He longed to ask her what put that distant look of sadness in her eyes, so dreadfully incongruous with her mobile features, made for lightness and laughter. He longed to ask her if she would ever feel at peace in his world, or forever be as ill-disposed to be amongst his peers as she had been at Christmas. He longed to ask her if she understood what was expected of him. What he owed his name and lineage. What he owed Pemberley.
But of course he could not ask her any of that. The truth was unavoidable: if he offered marriage, they would be shunned, and blameless Georgiana with them. Even if she left to live with Mrs Bingley for a while and he offered for her later, it would still be remembered she had once been in his employ. And it would be said he could have done a vast deal better than marrying his friend’s impecunious new sister.
Reason demanded in no uncertain terms that he see sense, sever the ties of an unsuitable attraction, return her to Hertfordshire to a gentlewoman’s life in Bingley’s home and begin the search for a fitting match in earnest.
Yet even as he thought it, a deep sense of loss gripped his heart, staggering in its intensity. It did not bear thinking that she could ever leave his house and make a life elsewhere. Not even in the safety of Netherfield. As for the wrenching thought of her marrying another–
Blood-red emotion battling with solemn thoughts, and neither winning. Yet still they battled, until he could not bear it any more.
* * * *
A night towards the end of January broke the wretched pattern.
It was very late. The clock on the mantelpiece quietly struck the eleventh hour and Darcy glanced up to check he had not miscounted. He had not, and he rolled his shoulders back to ease the tension in his muscles, then set the pen down and flicked the inkwell closed. He pushed the letter from him. It was not finished yet, but it would have to be. Soon. For too long he had neglected it, along with many of his duties. Nevertheless, they would all have to wait until the morrow at the very least. He had neither the time nor the energy to address them now.
He stood, put out the candles and left his study.
The sound reached him as he was crossing the great hall, so quiet that for a moment he thought he was mistaken. But then it could be heard again. Harp strings plucked ever so lightly, to give the merest hint of a hauntingly soft tune.
He did not recognise it, but the mastery of his sister’s hand was unmistakable. She had no further need to practise, and certainly not at this hour of the night, when she should have long retired.
Darcy slid the door open to affectionately observe as much – and remained stock-still, the brotherly advice unspoken, because the slender figure poised over the harp was not Georgiana. He swallowed hard as the unbearably sweet harmonies and the lithe form, almost ethereal in the pale glimmer of a single candle, wreaked havoc through his senses. He strained to hear the whispered words she joined to the silvery sounds dripping from the instrument, and he could not.
The whispers ceased. She must have reached the end of the aria, for her fingers trailed over the strings, then dropped listlessly in her lap. The final notes lingered in the air and in the still vibrating chords of the harp – of his heart – urging him forward.
With the greatest effort he resisted, but it was all for naught. His swift motion to withdraw must have somehow caught her notice and she suddenly glanced up to see him standing in the doorway.
Her visible shock demanded a prompt, if faltering, apology.
“Pray forgive me for startling you. I– ”
It was her turn to falter.
“Think nothing of it. My fault, I thought everyone was abed. Have you… been here long?”
Darcy forced a smile as he walked in.
“Not long enough. I have only caught the closing bars of that beautiful aria. Would you mind…? Would you be so kind to play it again?” he asked with heedless daring, unable to resist this time, only to see consciousness replacing the odd look of relief that had crossed her features on being told he had not heard her play.
“It would disappoint,” she quietly demurred. “I require more practice.”
“Not from what I heard,” Darcy contradicted, but she stood from the instrument with a forced smile of her own.
“Misleading evidence, Sir. While I have fully mastered the closing bars, I cannot say the same of the rest. Another time perhaps, and at a more sociable hour. I should retire now,” she finished, collecting her candle from the adjoining table.
In the face of her steadfast refusal, all that was left for him to do was to civilly offer:
“Pray allow me.”
Yet this time civility did not serve him well. His fingers brushed against the back of hers when he reached for the candle, and their eyes locked over the flickering light. They were his undoing – the brief, electrifying touch, the shimmer in those dark brown eyes, the trembling lips. The sharp need to crush them under his was overpowering; to snatch the blasted candle, drop it back on the table and take her in his arms. Taste the sweetness of her mouth, let his lips explore every soft inch of exposed skin, and his hands roam over her tantalising form.
What forced him back from the edge of the abyss was instant revulsion. No better than Fenton! His features twisted into nothing short of agony at the sickening notion of Elizabeth struggling to free herself from him, as she had from that rogue’s advances. Elizabeth thinking him a rake – the sort of abominable master who saw his household as his rightful harem.
He shuddered at the repulsive notion and took a deep, steadying breath. There was another answer. He could declare himself. Now. Here. Beg her to relieve his suffering and consent to be his wife.
Was that what he wanted?
Oh, he wanted her! With a passion nothing short of terrifying. So much so that, were he to offer marriage and she to accept, it would be the severest trial not to anticipate his vows.
But what of the rest of the world that lay beyond the four walls around them? What of his duties to his heritage, and to himself?
The burden of expectations pushed him further back. He withdrew his hand from the candlestick, slowly and with caution, so that she would grow aware of his intention and not let go of it as well, for the candle to drop and set the rug ablaze. He was in no fit state to put out another fire, Darcy mercilessly mocked his tenuous self-control, then coaxed his taut muscles into a bow.
“Forgive me, I have just remembered some urgent business,” he offered crisply. “I must return to my study. I bid you good night.”
He bowed again, lower this time, deliberately honouring her – yet still left her to find her own way above stairs, not trusting himself to escort her up and risk another bout of sheer insanity.
Besides, the excuse was not entirely a falsehood. There was urgent business to attend to. A lengthy absence demanded preparation, and that his affairs be left in order.
He would leave on the morrow. For how long, he knew not. As long as it was necessary to come to a decision. Calmly. Not dispassionately – that was no longer possible – but at least not ruled by unbridled passion.
He had to think. He would. And would return to offer for her – or forsake her. But, until he settled one way or the other, it would be torture and nothing short of madness to remain under the same roof as her at Pemberley.
PART TWO
Elizabeth
CHAPTER 13
The ivy grows slowly day by day, and all through the night. Tendrils sprout, unfurl and reach to take hold. No noticeable difference from one day to the next, yet a time comes when one can see it has covered the entire wall, clinging so firmly that it leaves visible damage if torn off.
When had she become so deeply attached to Mr Darcy? How had she been so senseless to allow him to take such a firm hold over her heart? Insidiously, treacherously, her feelings had grown without notice, until one day she had found herself thoroughly caught in this wretched mire of yearning and despair.
For she had no hope. No hope whatsoever. Even as Miss Elizabeth of Longbourn she could have
scarce hoped to capture the interest of one who could make an alliance with the most illustrious houses in the land. What hope could she possibly nurture now, when she was nothing to him but yet another name in the wages ledger – one of the many souls in his employ?
She kept reminding herself of this heart-wrenching truth time and again, yet there was nothing to be done about it. She could not stop thinking of him, with the deepest agony of longing. Could not stop stealing surreptitious glances at his handsome face, as though it were not indelibly etched into her mind’s eye already. As though it were not burned into her heart. She could not look at his hands, even – beautiful hands, with long, firm fingers – without a forbidden thrill at the thought of how perfect life would be if they held her. Nor hear his deep voice without yearning to hear it again. To hear her own name on his lips. Not ‘Miss Bennet’, but ‘Elizabeth’. Whispering that he loved her. And her heart broke to know that day would never come.
And now he was gone. Had left Pemberley without warning the day after her foolish, foolish lapse of judgement. Whatever had possessed her to go into the music room in the dead of night and sing that song? He had claimed he had not heard her – but what if he had merely said as much to spare her the well-deserved mortification? What if he had actually heard the wretched words?
It was an Italian aria she had sung – not sung in truth, but falteringly whispered – but with his extensive knowledge of most things and his all-encompassing education, it was to be expected he had acquired a thorough understanding of that language. So he would have known what the words said: that even when lips were silenced and feelings could not be openly expressed, they would still burn in sparkling eyes and could be discerned, if one were to look closely.
He had looked closely that night in the music room. Had he seen the full truth in her eyes? Was that the reason for his abrupt departure?
Elizabeth frowned and stood, vexed with herself beyond endurance. Goodness, how highly she still thought of herself! What gentleman – however kind and noble – leaves his ancestral home to spare the feelings of his sister’s paid companion?
He was the best man she had ever known. Every day spent in his house had taught her that. The best brother, the best landlord, the best master. Firm, as she had seen for herself on more than one occasion, yet eminently fair and uncommonly considerate. Never a cross word from him to anyone, even when richly deserved. Some people called him proud, Mrs Reynolds once said, but Elizabeth had to agree with the kindly housekeeper: she had never seen any sign of it, and what might have been misconstrued as pride was nothing but his natural reserve.
Yet a gentleman of his moral standing – no matter how reserved and honourable and thoughtful – would not abandon his own home just because he might have found himself an object of fascination to a young woman in his household, who should have known better. No, he would sensitively make arrangements for her leaving his employ.
So hopefully her secret was still safe and his departure not laid at her door. But this made his absence not a shade more bearable as she prayed for his swift return. Her days at Pemberley were numbered, she knew it all too well, and it was the greatest anguish to be deprived of the comfort of his presence while she was still allowed to have it. Nay, not comfort. There was no comfort for her in his company. Just the forbidden thrill of aching joy.
* * * *
He did not return. Instead, a letter came for Georgiana, to tell her he had arrived in Berkeley Square in safety – and give no indication of his length of stay. So there was nothing to be done but struggle through the bleak emptiness of each barren day.
Despondently and with a heavy heart, the old pursuits from former days of summer were slowly resumed as Elizabeth valiantly sought to accustom herself with his continued absence. It was good practice for the future, to learn to live with this gaping void. With the dull oppressive weight that would be her constant companion when she left Pemberley to live with Jane.
But at least she would be in entirely new surroundings then. A safe new place, devoid of associations. She would not have to look each day upon an empty seat at the table, nor battle tears as she wandered through a house imbued with him, regardless of whether he was there in flesh or not.
His house. His possessions. His heartbreakingly faithful likeness in the gallery. His study, where she had ventured in a moment of insanity – for how could she have justified the impertinent intrusion, had she been discovered there? What business had she to lay a stroking hand over the top of the large chair, where his head had rested? Or brush her fingertips over the pens his hand had touched? What business had she to stand there, eyes closed and breathing deeply to savour the admixture saturating the eminently masculine room – leather, old books and his own distinctive scent, so achingly familiar although she could not have possibly deciphered the subtle alchemy of its ingredients. So personal a room and so full of him that it brought nothing but sharper longing tainted with mortification. She could not have been more out of place had she wandered above stairs, into his private chambers.
She hurried out, never to return. It was hard enough to bear his absence in the rest of the house. The breakfast room. The dining room. The music room. The orangery. The library. Haunting recollections wherever she turned. Aching recollections of the time when she had enjoyed his company to the full, blissfully unaware of her burgeoning feelings. Had delighted in his admirable qualities and knowledge of the world. Had talked and laughed with him, had discussed books, had played at chess. Only to withdraw from him when she had discovered, to her deepest shock and anguish, that admiration and respect had blossomed into love, for fear of betraying herself with too long a glance or some incautious word or gesture.
Oh, how she regretted wasting all those precious hours! How she repented of each and every time she had refused to indulge him with a game of chess, or a song, or conversation. She should have eagerly welcomed every chance to be near him; buried her feelings deeper and treasured every moment. Too late. Too late for empty wishes. There was nothing left but the agony of loss.
* * * *
He remained absent. But late February brought at least one balm to Elizabeth’s aching heart. Jane and Mr Bingley had concluded their stay with relations in the north and had stopped at Pemberley on their return journey.
While Elizabeth had so far succeeded in concealing her distress from Georgiana, the same could not be said of Jane, who knew her a great deal better, and finding her in such low spirits perturbed her eldest sister greatly. The evening of their arrival brought no opportunity for privacy and careful inquiries, but on the very next day she asked Elizabeth to accompany her on a walk through the grounds. As soon as they were alone, Jane put her deep concern into words:
“Dearest Lizzy, may I ask why you are so dreadfully despondent? I have not seen you in such a bad way since we lost Papa.” No answer came, but she insisted: “Will you not tell me what makes you so low? Is it still him? Are you still grieving? I hoped you would feel his loss less keenly by now. I long to see you restored to your former self and hear you laugh and tease me as you used to do.”
“Oh, Jane! Whatever is there to be cheerful about?” Elizabeth bitterly burst out, only to apologise a moment later. “Forgive me, dearest. Your happiness gives me every reason to rejoice. Mr Bingley is such a wonderful gentleman, so kind and amiable, and so well suited to you. I am delighted for you both.”
Jane clasped her in a warm embrace and eagerly whispered:
“He is everything you say and more. If only I could see you as happy.”
Elizabeth drew back from her sister’s tender arms, her countenance once more clouded.
“Thank you. But it will never happen.”
“Why would you say that? No one can tell what the future holds. Of everyone I know, you used to have the sunniest disposition. It pains me to see you so dreadfully altered.”
“Forgive me,” Elizabeth said again. “I do not wish to give you pain. Let us change the subject.”
; “Let us not,” Jane replied, quietly but warmly. “There is a great sadness in you, and I cannot see you bear it alone. Tell me, Lizzy! Pray tell me what distresses you.”
The entreaty struck the deepest chord. Oh, for the relief of speaking the truth for once, and unburdening herself to someone she could fully trust – her dearest sister.
There was no one around. No risk of being overheard. With a deep sigh, she ventured forth.
“Would you listen and not pity me? I could not bear your pity.”
“You frighten me. What is this about?”
Elizabeth clasped her sister’s hand and the truth burst out in an anguished whisper:
“I love him, Jane! With all my heart and soul I love him. The longer I spent with him, the deeper I fell every day, and there is nothing for me but misery. He is so far above me, I might as well worship the sun in the sky,” she finished dejectedly, and Jane’s eyes widened.
“You speak of Mr Darcy.”
“Who else?” Elizabeth retorted bitterly, only to be gathered in a tight embrace.
They stood there holding fast as, in the comfort and safety of her eldest sister’s arms, Elizabeth’s long-held sorrows found cathartic release. She wept as Jane had never seen her weep before, her shoulders shaking with heartrending gasps, and all she could do was hold her and rock her gently from side to side, until the worst of the agony was spent.
Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 15
