In Darcy's Arms

by Gwendolyn Dash

  Until a swath of red coat swam before his field of vision. With any luck, it was Fitzwilliam, come to pour him into a carriage and make him go home. He looked up and fairly groaned.

  “Good God,” he slurred to Captain Atwood. “You again?” Was he never to be free from this man? If it was this bad in London, he could not bear to imagine life in Derbyshire. Atwood no doubt wanted to be friends. Too bad Darcy despised his very existence.

  “Mr. Darcy, I do not wish to take up your time, but I… I am faced with a delicate matter.”

  “What is it this time?”

  “Sir…” he hesitated. “There is no other way to say it. It has come to my attention that one George Wickham may be…repeating an abhorrent behavior toward a young woman. A behavior that you hold some knowledge of.”

  The words cut through his brandy fog, and Darcy stood abruptly, glaring down at his rival. “How do you know—” Colonel Fitzwilliam? Derbyshire gossips? Was Georgiana within an inch of being ruined?

  “It does not matter,” the younger man replied, “and the story dies with me. Only, I thought it expedient to let you know. Perhaps this young lady and her family deserve to be made aware of the type of scoundrel they are dealing with.”

  Darcy fell back into his seat, harder than he had intended. “Give me the particulars. I will see it done.”

  Atwood named a family—King—in Hertfordshire that Darcy had a vague recollection of meeting while at Netherfield. It would be a matter of moments to have a letter sent to Mr. King. The location did give him pause, however. Atwood must have had this story from his fiancée.

  “What did you say to Elizabeth about this?” The second her Christian name slipped out, he could have cut out his own tongue.

  If Atwood was surprised by the address, he didn’t show it. “Nothing whatsoever, beyond a warning to give to her own sisters in Hertfordshire about the man’s appetites. Again, I am sorry to disturb you. We shall, I hope, never have cause to discuss this topic again.”

  “You did right,” said Darcy. He put his head in his hands. Atwood was a good man. They would be a good match. Elizabeth would be happy.

  He must be content with that.

  Chapter 27

  The day was crisp and clear, and so everyone was out of doors. Bingley had insisted that walking would clear their heads and that it did a man no good to be cooped up in studies and shops as long as they had been for the last few days, working on Bingley’s new project. Darcy did not argue. A walk might provide new topics of conversation than the quarter-hourly recitation of Do you really think Miss Bennet will like this?

  Darcy did not know how to communicate that he was likely the last man in London to know what a Miss Bennet might like.

  And so, having concluded their business for the day, they set out for Hyde Park. Darcy bid his carriage wait until they returned and they proceeded to stroll down one of the more fashionable promenades, with Bingley doffing his hat and greeting every person of their acquaintance as they passed. Darcy, as usual, was grateful mainly that Bingley’s open amiability spared him from looking rude, as most would accept his friend’s warm greeting on behalf of both men, and he could restrict himself to nods and the occasional bow. Darcy did not know why he had never developed that quality that others possessed, to perform so easily before strangers, to converse about the weather or the state of the roads. He did not see the point of having a discussion in which everyone knew what everyone else was about to say in advance.

  It had never been that way with Elizabeth. He had never quite known what she would say. Never flattery or platitudes, like other ladies he knew. Always something fascinating or funny or even, occasionally, shocking. And somehow, the words she had coaxed from his own lips time and again were more shocking still. How he had relished every time he brought color to her cheeks and fire to her eyes!

  Except, he was not supposed to be thinking of her.

  Alas, he was not offered peace even in this stroll, as the crowds parted before them, and the very object of his thoughts appeared on the arm of her sister. Their aunt and uncle walked behind them.

  “Miss Bennet!” Bingley called out, before Darcy could stop them. “What luck!”

  There was nothing for it. All the greetings and introductions were made—as Darcy had never before met Mr. Gardiner, who seemed an intelligent, refined sort of man, which came as no surprise, given the home he kept and his smart and elegant wife—and Bingley and Darcy turned back to walk with the others.

  Bingley wasted no time in taking the arm of the elder one, and Darcy was forced to walk at Elizabeth’s side. Jane cast him a glance of surprise as they began their stroll, which alarmed him somewhat, as he immediately took it to mean that the elder sister was well aware of the standing between himself and Elizabeth. But he could not pay it too much heed, as the bulk of his mind was consumed with a debate over whether he should offer the lady his arm, or speak to her at all, or possibly, if he could remotely manage it, dart into the trees and disappear forever.

  But no, a gentleman would not do a thing like that. A Darcy of Pemberley would never consider it. Still, he had already done so many things a Darcy of Pemberley should not, such as propose marriage to this girl even though he knew he should not, then mourn for more than a month when she refused him, even though he should have rejoiced at his near miss from such a dreadful mistake.

  It was all a dreadful mistake. And it was over. She would marry Captain Atwood, and he would spent the rest of his days being otherwise engaged whenever there was a dinner or a ball at Dovenlea.

  The path went on, and it seemed as if Bingley and his companion were obliged to dawdle at every tree and vista. The Gardiners had somehow fallen back entirely. Were he and Elizabeth walking more quickly than the others, as if the breath they saved with their silence gave exertion to their strides? Or were they outpacing everyone on this promenade merely so they might pretend that by moving more quickly, they could escape each other?

  The march went on forever.

  “I suppose we might walk all day in silence,” she said at last, as if to the air in front of them.

  “I had thought that your preference,” he replied.

  This stopped her tongue for several moments. “I do believe we might endeavor to salvage what we may of our acquaintance, Mr. Darcy. We shall continue to be thrown together in each other’s company, regardless…” she did not finish.

  She did not need to. “Regardless of what either party desires,” he completed for her. “Be not alarmed, madam. I have not been harboring a wish to repeat our last conversation.” He had not sought her out on this walk. “But, as you say, it is likely we shall be much thrust into each other’s company in the future.” It was well enough to turn down invitations to Dovenlea, but he would never be able to excise the Atwoods from the guest list at Pemberley. Georgiana would be beside herself at the thought.

  Georgiana! Now there was a wrinkle he had not anticipated. A pretty, young Mrs. Atwood at Dovenlea would be an irresistible friend to Georgiana, who so desperately needed respectable young ladies of her age to consort with in Derbyshire, especially now that she had done with school. He could envision them becoming quite intimate—an entirely new avenue of torture.

  He thought again of what Captain Atwood might have said to Elizabeth about Georgiana’s past with Wickham. But no, he could entrust the man’s silence. Every syllable he’d uttered on that terrible night indicated that Captain Atwood had no wish to dwell on Georgiana’s situation, only to prevent it from befalling another young lady.

  “Yes, although I do not know when that season may arrive,” she said, with a rueful shake of her head.

  He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “You do not foresee the marriage taking place soon?”

  “I would not wish to speculate.” Neither did he, if it came to it.

  They kept walking in silence for several minutes, and Darcy hardly knew in which direction they went. The wind had abruptly changed, and with it, the weather. Dar
k clouds now obscured the sun, and wet gusts were beginning to blow. Within a few minutes, it began to drizzle. Within a few more, to rain rather hard.

  “Where is my sister?” Elizabeth asked. She had stopped on the path, and was looking about, her expression creased with worry, her curls blowing messily about her brow. Darcy was struck by the memory of this face and this hair, wild in the hedgerows of Netherfield Park. He remembered still the feel of her face pressed close upon his neck, the heat of her skin as he held her in his arms.

  “Come,” he said at once, “we must find shelter.”

  “But… Jane,” Elizabeth said. She held up her hand as if to shield her vision from the driving rain.

  “Bingley will look after her.” It was likely the others had seen the weather turning before this and had found hired carriages to take them away. “My carriage is at the end of this lane. Hurry. The rain is only getting worse.” He held out his arm.

  She hesitated, staring down at his gloved hand. “I should find my sister—”

  “Miss Bennet,” he said harshly, “I believe we are both aware of the dangers which manifest when we catch cold.”

  She raised her head and her gaze met his, for possibly the first time since the day he’d proposed. Her eyes were as fine—as beautiful—as ever. “All right. As you wish.”

  And then her hand was in his, and together they raced through the downpour. All that walking was indeed a boon to her constitution, for she showed no difficulty whatsoever in keeping up with him. He saw his carriage awaiting him up ahead, the hunched figures of his driver and footman straightening when they saw him approach. The footman leapt down to help them inside.

  “Where to, sir?” he asked, as Darcy took his seat across from Elizabeth.

  “Have you seen Mr. Bingley?” Darcy asked the man, who answered in the negative.

  “We should wait,” said Elizabeth. “They might even now be on their way.” She looked out the window. “Jane, too, is….susceptible to colds.”

  Darcy was sure Bingley knew that better than anyone. He looked at the path from whence they came. It was deserted.

  “Let us take you back to your uncle’s house,” he said. “I am certain they will have guessed that I have arranged to bring you there.”

  She nodded, and he gave the instructions to the servants. The carriage rolled forward. It was very dark and cold inside.

  Darcy reached for a lap blanket and offered it to Elizabeth.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, though her chin was lowered and he could make out little of her expression.

  So it was to be silence again. Darcy was not sure in what direction to look. Nothing at all could be seen beyond the rain-streaked windows of the carriage, and there was no spot he could fix upon in the dim confines of the carriage but Elizabeth’s pale hands and Elizabeth’s pale face. And he could not bring himself to do that. Not when he knew she was not looking back.

  Despite the sound of the heavy rain all around him, Darcy could swear he could hear his own heart beating. Did she hear it too? More to drown out the sound than anything else, he forced himself to speak, to say any inane thing that came to his head.

  “Captain Atwood has been working very closely with his cousin, I hear, to improve Dovenlea.”

  “Has he?” said Elizabeth. “I am very glad.”

  Did she not know the gentleman’s arrangements? Of course, some men kept all business concerns from their partners. He hadn’t thought Atwood the type, but then again, it was not as if the estate were his yet. Nor were he and Elizabeth married.

  Yet.

  Darcy clenched his jaw. Such thoughts were unhelpful. That way lay madness. Of course, was it not also madness to sit in this carriage with her? He was nearly climbing the walls.

  “I gather you have been instrumental in helping him along this path,” Elizabeth said, and that old lilt was back in her voice. The pert, humorous one which had first so enchanted him at Netherfield. “You could not have bestowed your kindness on a more grateful recipient. I believe you have recruited another to the chorus of praise for the Darcys of Derbyshire.”

  His eyes slid in her direction, where he was rewarded with a glimpse of her smile. “There is a chorus?”

  “Oh, did you not know? Yes. Every man of the county, I believe, save one.” She shrugged one soaked shoulder. “But as I have come to learn, his approval is not worth the earning.”

  He could not help but ask. “You speak to me of Mr. Wickham, I assume?”

  “The very same. I have had news of his fortunes, which should make you happy, given your longtime enmity. He had been lately engaged to marry a girl from Meryton, with ten thousand pounds. But her uncle has taken her away to Liverpool, and that is an end to the matter.”

  So it was, but Darcy said nothing.

  “Does not this give you joy? I was told by the gentleman himself that you cannot but rejoice in all of his failures.”

  Darcy only wished he could be surprised to learn what Wickham was telling others. He did, however, feel a pang of sorrow that one of the man’s targets had been Elizabeth.

  “I would never take pleasure in another man’s misfortunes,” he replied evenly, “though I cannot pretend to feel other than relieved on the part of the girl and her family. Mr. Wickham, I am sorry to say, is not a man of good character, and I believe he could not make his wife happy, but only sorrowful of her choice.”

  Elizabeth stared at him, unblinking, her chest rising and falling rapidly, as if she only now—and not during their run in the rain—had lost her breath. The coldness in the carriage was such that he saw each frantic puff of air as she breathed. Her face wore the air of a desperate resolution, and all of a sudden, he knew they each only thought of another woman, and another choice.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, in a voice so soft her knew not how he heard it above the pounding rain. But it filled his ears, and as her words went on, it seemed to fill his very soul. “Mr. Wickham once told me something of your history, and…it was after you had left Netherfield. I was all too ready to believe him.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have been wrong, Mr. Darcy. About so many things.”

  He swallowed, staring at her, only a few inches away, but in reality, across half the world. It did not matter how much they were thrown together once she was mistress of Dovenlea. They might never have another moment like this.

  “I know the stories being spread about me,” he said all at once. “I have known them for some time. I did not seek to dignify that man’s words with a response. I thought it beneath me, not realizing how it might prejudice the views of those whose good opinions, as you say, are worth the earning.”

  “Mr. Darcy—”

  “I have not stolen his inheritance,” he went on, afraid if she let him stop himself now, she might never know the truth. “Wickham asked for, and was given, three thousand pounds when he decided against taking orders. He used it up within a year, then came back, seeking more.”

  Her eyes shone with understanding and growing horror.

  Still, he did not stop. It poured out of him, burning. He wanted Elizabeth to know all, to know him, as no woman ever had before. “When I refused, this time, he sought to revenge himself upon me and my family by entering into an elopement with my fifteen-year-old sister.”

  She gasped.

  “With God’s grace, I discovered and stopped them in time. I sent him away and never breathed a word of the affair to anyone except Colonel Fitzwilliam, who shares her guardianship with me. That, Miss Bennet, is a true and faithful narrative of my dealings with him.” If she doubted it, he was sure she could ask her fiancé, who somehow knew everything.

  Who somehow had everything Darcy could ever want.

  She was silent for a long moment. “Why do you tell me this?”

  “I do not know,” he blurted.” He was distraught, already half-regretting his outburst. “Because I cannot bear to think you are alive in this world and thinking ill of me. Even though I know it is all you have
ever thought.”

  The words hung between them for a long, impossible moment. Darcy could hardly comprehend the expression on Elizabeth’s face. But it could not be denied—she was no longer averting her eyes. She was staring at him. Staring right through him, almost. He memorized every feature. Her rosy lips, her cheekbones, the way the rain clung to the curl plastered across her brow.

  The carriage stopped, and the footman opened the door. “Miss? The housemaid reports that your family has not yet returned from their walk.”

  Just like that, the spell was broken. Their stolen moment, here in the confines of the carriage, was over. She belonged to someone else. He must accept it.

  She nodded curtly, and her voice seemed to clang like a door slamming closed. “I am sure they took shelter. Or perhaps a different route home. They will be by soon enough.” She threw off her blanket and the footman arranged the stool at the door, but right before she climbed out, she looked back at Darcy.

  “That is not all I ever thought.”

  And then there was only rain and the sound of the carriage door shutting, leaving Darcy in the darkness, alone.

  Chapter 28

  “Home, sir?” The footman’s voice sounded like it was coming from a very great distance.

  Yes, Darcy thought. Home, where his study and a large glass of brandy awaited him. Home, where there were dry clothes and no sign of Elizabeth Bennet.

  No Elizabeth Bennet! It was unthinkable.

  “Stay a moment,” he said, and dashed from the carriage and up the slick steps of the townhouse.

  The housemaid had not yet closed the door. Beyond, in the hall, he could see Elizabeth’s wet form ascending the stairs. The housemaid stared at him, open-mouthed, as he strode directly inside.

  “Miss Bennet!” he called.