by Pamela Aidan
Milton, of all poets, and Paradise Lost of all the dreary man’s works! What is she about, reading such ponderous verse nearly a century and a half old? It is certainly not fashionable today. Good heavens, no one reads Milton! No sooner had that last thought been silently uttered than a chill shook Darcy’s frame, and he remembered clearly the last time he had seen Milton’s work. Paradise Regained, bound in lovingly worn calfskin, had held an honored place among the books on the table beside his father’s bed during the last months of his life. Darcy’s brow furrowed darkly as a fierce stab of pain shook him at the remembrance of those days. He brought the hand cradling Elizabeth’s bookmark up to his chest and pressed it there, willing the pain away.
Voices and the sound of boots in the hall alerted Darcy that Bingley and his party had returned from the folly. Pocketing the threads, he quickly moved away from the bookshelf, his composure, or something like, reasserting itself, and was nearly to the library door when it opened to reveal Bingley’s flushed countenance.
“Darcy, at last! You have managed to elude us all morning, sir, and I simply won’t have you skulking about the library on a day such as today. We have visited the folly — a marvelous structure, by the by — and find ourselves in sore need of sustenance. I’ve ordered some refreshments in the conservatory so Miss Bennet may enjoy some of the sunshine, and I insist that you join us,” Bingley said. Darcy bowed his compliance. Bingley paused and then in an apologetic tone continued, “Ah, Darcy, good fellow, I know this is dashed impertinent of me, but would it be possible to, well…could you refrain from wrangling with Miss Bennet’s sister today? You may have heard they will be leaving tomorrow. I would not wish her to be overset.”
“Wrangle with Miss Elizabeth! My dear Charles, I do not ‘wrangle’ with her or with anyone!”
“Debate, then. Darcy” — he paused and looked at his friend beseechingly — “I am exceedingly sorry that you and Miss Elizabeth do not get on, but —”
“Have no fear, Bingley. I believe I know how to behave in company,” Darcy cut him off, unable to quell an impulse to sarcasm. Bingley colored at his tone, causing Darcy to condemn his hasty words for an unprecedented second time in one day.
“Charles, I beg that you will overlook my graceless words and deplorable manners. I have not felt myself lately, a disagreeable sensation, I assure you, and have been so impolitic as to cause others to feel the effects of it. For the embarrassment this has caused you, I am heartily sorry.”
“Embarrassment…caused me?” Bingley sputtered. He threw back his head and laughed in his friend’s puzzled face. “Darcy, when I think of the situations from which you have rescued me, due entirely to my own stupidity! Well, I despaired of ever making it up to you. Paying me back in the same coin is not what I would have expected, and the installment is minute compared with my great balance.” He paused and swept Darcy a regal bow. “It is forgotten, sir, with pleasure. Now come along and rejoin the human race. We are really not such a bad lot, after all.”
Darcy smiled broadly in the face of such easy good nature and thanked God that He had provided him such a friend. Setting his book down on the desk, he followed Bingley out the door.
Although his words to Bingley had warranted his ability to conduct himself in company as a gentleman, Darcy did not view the gathering in the conservatory with equanimity. That any topic remotely interesting or entertaining enough to distract him from his awareness of Elizabeth would arise in the conversation was highly doubtful. Hurst, he dismissed immediately. Bingley would be dancing attendance upon Miss Jane Bennet. Miss Bingley, abetted by her sister, would in turn fawn upon him or attempt to confound the lady she so clearly regarded as her rival. The only hope of any lively discourse was centered in the very person to whom the danger of his paying attention was beyond calculation. If he was to be successful in crushing any suggestion that Elizabeth Bennet held the slightest material influence over his felicity, his behavior toward her now would either confirm or deny it.
The ladies and Hurst were before them, engaged in desultory admiration of the specimens of flora that still boasted blossoms. As Darcy anticipated, Bingley broke from him and strode over to the Bennet sisters, exclaiming as he did on how well Jane Bennet was looking. A delicate smile teased her lips at his salutation, and she serenely nodded her acceptance of the offer of his arm for her support. Her sister happily relinquished the lady’s arm into Bingley’s keeping and stepped away from them with a graciousness that Darcy would have liked to admire but resolutely denied to himself. Instead, he turned away from the gathering and examined the room.
Netherfield’s conservatory was a small one and stood in need of the services of an expert gardener, but the suggestion of wildness given by its unkempt appearance lent it some piquancy. Evidently, a previous inhabitant had indulged in a passion for the exotica of the plant kingdom, for rather than the staid groupings of most gardens under glass, this one pulsed with the energy of rampant, twining vines and lush foliage. The moist, earthy scent of the air reminded him of his own extensive gardens and the pleasures of the conservatory at Pemberley.
The appearance of servants laden with the tea tray and dishes of sweets and cakes drew the company to the wrought-iron table in the center of the room. The last to accept his cup, Bingley paused at Darcy’s side and motioned with a quirk of his chin to the vacant seats next to Elizabeth and her sister. Even as he silently declined the invitation, Darcy could not prevent or deny the bittersweet pull on his senses the opportunity presented. Determinedly, he took up a position somewhat apart from the others, from which he could safely bide his time.
As it was, the conversation was consumed with the ball that Bingley had promised. Since the others were well aware of his aversion to the scheme, Darcy’s opinions were not solicited, even by Miss Bingley, and he was left to his silent contemplation. Relieved that he would not have to take part in a conversation fraught with traps that would militate against his plan, Darcy breathed in the tangy scents of earth and vegetation. Suddenly there swept over him an acute longing. Pemberley! For a few moments he forgot all around him, his mind’s eye roving hungrily over the geography of his beloved home.
The conservatory had been a favorite place of his when he was a child and youth. There, until her death, his mother had reigned as a benevolent tyrant, taking personal care of her roses and coaxing the exotic slips imported for her by her husband to thrive and blossom. Among the family and household, it had never been “the Conservatory,” for early in his marriage his father had one day gaily dubbed his wife’s efforts there “an Eden.” And Eden it had remained. As his own death approached, his father had insisted upon being carried down to Eden each day for a few hours of the companionship and solace of his late wife’s flowers. Often Darcy would join him there after a harrowing day wrestling with the responsibilities his sire’s weakening health had thrust upon him. Sometimes they would talk of the past, sometimes of the difficult days ahead, but more commonly they would sit in a shared silence deeper than words. For three years following his father’s passing, during which all his energy and thought had centered on Pemberley and the completion of his father’s designs for it, Eden had been a painful reminder of his loss, and he had rarely set foot into it until Georgiana one day expressed a desire for “a little garden.” Together they had chosen a space in Eden to be cleared for her use, and he had become a regular visitor there again, now to praise his sister’s efforts.
Darcy reached out and fingered the blossom of an unknown vine, then gently tucked its drooping head back into the greenery, that its interior glories might better be seen. The sound of a soft step behind him caused him to drop his hand quickly and turn, blocking his handiwork from view. Elizabeth approached him slowly, a look of puzzlement on her face, and then, rather than stopping, she moved past him to examine his rearrangement of the flower.
“A lovely flower, Mr. Darcy, and now displayed to advantage. But do you not think that the admiration it will attract will be detrimental
to its character?”
Darcy looked down into her teasing eyes but would not be drawn into battle. “Do you garden, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Since girlhood. A little plot, but it gives me pleasure. And do you, sir, garden?”
“An ardent admirer only.”
“So I see.” She nodded toward the flower, then stopped and cast up at him a searching glance. Caught by the question in her eyes, he could not look away. He bit at his lower lip. Could another meaning for his words have occurred to her?
“Or rather, a perfectionist in this, as in all things?” she dared him. Darcy merely smiled and offered her a bow, experiencing an indecent gratification with the dissatisfaction his reticence had caused to be mirrored in her face. Leaving her to puzzle through his meaning, he moved past her to remind Bingley of their engagement in the billiards room.
After he and Bingley had exhausted the lure of the billiard table, Darcy kept himself employed in one activity or another for the rest of the day. He read; he played several rubbers of whist with Bingley’s sisters and Hurst. At dinner he spoke only to Bingley and Hurst on the subject of a day of shooting. Afterward, he wrote letters to any relation or friend he could think of who might reasonably be expecting communication from him. Finally, the evening drew to a close and he could in good conscience retreat to his rooms. Closing the door, he rang for Fletcher and congratulated himself on keeping to his purpose, but on wearily slumping down into a chair, he found that the effort had fatigued him all out of proportion to its intended effect.
Do not think about it, he adjured himself, closing his eyes and yawning. You are much too tired to parse it all out. He stretched his legs and settled back into the chair to await the arrival of his valet.
“Ahem.
“Mr. Darcy, sir.
“Ahem!”
Darcy’s eyes opened slowly, but upon resting them on Fletcher, he sat up with a jolt. “Fletcher! I must have fallen asleep!”
“Yes, sir. You were quite caught in Hypnos’s thrall. Do you require anything more than the usual tonight, sir?”
“No, no.” Darcy shook his head and yawned. “I just wish to continue what I started here in this chair and as soon as it may be possible.”
“Certainly, sir. May I inquire as to which coat and waistcoat you wish readied for Services tomorrow?” Fletcher asked as he swiftly divested his master of coat and cravat. Darcy sighed; the energy needed to wrap his mind around his valet’s question seemed unavailable to him.
“Perhaps the green, sir, with the gold and gray striped waistcoat?”
Darcy managed a wry grin as he looked down at Fletcher. “Yes, I suppose. Rather grand for a little country church, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Grand, sir? Memorable, certainly, sir, but grand? No sir,” Fletcher assured him as he set about preparing his master’s nightclothes.
Darcy peered narrowly at his valet. “Memorable, eh? And why should I want to style myself in a ‘memorable’ fashion tomorrow?”
The regard Fletcher turned to him at his question was a portrait of professionalism piqued. “Mr. Darcy, sir! I have a reputation to maintain!”
“In Hertfordshire?”
“In whatevershire you happen to be, sir. It is my duty, sir, to see you turned out in a manner in keeping with your station and the occasion.” Fletcher continued with his preparations, investing them with an increased dignity.
“And services at a country church require a ‘memorable’ turnout?” Darcy probed, his suspicions aroused by Fletcher’s protestations.
“Pardon me, sir, but I was under the apprehension that the Lord was equally present at a ‘country church’ as he is in London at Saint ——— ’s.”
“Humph,” Darcy snorted. “I am not entirely convinced that your sincerity in this is as good as your theology, but I am too fatigued to discuss it further. The green it shall be.”
“And the gold and gray waistcoat, sir?”
“The gold and gray,” Darcy acquiesced. “Although why I should appear ‘memorable’ tomorrow I still do not fathom.”
“Very good, sir. Good night, Mr. Darcy.” The smile on Fletcher’s face as he left gave Darcy pause, but the previous night’s lack of sleep, the morning’s brutal ride, and the joyless struggle with his attraction to Elizabeth Bennet had taken their toll. In a matter of moments, he was deep in a dreamless slumber.
Chapter 8
His Own Worst Enemy
Darcy adjusted his neckcloth to a less constricting degree of tightness than his valet had deemed necessary and glanced at himself in the mirror as Fletcher gave a last flick of his brush across the shoulders of his green coat.
“There now, sir.” Fletcher circled him with a critical eye. He stopped at the waistcoat and, with a sure thumb, pressed anew the crease of the lapel, then nodded his head in satisfaction.
“I have your approval, then?” Darcy queried in some exasperation with the inordinate amount of attention Fletcher was giving to preparations for a simple morning’s services at Meryton Church.
“You will do, sir.”
“Do! Fletcher, you have not gone totty-headed on me, I trust? I warned you when I engaged your services that I was not desirous of playing the coxcomb.”
“Certainly not, sir!” Fletcher drew up in pained effrontery. “Nor would I allow it were anyone to convince you to make the attempt. It is not your style, sir.”
“On that, at least, we are agreed!” Darcy reached for his gloves as Fletcher opened the chamber door, his master’s hat in hand.
“A pleasant Lord’s Day morning to you, sir.” He bowed and handed Darcy his beaver and prayer book. Darcy’s nod as he left was of that slow, thoughtful sort designed to remind Fletcher who was the master. In no confusion as to its meaning, the valet cast his eyes downward with an appropriate degree of servility and swiftly closed the door with a firm click.
Shaking his head in bemusement at his valet’s inexplicable behavior, Darcy descended the stairs to the main hall. Seeing no one yet gathered for what should have been an imminent departure, he withdrew his pocket watch to see if he had mistaken the time. His own timepiece matched the one adorning his chamber and the clock in the hall. Frowning, he replaced it and started toward the breakfast room, only to be recalled by the sound of voices from the hall above. Turning on his heel, he retraced his steps, rounded the corner newel post of the staircase, and looked up, prepared to deliver a sharp request for haste.
“Elizabeth!” Her name escaped his lips as only a whisper, but she seemed to have heard, for her eyes rose from watching her footing as she descended the stairs to meet and return his appreciative stare. She was dressed charmingly in a cream-colored gown picked out with delicate white embroidery, over which she wore a curry-hued spencer trimmed in green. The colors suited her admirably, Darcy noted, and suffused her complexion with a warm glow. She appeared hesitant, looking at him with a curiously wide-eyed expression. Without considering, Darcy took one step toward her, then another and, when he came aside her, stopped and looked down into her confused countenance.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured, and bowed, careful of the narrow stair. “Permit me?” He offered her his arm and indicated the remaining steps.
“Mr. Darcy…thank you, sir.” Her voice wavered as she took his arm and hastily looked about the hall. “My sister is just behind me…The others are coming.”
“I hope that is so, or we shall be very late,” Darcy managed in a low, steady voice despite the inner tremors he was experiencing at the slight pressure her hand exerted on his arm. It looked so well there; the soft cream and curry seemed to melt right into his coat sleeve. Almost as if…
No, no, Fletcher couldn’t have known! His suspicion reawakened, Darcy looked up from his arm to the profile of the woman at his side and then back up the stairs behind them, half-expecting to see his valet lurking in the shadows of the upper hall. Instead, he beheld the rest of their party about to join them.
Resplendent in a violet gown and purple
pelisse with a matching bonnet trimmed with sweeping gray feathers, Miss Bingley began her descent. “Mr. Darcy! Louisa and Hurst are just now coming, but Charles and Miss Bennet are here, as you see…” Her voice trailed off as she drew closer, and a look of puzzlement wrinkled her brow as she beheld Darcy.
“Miss Bingley?” he prompted at her loss of words. Seemingly confounded into silence, she let her eyes travel from himself to Elizabeth as the others joined them in the hall.
“Miss Elizabeth.” Bingley approached them, smiling. “You must allow me to say how in looks you are this morning, both you and Darcy, actually. You could not be more complementary if it had been planned.”
Darcy flushed uncomfortably, although whether the greater part was caused by Bingley’s ingenuous observation or the suspicion of his valet’s connivance, he was not sure.
“An interesting coincidence merely, Charles.” Miss Bingley’s voice came bitingly to life. “But not so great as to cause further remark.”
“Coincidence!” Bingley hooted as he escorted Miss Jane Bennet to the door. “I’d lay good odds that —” The thunderous frown Darcy turned on him almost caused him to swallow his tongue. “Lay good odds that it is, as you say, all the merest chance. Is everyone here? Right! We must not be late for church,” he finished hurriedly, and, putting on his hat, ushered the ladies out the door.
Darcy chose to ride with the Hursts and leave the entertaining of the unattached ladies in Bingley’s capable hands. He was certainly in too great an ill humor to receive Miss Bingley’s speculations or countenance her incivility to Elizabeth. The somnolent atmosphere Hurts so ably projected was just what he needed to gather his wits and emotions together under tight rein. To further discourage his traveling companions from entering into pointless chatter, Darcy opened his prayer book at random and bent his mind to preparing for the morning.
O, God, who by Thy Spirit dost lead men to desire
