by Jennifer Joy
Darcy gritted his teeth to hold himself together. “I have to believe in a miracle or else give up hope entirely,” he said, his voice strained.
Mrs. Fuller leaned forward, her hands spread out on top of the tea table. “Then be Miss Elizabeth’s miracle. Grant her freedom from this deadly path. Give her the choice: freedom and life or you and an almost certain death.”
“But we were compromised. Her reputation…”
She interrupted him. “Says who? Did anyone witness your compromise and call you out for it?”
Mrs. Fuller paused, but not long enough for Darcy to answer. She said, “As far as her family knows, Miss Elizabeth arrived safely in London after which you went on to meet with the marquess and kill him in a rage as the newspapers say. As I understand, her family here did not even know to expect her?”
“That is correct.”
“Then she is free to join them. If they love her, they will not force her to do something she would rather not do given the choice.”
Darcy pressed his fingers against his temples lest he break into pieces. Mrs. Fuller was right. How selfish he had been. He had enjoyed Elizabeth’s company so much, Darcy had relied on her strength to help him through his trials. He had convinced himself they were a team when he had no right to drag Elizabeth down with him. Darcy had refused to accept the possibility that his plan might fail, and his blindness put Elizabeth in greater peril.
What if she did not choose him? What if Elizabeth’s loyalty to her sister and her deep-seated sense of justice had obliged her to stay by Darcy’s side?
His heart sank to the floor. It was all Darcy could do to mutter, “You have given me much to ponder, Mrs. Fuller. I thank you.” He rose to stand. He could not stay in the room a second longer.
Mrs. Fuller poured herself another cup of tea, saying “I wish you the best, Mr. Darcy. I have offered what security I have in my home to you because I believe you to be a good man. But you must be practical and protect the ones you love. Even if it means letting them go.”
With her parting words, Mrs. Fuller drove a stake through his hope, through his reason for living, through his heart.
Darcy returned upstairs to his room, his mind reeling with thoughts he had avoided before. What if the plan did not work? His fate was certain. He would die. And what would happen to Elizabeth then? What of her sister and Bingley?
He would hate himself every second of his numbered days if he put Elizabeth in harm’s way purposely. Death would be a relief for Darcy, but what of her? What of her family?
Darcy had scorned the Bennets. He had viewed himself as superior to them. He was ashamed of his previous attitude against them when it was Elizabeth and Miss Bennet’s association with him that would damage their reputations and that of their families beyond repair. Unless he distanced himself now.
Darcy paused halfway up the stairs, weighing the few options he had. He could attempt to enter Darcy House without being recognized (unlikely, as Elizabeth had pointed out to him — even if he dressed as a servant.) Or he could turn himself in on the condition Miss Bennet and Bingley were freed. Richard would help him, and with his uncle’s influence, they could arrange it.
Nobody would believe Bingley capable of treachery when he was so ill. Miss Bennet’s constancy to her betrothed would weaken any suspicion against her character.
Darcy saw it plainly enough in the papers. Society wanted Fitzwilliam Darcy’s head on a silver platter. And they could have it, but only on his terms.
His feet weighed heavily as he continued up the stairs. Darcy needed to write a letter to Georgiana. She would have Richard and his family. They would take better care of her than he had. But Darcy had to tell her how much he loved her — how proud he was of her.
He would write to Elizabeth. His heart broke, but Darcy loved Elizabeth too deeply to allow her to continue with him.
Darcy paused at the top of the landing, numb and empty. Elizabeth stood in front of his doorway, her smile bright and her eyes sparkling. Darcy wanted to weep.
She bounced toward him, as excited to begin the day and put their plan into action as he had been minutes ago. Clapping her hands together, Elizabeth said, “Are you ready for today? I am so excited, I fear I shall burst!” She stretched her arms out to her side. “Freedom, glorious, delightful freedom! I just know it is within our reach.”
Darcy did not know how he managed to speak, but he did. “You must go to your family today. To the Gardiners.”
Elizabeth’s arms fell to her sides, and her smile faded. “Was there a change of plan? I thought we had agreed on what needed to be done last night.”
Lord, this was hard. He said, “Something important has been drawn to my attention.”
Elizabeth tapped her toe impatiently. Darcy bore her impending anger just to look at her longer — to be in her presence. It would have to last him until … until the end. He knew his thoughts had taken a melodramatic turn — Darcy would not surrender easily — but how was life worth living if it did not include Elizabeth?
It would have been better for him had she got angry. Darcy could have borne it better. Instead, Elizabeth closed the distance between them and caressed her hand against his whiskered cheek. “William, what has happened? Pray tell me, so I may ease your troubles.”
Darcy’s breath came out like a cry. “That is the problem.”
She stroked his cheek tenderly. “Allow me to help. Allow me to share your burden.”
It was impossible for him to speak with the pressure building in Darcy’s throat. Elizabeth blurred before him.
She caressed his face, carefully trailing around his bruises with the tips of her fingers and tormenting him thoroughly. Darcy would gladly have traded his name, his fortune, and his home to hold Elizabeth in his arms. He could face death with Elizabeth at his side. But she could live without him. She deserved so much more than Darcy could offer her.
He stepped back abruptly, holding up his hands to prevent her from closing the gap separating them. He spoke quickly before he could change his mind, “You must leave me now, Elizabeth.”
“But we are partners. We are promised to each other.”
“Nobody who would manipulate the situation against us witnessed it. You are free.”
“So it never happened? What of your honor?” There was an edge to her tone.
“You are not attached to me. You are free to choose.”
She crossed her arms. “And what if I choose you? What then?”
He sighed. She could not make this more difficult. Firmly, Darcy said, “Then I must beg you to choose differently.”
Elizabeth took a step back as if he had struck her. “Do you regret … me?” she stammered. Her eyes brimmed in tears.
Darcy hated himself. He deserved everything he had coming to him. He could not lie to her, but he dared not tell Elizabeth what he burned to say without encouraging her to stay. I love you more than life itself.
He remained silent.
She stiffened her spine, her hands bunching into fists. Flaring her nostrils and lifting her chin, Elizabeth challenged, “If you wish to be rid of me, then act like a gentleman and tell me so.”
Darcy looked at her, his heart screaming what he wished to tell her. I wish everything good for you — for you to live to a ripe, old age with a treasure trove of delightful memories you will share with your children and grandchildren. I pray you will remember me kindly. I love you.
The emotions in Darcy’s throat strangled him, but he said gruffly, “I do. You must leave me.”
“Curse you, Fitzwilliam Darcy!” Elizabeth turned on her heel and ran to her room.
The threat of being drawn and quartered had lost its force. Nothing could hurt Darcy worse than he felt right then.
Chapter 32
Hot tears streamed down Elizabeth’s cheeks.
She paced aimlessly, wanting to smash everything in her path. But it was not her room.
Elizabeth punched her pillow, pretending it was William’s
chest she pummeled. If only she could hurt William as badly as he had hurt her. If only he could feel what she did, then he would understand that what he asked of her was impossible.
Clutching the pillow to herself, Elizabeth buried her face in it. A new bout of tears soaked the linen that smelled of lavender instead of him.
Lying across her bed with a groan, she wrapped her arms around herself. But Elizabeth’s pitiful embrace brought no comfort — not when she knew the power of William’s caress.
Had Elizabeth’s father witnessed the scene, he would have accused her of acting like Lydia. Mama would have fetched the smelling salts and dabbed Elizabeth’s damp cheeks with a handkerchief while she clucked her tongue and assured her there were more handsome gentlemen of fortune to love.
Elizabeth would have told her mother she did not want another gentleman. She wanted William. She wanted a man who no longer wanted her.
Her eyes burned, and the pressure building in her head thrummed against Elizabeth’s skull.
She flung the pillow across the room and stood from the bed. No, this would not do. Wallowing in misery would accomplish nothing. Elizabeth needed to do something, to distract her mind before she went mad.
Clenching her jaw and filling herself with stubborn determination, Elizabeth tossed the pillow back onto the bed. William might want to be rid of her, but she wanted a happy ending, and she could not imagine one without him (blast it all!)
She would show him. She would make certain he regretted his words.
Moved by unadulterated resentment, Elizabeth quietly made her way downstairs, slipping past Mrs. Fuller, who sat staring out of the window in her parlor.
She continued to the kitchen where a scullery maid labored over a steaming tub of pots waiting to be scrubbed. The girl was of a slight build similar to Elizabeth. She was perfect.
Elizabeth’s presence commanded the girl’s attention. “Might I ask a favor of you?” Elizabeth asked.
“How may I be of service?” the girl asked.
Elizabeth smiled, and said, “You might think my request strange, but it would be an immense help to me if you would be willing to exchange clothing with me.” She spread her arms and turned to the side to afford the maid a better view of Elizabeth’s morning dress. It was not the finest of gowns, but it was much nicer than the long-sleeved, rough fabric of the maid’s frock and apron. Elizabeth doubted the girl had ever owned anything so fine.
Without taking her eyes off of the gown, the girl replied, “I could not possibly. Mrs. Fuller would never approve, and I must get back to work before Cook notices.”
Elizabeth plucked at her sleeve, smoothing her hand over the fabric to show how soft it was. “It is a pity. With your dark hair and fair complexion, this blue would bring out the roses in your cheeks. Besides, would not Mrs. Fuller be proud you had helped one of her guests?”
The girl chewed on her lip. “I suppose it cannot hurt. I have a spare.” Thus decided, she snapped into action. “Stay here,” she instructed, disappearing from the scullery room and returning with a uniform exactly like the one she wore — except drier — complete with a cap and apron.
She held it toward Elizabeth, but then pulled it back to her with a grimace. “I do not feel right giving this to you,” the maid said. She looked down at the uniform she wore, then wrinkled her nose.
“What is wrong with it?” Elizabeth asked.
“It was in the wash pile. Mrs. Fuller is particular. We wear our garments a full week between washings. It smells, and there are stains. But I cannot very well lend you the uniform I am wearing as it is wet from a clumsy spill.”
Elizabeth was not about to let delicacy ruin her plans. Stepping further inside the scullery room, she turned so that her back faced the maid. “Help me with the buttons, please?” she asked.
In no time at all, the girl had assisted Elizabeth into the scullery uniform. It reeked of hard work. Elizabeth sniffed the air around her and wrinkled her nose as the girl had done before. A criminal would think twice before approaching her. And with its long sleeves and thicker fabric, the uniform was warmer than Elizabeth’s morning dress had been. The odorous uniform’s list of advantages grew.
Thanking the girl, Elizabeth donned the cap and slipped through the kitchen’s back door to an alleyway which led to a street crowded with carriages and people.
She walked a short distance before she saw a street sweeper she felt comfortable approaching. Doing her best to pretend she was nothing more than a country bumpkin new to town and horribly lost, Elizabeth asked for him to point her to Brook Street.
As she suspected, it was not a short distance. How fortunate for her she loved to walk. Squaring her shoulders, Elizabeth pretended she was enjoying a stroll through the countryside. Aside from the carriages she had to dodge, the vendors hawking their wares and pushing their baskets at her, and the careless wayfarers who stepped into her path, the similarities were remarkable. Elizabeth rolled her eyes at herself. She might have lost her heart, but she had not yet lost her sense of humor. As long as she had an appreciation for the ridiculous, she had hope. Elizabeth pressed on.
Eventually she reached the section of town where genteel society was trained not to notice her. She was grateful for her humble garb then, and the outdoor air seemed to have improved the odor clinging to her. Either that or she had lost her sense of smell. She prayed it was the former, or she would never be admitted into Darcy House.
It was not difficult to find William’s house. He had described the ironwork of the fence, the garden design on either side of the footpath leading up the steps to the door, the rectangle windows on the ground floor of the home, the arched windows above them and the color of the curtains…. What he had not included in his description, though, were the two constables pacing in front of his residence. Several other scroungy men — thief-takers, she presumed — loitered about, watching, waiting for their chance to capture William and earn their reward. Elizabeth had been right to talk him out of approaching his home. He would have been recognized, even disguised as a servant.
But she was unknown. Nobody would object to a scullery maid going to work.
Elizabeth stopped in front of the house, inspecting it.
One of the constables eyed her warily, “What is your business here, miss?” He planted himself between her and the opening in the iron gate.
“I am the new scullery maid,” she said.
Her reply caught the attention of the other constable. “You recently arrived in London?” he asked. His eyes lingered over her dirty apron.
“Yes.”
“Have you not heard the news about the master of the house? He is wanted for treason.”
“Pay is pay, and I must work all the same. Kindly allow me to pass, or I will be late on my first day.”
“They will not let you in dressed like that,” he commented.
“Or smelling like that,” the guard of the gate added.
This was not going well.
“If you will allow me to pass, we shall find out,” she said, stepping toward the gate.
The guard pinched his nose. “They will not receive you. You are wasting your time.”
Elizabeth was too close to back down. She simply must speak with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernard. Lives depended on it.
A mental picture of Lydia sitting on Kitty’s new, satin slippers for half of a day surfaced in Elizabeth’s memories. Lydia had said her life depended on her wearing the slippers to the Meryton Assembly. She had sat on them for hours, refusing to budge. Her determination was rewarded. Kitty let her wear the slippers.
It was worth a try. Raising her chin and crossing her arms, Elizabeth said, “Then I will stand here until you allow me to pass. If they will not have me, then let them dismiss me.”
“Go away,” the guard whined.
“I have nowhere else to go. I will stay here, thank you.”
Elizabeth clenched her teeth together to keep from smiling when she noticed how perfect her upwind
position was. The guard shifted his weight and held his breath between gasps.
After some minutes, he called out to the other constable, “I have stood here long enough. It is your turn.”
His plea was met with a chortle. The constable replied, “Why should I change places with you when you are doing a fine job?”
Elizabeth stood her ground, praying the guard would allow her by before he grew accustomed to the odor as she had.
He shuffled his feet again, wincing when he had to breathe. “I was not paid enough to endure this. She is no danger to us. Any girl who would show up like this and expect the grand family to keep her on is out of her mind.”
He stepped out of her way, and Elizabeth breezed past him, not stopping until she barged inside the kitchen of Darcy House.
There were several servants attending to their tasks around the table in the center of the room, but Elizabeth could have heard a potato peel drop against the floor in the silence as they stared at her wide-eyed.
Elizabeth wasted no time. She said, “My name is Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I am here to see Mrs. Bernard.” Remembering how she was dressed, she added, “If I may.”
A stout woman looked her up and down, disbelief furrowing her brows.
Elizabeth pulled at her apron. “I only used this to convince the constables to allow me inside. I am the daughter of a gentleman from Hertfordshire, but I thought I would have more success getting past the guards dressed as a servant.”
The woman narrowed her eyes at Elizabeth, but she finally nodded. “Go and get Mrs. Bernard … and Bates if you see him,” she instructed, upon which a girl wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron and hastened from the kitchen in search of the housekeeper.
Elizabeth stood beside the doorway through which she had entered, airing out her attire and inspecting her surroundings as the servants inspected her. The room was orderly and well-stocked, just as Elizabeth would expect William’s kitchen to look. It was large enough to accommodate her uncle’s stove.
