The Road to Pemberley

by Marsha Altman

  She barely breathed, but he heard her nevertheless. “I am frightened.”

  “I know, love.” He slowly removed his greatcoat, draping it over a nearby branch. “But I cannot do this alone. Together, we are invincible. Unfasten the cloak, and hold it until I tell you to let it drop. Do you understand?”

  Elizabeth gave the slightest nod and then slowly lifted her arms. When her hands stilled, Darcy inched forward. “When I tell you to do so, drop the cloak from your shoulders. It will cover the two by the hole’s opening.” Darcy inhaled slowly. “I will jerk you free before the one by your boot strikes.” Darcy edged within inches of her. “I love you, Elizabeth,” he whispered. “On three, you will drop the cloak. One. Two. Three.”

  Darcy saw it all in slow motion. The dark blue cloak slithered from her shoulders, covering the two smaller adders on her left as he tossed Elizabeth over his shoulder. The snake resting on her boot’s toe fell back into the hole, but Darcy had not seen the fourth one hidden under her skirt’s hem. When it struck his Hessian boots, the impact surprised him, but he did not pause to inspect the damage. Ignoring the brambles tearing at his jacket, he ran some fifteen meters along the path before he stopped suddenly and clutched Elizabeth to him. “Tell me you are well!” he demanded as his hands traced her face and arms. “Did it strike you? The adder?” he pleaded.

  Elizabeth sobbed, but other than a few scratches on her face, he saw no wounds. “Your legs?” he begged. “Did the adder strike your legs?” he ground out the words.

  “No,” she wept. “You saved me.” Elizabeth collapsed against him, and Darcy gulped for air.

  “My God!” His hands shook as he stroked her back. “I could have lost you.”

  “I am sorry,” she moaned. “I was silly. Oh, God, Fitzwilliam, I am sorry.”

  Darcy wiped her tears away with his thumbs. “As long as you are unhurt.” He kissed her forehead and cuddled her again. After a few minutes, Darcy moved a bit away from her. “Stay here. Let me retrieve my coat and your wrap.”

  “Leave the cloak.” Elizabeth looked warily down the trail, as if she expected an army of snakes to have followed them.

  Darcy examined her face closely. “Are you sure?”

  “I cannot bear it, Fitzwilliam. I would feel as if the snakes crawled on me.” She shivered.

  Darcy nodded. “I will retrieve the cloak, and you can donate it to someone in need. I will buy you a new one as a wedding gift.” He strode away. Seconds later, he returned, placing his coat over her shoulders. “Can you walk?”

  “I am not sure. I turned my ankle.”

  Before scooping her into his arms, Darcy draped the cloak over a bush. “You will allow me to tend to my future wife,” he announced as he carried Elizabeth along the trail.

  She laced her arms about his neck and kissed Darcy’s cheek. “I could become accustomed to such luxuries, Mr. Darcy.”

  “If this is what it takes to keep you safe, then I will gladly persevere.” He lifted her into the curricle’s seat. “May I have a kiss for my efforts?” He cupped her chin in his large palm.

  “If that is what it takes to keep you happy, then I will gladly persevere.” She leaned forward to touch his waiting lips with hers.

  Darcy winked at her. “That it is, my love.” Then he disappeared into the underbrush to retrieve her cloak, which he folded carefully and stuffed in the small trunk under the curricle’s seat. “Let me take you home.”

  “You were lucky,” Charles Bingley observed as he examined the mark on Darcy’s boot. “It did not penetrate the leather.” They had called on the local vicar to make arrangements for their separate ceremonies. Now, they relaxed together in Bingley’s study.

  Charles and Jane Bennet were both part of Mr. Pinncatch’s congregation. The man would call their banns two more times before their ceremony. “Mrs. Bennet must be beside herself to have three daughters married within such a short time,” the vicar had observed as he recorded Darcy’s information in his official records.

  “I imagine the lady is quite content.” Darcy would tolerate Mrs. Bennet for Elizabeth’s sake, but he held little respect for the woman—even less so now that he had seen firsthand how the lady slighted her middle daughters, especially Elizabeth.

  “You will request the banns called in your home parish, Mr. Darcy?” Pinncatch inquired.

  Darcy brought their business to a close. “I will inform Mr. Bradford, but I will purchase a common license. I do not expect to return to Derbyshire before the date Miss Elizabeth has chosen for our joining. It may be difficult to provide the necessary paperwork for your records before the ceremony.”

  “Either way is acceptable, sir. I cannot imagine anyone would object to your marrying Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy could think of several: Charles’s sister, Caroline Bingley, and Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine, were among them.

  “Of course,” he assured the vicar. “Miss Elizabeth is above reproach.” But even as he said the words, something had nagged at him.

  “Miss Elizabeth must have been terribly frightened.”

  Bingley’s words brought Darcy back to their conversation. “I will have to teach my young bride about the consequences of impetuous actions,” he observed.

  Bingley’s surprise showed. “Surely, Darcy, you do not place the blame of today’s near disaster on Miss Elizabeth’s shoulders?”

  Darcy looked at Bingley narrowly as he sipped his brandy. “And why should I not? Despite my insistence that we had given our word to return to Longbourn, Elizabeth set off on her own. She is fortunate that I refused her demand to leave her to her own devices.”

  Bingley swirled the brandy in his glass. “I would not have denied her in the first place.”

  “Really?” Darcy’s eyebrow rose. He longed to share Pemberley with Elizabeth, but he would not allow her to control him.

  Bingley smiled calmly. “Really. Miss Elizabeth is young, and maybe a bit unpredictable, but she possesses what you most require. You need an heir, and the lady is young enough to bear you healthy children. And instead of saying that she acts before she thinks, I, personally, prefer to think of Miss Jane Bennet’s sister as a young woman with a zest for life. Is not her energy what attracted you to the lady originally?”

  Darcy paused before answering. “I am not sure what attraction the lady held.”

  “You will enjoy the Meryton bonfire,” Elizabeth said as she snuggled against Darcy’s shoulder. They shared a carriage with Bingley and Miss Bennet. Darcy had sent his large coach to London to bring Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley, his sister’s companion, to Netherfield. He needed reinforcements. Bingley’s youngest sister would descend on his friend’s estate on Tuesday, just in time to put a damper on Darcy’s enjoyment of the wedding of his old friend and Miss Jane Bennet. At least, with Georgiana in residence, Darcy could feign seeing to his sister’s needs.

  “It celebrates the village’s founding,” Jane Bennet explained.

  Bingley caught his fiancée’s hand. “I do not recall a bonfire last year. Did I miss it somehow?”

  “The weather right after Michaelmas was so wet. Everything had to be postponed, and then finally it was canceled,” Elizabeth explained.

  “Ah. Now I understand.”

  “Sometime we will have to join the Bonfire Night in York,” Darcy added. “The best bonfire toffee I have ever eaten.”

  “So what shall we see tonight?” Bingley asked good-naturedly.

  “Lots of food…and people—” Jane began.

  “And dancing,” Elizabeth interrupted.

  “Dancing in a village square?” Darcy snarled.

  “I swear, Fitzwilliam, must you find everything repugnant?” she blurted.

  Resentfully, Darcy said, “I am aware that you enjoy dancing more than I do.”

  Elizabeth eased away, realizing that she had stirred his ire. “I spoke out of line, Mr. Darcy,” she said apologetically.

  Darcy should have accepted her apology, but he was slow to forgive. This was their second
tiff in less than four days, and, unbidden, questions formed in his mind. Would they always snipe at each other? Were their personalities too different? I hope not, he told himself.

  The evening seemed colder than the temperature. Elizabeth remained by his side, but they showed no affection. It was as he wished, but it felt wrong. He preferred Elizabeth on his arm, so that he could cup her hand with his free one. “I gave your cloak to Mr. Pinncatch to pass on to a needy soul. I have asked Georgiana to bring you a new one from town.”

  Elizabeth glanced down at the plain brown wool that she wore. She had borrowed it, an old one of Charlotte’s, from Lady Lucas. “I thank you, sir. It is kind of you, although I do not deserve it.”

  “Of course, you deserve it. As my wife, you will order a whole new wardrobe,” he assured her.

  Elizabeth blushed, but she managed to say, “I have apologized more in the past few days than I have in the past several years. And I suppose I must offer my sincere regrets again. Although I have experienced Pemberley’s grandeur, I had not thought so much of the differences in our styles of life.” Glancing around to assure privacy, she looked up at him. “If you have questions of our suitability, Mr. Darcy, you must not feel compelled to maintain our engagement.”

  Darcy caught her elbow and directed Elizabeth away from the milling crowd. He could not believe what she had just said: She did not want to marry him. “First, Miss Elizabeth, a gentleman never breaks an engagement. If I did, you would be ruined socially.”

  “Not as much as if I canceled the ceremony,” she asserted.

  Darcy frowned. His heart raced uncontrollably. “You have actually considered this?” A cold, sick feeling gripped him.

  Elizabeth’s eyes dropped, and she clutched her hands before her. “It is not my desire, sir. Yet I cannot help but feel that I am a disappointment to you. That the reality of me—of my life—of my family—is more difficult than you had expected.”

  Darcy thought a moment before he spoke. “Elizabeth, I have eight years on you, and where you have known a certain freedom, I have known nothing but duty and responsibility and name. We are products of our upbringings, but does that mean we should not be together? As a couple, our differences will make us stronger, not weaker. I have no desire to end our engagement. I pray that you feel the same.” He waited impatiently for Elizabeth’s response.

  “I chose you, Mr. Darcy. Not your wealth. Not your estate. Not your family name or prestige.”

  “And I chose you, Miss Elizabeth, above all others,” he said evenly.

  As he stared into her eyes, he recognized her apprehension, and Darcy resolved to protect and love her. Only when Bingley came to ask Elizabeth to join the others in the Founders’ Day dance did Darcy release her.

  When Elizabeth had suggested that they end their engagement, his secret “sensible” response had been to agree, but then his heart screamed, You cannot let her go! And for a moment, he could not breathe. A strange spasm had clutched his heart and had shaken him to his core. With her, Darcy had left his sane, rational self behind. When Elizabeth had spoken of terminating their betrothal, Darcy had wanted to drop to his knees to beg her to change her mind.

  Elizabeth joined the party revelers, but her mind remained on Darcy. She had gambled with her future when she asked if he wished to call off the engagement. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a complicated man, and Elizabeth was not sure she could be a fit wife for him. He needed so much. At one time, she had thought of him as proud and not much more, but she had erred. Darcy was so much more.

  Earlier, she had argued with her mirrored reflection. “Mr. Darcy’s wealth has not brought him contentment. Therefore, he needs me.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “A good man rests beneath that austere exterior, but how do I reach him? I will not allow anyone to hurt him—even myself. I will step away first.”

  “Come, Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley’s words brought her attention to the roaring fire. The town residents would lock hands and dance around the flames in a cross between a Spanish fandango and a Scottish reel. Using a strathspey traveling step and a slide, the inner circle would move clockwise, and the outer one counterclockwise. Elizabeth caught Bingley’s hand on her right and that of Bryson Lucas, Charlotte Collins’s oldest brother, on her left. With a laugh, she stepped into the dance.

  Darcy watched Elizabeth. Earlier, she had taken his words as an insinuation that he found her clothing unsuitable for his future wife, and, of course, she had taken offense. Yet, as usual, he had not explained himself accurately. In reality, he had only thought of finally having the right to dress her in the finest silks. Elizabeth in satin and lace. Her beautiful face was so expressive.

  When he held her, Darcy felt alive in ways that he could not explain, even to himself. He sometimes thought that if he could hold Elizabeth all day and all night, then his world would right itself. He was, he knew, exceptionally privileged. But life brought disappointment, and sometimes grief, and often disillusionment. His life was not simple. And he was rarely carefree; he took matters seriously. From the time of reaching his maturity, Darcy had carried the weight of Pemberley on his shoulders. As a brother, a landlord, and an estate master, so many people’s happiness was in his guardianship. So much power. So much responsibility. So much loneliness.

  He ought to join her—take Elizabeth’s hand and weave a crazy side step around an open fire. But he would not—could not—live life that freely. He was Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. He had to maintain the pretense. Traces of numbness had descended over him when Elizabeth had said the words aloud, the ones he most feared. The fear that no one could love him—the man, not the pose. He had thought he had found such a woman in Elizabeth Bennet, but how was he to know for sure? Since his early youth, he had never shown anyone, other than Georgiana, the real Fitzwilliam Darcy. Would he forever have to be only the master of Pemberley? Could he not just be Will again? He tried to make eye contact with Elizabeth, but she danced and laughed and made merry with her family and friends. She had left him behind.

  As he watched, Elizabeth turned suddenly to Bingley and caught his right hand with hers. Pulling slightly away from each other, they circled around a central axis and stepped through. She half skipped and half danced by Darcy before catching her sister’s left hand. She began to make her way down the line of surprised dancers, who laughed and soon followed, copying her spontaneous allemande.

  Darcy looked on with amusement as Elizabeth, having made a complete ring of the rest of her group, shrugged her shoulders when she met Bryson Lucas. The boy, possibly sixteen years old, caught both her hands, and they revolved as partners, turning tightly in a close circle. Elizabeth leaned back and laughed, her eyes bright. Darcy wished that he could truly make her happy. He wanted that more than anything.

  Hearing the music coming to an end, he turned to retrieve Elizabeth’s borrowed cloak from the cloakroom. He picked up the offending item and once again thought of the one he had asked Georgiana to bring with her to Netherfield. He had seen it on display when he escorted his sister along Bond Street. His instant thought was Elizabeth. This occurred weeks before he returned to Hertfordshire—when he still thought it hopeless—this love he felt. Yet, he reflected as he made his way through the Founders’ Day crowd, he had known immediately that the cloak was made for Elizabeth Bennet.

  Then he heard it. Elizabeth’s scream rang out above the noise of the crowd. When he turned, at first, Darcy could not find her among the others, who covered their faces in shock. Then Elizabeth burst through the throng and ran toward the village center. To his horror, fire snaked up the back of her dress.

  “No!” he yelled as he accelerated to reach her. “Do not run!” he called, but Elizabeth either did not hear or did not understand. She ran harder, trying to escape the flames.

  Darcy ground out each step, lengthening his stride, and as he closed the distance, he prayed that he could reach her in time. “Lizzy!” he bellowed. Thankfully, her steps stuttered, and Darcy dove for her, taking her down with
him, covering her with the same brown wool cloak he had disdained earlier. Grateful now to be holding it, he encircled her with his arms and rolled Elizabeth across the ground as he protected her face in his shoulder.

  Finally, he released her. Scrambling to his knees, Darcy patted her legs and back with the burned cloak before he rolled her over. “Tell me you are well,” he pleaded as he pushed the loose hair from her face. Before she could respond, Darcy clutched her to him. Then he rocked her in his arms. Fear drained from him as he held her. “Oh, my God, Elizabeth,” he said. “Oh, darling.”

  She sobbed and clung to him. “Thank you,” she said shakily.

  Bingley and Jane made their way through the onlookers. Jane stroked her sister’s hair, but Darcy refused to release Elizabeth. “Lizzy, are you burned?” Jane asked.

  Elizabeth shook her head, and Darcy reached to cover her exposed leg. “Let us take you home,” he whispered. “Bingley, would you bring the carriage around?”

  “Certainly, Darcy.” Bingley moved away quickly.

  “Miss Bennet, might your sister use your cloak until we reach the coach?”

  Jane nodded and hurried to retrieve her wrap. Although many onlookers remained, Darcy whispered to his intended, “Tell me the truth. Are you burned? Your legs? Anywhere?”

  She looked up at him. “Maybe…a bit on my calf.”

  “Is that all?” She nodded and buried her face in his cravat. “You saved me again.”

  Darcy swallowed hard. “I do not object to seeing to your safety, but I could do without the fear coursing through me.” He helped her up. “Should we summon a physician?”

  “I would hate to draw Dr. Potier from the festivities.” She took the handkerchief that he offered and wiped her face.

  “Maybe it would be better if the gentleman saw to your needs before we returned to Longbourn,” he suggested.