Mr. Darcy's Refuge

by Abigail Reynolds

  Mr. Darcy’s Refuge

  by

  Abigail Reynolds

  Text copyright © 2012 by Abigail Reynolds

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever.

  To

  Sharon Lathan and the Austen Authors,

  fantastic writers and fabulous writing buddies,

  and to

  Jane Austen

  who inspires us all

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 1

  The break in the rain seemed like a sign. It meant Darcy could ride to the parsonage and discover what was troubling Elizabeth. Her friend Mrs. Collins had said she was ill, but his cousin averred that he had seen her but a few hours ago, and she seemed well then. Darcy would have thought Elizabeth would stop at nothing to come to Rosings tonight, his last night in Kent, and her last chance to ensnare him. Instead she had remained at the parsonage, leaving her friend to make her excuses to his aunt, Lady Catherine.

  She must be avoiding him. There could be no other reason for her absence. But why? She had every reason to wish to be in his presence, unless she had decided that winning his love was a hopeless cause. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps his failure to declare himself had left her believing that he was simply toying with her. Perhaps she thought it would be too painful to see him tonight, knowing it would be for the last time. Darcy’s mouth curved a little with the thought. Dearest Elizabeth! How happy she would be to receive his assurances of love.

  Just at that moment, the pounding of rain against the windowpanes finally began to slacken as the thunder faded off into the distance. His aunt’s attention was focused on rendering unwanted advice to Mrs. Collins while Richard was attempted to engage Anne in conversation. He could slip away unnoticed. It was definitely a sign.

  Once he had escaped the gloomy sitting room, he lost no time in making his way to the stables. In a clipped voice he asked a sleepy groom to ready his curricle.

  The man squinted up at him. “I don’t know if that be such a good idea, sir. With those wheels, ‘twould be a moment’s work to find yourself stuck, the road is that deep in mud after all this rain.”

  “Then I will ride,” Darcy said firmly. He would not allow bad roads to keep him from Elizabeth’s side, not tonight.

  Yawning, the groom went off to saddle his horse. Darcy helped himself to a riding crop from a shelf, then tapped it impatiently against his leg until he heard the clopping of hooves. The air hung heavy on him, thick and full of moisture. Much more of this rain and the crops would rot in the fields before they even had a chance to sprout. He would have to speak to his aunt about relief for the tenant farmers, but now was not the time to think about such matters.

  Soon he would be in Elizabeth’s presence, where he would finally be the recipient of her dazzling smiles and hopefully even more. Elizabeth would not be Miss-ish, certainly. It was not in her character. Yes, he had every reason to assume she would allow him to taste those seductive lips that had been tempting him almost past the point of sanity. His body filled with fire at the mere thought. He would finally feel her warmth in his arms and hold that shapely form against him, her shining energy at last his, only his.

  He could not afford these thoughts, not now, or he would be in no condition to be in Elizabeth’s presence. He disciplined himself to think of something else, anything else – the weather, his aunt’s latest rant, his horse. He swung himself into the saddle, ignoring the groom’s proffered assistance.

  The groom had been correct about the condition of the road. The horse’s hooves squelched and spewed out droplets of mud. Darcy kept to a slow walk, since he did not want to be covered with mud when he paid his addresses to Elizabeth. The pace seemed interminable, leaving far too much time for thought and memories.

  Memories of his father, telling him he must marry an heiress because Georgiana’s dowry would cut into the Pemberley coffers. His mother, taking him aside so that his father would not hear, reminding him that he was an earl’s grandson. She had married beneath her because it was the only way she could escape from the fate her brother had planned for her, but once she had hoped to catch a viscount at the very least. Her voice still echoed in his ears. “Pemberley does not want for money or land. You must find yourself a titled lady to bring honor to the family name.”

  Then there was his aunt, Lady Catherine, who was determined that he marry her daughter. Darcy snorted at the thought of Lady Catherine’s insistence that it had been his mother’s wish for him to marry Anne de Bourgh. His mother would not have thought her own niece good enough for her son and heir.

  For all these years Darcy had been determined to choose a bride who would have pleased both his mother and his father, but he had yet to meet an aristocratic heiress he could tolerate for an evening, much less a lifetime, and here he was, about to completely defy his parents’ wishes by proposing to a lady whose breeding was questionable and whose fortune was non-existent. The scandal of it might even hurt Georgiana’s chances at a brilliant match. How could he do this, knowing he was failing in his duty to his entire family?

  His decision to follow his heart and marry Elizabeth had been the hardest of his life, and even now he had his doubts. He was being a fool and he knew it, but for once in his life he was in the grip of a passion beyond his control. He could not help himself. At least that was his excuse, though he could just imagine his father’s scorn and the curl of his mother’s lip if he had ever dared to say such a thing to them.

  For a moment he considered reining in his horse and returning to Rosings free of the encumbrance of a distasteful alliance, but the memory of Elizabeth’s sparkling eyes and the way the corner of her lips twitched when she was amused spurred him on. He had to have her. There was nothing else to be done, at least not without dishonoring himself more than he already was by making this proposal. The wild young men at White’s would have some very different ideas about how he should slake his lust, caring nothing for who might pay the price as long as their own desires were fulfilled, but that was not for him. It was such things that made Darcy prefer Bingley’s company over that of his peers. Bingley had been foolish to fall in love with Jane Bennet, but at least he had never considered dishonoring her. It had been marriage or nothing for Bingley, and it was the same for Darcy. But how would Bingley feel when he discovered that Darcy was marrying the sister of that same woman he had insisted was not good enough for his friend? He was a hypocrite as well as failing his parents’ wishes, but Elizabeth would be his.

  The sucking sound of the hooves in deep mud gave way to the thud of horseshoes striking wooden planks as he crossed the bridge. The flood waters rushed loudly beneath him, the usually peaceful, meandering river now a raging torrent after the last month of pounding rain. Even in the darkness he was certain that the water must be over the banks by now. The wind was picking up again, starting to lash against his coat.

  A flash of lightning split the night sky, causing his horse to shy. Darcy automatically quieted him as the rolling rumble of thunder seemed to make the very air tremble. His skin was tingling, a certain sign that another storm was in the offing. Yes,
it was far better to think about floods and rain than to hear voices from the past railing at him.

  By good fortune he reached the parsonage at the top of the hill just as the skies opened. Dismounting hurriedly, Darcy led his horse into the slight shelter of the eaves and tied his reins to the waiting ring. Silently he made his apologies to the horse who deserved better than the drenching he was about to receive. Under normal circumstances he would never treat one of his mounts in such a shabby manner, but tonight was not normal, and the shelter of a stable was a quarter mile further along.

  He thanked his lucky stars that the front entryway was covered. Already a cold trickle had found its way down the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. He rang the bell loudly, hoping someone would come quickly. No one would be expecting callers, and it would be hard to hear anything over the drumming of the rain and the rolling thunder.

  The door was opened, not soon enough for Darcy’s taste, by a timid, half-kempt maidservant holding a single candle. Clearly she had not expected her services to be needed tonight. He set his hat and gloves on a small table and brushed the remaining drops of rain from his coat. His valet would have fits were he to see his normally immaculate master in such disarray, but there was nothing to be done for it. He had a mission, and he meant to accomplish it. “I wish to see Miss Bennet,” he told the girl in a clipped voice.

  He did not notice her reply, his entire being concentrated on the knowledge that in just a few minutes, Elizabeth would be officially his, putting an end to his months of torment imagining a lifetime in which he would only see her in his night-time fantasies. Half in a daze, he strode past the girl into the sitting room where Elizabeth stood, a pile of letters on the small painted table beside her. She was noticeably pale and did not smile at the sight of him. Perhaps she was in truth unwell?

  Suddenly nervous, although he did not know why, he made a correct bow. “Miss Bennet, your cousin informed me that you were too ill to join us at Rosings. May I hope that you are feeling better?”

  “It was nothing but a slight headache.” Her tone was decidedly cool.

  He took his usual seat, trying to make sense of her serious demeanor. Surely she must know why he was there? She should be delighted at his presence! Then it hit him. She must have been expecting his addresses these last several weeks, and his reticence had injured her sensibilities. It was only natural. What lady would not feel wounded when an eligible suitor seemed unable to make up his mind about her? In sudden generosity of spirit, he decided he must be completely open with her. He would tell her his dilemma and why he had delayed so long, and how his love for her had overcome all barriers. He would help her see that it was not a reflection on her charms or the depth of his feeling for her. On the contrary, the extent of his struggle showed the strength of his devotion. But how to begin? She seemed reluctant even to look at him.

  His agitation of spirit could not be contained, so he left the chair to pace around the small room, searching for the words to express himself. He wanted nothing more than to pour his heart out at her feet, but first he must tend to the injury he had unwittingly inflicted upon her. What a fool he had been to wait so long to claim her as his intended!

  He could not wait another minute. He approached her, coming as near as propriety would allow, and the words began tumbling forth. “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  What a relief it was to finally say the words! He had Elizabeth’s complete attention now; she was almost staring at him, her cheeks becomingly flushed, apparently at a loss for words. Telling her was the right thing to do. With greater certainty, he continued, “I have admired you from almost the first moment we met, and it has been many months since I have known that my life would be incomplete without you in it. You may wonder why I have been silent until now, and question the strength of my devotion, but I can assure you it had nothing to do with the depth of my love. I had not known myself capable of a passion such as this. For the first time in my life, I have understood what it was that inspired the greatest poets to produce their masterpieces. Until I met you, I thought their words of love were but a form of artistic hyperbole, and I could not believe that any man would actually find himself so overcome with violent love. But in you I have discovered what it is to need another as I need the air to breathe.”

  He paused to collect his thoughts as thunder briefly drowned out his ability to speak. “Indeed, I should have made this offer to you long ago, had it not been for the disparity in our stations in life. My family has a long and distinguished history, with the expectation that I would marry a lady of rank and fortune, and you do not fall into either category. Your lack of dowry could perhaps be overlooked, but my parents would have been horrified at your low connections. Your father is a gentleman, although of a rank inferior to mine, but your mother’s family must be seen as a degradation. I had no choice but to fight against my attraction to you with all the strength I could muster, my judgment warring with my inclination. I do not have the words to describe the battles I have fought with myself, but in the end, in spite of all my endeavors, I found it impossible to conquer my attachment to you. My sentiments have proved powerful enough to overcome all the expectations of family and friends. My devotion and ardent love have been fiercely tested and emerged triumphant. May I dare hope that my violent love for you will be rewarded by your acceptance of my hand in marriage?” He gazed into her bright eyes, awaiting her affirmative response.

  Elizabeth, seeming at a loss for words, unfolded her hands, but at his eager look, she hastily refolded them. She inhaled deeply and said, “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. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would…”

  Loud pounding from the front of the house interrupted her words. Elizabeth’s brows gathered as she looked over her shoulder towards the door of the parsonage.

  A deep shout from without all but rattled the windows. “What ho, the house! For the love of God, let us in!”

  Darcy frowned furiously in the direction of the racket. How dare anyone interrupt him at this tender moment and in such a manner? The voice betrayed low origins. Could there be footpads abroad on such a night as this? He could make out the sound of crying children now. Where was that maid? Just then a brilliant flash of lightning flooded the room with light, accompanied by an ear-splitting crack of thunder and a resounding crash. A child’s scream pierced the night, and the pounding began anew.

  Darcy strode to the window. Through the rain streaming down the window he could make out the shape of a fallen tree limb. The giant chestnut tree had been split down the middle, smoke rising from the ragged stump. A cluster of shapes huddled nearby.

  Light footsteps behind him alerted him to Elizabeth’s presence. She stood just behind him, her hands covering her mouth. The whiteness of her face stirred him into action. He gripped her arm lightly, even in the crisis marveling at his right to do so, “There is nothing to fear. Lightning struck the tree outside, but we are perfectly safe. I will deal with this.”

  He walked purposely toward the front door, discovering the maid cowering in the entryway. Frowning at her, he threw open the door to reveal a roughly dressed old man, soaked to the skin, with perhaps two dozen others, mostly women, behind him.

  The man said, “Please, sir, the water’s rising somethin’ fierce! It carried off Smither’s cottage and his wife and children with it, and half the village is knee deep in water. We never seen the like of it, never! You have to help us, sir!”

  For a moment Darcy wondered irritably if they thought he had the power to stop the river, then he realized the parsonage and church occupied the highest ground on this bank. They had fled to the safest spot they knew.

  A high keening reached his ear as a woman appeared, tugging at the man�
�s arm. “It’s Miller’s Jenny. She’s trapped under the tree, and we can’t lift it!”

  Darcy swore under his breath, then turned to the maid. “Take the women and children to the kitchen and build up the fire.” He frowned at the pouring rain. There was no help for it; he would have to go out.

  The fallen chestnut was no more than a score of steps away, but cold rain was already trickling down Darcy’s neck when he reached it, following the sound of a child’s wails. He could barely make out shapes pulling at the fallen tree trunk. It was large enough that he would not have been able to wrap his arms around it. One of the figures slipped on the wet grass and fell hard, swearing in the shifting tones of a boy whose voice was starting to turn. Darcy’s vision was beginning to adjust. It was nothing more than the old man and two lads trying to shift a limb far beyond their weight. Darcy crouched down by the small child whose legs were trapped, examining the position of the fallen limb.

  “We’ll need a lever,” he said decisively. “You, boy – run to the house and tell them we need a crowbar or something like it, whatever they have.” He pointed to the other boy. “You must find some other branches, big ones. Where are the other men?”