by Robin Helm
oOo
As soon as her clothes were dry, Elizabeth emerged from the back room, fully dressed. She needed only slight help to do up the buttons. These Darcy fastened with earnest care. This would perhaps be his last opportunity to be of help to her.
To be Galahad.
There was constraint in her manner, a thing that perplexed Darcy. He watched Elizabeth pull on her shoes and cloak and tie the ribbon of her battered bonnet. She was going out.
Everything within him cried out to join her, to attempt an apology.
I am sorry for burning your note! If you loved me, I would have cherished it! But as it stands—
To say such things would only embarrass her further.
Without a backward glance, Elizabeth went out of the house.
This was not the time for conversation. Nor should he be caught watching her at the window!
Into the bedroom Darcy went, both to tend her fire and to check for drafts. All but one of the windows were stuck fast; to have one open might help the fire to draw properly. Darcy forced up the sash and then hunted for a spent candle. He’d learned from his workmen that wax, when rubbed into the interior frame, would keep a sash from sticking.
As he worked, questions pushed their way forward. What was the extent of Elizabeth’s friendship with George Wickham? Was she in love with the man? Would she forgive him for parting Bingley from Jane? And what of Elizabeth’s disappearance from Hunsford? What had her family been told? Was there any way to shield Elizabeth’s reputation from harm?
And then there was the matter of escaping from the island and dealing with his aunt.
Once Darcy finished with the sash, he pulled it down and locked the window.
The room was in good order. It spoke volumes about Elizabeth’s character that she was not dependent on a maid.
Darcy returned to the front room, added more wood to the fire, and stood gazing into the flames. A lovely base of embers sent heat radiating into the room. What he wouldn’t give for a nap. Or something to read. Or, better yet, simply to be able to speak with Elizabeth.
A glance to the window showed that she continued to pace back and forth before the lake. Eventually, either the weather or the setting sun would drive her into the house. It would be less awkward if she came in while he was engaged in a task.
The pillow and blankets he’d used last night were temptingly stacked in the corner. He could make a bed near the hearth, rather like the Little Cinder Girl …
Darcy pushed this thought aside and hunted up the pack of playing cards. He brought a chair to the table and slowly began to lay out a game of patience.
oOo
A stiff breeze tore at Elizabeth’s skirts and sent her cloak to flapping. She drew it more firmly about her. If she returned to the house, she would be forced to face Mr. Darcy.
It was easier to suffer shame and mortification here in the cold!
How could she have misjudged Mr. Wickham so completely? He seemed so sincere, so charming and plausible—and like a fool, she was taken in by his lies. She, who prided herself on being such an astute judge of character.
Fine judgment!
And here she was, captive with a man whose character she had thoroughly misunderstood. Yes, he was proud—and stubborn and opinionated. But was she not very much the same?
How could she have guessed that Mr. Darcy could be so kind? In a moment of weakness, she had called him Galahad.
Heavens. What must he think of her?
Presently, rain stung her face. If she did not return to the house soon, she would again be drenched. Which meant wearing his nightshirt while her dress dried.
She could not face that.
When Elizabeth came into the house, she found Darcy curled up near the hearth with a blanket. He was fast asleep.
Her steps stilled; she must not wake him. Nor should he catch her watching him like this!
Even so, Elizabeth could not tear her gaze away. Sleep softened his appearance, a marked contrast to his usual solemnity. The purple bruise along his jaw was healing; she could just make out a greenish tint. The circles beneath his eyes were darker than she realised.
Mr. Darcy had suffered.
He was likely suffering still, and yet he did not complain.
And he was beautiful. The sculpted line of his cheekbone, his dark lashes against his cheek, the stubble on his chin—even in a disordered, vulnerable state, he was amazingly handsome.
What if she had not refused this man?
What if, together, they had brought the news of their betrothal to Lady Catherine?
During the emotional tempest that followed, he would have stood by her, solid and unwavering. She knew that now.
Not that she was wrong to refuse him; his assumptions about Jane were unspeakably flawed! And yet, to be honest, she herself had been wrong—about George Wickham, of all people.
Mr. Darcy had as many reasons to dislike her as she had to dislike him. But he had chosen to be kind.
Was this, then, the moment Elizabeth had feared? Could she forgive him?
Not that he deserved her forgiveness!
Not that she deserved his!
Here was an unexpected thought. Perhaps, without realizing it, she had already forgiven him. It seemed her reasons to be angry were no more.
A stray curl hung across his forehead. Elizabeth reached to smooth it—and drew back just in time. What was she thinking?
A log on the fire gave a sharp pop; Mr. Darcy shifted in his sleep.
He must not awaken and find her here! And yet, to gaze on him was unexpectedly pleasant.
Again the question presented itself: What would it be like to be this man’s wife?
Here he was, sleeping on the hearth instead of insisting on using the bed. Never once had he hinted or insinuated—
George Wickham, on the other hand, was all about insinuation! If he were here instead of Mr. Darcy, would he behave even half as honourably?
Elizabeth knew the answer.
Mr. Wickham would have thrown up his hands and claimed that marriage was inevitable. He would then laughingly insist that they take advantage of the situation and share the bed.
Wretched man!
Shamelessly he’d exploited her youth and inexperience, simply for his own amusement. She had readily believed his enticing half-truths. How she had wronged Fitzwilliam Darcy!
Was there a way back? Could she undo the hurt she caused?
“I was wrong,” she whispered to Mr. Darcy’s sleeping form.
Not that he could hear her, but it was something to say the words aloud. The firelight cast a warm glow on his handsome face.
Oh, to trace the line of his jaw with gentle fingertips! To plant a kiss, just there, on his pale cheek!
Wasn’t it strange? Never once had she wished to kiss George Wickham!
Should she risk it?
Great heaven, what was she thinking? He might awaken, and then—
And then what?
She couldn’t bear to think of how embarrassed she would be.
For Elizabeth now knew something else. She would not be content to kiss Fitzwilliam Darcy’s cheek; she wished to kiss his lips.
Abashed, she drew back. Was this, then, the state of her heart?
Was she beginning to love him? Could he somehow bring himself to love her once again?
Darcy gave a sigh and shifted in his sleep.
Elizabeth had remained here too long. As quietly as she could, she crept into the bedchamber and softly closed the door.
oOo
Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled open the door of the coach. In the dim lamplight, there was no mistaking the weariness etched on his face. “I have bespoken dinner and a bedchamber for you, ma’am,” he said stiffly.
This news did not please Lady Catherine. “Do you mean we are stopping for the night? Impossible. We cannot afford to do so.”
“Of course we can afford it.”
“Stupid boy! What I mean is, we haven’t the time.”
“My dear aunt, the sun set hours ago, and it has been raining ever since.”
“What care we for wind and rain? Perhaps after the next coaching stop—”
“John has been at it all day. I cannot ask him to drive through the night, not in weather like this. We are stopping. Several hours of sleep will do everyone good.”
“But Darcy—”
“He is either dead by the side of the road—”
“Hudson!”
“—or else he is snug at Grimstone House. Most probably the latter. In either case, our progress tonight will not make a bit of difference.”
“Of course it will. We must not be deterred by so paltry a thing as the weather.”
“You would not think so if you sat with us on the box.”
“It is a great piece of folly that you should choose to do so. There is plenty of room in here.”
He held out a hand. “You’ll be better for your dinner. Come.”
“Have you engaged a private parlor?”
“Yes,” he said through shut teeth, “We shall be quite alone.”
Lady Catherine allowed him to assist her descent. “Excellent,” she said crisply. “We need to talk over matters of business. Such as, for instance, the amount of money necessary to pay off a woman of questionable character.”
“Upon my word, ma’am! As if I would know such a thing!”
“But I think you do, Hudson,” she said serenely. “You forget; I understand the workings of the male mind.”
As intended, this remark took the wind right out of his sails. “You understand what?” he demanded. “Better than even—oh, never mind! You’re mad; that’s what you are.”
Lady Catherine did not bother to hide a smile. What she suffered in inconvenience was more than made up for by satisfaction. It was better—very much better—to take matters into her own hands.
CHAPTER 14
Nothing of use was inside the closet under the stairs—not shoes or a coat or even a cap. Fishing gear, a broken wall clock, and various odds and ends would do him no good. At the very least Darcy was hoping to find a map. Hunting lodges always had one on a wall. Once again, his aunt’s hirelings had been too thorough.
He pushed the door shut and straightened. Even without a map, he must travel today.
Had he delayed too long? He glanced to the window, dreading to hear the sound of coach wheels. At any moment his aunt could arrive, and then all would be lost. His careful planning would be for nothing.
The trouble was, he did not like to leave Elizabeth alone. Yet under the circumstances, what choice did he have?
Darcy’s gaze swept the room. All evidence of his presence must disappear. Meaning, he either took his clothes with him, or he must burn them. A pair of worn stockings had already been consigned to the fire. What else was he leaving behind?
Confound it, he’d loaned Elizabeth a nightshirt!
How could he wrest that from her?
Darcy’s gaze strayed to the bedroom door, which was closed. It was early morning; what if she were wearing it now? He felt heat rise to his cheeks.
But the time! Should he risk it and knock?
No, instead he would take his portmanteau down to the dock. Here was another problem. There had to be a way to transport his dry clothes across the lake without soaking them. The wooden crates that held their food would float, but not reliably. If only he could fashion a raft! There had to be something.
Frowning, Darcy again studied the contents of the front room. Of course. This closet door.
It would never support his weight, but it could keep his spare clothing dry. As he swam, he would push it along. Or he could tow it, if he could locate a rope. He had a supply of handkerchiefs, thanks to his busy aunt; he could knot them together. No, better yet, he had a half-dozen silk cravats.
What had Aunt Catherine been thinking? Was he to dress for dinner each night, wearing a fashionable cravat, and so beguile Anne into matrimony? While Anne wore one of several party dresses?
Clearly Lady Catherine was losing her sanity.
And so, Darcy feared, was he.
Now then, how could he remove the door without tools? If he had boots, he could kick it from its hinges. What about that chair? It would likely splinter to pieces, but would it do the trick? There were several iron pots—
Hold hard, he could do better. The fire iron! A few solid strikes would be enough.
And so they were. The splintering of wood was like music to Darcy’s ears. One more blow to the left of the hinge, and then—
“What on earth are you doing?”
Darcy turned, mid-swing. The bedroom door was now open. Elizabeth stood there, fully dressed, with her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her hands were on her hips, but she was looking amused.
It would do no good to gaze on her loveliness. “As you see, I’m removing this door,” Darcy said shortly. “In one piece, if possible. Er, good morning.”
“Good morning to you. You have quite ruined the door frame. Your aunt will not be pleased.”
“My aunt can go to—” He stopped.
“Yes? You were saying?”
“My dear aunt,” he said deliberately, “can go hang! If it would aid in our rescue, I would gladly burn this house to the ground.”
Why was Elizabeth smiling like that? Gad, she was adorable!
“As a signal fire? Like castaways on a desolate island? I never thought to imitate Robinson Crusoe.”
Darcy tightened his grip on the fire iron. He must not delay—and yet it was tempting to linger with her like this. When would he have another chance?
But did it matter? Smile or no, she had made her opinion painfully clear. Darcy aimed another blow at the hinge. It felt good to batter this door, to have something to do other than regret his love for her.
“I need a raft,” he said. “To float my portmanteau across the lake. This should serve the purpose.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
Darcy wrenched the closet door free. “I have miles to cover today, and a change of dry clothing will be helpful. So would a map. I was hoping to find one in the closet. Dartmoor Prison is not far off, if our abductors are to be believed.”
“You would seek help at a prison?” Elizabeth was now skeptical. “Besides, that door is rather small. I doubt it would hold even one of us.”
“It isn’t meant to. I’ll manage easily enough.”
“You do realise that I cannot swim. As if anyone could endure that icy water.”
Darcy lifted the door and carried it to the front of the room. “I can. You will remain here in the house.”
“Alone? Certainly not.”
He set the door against the wall. “There is food to last another week and enough wood for the fire. You’ll be safe enough until help arrives.”
“But I do not wish to be left alone!”
“I know, and I’m sorry. Nevertheless, it is of crucial importance.”
“I do not see that at all.”
Darcy gave a sigh. “We went over this yesterday.”
“We did no such thing.”
“Did I not tell you that all evidence of my presence must disappear? When Lady Catherine arrives, you must be discovered alone.”
“But—”
“If I were never here, it would fit into a plausible account that Lady Catherine could tell others.”
“In other words,” said Elizabeth, “we assist your aunt to cover her despicable plot with a lie.”
Again Darcy sighed. “Our goal,” he said quietly, “is to preserve your reputation. You were mistaken for an heiress, kidnapped from her estate, and held for ransom. This central truth serves as the foundation.”
“The foundation for what? Then, having discovered my true identity, my captors simply abandoned me? That is ridiculous.”
“It is, but it’s a story that will satisfy your family and friends. More to the point, you will not be discovered with me.”
“N
ever mind the fact that I shall be infamous.”
“I am hoping that you will become an object of pity.”
“Whose pity? Not your aunt’s. She will likely leave me here to starve.”
“She would never—” Darcy stopped. He’d not thought of this. Surely Lady Catherine would not, could not—
Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow.
“I’ll—send someone to check on you.”
“If you survive. How are you planning to walk for miles in freezing weather without shoes?”
“I’ll manage.”
Elizabeth went to the table. “This is a pointless discussion; you are not leaving. And now, if you do not mind, would you kindly fill the kettle for tea?”
Darcy said nothing.
She busied herself with slicing bread. “I’ll start on our breakfast. There are plenty of eggs, as I recall. This loaf will do nicely for toast.”
Our breakfast. How easily she said that. As if they belonged together.
He must not linger, no matter how his poor heart ached to savour the sweetness of this moment. He had hoped to love her less—but he loved her more. The isolation had only increased the strength of his feelings.
He must go now before he lost his nerve. He could carry the portmanteau with one hand and his makeshift raft with the other. “Farewell,” he said gently. “May God Himself be your protector while I am away.”
Elizabeth turned, bread knife in hand. Her chin came up.
“I shall send someone to check on you,” said Darcy. “I promise.”
“Neither of us have money, and you’ll need to pay whomever you send. If I agree to be left behind—which I shan’t.”
“I’ll pawn something; my signet ring will serve. Aunt Catherine’s hirelings must have been told to leave that alone.”
“A family heirloom? Surely you cannot—”
Darcy interrupted. “It’s gold, Elizabeth. And if gold will ensure your safety, so be it. I can have a copy made. No one will know the difference.”
“No one but you.”
Darcy ignored this and gave a final look to the room. “I think I’m set. Except I, ah, loaned you one of my nightshirts. May I have it please?”
She was still holding the knife, and now her eyes were narrowed. “Why?”
