by Jennifer Joy
Darcy did not expect an answer, being so convinced of the conclusion he had drawn, that it surprised him when Richard asked, "Is that all?"
Darcy sat up in shock. "All, you say? What else is there to add? The sequence with which Mrs. Collins conversed of our younger sisters, her uncharacteristic comments about them being troublesome–"
Richard interrupted. "Is true of every little sister in creation! Are you so proud, you would deny that a Darcy is incapable of causing trouble? Mrs. Collins probably assumed your sister is as imperfect as any other sister on the face of the earth. It is a practical comment to make, and true to her character to mention."
He was impossible!
"You are determined to defend Miss Bennet? Tell me, then, how you can explain the mention of Wickham directly after Mrs. Collins' comment about troublesome younger sisters. I do not believe in coincidences, Richard."
"Perhaps you ought to," he countered, continuing, "How can you know for a certainty that Miss Bennet told Mrs. Collins about Georgiana? I will allow that it does look possible, but nothing you say Mrs. Collins said leads me to the undeniable conclusion that Miss Bennet betrayed your trust either. What I wish to know is what made you jump to that conclusion so quickly."
Darcy sneered. "You would have thought the same after hearing how she informed Mrs. Collins of all the goings-on here! She had no right to repeat any of the happenings regarding Anne's death to an outsider."
Richard pounded his fist against the arm of the chair. "And why should she not? Whom else can Miss Bennet speak to with confidence other than her childhood friend? She has few enough friends here, I daresay," he added with a pointed glare.
Richard could glare all he wanted to. It would not change Darcy's mind.
"If you are so determined to defend Miss Bennet, then enlighten me as to how you suppose I could find out for a certainty whether or not she has placed Georgiana's happiness in danger."
Richard had the audacity to roll his eyes. "She is 'Miss Bennet' to you now, eh? Dare I suggest you ask her directly?"
Of all the foolish suggestions. "And trust the word of an accomplished liar?"
"You do not know that. You are basing your actions on an assumption — an incorrect one if I am to trust my gut instinct."
Darcy laughed bitterly. "Am I to rely on the discernment of your intestines over a lifetime of protecting myself and Georgiana from the likes of ladies such as Miss Bennet?" Disappointment fueled the flames of his anger. He had wanted so badly for her to be different.
Richard shook his head. "Years in high society has jaded you to the goodness of people. I pity you, Darcy. Miss Bennet is as fine a woman as you are likely to ever find, and you are so scared to let your guard down enough to love her as thoroughly as a gentleman ought to love his lady, you are willing to let her slip through your fingers. You will live to regret it."
Darcy did not know which to object to first. He was not scared. "She does not love me like I…."
Those were not the words he had meant to say. Elizabeth was not his kindred soul. He could never love a liar who purposely put his sister's reputation at risk.
But the damage was done. "So you love her still. I am happy you have gumption enough to admit it."
Darcy clamped his mouth shut. He did love her — Blast it all! — and as much as he wanted to deny it, he could not in honesty's sake do so.
Richard rose from his seat with a heavy sigh.
Darcy did nothing to prevent him from leaving. He preferred his own company to Richard's unfounded babble anyway.
Richard rested his hand on the door knob and turned back to Darcy. "She loves you, you obstinate curmudgeon. Do not let such a treasure escape you, Darcy. Few men are blessed as you have been."
The click of the door echoed through the room, reflecting the emptiness in Darcy's heart.
Chapter 27
Darcy chose to break his fast in his room the following morning. Richard's doubts had infected him with festering uncertainty. But he had made his decision, and he would see it through.
Not having much of an appetite, he sent for the newspaper and devoured its contents with a concentration borne from avoidance. The morning still being early, he devoted an hour to the completion of a monumental letter to Georgiana in which he wrote at great length about nothing of significance. She would sense something was wrong. He crumpled the papers up and tossed them into the dying fire.
The knock at his door was almost welcome, but the originator of it was not. Richard opened the door and stepped inside.
"Come, Darcy, let us lay our differences aside. I am in grave need of your help. Aunt Catherine has asked me for advice on crop rotation, and I know nothing about it. Accompany me to the library for an adequate book on the subject, will you?"
"Crop rotation?" Darcy asked. "You should tell her to speak with her steward."
"She wants another opinion and has chosen the nephew who knows the least about the maintenance of an estate to ask since her more qualified nephew is currently in her disfavor. Now, will you help me or not?"
Richard's agitated tone and his own restlessness persuaded Darcy.
"Very well, but let us see to it quickly. It will take you all day to read and even longer to comprehend if your mind rebels at the task." The idea of Richard suffering through a lengthy tome of mind-numbing text on a subject of no interest to his cousin brought Darcy a morsel of cheer.
Richard groaned. "The sooner you are restored to Aunt Catherine's favor, the better. I am not made out for this estate business."
Darcy glanced at Richard as they went down the stairs. "Aunt Catherine has implied she means for you to inherit Rosings in my stead. I would think a gentleman in your position would see the advantage."
Richard's mouth twisted in disgust. "This place? Do you really think I would ever be happy living here — with the memory of my vile cousin taunting me at every turn and Aunt Catherine's garish furniture reminding me of how much I despise pretension and improper ambition? No, Darcy, Aunt Catherine may think she can bend me to her will with such an offer, but I am not tempted."
Seeing it from the point of view in which Richard presented it, Darcy understood his sentiments entirely. Truth be told, he had never wanted the estate either — not with the responsibilities he already had and his aunt's motive for naming him in her will. She had intended to make him feel obligated to marry Anne.
Unfortunately for Aunt Catherine, Darcy valued the prospect of marrying for love far more than wealth. A love to deepen over the years with a lady he respected as his equal and who loved him, not for what he possessed but for himself. He had thought Elizabeth was such a woman.
"What do you want, Richard?" he asked. Darcy had thought he knew exactly what he wanted for himself, but it had been nothing more than an illusion — a tempting dream forever beyond his grasp. He rubbed his chest to ease the ache.
Richard paused before the library door. "I only want what most men do. Satisfying work for the good of others and a woman whom I adore to come home to — who makes the days that are harder than the rest bearable. I want to hear children's laughter in my home, and I want my love for my wife to grow with every tender touch she bestows upon our sons and daughters. I want the challenge of living up to their expectations of me, and to feel accepted even when I fall short."
It sounded like a dream. Darcy ran his hand over his face. "Do you think such a blessed life is possible?"
Richard smacked him on the shoulder. "You will have it harder than most of us, having learned at a young age to trust nobody and to believe the worst of everyone. But I believe in the power of love. I believe with all my heart that it is strong enough to cover over the greatest of our imperfections — even yours, Darcy," he said with a grin.
He opened the door before Darcy could retaliate, and he saw her standing with an open book in her hand in front of the window. The sun's rays bathed her in a golden glow, and Darcy's heart broke thoroughly and completely. She looked like an angel … but he
knew better.
Richard shoved him forward. "You two need to talk."
Darcy pulled his attention away from the ethereal lady who had bewitched him body and soul to glare at his interfering cousin. "Crop rotation? You could think of no better excuse than that?" he grumbled.
Richard shrugged. "It got you here, did it not?"
Darcy shook his head in disgust at his own gullibility. When would he learn? He could trust no one. But neither would he back down from a confrontation.
He faced her. She stood before the window, clutching the book in front of her like a shield just as she had the day he had proposed at the parsonage.
Elizabeth had prepared her arguments. She had enumerated in her mind all the reasons why William's — er, Mr. Darcy's — arrogant indifference put him in the wrong of whatever he would accuse her. That she was innocent of the great sin he believed her to have committed added fuel to her righteous indignation on being unjustly accused.
But all of her bluster and bravado faded like a hothouse flower in the sun when she saw him. He looked like a man broken, and she wanted to fix all his shattered pieces.
He blinked, and his composed expression covered over his emotion. He glared at his cousin and said something about crop rotation, but Elizabeth saw through his act. She sensed how her presence disturbed him, and she longed to smooth over whatever had distanced him from her.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, taking his duties as a chaperone seriously, proceeded to the farthest corner in the room where he grabbed a random volume from the shelf and buried his face in the pages, making clear he was present in body only. Some chaperone.
William had not moved from his position in the doorway, so Elizabeth crossed the floor to him. She would set matters straight between them rather than accept the emptiness with which his absence overwhelmed her.
"Please tell me why you avoid me so I may make it right," she implored.
His eyebrows knitted together and he winced as if she had slapped him. "I do not know if it is possible."
Not possible? Her body went numb at the suggestion that all hope was lost. Only her stubborn refusal to believe it held her upright. "If you do not tell me what is wrong, we will never know."
When he remained silent, she continued, "Then please, hear this, William. If I have done or said anything to merit your disapproval and scorn, it was unconsciously done."
He breathed deeply. "Did you, or did you not, tell Mrs. Collins the details of Anne's murder?"
"Yes, I did," she answered defiantly, though her conscience had bothered her since the telling. She ought to have kept that information to herself, but Charlotte's blunt admission had ultimately led to hers and Maria's pardon from any involvement in Anne's death.
Two maids and the butler had confirmed that Charlotte had spent the entire time in Mrs. Jenkinson's room. And Mrs. Beeton herself had confirmed along with a footman that Maria had spent the majority of her time in the library with Miss de Bourgh. Neither of them had set foot in Miss de Bourgh's bedchamber. But William already knew this.
He nodded, as if she had answered the question correctly. As if she was participating in some sort of test … and failing.
"And did you, or did you not, tell Mrs. Collins about Georgiana's near-elopement with Wickham?"
"No!" she answered immediately. How could he even think such a dreadful thing? She had given him her promise of silence. "I have never spoken of Miss Darcy with Charlotte. I did, however, warn her in the same fashion in which I warned my father — a warning you gave me leave to give — about Mr. Wickham for the benefit of her unmarried sister."
She locked eyes with William, the distrust in his expression making her desperate that he believe her.
"How do I know I can trust you?" he exhaled, shoving his hand through his curly hair.
Elizabeth felt trapped. Asking Charlotte if she knew anything about Miss Darcy was out of the question. Charlotte was clever, and she would make the connection that there was indeed a secret in the young lady's past. And while Elizabeth trusted her friend to keep her peace, William had no grounds on which to base such an implicit trust.
"I have always spoken plainly to you, at times painfully so. If you do not trust my word now, I do not know how you ever shall," she whispered past the lump of despair choking her throat.
Her future with William crumbled before her. What was love without trust?
She pressed the book in her hands against the empty pit in her stomach. She had thought she knew what loss felt like, but it paled in comparison to the loss of hope toward the one man to whom she had willingly given her heart.
"If you did not betray my trust, then why did you apologize?" he asked, his voice tight.
"Apologize?" As agitated as she was, she could not recall an apology besides the one she had made in the conservatory — the apology on which they had built a friendship. A friendship which now lay in tatters.
"In Mrs. Jenkinson's room."
Oh, that. "I realized how bad it would be for Lady Catherine to connect you with the bonnet in my room. I have not had an opportunity to thank you. I realize you may not wish to hear my gratitude, but it was one of the kindest and most thoughtful gifts ever given to me. I do not believe in a good deed going unrecognized, and so I thank you." How bitter and inappropriate her words sounded in her own ears, but she did not know if she would ever have another opportunity to acknowledge his kindness. If they were to be her last meaningful words to him, she wished for them to be good ones.
Elizabeth shook her head in disgust. What was this dramatic prattle running through her head? She straightened her shoulders and controlled her thoughts. She had done nothing wrong! If he refused to trust her there was little she could do to change his mind, but she refused to take the blame for an error she did not commit.
When he did not say anything and the silence grew as thick as a wall between them, she mustered her boldness and said, "Believe of me what you will, but my conscience is at peace regarding you and your sister. I have said nothing, nor will I ever."
With that, she turned to the seat by the window and tried with all her might not to give in to the tears flooding her eyes when he chose not to follow her.
She heard his footsteps echo over the marble floor, the sound receding as he walked away.
Chapter 28
Elizabeth's only consolation for the rest of that day and most of the next was the hope that he was every bit as miserable as she was.
From the sympathetic glances Colonel Fitzwilliam gave her every time they crossed paths, she suspected as much.
Even Mrs. Beeton smiled tenderly when they saw each other, the melancholy in her eyes expressing she knew something awful had happened.
Elizabeth spent a good deal of time out of doors in the gardens, but their beauty failed to distract her from her unhappiness. The sun failed to dry her tears though it did give her an excuse for her ruddy complexion.
A glutton for punishment, Elizabeth returned to her room and lifted the bonnet William had given her from its box. Running her fingers over the smooth straw and caressing the satiny ribbon against her cheek, she noticed how the rosettes had wilted. Their sweet perfume clung to the bonnet … a reminder of what had once been.
William did his best to keep himself occupied while avoiding all the places he knew Elizabeth to frequent. He could not account for the guilt she inspired within him. His caution had always served him well, and yet, he took no comfort in his choice to cut off his affection for her.
Richard scowled at him at every turn. Even Mrs. Beeton shook her head and frowned at the sight of him.
The only solace he could find was in work. He met with Aunt Catherine's steward and did his best to concentrate on every word the man had to say about every concern. From poachers to crop rotation.
It was a game of tug-of-war in Darcy's brain between what he attempted to give his attention to and the woman who had captivated his every thought months before. To his chagrin, she won every time.
Returning to the house to change before dinner — an occasion Darcy dreaded — he was stopped in the entrance hall by the butler.
"Good afternoon, Sir. Her ladyship wishes to see you."
Aunt Catherine was the last person Darcy wished to see, besides her. "Tell her ladyship I will attend to her as soon as I have changed." He continued toward the stairs.
The butler called after him, "She wishes to see you immediately, Sir. She was rather explicit on that point."
Darcy turned slowly, prompted by the panic tingeing the butler's voice.
His own anxiety grew when the butler led him upstairs instead of to the drawing room Aunt Catherine preferred. And his astonishment increased further when Richard met them at the top of the landing.
"Were you were summoned as well?" Darcy asked.
Richard nodded, "Do you know what this is about?"
Darcy did not know, but he found it increasingly difficult to maintain a calm demeanor when the butler stopped in front of Aunt Catherine's rooms and knocked on the door.
The room was stiflingly hot, with the fireplace offering the only light in the dark room. Aunt Catherine sat by the fire, her furniture arranged in such a way as to give the appearance of a magistrate presiding at an inquest. Elizabeth sat before her, her back stiff and her hands clasped together in her lap. Her cheeks were ruddier than normal, and her eyes sparkled brightly. She did not look up at Darcy.
Before the butler closed the door, Aunt Catherine instructed all of the servants to leave.
Darcy took a deep breath and braced his feet firmly against the floor. Straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin, he waited for the door to close and for his aunt's assault to begin.
He preferred to remain standing, but Aunt Catherine pointed at the chairs in front of her. Shadows crossed her face, filling Darcy with the dreadful presentiment that he was there to face some sort of judgment — a judgment involving Elizabeth.
Aunt Catherine stared at him with pinched lips and twitching eyelids. He returned her firm gaze.
