A World
of
Expectations
By
Gayle Lynn Messick
A World of Expectations Book II
Copyright © 2009 Gayle L. Messick
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Front and back covers: istockphoto
Dedicated to
my three Brothers
and their families
Thomas, Gary, and Robert
A World
of
Expectations
Book II –Confrontation
By
Gayle Lynn Messick
Chapter One
Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy glanced out the window while traveling to London, the scenery barely registering on his consciousness. He had nestled into the seat cushion, recalling his breakfast encounter with Blake.
He had expected to find him with an I-have-won-the-horse-and-the-lady smirk. Instead, Darcy entered an empty dining room, ignored his curiosity, and proceeded with his breakfast ritual—he placed only one pastry on his plate beside his eggs and ham. The cook had not prepared his favored spicy-pork mishmash. He bit into the sweet treat. Rawlings was correct—these were the best pastries. He called the footman over and requested several treats be prepared for the journey back to London and asked if the lemon filled ones sprinkled with a sugary substance—Rawlings’ favorites—were available. They would make an excellent surprise for his friend. The servant hurried to the kitchen.
“Darcy.” Blake said in barely a whisper when he strode through the door. He headed for the buffet, where he placed a few nibbles of ham and eggs on his plate. He did not include any pastry.
“Good morning.” Darcy responded. He did not miss the unusual slouch in Blake’s shoulders or his downturned lips.
“I understand you are departing today?” Blake asked.
“After breakfast. I have a need to return to London.” Darcy studied his friend who had slumped into his chair and instead of eating, held his forehead. His elbows were on the table. He had never witnessed such a decorum breach from Blake before.
“I no longer have a need to remain here.” Blake sighed. “I look forward to returning to town as well.” He pushed the food around the plate without the fork ever finding his mouth. “Rain is coming.”
“Oh?” Darcy peeked out the window at the shining sun. He did not spy a single cloud.
“Yes. I felt dampness on my ride. Do you not think it is darker in here today? Perhaps candles would help, or the fire needs to be built up.”
Darcy shrugged. The room seemed as bright as any sunny day. Blake’s voice was low and flat, which was unusual since, by his own nature, he was cheery in the mornings, weather notwithstanding. He watched him pretend to eat while keeping his head down.
Blake returned his cup to its saucer. “Agh! The coffee is as cold as the eggs.” He pushed his plate away and then rose in a single swift motion. “Excuse me. I need to make arrangements for the journey.” His napkin dropped on the table’s edge before it fell to the floor. Blake glared it although his gaze seemed unfocused. He ignored the crumpled linen and rushed out, his eyes again downcast, his lips held tightly together.
Darcy had seen that expression on his sweet sister, Georgiana. Like her, Blake did not attempt to conceal his severe sadness. Damn. What happened? Did she say no? Did he offer marriage or, my God, did he… Darcy spent breakfast alone preoccupied with the change in his friend.
On the ride to London, Darcy pondered many scenarios for Blake’s despair; none he supposed even came close to the truth. Occasionally, Blake glanced back towards Meryton, each time Darcy caught sight of the unchanging despondent expression. Heracles proved to be an adept horse without the need for any direction from a rider who did not attempt to guide him. Blake’s thoughts were elsewhere—he had not bared a single smile nor shared a pleasant word to man or beast.
Darcy announced to the empty carriage, “Finally, going home where our families and friends are, and where we can concentrate on business. Nothing will interfere or distract us now.”
***
Rawlings entered the cigar and wine shop on Bond Street and waited patiently while Mr. Cuffage finished his transaction with a customer. Once the gentleman departed, Mr. Cuffage led Rawlings to the back room.
“I have made arrangement for you to stay at the Westchester Hotel in lower Manhattan, off the Bowery Street, at 341 Broome Street. Here are the documents and letter of introduction for Mr. Astor. Remember to take them to him upon your arrival in New York.”
“What does the gentleman look like?”
“He is a typical German. He is blond and blue eyed. He is tall man, a slender build. He dresses well, and everyone grows quiet when he enters the room, the admiration for him is obvious. He is a most gracious fellow.
“Did you send word to him?”
“Of course, sir. He expects you in five weeks. Do not dawdle. He is leaving for a long journey to the western frontier soon thereafter.”
“Can you share any peculiarities he might have?”
“He hates the aristocracy. Do not talk about your father or Lord Blake.”
“Excellent. I believe a gift would be appropriate. Are his habits familiar to you? Does he smoke or drink?”
“Both. Here are his favorite cigars. He does not like French wine at all. Shall I send your selection to your house? Oh, wait! A most wonderful new wine arrived yesterday, which he may find agreeable.”
“Yes, please. Oh, here are the papers for you to sign and a copy to keep. Send a signed one with my package, which allows you sufficient time to consider the terms.”
Rawlings left the shop. Cuffage went in the back and quickly scribbled his name on the documents and packed them with the cigars. He immediately sent the other copy to the Falcon and a short note declaring all was ready.
***
Darcy arrived late afternoon at his townhouse in London after a restless journey. He had in the past enjoyed traveling in his carriage, away from the servants, the friends, the family members. Here he might scratch his nose if he wished and read a book uninterrupted. This four-hour trip, he spent his time in solemn contemplation mulling over many concerns.
Blake separated from the traveling group while he continued towards Grosvenor Square. At the turn of the road, he spied his residence—a three story white and reddish tall building glistening in the late afternoon sun. The limestone used for the structure had come from his mines in Derbyshire and gleamed in the sunlight contrasting with the terra cotta bricks embellishments.
“At last!” He sighed, throwing his unread book on the cushion. “It is good to be home.”
His butler and housekeeper, the Geoffries, waited for him to disembark from the carriage; they had been with the Darcy family for twenty years. He bounded up the steps and stopped to offer a few polite words before seeking refuge inside. Each wide stride drew him to the staircase and then he sprung up the steps until he reached the floor landing for the music room floor.
“Georgiana?”
When no answer came, he spun around, bumping into Mrs. Geoffries.
“Miss Darcy is not here.” She had caught up to her master just when he had turned. Before he could speak, she explained, “She is visiting Lady Victoria, sir. Colonel Fitzwilliam is home, and your aunt and uncle invited her to spend time with her cousins.”
“Thank you. Have a tray sent to my room. A simple meal will be sufficient.” He smiled at the brandy bottle on the table next to his favorite armchair, beside the window overlooking the busy Grosvenor Square. “Ah, it is so
good to be back. I shall not be selfish that Georgiana is staying with the Fitzwilliams. They have been good to her.”
Warmed by the fire, he stripped off his jacket, untied his cravat, and even removed his boots. Invitations had been placed on his desk for his examination, which he tackled, discarding those he deemed were from persons only interested in his appearance to raise their social standing. The acceptance pile was short in comparison.
A young servant entered his room carrying a large tray, and then, without looking up, bid him a good evening and left the room almost as invisibly as she had come in.
Darcy opened the brandy. He poured himself a glass and leaned back in his chair. Damn, I wish I took pleasure in cigars like Rawlings. He is so relaxed after he finishes one.
He jotted a quick message to his sister. He also penned notes to Rawlings, Kent and Bingley. Even though he had invited Blake to dinner, which his friend agreed to, he doubted the words registered. Darcy hesitated for a second before scribling him a note too. Darcy drafted a list of the many unfinished details left in advance of his other friend’s journey to America. Rawlings seemed anxious to leave for America.
Darcy rang for a servant. “Send these immediately. Do not remain for an answer. One moment.” Darcy found the message to his sister. “Wait for a response to this one.” The man nodded and left in haste.
Ah! Home. Tomorrow, I will visit White’s. Meryton’s Black Bull Tavern is no substitute for a London club and especially not White’s
Chapter Two
Darcy arrived at White’s at the exact time specified Where Blake was the only friend waiting for him. They spoke about their reception, and both men expected a fuss. They ascended the stairs together.
Many men clustered around them the moment they stepped in the room. Neither man had anticipated the magnitude of questions. Several older gentlemen, who remained in their comfortable seats by the fire, lowered their newspapers before muttering to each other about the impertinence of the young.
Darcy and Blake stood in the center; the eager members crowding around them and peppering them with questions.
“I lost a bundle, Darcy. I had thought you would be the victor,” one gentleman complained.
“Lord Blake, is the stallion as wonderful as they say?”
“Who is this Bingley fellow? And where is Netherfield Park?” Several other members inquired, their voices rang loudly.
Darcy and Blake spent two hours answering every inquiry. Drinks flowed from the well-wishers to them. Finally, the questions ceased and the men moved to the billiards room. They taught those interested in Twenty Points, and were surprised to find that this tidbit had not been included in the papers, unlike everything else. The two friends had begun to narrate the golf match when the members crowding around the billiard players gave way to a tall fair-haired noble approached the table. His icy gaze emitting from the blue eyes found their target—Blake.
“I need to speak to you,” the Duke of Charnwood said.
“Now?” Blake glanced at the cue stick in his hand.
“Now,” His Grace demanded. His stare was cold, dark, and unflinching. The other members stepped back, lowering their heads and staring at their boots.
Blake’s shoulders slumped slightly when he followed behind his father. He overheard Darcy beginning a new account of the games as he walked away.
Father and son found a secluded corner table from which to sit and talk. The club’s servants quickly placed a wine carafe before them and then promptly moved to guard their privacy.
“Congratulations on winning the stallion.” His Grace said abruptly and without the slightest hint of excitement. “You are late. I expected you back in town two days ago.”
Blake nodded and braced his nerves. Any conversation his father started so brusquely was never a happy occurrence. “You did not indicate the reason for the urgency.”
“A rumor is floating around that you are involved with another unacceptable woman.” He leaned closer and whispered, “My God, son. A country lass with nothing to offer. Is she why you delayed your return to town?”
“Do not worry, father. It is in the past.” Blake drew back away from him.
“Good. I am pleased you thought about your duty and ended this affair. Must I get involved?”
“No sir, there is no need for any recompense. Our relationship never went that far.”
“Just toying with her, I see.”
“No. I did not toy with her. Perhaps at the onset, but then I desired much more the longer I stayed.”
“You were wise, then, to end the flirtation before she sought a further connection.” His Grace paused, sipping his wine. He did not speak until his son glowered at him. “The dinner party has been arranged. You will attend.”
Blake scoffed, and then pushed back into his chair. He covered his glass when the servant attempted to fill it. “Who is she this time? More importantly, how much money does she have?”
“Her fortune is ample, and she is exceptionally attractive. She is the type you like: silly and empty headed, concerning herself with clothes and gossip. Such the flirt, too…”
“I daresay if you know her, she must be experienced in the arts and allurements women use to flatter a man. I assume if she has survived your inspection, then she is cunning too.”
“Do not speak so. You forget who I am.”
“Impossible. So, what do you wish for me to do? Do I just flirt and toy, or do you desire something more?”
“Son.” His Grace sighed. “I am attempting to help. You need to be married and produce an heir. I will not be here forever.”
Nor will my inheritance. Blake glanced over to watch Darcy speaking animatedly to the group. He is fortunate.
“I want you married this year.”
“Time is your enemy. The best ladies are taken.”
“You mean you want your hands on a fresh supply of funds.” Blake clenched his teeth again. He glimpsed at the men in the club, laughing and sneaking glances his way. “The members spoke about your latest misfortune. You bet on Darcy!”
“Everything was in his favor. No one expected you to win. Not one person. All your friend had to do was come in fourth. I went with the odds. This was not about who I wanted to see win the horse.”
“I understand what gamblers do; I have had a lifetime in the subject. Calculate the odds and bet accordingly.” Blake leaned forward and in a half-whisper said, “You care not for anyone except yourself.” His eyes narrowed. “You never cared for my well-being. God, how I hate you.”
“Your words are unkind. The risks I take are for you. I am forever trying to increase my holdings… for you.” His Grace reached to pat his son’s arm.
Blake jerked his arm away, lowering to his lap. “No, Father, you do not. You gamble because you seek the thrill, not the winnings. Your entire being stays focused on the activity, regardless of the danger or surrounding conditions. Every muscle in your body is tense. A ruffian could hold a knife at my throat, and you would bet on the outcome. Dinner is often late or your attention is absent whenever you are involved in a wager. You speak persistently about your winnings; you never discuss your losses.” Blake leaned forward. “Father, you do not think about my future when you bet yet another portion of your fortune.”
“I have not given you leave to speak to me in such a way. What caused this change in you?” He maintained his smile when he lowered his head, and with his nostrils flared and his glare from his icy blue eyes boring into his son, said, “I give you fair warning. You will be at my dinner party in four days time. You are to arrive before seven.” Standing up, the duke towered over his son. “I insist that you consider this lady seriously.” Blake nodded, and his father left for the card room.
A World of Expectations_Book 2_The Confrontation Page 1
