of their boots upon the wooden floor rang loud in Darcy’s ears but did not mask the sound of a chair being scraped across the floor behind the Gardiners’ door. Elizabeth! His heart turned over as he came to a halt behind the servant and waited. The sound of light footsteps reached him. His breath caught in his chest. The servi
ng boy reached for the latch and, stepping back, pulled the door open.

  Elizabeth’s pale face appeared suddenly, looking up at him with such wild pain and desperation that he started back, speechless at beholding such stark need in her every line.

  “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you,” she gasped out. “I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.”

  “Good God! What is the matter?” Darcy demanded, the misery in her face eliciting both alarm and every tender feeling he possessed. Find the Gardiners? Impossible for her in this state! “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.” He seized command of the situation as well as he might, ignorant as he was of the particulars. “You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.” Darcy expected that she would gainsay him and prepared to insist that she not attempt the mission. She did not. Instead, she hesitated and, to his concern, trembled visibly before nodding and, after calling back the servant to entrust him with the task of recalling her aunt and uncle, sank heavily into a chair.

  What should he do? Darcy looked down into her pain-filled countenance, the droop of her fine shoulders, and knew that he could not leave her. His hand reached out, every impulse urging him to gather her into his arms and vow to make all things right again, but he was forced to let it drop to his side. He had no right. “Let me call your maid,” he said to her gently instead. At the shake of her head, he pursued a different tack, but in the same tone. “Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one?” Again, she shook her head. Darcy’s feeling of helplessness increased. Perhaps she was too distressed to realize her condition? “You are very ill,” he told her softly.

  “No, I thank you.” Elizabeth’s back straightened a little. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well, I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.” Tears that had been stayed by her anxiety now burst forth, rendering her incapable of speech, and left Darcy no further enlightened save that the cause was news from her home. A death in her family seemed the likeliest answer. Had there been some terrible accident? His heart went out to her, desperate to be of some use, some comfort in her throes of sorrow and pain. Again, the desire to hold her, lend her his strength seized him. Good God, how much longer could he stand to see her thus and maintain his place! He lay hold of the back of the chair opposite hers and gripped it so tightly his fingers ached.

  “Miss Elizabeth, please…allow me to be of service to you in some manner,” he importuned, but her tears continued and there was nothing more he could say or do but wait.

  “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news.” She finally looked at him, although her words were halting. He leaned toward her, intent on her every syllable. “It cannot be concealed from anyone.” She gasped for breath and then continued. “My younger sister has left all her friends — has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of — of Mr. Wickham.”

  His shock could not have been more complete. Wickham! The Devil take him! But how had this happened?

  “They are gone off together from Brighton,” Elizabeth continued disjointedly. “You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to —” She gasped again. “She is lost forever.”

  Darcy’s mind reeled at her account and its implications, rendering him both enraged and speechless. Had the man no conscience at all? At least with Georgiana there had been the motive of revenge and gain, but what had been his purpose with Lydia Bennet? Elizabeth was entirely correct; she had nothing to tempt him to marriage. Her attractions were youth, heedlessness, and the promise of sensuality. When Wickham had had his use of them, he would abandon her without a thought.

  “When I consider that I might have prevented it. I who knew what he was.” Elizabeth bitterly berated herself. “Had I but explained some part of it only — some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all, all too late now.” She buried her face again in her hands.

  Darcy looked down helplessly upon her bowed shoulders. What could he say or do to mitigate the disaster in this turn of events? Little, so very little! “I am grieved, indeed, grieved — shocked,” he whispered. “But is it certain, absolutely certain?”

  “Oh yes!” she answered with a wretched laugh. “They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland.”

  Here was something — time and a location! Darcy’s mind began to function more rationally. When and where! “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”

  “My father is gone to London.” Elizabeth gestured in a hopeless manner. “And Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done.” She sighed bitterly. “How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible.”

  That might very well be true, Darcy thought to himself, or not!

  “When my eyes were open to his real character. Oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared to do!” Elizabeth wrung at her handkerchief, anger displacing her grief. “But I knew not — I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”

  Elizabeth’s misery pulled at his heart. The sight of her there, weeping, blaming herself for the rash behavior of a sister who had been allowed to run wild and the perfidious treachery of a practiced seducer would have tempted Darcy to fresh anger if his own fault in the affair had not then struck him with punishing force. Her mistake? No, it was his…it was his pride, his care for nothing beyond his family circle that had allowed a blackguard freedom to prey upon young women. And now the wolf had fallen upon another family, the family of the woman he loved so well and to whom he owed so much. The blow threatened to send him back into the emotional tangle that he had felt at the first glimpse of her face and revelation of her news. But no! If he allowed that, he would be of absolutely no use to her. Turning away, he began to walk up and down the room, latching on to every fact Elizabeth had conveyed as a puzzle piece. Where would Wickham have gone to ground in London and who might know? Possible avenues of inquiry recommended themselves. If only Dy were back in Town! Whether Dy was available or no, Wickham’s trail must be picked up with the utmost speed before he tired of Lydia Bennet and disappeared to some other corner of the kingdom.

  Darcy turned, then, and observed Elizabeth. She had covered her face with her handkerchief, lost to all but the terrible facts of her family’s disgrace. He had every reason to stay with her in her distress, but no right. He ought to excuse himself, but how was he to do it? He hesitated, then plunged into an awkward apology. “I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing, concern.” Slowly, she straightened and listened with tear-brightened eyes. Please God, he hoped she believed him! “Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part, that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.” He could see that she was regaining countenance. Her chin lifted ever so slightly at his words. “This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley today.”

  “Oh yes.” She wiped her eyes and sniffed. “Be…be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible,” she pled. “I know it cannot be long.”

  “You have my word,” he promised her, looking down into eyes that now seemed to withdraw from him. “I am sorry, truly sorry that such distress has come upon you and your family.” He paused, wishing there were some better comfort he might give,
but none was vouchsafed him. “And there may yet be hope for a happier conclusion than you presently have reason to expect.” She looked at him dubiously but inclined her head. There was no more he could do. He answered with a bow. “Please, convey my compliments to your relations and that I hope you may all return to Pemberley at some happier time,” he offered, and with a last searching look to impress upon her the sincerity of his words, he stepped into the hall and quietly shut the door.

  Chapter 8

  What Silent Love Hath Writ

  The ride back to Pemberley might have taken a quarter hour or much longer; Darcy could not say. All that he remembered was mounting Seneca at the block outside the inn, and now here he was being jarred into awareness of his surroundings by the clatter of his horse’s hooves upon the cobblestones of his own stable yard. When he took out his pocket watch as a stable lad led his mount away, his eyes opened wide at the story the hands told. An hour! He looked after his horse, his tail swishing slowly as he was led to the grooming post. Truly, Darcy had only Seneca to thank for his eventual arrival home, for the time and scenery that had passed between those two events were completely lost to him. An hour. With any luck the others would still be working their way through Caroline Bingley’s alfresco and leave him to continue uninterrupted the wrestling within his chest that had begun at the first sight of Elizabeth’s stricken face.

  What should he do? The question had consumed him during the entire course of his return. What he could do, he had quickly determined. His resources, his connections, his personal knowledge of Wickham’s tastes and habits urged upon him the conviction that it was he who was best placed to find the missing couple or direct others in the recovery of Lydia Bennet. But what he could do was not the decisive factor in what he should do. Here was the sticking point, for to this juncture his success at choosing shoulds had been worse than lamentable. Indeed, his missteps in this area were the origins of the crisis at hand. With a shudder, the guilt of it struck him anew.