A Very Austen Romance

by Robin Helm

  “Kidnappers do not shoot their victims,” said Elizabeth crossly. “Not if there is a ransom to be had.”

  “Point taken.”

  With a sigh, Elizabeth examined the nightshirt. Mr. Darcy was right; it was made of fine cotton and beautifully clean. With all the indignities she had suffered, what was one more?

  And then she remembered that her dress and stays fastened from behind.

  Heavens.

  Mr. Darcy began assembling supplies: a large blanket, several towels, the soap, and a bucket for her wet clothes. These he carried out to the lake, which was just as well. Elizabeth had all she could do to manage her own bundle while navigating the stone-littered terrain in bare feet. Together they chose the best spot along the shore, and then he turned to leave.

  Reluctantly, Elizabeth called him back. “I am in need of a little—assistance, sir.”

  Oh, this was mortifying! It would be easier to receive help from anyone else! Even odious Mr. Collins!

  On second thought, no. But speculation was pointless, for what choice did she have?

  Elizabeth swung the cloak from her shoulders. “It’s the buttons on my gown,” she explained. “And the tie for my stays.”

  Elizabeth had seen Mr. Darcy angry; she had seen him in emotional distress. And also bored, delighted, offended, and odiously snubbing. But she had never seen him so thoroughly embarrassed. Who would have guessed that his handsome face could turn so red?

  “I—ah,” he stammered. “Very—well.” He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “What must I do?”

  Why was he not eager and smiling? Shouldn’t a man who was deeply in love show a little enthusiasm? Instead of all this grudging reluctance?

  Why, he was feeling just as awkward as she was! Poor dignified Mr. Darcy! Elizabeth bit back a smile. Suddenly she did not feel quite so shy. Indeed, when she presented her back, a gurgle of laughter threatened to bubble up. How delightful to disconcert him so thoroughly!

  “You needn’t fear,” she added. “I wear an underdress beneath the stays. I can manage that myself.”

  She heard him sigh—was it from relief? Heavens, couldn’t the man show even a little sensibility?

  Then again, what would it be like if Mr. Wickham were here instead? Elizabeth pursed up her lips. She could well imagine his flirtatious jokes, smilingly laced with double-entendre. Mr. Darcy’s fine honour was infinitely better!

  He managed to unfasten the buttons, but the knot gave some trouble. “Forgive me. I, ah, am not accustomed to removing a woman’s— What I mean is—”

  His growing impatience made her smile. “It’s this knot,” he went on. “It’s been doubled and is tight. This, ah, garment looks uncomfortable to wear.”

  “One becomes accustomed. Besides, do not some gentlemen wear corsets?”

  “Yes, and they creak. At all the worst moments.”

  What else could Elizabeth do but laugh?

  Gracious, who would have thought that she would laugh with Mr. Darcy?

  oOo

  He was right about the change in the weather; they’d only just returned to the house when the storm blew in. Elizabeth was now dressed in the nightshirt, wrapped up in blankets and seated before a roaring fire. Her bathing ordeal was over.

  Or almost over. Her poor garments could take hours to dry. She had no access to a flat iron, nor had she the skill to use one. Heaven only knew what her dress would look like. At least her feet and ankles were covered; one did not need stockings to wear kid boots.

  Mr. Darcy had the benefit of clean clothes, although he was dressed without his usual precision. His shirt was comically wrinkled. Lady Catherine had provided a white cravat, such as a gentleman would wear at dinner. A rust-brown waistcoat, his dark riding coat, and travel-stained buckskins completed his ensemble.

  Elizabeth found that she preferred this version of him. He seemed more approachable, less stiff and somber.

  And he was inclined to talk.

  “Ah, for life’s simple pleasures,” he was now saying. “A warm fireside, a stout roof overhead, and the most delightful of delicacies, toasted bread with cheese.” He held out a plate to her.

  What else could she do but accept? A cup of warm soup followed.

  Elizabeth sipped meditatively. Who would have thought she’d share a cozy fireside with Mr. Darcy? Since his boots had been stolen, he was in stocking feet. Homely indeed!

  “Eat your fill; there is plenty,” he added.

  “Unless we are marooned here indefinitely, and then we shall starve.”

  She was rewarded with his sudden smile. “We are castaways, after a manner of speaking. But I doubt we’ll go hungry. I found fishing gear in the closet beneath the stairs. Not that my aunt would think to provide rod and line; they must have belonged to Uncle Lewis.”

  “As if I know how to cook fish—or do anything useful. I am now learning an unhappy truth: my upbringing has been amazingly impractical. Aside from mending the tear in your other shirt—after it dries—my accomplishments are of little use here.”

  He quietly placed a chair before the fire and joined her, stretching his stocking feet toward the warmth of the fire.

  “I embroider badly,” Elizabeth went on. “I am hopeless at arranging flowers or adorning bonnets. And, as I am never to attend a London opera, I haven’t bothered to learn Italian.”

  “You have employed your time more profitably.”

  “I read, but only when the fancy suits me; from time to time I play backgammon or chess with Father. I correct my younger sisters endlessly—and then rely on them to share bits of gossip they’ve picked up. My most noteworthy skill, if one can call it that, lies in critiquing my neighbours—rather harshly at times.”

  Over the top of his cup his eyes met hers. “We’d best not air old grievances,” he said gently.

  Elizabeth bit back a sigh. “Are you always in the habit of being right, sir?”

  “No more than you are.”

  What else could Elizabeth do but smile? She hastened to change the subject. “The bread and cheese are delicious. Thank you.”

  “Would you care for more?”

  “Yes, please. Although—if I starved myself, I might be able to fit into Anne’s clothes.”

  Goodness, was this a joke? Was she joking with Mr. Darcy?

  Speaking of old grievances—

  While he was busy at the hearth toasting bread, Elizabeth gathered the blanket, rose to her feet, and made her way into the bedchamber. There on the floor was her folded note. She took it up and returned to the front room. When Mr. Darcy returned her filled plate, she held it out to him.

  “You said something earlier about a letter you’d written. May I have it, please?”

  He sighed heavily. “If only it were that simple.” He opened the front of his frockcoat to reveal an inner pocket. “The letter was here, and now it is gone. God only knows where it is—or who has read it.” A rueful smile twisted his lips. “Like a fool, I signed my name—my full name.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  He cast himself into the chair. “It could be, depending on who finds it. In that letter I explain, with unfortunate detail, my family’s history with Wickham. I also describe his attempt to elope with my sister.”

  Elizabeth could not believe her ears. “Mr. Wickham—elope?”

  “I thought you had a right to know the truth, to counter whatever glib falsehoods Wickham has been feeding you.”

  “Forgive me; I cannot comprehend this. He eloped with your sister?”

  “That was his plan. Thank God she told me of it in time. She was but fifteen.”

  “How can this be? No, it does not sound like him at all. When—did this happen?”

  “Only last summer. His object was her fortune, which is considerable. Thirty-thousand pounds.”

  Elizabeth struggled to digest this. “But the living. He said your father promised him a living which he did not receive.”

  “That much of the story is true. When
my father’s will was read, Wickham told us he had no interest in becoming a clergyman, for which I thank God. He then negotiated a settlement of three thousand pounds.”

  “Three thousand! He never mentioned this.”

  “Ah, no. Wickham’s memory is, shall we say, adaptable? When the living later became vacant, he approached me again, stating that he had had a change of heart and would be glad to take orders. When I did not respond favorably, he demanded that the living be given him. Of course, I refused.”

  “But—this cannot be right.”

  “I understand what you are feeling. As a boy, I trusted Wickham; I believed him to be my friend. I soon learned otherwise. He is as close to an amoral man as I have ever met.”

  “But he has such charm, such ease. He is so pleasant.”

  “Yet he lies with impunity. What is worse, it is impossible to confront him with truth. He believes the lies he tells. He has only the appearance of goodness.”

  “But Jane—you cannot deny your infamy there. You parted Jane from Mr. Bingley.”

  “Because I had no evidence that she loved him. She enjoyed his company and was unfailingly pleasant, but it seemed to me that her heart was not touched."

  “Oh, this is dreadful! Jane is reserved. She is too good, too kind! She did not display to him all that she felt because she did not wish to oblige him to return her affection!”

  “I—see.”

  “I told her how it would be! Yes, and so did Charlotte. She must show more than she feels, not less. And now he is gone. You cannot imagine her heartbreak.”

  There was a pause. “I think perhaps I can.”

  Elizabeth dashed away an angry tear. She must not weep before Mr. Darcy! And yet, poor Jane!

  “Forgive my jaded viewpoint,” said Mr. Darcy quietly. “Of course, you know your mother better than I; her talk of matchmaking could well be harmless. No more than enthusiasm and high spirits. I am accustomed to encountering raw ambition of the basest sort, particularly in London. Bingley’s fortune is a temptation, and so is mine.”

  “Not to me!”

  Again his rueful smile appeared. “A fact of which I am all too aware.”

  “And not to Jane either!”

  “You and Jane are unique in that way.”

  Elizabeth’s chin came up. “You think too highly of yourself, sir.”

  “Do I? How long was it, after I arrived at that cursed assembly, before you learned the extent of my fortune? As much as twenty minutes?”

  This was unanswerable, for it had been less. “You—would not dance with me.”

  “I did not wish to dance with anyone! I only went in order to support Bingley—as if he needed support. Do you think I enjoy being the prize stallion on the bidding block? The object of every matrimonial scheme? Simply because of my position and my wealth?”

  Mr. Darcy was truly angry now. Or could this be frustration?

  “I also parted Bingley from your sister because of my growing feelings for you. I—had never felt that way about a woman before.”

  “You were ashamed of me!”

  “No, I was vulnerable. I was falling in love, and I did not know what to do. Like a coward, I fled. And you can see the good it did me.”

  It was difficult to hear the pain in his voice.

  “Your sister is a sweet girl, and if she truly loves Bingley as much as you say—and if his interest has not abated, which I daresay it hasn’t—I’ll not stand in her way.”

  “Hoping to improve your chances with me, perhaps?”

  Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth. “My wretched tongue!” she cried. “I beg your pardon; I had no call to say that. You-you bring out the worst in me, Mr. Darcy.”

  Now why was he smiling at her like that?

  “Oh—read your note!”

  “But there is no need, is there?” he said softly.

  “You needn’t fear. It’s an apology.”

  “Yes, I know. You’ve already told me that—and more.”

  Elizabeth caught her breath. What more had she told him? What was it about him that made her feel this way? Vulnerable and exposed and—

  She hitched the blanket higher on her shoulder and watched as him unfold the paper.

  CHAPTER 13

  Darcy fought to keep his face expressionless as he read, but it was no use. He could feel his features softening; at any moment a foolish smile would find its way to his lips. She had written this note—to him! A wondrous evidence of her generous heart.

  The sorry fact was, he loved her. In spite of everything that had passed between them, and without hope of any kind, he loved her still. His heart was as much hers as it had ever been, and perhaps more so.

  Very definitely more so!

  But Elizabeth’s words, though kind, offered not a shred of encouragement.

  As you know (because I made it abundantly clear), I have never sought your good opinion nor have I attempted to beguile you in any way.

  Darcy was thus put firmly in his place as a rejected suitor.

  Doubtless you now see that we would not suit and that you have escaped a miserable union.

  No, he did not see this at all. In fact, quite the reverse! But her mind was made up; this note was ample proof.

  “I thank you for the apology,” he said quietly.

  “I—was unbecomingly rude.”

  His eyes met hers. “What did you say of me that I did not deserve?”

  He had the pleasure of seeing her eyes widen with sincere surprise. That, at least, was something. “My behaviour merited the severest reproof,” he continued. “It was unpardonable.”

  “Nothing is unpardonable, sir.”

  “True enough, although”—he raised an eyebrow— “this scheme of my aunt’s puts that to the test. As for me, my presumption was both ungentlemanly and arrogant. That you would accept my offer and return my regard I assumed as a matter of course.”

  There was a pause. “I suppose any man who proposes has favorable expectations. Even Mr. Col—” She stopped.

  So his guess was correct. The proposal she mentioned in the note had come from Collins.

  Darcy held it out to her. “You should probably destroy this. In the wrong hands, it could cause embarrassment for Mrs. Collins.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer to keep it?”

  Darcy hesitated; he would like it above all things! “I dare not give way to sentimentality,” he said gravely. “The risks are too high.”

  She looked openly doubtful.

  He said, “By tomorrow—or at the outside, Tuesday—Lady Catherine will arrive here. Before then, we must formulate a plan of action.”

  Elizabeth made a dismissive gesture. “As if there were a course of action open to us! We are captives, you will recall. What else can we do but wait for Lady Catherine to make the next move?”

  “I beg leave to disagree.”

  “You think she will come herself? The distance is too great. She will send someone.”

  “Not Aunt Catherine. She entrusted our capture to hirelings and was disappointed. She will not make that same mistake twice. Of a certainty, she will come.”

  He paused, but Elizabeth said nothing. “Therefore,” he went on, “by Tuesday all evidence of my presence here must be eradicated. Including this precious note.”

  As if counting his heartbeats, Darcy waited for Elizabeth to take it from him. She merely sat there, gazing into the flames. Before he could weaken and change his mind, Darcy flicked the note into the fire. The paper curled as it burned.

  And then he heard Elizabeth sigh.

  Did she care that he burned her note? He shot a glance in her direction.

  She gathered the blanket around her shoulders and rose to her feet. Darcy did likewise, but Elizabeth kept her gaze averted. She shuffled into the bedroom and shut the door with a quiet click. He then heard her add wood to the fire.

  Darcy resumed his seat, perplexed. He had put a foot wrong somewhere, but how?

  It was in Elizabeth’s bes
t interest to destroy that note—wasn’t it?

  Moreover, she had wanted him to read it! Including the statement that their union would be miserable.

  So why did she sigh?

  oOo

  Lady Catherine gave an impatient huff. As if travelling were not irksome enough, she must put up with an overgrown boy who insisted on managing their pace!

  And yet, what choice did she have? There was no one else to whom she could entrust so sensitive an errand. She did not even dare to bring her maid, Dawson. It was necessary to trust her driver and his son, but was this wise? Perhaps it would have been better to hire disinterested strangers.

  Except that even strangers would talk.

  Whereas John Griffin’s father and grandfather had served the de Bourgh family. His silence could be bought.

  Just now they were halted at a coaching stop—again. Lady Catherine lowered the window with a bang. “Why is it taking so long?” she called. “This is outrageous.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam put down his glass and, with lowered chin, came striding across the yard. She did not approve of the look in his eyes. Nor did she appreciate his habit of drinking a pint every twenty miles or so.

  “There is no excuse for so much slackness,” she told him. “I have never in my life had to wait so long for a change.”

  “We did not write ahead to arrange our journey,” he said evenly, as if holding his temper in check. “Therefore, we must make do with what is available.”

  “Do not raise your voice to me, young man. You have no call to use such a tone.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam looked an answer.

  “I am willing to pay,” Lady Catherine went on. “Did you tell them that?”

  “Money will not provide horses that are not here. Fortunately, they are putting together a team. But such things take time.”

  “The kidnappers did not have delays such as these.”

  “Because their journey was no doubt arranged ahead of time.” He paused. “So we’re back to chasing kidnappers, are we? I thought we were rushing to beard Darcy in his den of bawdry iniquity.”

  Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes at him. “Drink your beer, Hudson,” she snapped, and put up the window.