An Assembly Such as This fdg-1

by Pamela Aidan

  Why, then, do you continue to attend to her? his inner voice interrupted in demand. Darcy left the window and threw himself onto the bed. Suddenly, before thought could mitigate its power, the answer thrummed through his whole body. Because she is both — mind and heart — and what you have always desired. For some time it was impossible to ignore the thrill and terror of his confession, but he had been prepared from birth for his station in life and what was due his family. As he turned onto his side and grasped a pillow firmly against his cheek, the resolution was already forming that, for both of their sakes, no sign of admiration should escape him from henceforth. The rapid thudding of his heart finally quieted, but try as he might, sleep eluded him until the early watches of morning.

  Despite his lack of sleep, Darcy awoke at his habitual six o’clock. He made no move to rise at the sound of the clock but lay entangled in the dreams of a restless night and watched the earliest feeble rays of the sun push through the stark tree branches. His first desire was to wander back into the dream, but he felt a strange tightness take hold of his chest on the attempt. The resolutions of the evening then thrust themselves to the fore, banishing the wistful sweetness that yet lingered, and convinced him to delay no longer in rising. Better to seek the distracting power of a punishing gallop before the mists of the morning were burnt away. Wiser still to avoid her entirely today, he instructed himself as he threw back the counterpane and rose, pulling off his nightshirt and ringing for Fletcher.

  A steaming copper kettle of water carried by a kitchen lad heralded his valet’s arrival. Darcy sat down and closed his eyes as Fletcher arranged his tools and began stropping the razor’s blade in sweeping strokes. The rhythmic slap and scrape nearly put Darcy back to sleep, but he came suddenly awake when the warm blade made its first pass, causing Fletcher to nick him.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir! If you would be so kind as not to move. I will need to apply sticking plaster, and we know how you dislike that.” Darcy grunted at him and winced as the plaster was applied. “There now, sir. All should be well before the ladies must be faced.”

  “The only one who will see me this morning will be Nelson, and I doubt he will be shocked,” he retorted, causing Fletcher to chuckle softly. A knock on the door forestalled the valet’s ministrations. Stepping over to open it, he admitted another lad carrying a covered tray.

  “I took the liberty of ordering you breakfast, Mr. Darcy. Just a little something before your ride, sir.” Darcy nodded his approval, and the tray was placed on a table and a chair brought up. Fletcher dismissed the boy with all the imperiousness of his position and swiftly finished shaving his master, leaving him warm towels with which to complete his morning ablutions.

  In short order, Darcy finished and presented himself in his dressing room, where Fletcher carefully outfitted him for his morning ride. Darcy donned the clothes mechanically, his mind curiously hazy. Murmuring his thanks, he returned to his chamber and lifted the lid from the breakfast tray. The strong aroma of coffee and a perfectly prepared bit of beef gently roused him out of his torpor, and after a few bites, he began to feel more himself. The chamber clock chimed seven; Darcy rose, picking up his gloves, hat, and crop, and quietly went out to meet the morning.

  Stationed at the bottom of the carriage stairs, Nelson shook his head, stepping forward, then back, and generally intimidating the Netherfield grooms. His ears pricked at the opening of the door, and he swung his great head toward the sound. Upon beholding his master, he made a great show of stamping a hoof perilously close to the groom’s foot and gave an indignant snort, sending trails of vapor into the cold morning air.

  “G’morning, sir,” the groom panted, making no attempt to disguise the relief on his face. “He’s a bit high in the instep this morning, sir.”

  “So it would appear! He’s been giving you trouble again?” Darcy frowned into Nelson’s face, but the animal merely shrugged off the reprimand, tossed his head, and sent another flume of breath into the air. “You do look the veritable dragon this morning, old man.” He took the reins and, declining a leg up from the beleaguered groom, vaulted into the saddle. Nelson took advantage of the lull in control as Darcy attended to the stirrups to execute a jolting dance, reminding his rider that, in the world of horseflesh, he was just as well connected as Darcy. “Oh, so that is how it is! So puffed up in your own conceit that you disdain to practice the manners of a gentleman.” Darcy gathered the reins and drew them back until contact with Nelson’s mouth was firmly established and then nodded at the groom to let go his head.

  The horse’s excitement as Darcy allowed him to break into a stiff-legged trot was palpable, confirming his rider’s suspicion that this morning’s outing would be a test of wills. Strangely, the prospect was not unwelcome. The rigors of such an exercise would surely distract or perhaps banish entirely the constriction that still hovered under his heart. “Evidently, we both need the blue devils ridden out of us!” Darcy whispered. Nelson’s ears flicked back at his voice, and his snort assured his master of his complete agreement.

  Darcy signaled the advance to a canter as they approached the fence that girdled the wide field east of the hall and set his jaw as he felt Nelson gather speed for the fence. In a matter of moments, it loomed before them, wavering in the morning mists. They thundered forward; the entire world was become only those sounds of pounding hooves and the creaking leather, and the brutal fact of the fence before them. Suddenly, the fence disappeared as Nelson’s forelegs came up. His back arched, and in a silence outside of time, he carried his rider over the fence. He landed with a jolt that forced a grunt from his great lungs, but his hindquarters were already gathered for the long gallop across the field. Impulsively, Darcy gave him his head, man and beast throwing caution to the wind, flying as if chased by the Devil’s own hounds.

  Horse and rider returned several hours later, thoroughly exhausted but in complete charity with each other. Darcy slid his tired frame from Nelson’s back and pulled the reins over the animal’s head as the stable boys hurried over to guide their fearsome charge back to his stall. Mellowed by the exercise, Nelson allowed them to approach, eschewing his usual show of temper toward underlings and confining himself to giving his master a shove and a demanding whicker. Laughing wearily, Darcy reached into his pocket and extracted some sugar lumps, then waved them before Nelson’s attentive face. Too tired to put up with such foolishness for long, the horse dove straight into Darcy’s chest, requiring his treat. Grunting under the force of the blow, Darcy opened his hand and Nelson neatly lipped the lumps. Darcy rubbed at his chest as his horse crunched on the sugar and then, with a last firm pat, handed the reins over to the waiting lads. But before he would move, Nelson nosed gently over his master’s chest and face and, by way of apology, blew lightly into his ear.

  “Accepted! Unprincipled brute! Now off with you, and mind, you be civil to those lads.” With feigned meekness, Nelson followed his young keepers into the stable yard, and Darcy turned to the hall. He was very late for breakfast now and, he noted with grim satisfaction, very dirty. It would be impossible to appear at table for quite another hour, long past a reasonable time for them to wait for him. Spying Stevenson in the hall, he commissioned him to deliver his regrets to his hosts and then headed for the soothing tub of hot water Fletcher would soon have ready for him.

  He was no more than halfway up the stairs when a door below opened.

  “…very kind, Mr. Bingley, but it must be so. She will be quite well by then, and we have trespassed on your hospitality long enough.” Elizabeth’s clear voice drifted up to him.

  “Trespassed, Miss Elizabeth! I hope you will not think of it so, for we do not. I would not have Miss Bennet’s health imperiled for the world, certainly not for some mistaken notion of overstaying your welcome. We are, after all, neighbors, and must…uh…care for each other as we would ourselves.”

  Darcy heard Elizabeth’s delightful laugh in her reply that “you have not quoted Scripture precisely, Mr. Bingley, but wit
h your application of last Sunday’s sermon, I can find no fault. Such diligent attention makes one all anticipation what will be the result of tomorrow’s.” Darcy pressed his fingers to his mouth, smothering the chuckle that threatened to escape and reveal his presence. When the danger was over, his hand dropped but unconsciously began to rub again at his chest, the tightness once more afflicting him.

  “Then you are determined to leave tomorrow?” Darcy recognized the wheedle in Bingley’s voice, a sign that his persuasive powers had reached an end.

  “Oh, fie, Mr. Bingley! You would cause me to feel a complete ingrate, but you must know I am immune to such machinations. You forget that I have three younger sisters who regularly employ similar tones. I am well versed, sir, in resisting wheedles.”

  Bingley’s rueful laugh echoed in the hall. “You know me too well already, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “Too well to believe that you do not know how sincerely you are thanked and how gratefully you are regarded by your Bennet neighbors,” she replied softly. “Truly, you have been most kind to my beloved Jane and to me.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Now, I must go up to Jane, and if she continues well, we will both be down later this morning. Mr. Bingley.”

  As stealthily as possible, Darcy leapt up the remaining steps and, with quick strides, rounded the corner to the passage that led to his suite of rooms. Once through the door, he closed it carefully, making no sound, and let out the breath he’d been holding. She leaves tomorrow then. His eyes swept the chamber as if in search of something, he knew not what. Then, with a groan, he pulled the bell rope, sat down heavily in the large wingback chair, and worked at the buttons on his coat. A godsend, really. She has been here long enough! The buttons loosened, he attacked his neckcloth, pulling fiercely at the ends and yanking at the knots. And you like her more than you should…He paused in his struggle with the yard of linen and let his hands drop. Like her! Poor fool, you cannot even be honest with yourself! He rose and paced the length of his chamber, opened the dressing room door, and, finding no activity within, marched back to the bell rope and pulled at it again. He had no more than flung himself back into the chair when Fletcher opened the dressing room door.

  “Mr. Darcy, your —”

  “Time and more that you should have made an appearance! Is my bath ready, or must I carry the water up myself?” he bellowed at his valet. The look on Fletcher’s face smote Darcy to the core, and for a space of a few breaths, master and servant beheld each other in frozen silence.

  “Fletcher, would you be so kind as to forgive me my lamentable manners and totally unjust words? You have served me well and faithfully these seven years and do not deserve my bad temper.” The valet’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and he bowed his glad compliance. “Good man,” Darcy responded gratefully, and got up from the chair. He walked past the valet into the dressing room, where the first buckets of hot water were being lowered into the bath. Fletcher reached over and carefully pulled his master’s coat off his shoulders and down his arms. The offending neckcloth was gently removed. Darcy sat down while a kitchen lad worked on his boots and his valet arranged his kit.

  “That will do nicely, Fletcher. Give me, say, twenty minutes.”

  “Very good, sir. Nothing else I can get for you, sir?” Darcy shook his head wearily. “I did hear a bit of news, sir.”

  “Indeed? And what is your ‘bit of news,’ Fletcher?”

  “The Misses Bennet will depart for their home tomorrow after Sunday services.” Fletcher opened the servants’ door to the dressing room. “But perhaps you already have heard.” Darcy looked up sharply at his valet, but Fletcher was already safely on the other side of the door.

  The walls of Badajoz yet stood after a day of incessant artillery bombardment, and the command to withdraw had just been dispatched to the company commanders when Darcy heard the library door click open. He had come downstairs to find the public rooms empty of both the Bingleys and their guests. “Taking the air up at the folly, sir” had been a footman’s answer to his query of their whereabouts. So, with the house wonderfully serene, he had taken his book to the library and settled in for an hour of “following the drum” until his host returned.

  The door was directly behind him, so at the sound he called over his shoulder, “Charles, this is indeed incredible! You must let me read it to —” A flash of yellow sprigged muslin at the corner of his eye immediately informed him that it was not Bingley with whom he shared the room. Darcy looked up to see a vision of loveliness before him, the sunlight glancing through the library window causing her gown to glow softly and highlight the auburn of her hair. He swallowed hard. Steady on…not the slightest sign!

  “Miss Elizabeth,” he said tonelessly as he rose from his chair. His perfunctory bow was answered with a curtsy its equal.

  “Mr. Darcy, pray do not let me disturb you.”

  “Madam.” Darcy bowed again and resumed his seat. Fumbling awkwardly, he opened his book to the passage he had been about to offer Bingley and stared hard at the page, all his senses on edge until she should either find her book and sit down or, please Heaven, quit the room. He forced himself to look no farther than his paragraph, but the soft tread of her slippers, the rustle of her gown, and the faint scent of lavender teased his resolve and kept him more aware than he wished of where she was in the room.

  Finally, she chose a book. Darcy willed himself not to look up but instead, with slow deliberation, turned the page. The print danced before his eyes, forcing him to blink several times and draw the book closer. She floated past him then, her skirts brushing his shoes, and sat in the chair to his right, separated from him only by a small table that supported a brass lamp. Silence now reigned in the room, punctuated only by the sound of pages being turned and an occasional sigh from the recesses of the chair on his right.

  Darcy commanded his body to relax into his chair, and when a sufficient obedience had been achieved, he returned his attention to his book, only to find that not a word from the previous page had registered in his brain. Annoyed with himself, he turned back to read it again. A delicate yawn followed by more distracting sighs arrested him in midpage, and it was some moments before he could recall himself to his study. His whole being was alive to her every action, requiring every ounce of his will to appear indifferent to her presence. He could quit the library, of course, take his book to any one of innumerable places, but an irascible stubbornness forbade him to retreat from this, his habitual refuge from the world, and surrender it into her keeping! He fixed his eyes on the top of the page again and forced himself to pay strict attention to each word. There, now! He turned the well-thumbed leaf.

  Elizabeth rose from the chair and replaced her book on the shelf, but to Darcy’s agitation, rather than leaving, she commenced to search for another one. The agonies caused him by her first search repeated themselves with no less intensity. He was seriously considering retreat as his best option when a knock on the door startled both of them.

  “Enter,” Darcy voiced hoarsely.

  “Excuse me, sir…madam. Miss Elizabeth, ma’am. Miss Bennet has awakened and is asking for you,” Stevenson quietly informed her.

  “Oh! Thank you, Stevenson. I shall be right up,” she responded, and, turning to Darcy, swept him a careless curtsy and hurried out of the room.

  With the click of the heavy oak door once more reverberating through the room, Darcy let his book drop to his lap and closed his eyes, his fingers working strongly on the bridge between them. This is intolerable! Finding no relief for his jangled sensibilities, he sprang from the chair and proceeded to pace the length of the fine Aubusson carpet Bingley had laid down the day before.

  Thank God she leaves tomorrow, before I am turned into the most pitiable mooncalf who ever pined for a lady’s favor! And for what do I daily become more the fool? She has caused a rift between Bingley and myself, set Miss Bingley’s tongue like a cat among the chickens, found fault with all I say, insulted me to my face, and while b
eing thoroughly indifferent to my presence, cuts up my peace entirely! His right shoe made contact with something as he paced, sending it skittering across the floor. He looked down to see Badajoz flying toward the shelves.

  “No!” he shouted uselessly as it came to rest with a thump against the wall. Darcy strode over and picked up the prized volume, turning it over and over. No damage that a little oil would not set right. As he rubbed the leather cover against his trousers, he noticed a volume on the shelf before him that was not quite in line with its neighbors. Tucking his own book under his arm, he reached over to nudge it back but then stopped, recognizing it as the book Elizabeth had been sighing over. His hand fell to the shelf, his fingers tapping on it as he looked at the book’s spine. What had she been reading? His animus was quickly overpowered by his accursed fascination with her. What kind of book does she enjoy? He stood there in indecision, arguing against an invasion of her privacy on the one hand and for the satisfaction of his compelling curiosity on the other.

  It is sure to be mere drivel, he assured himself finally, and with a seeming will of its own, his hand closed swiftly on the book, drew it out, and flipped it open to the title page. The title, Paradise Lost, stared back into his astonished face. His eyes scanned down the page. “Being the work of John Milton.” Further examination revealed a bookmark composed of several embroidery threads marking the place where she had last read. Darcy turned there briefly. Then, closing the book carefully, he slowly replaced it on the shelf, his mind awhirl with questions as he examined the brightly colored threads lying in the palm of his hand.