With a clatter, Darcy’s fork slipped from his hand onto his still laden platter. He blinked, attempting to rid himself of such thoughts, and glanced about the table, relieved to note that his aunt remained oblivious, unlike the Colonel, whose eye seemed firmly fixed upon him.
Darcy returned his gaze to his setting. He was familiar with the look on Fitzwilliam’s face and, if he was not mistaken, there would be a need for evasive action after dinner to avoid a grilling. He took a fortifying drink from his glass and tried to feign interest in his aunt’s monologue, little though he desired her approbation. Yet his attempt at distraction was to no avail. Lady Catherine’s wearisome tone held Darcy’s attention even less than his plate of food, and within seconds his mind travelled back to his more recent encounter with Elizabeth.
For some seconds they had merely stared at each other. She had raised her chin slightly as she looked up at him - a gesture of defiance, he had assumed, yet it had failed to distract him from drinking in the charming picture that she made, her hair loosely tied and somewhat unattended since her earlier drenching...
Darcy cleared his throat quietly and took another sip of his wine. He dared not glance in his cousin’s direction, and his recalcitrant thoughts soon dragged him back to that moment.
A formal greeting after such a delay and in such circumstances had seemed pointless, and he had pulled the letter from his pocket and held it out towards her.
“Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” he had said, his voice sounding rough to his own ears, as if he had lost the use of it.
Darcy’s insides twisted uncomfortably as he recalled the moment: the anticipation, the anxiety, the aching within, and closing his eyes he drew in a deep breath.
Across the table, Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed his cousin thoughtfully. Something was seriously amiss, and as he turned his attention to clearing his plate, his mind began to dwell upon his strategy for discovering the cause.
~o0o~
Despite Charlotte’s attempts at persuasion, Elizabeth remained in her chamber. The pain in her head she had pleaded earlier was no longer a pretence, and her pale visage and uncharacteristic discomposure of spirits soon convinced her friend that her need for solitude was genuine.
Yet left with aught but her own company, Elizabeth’s mind remained disturbed and, unable to conquer her wayward thoughts, she continued to amble restlessly about the room.
Her frustration at being so affected by her newly aroused consciousness of Mr Darcy troubled her. She wished to overcome the effects of the day’s unforeseen events and purge the inexplicable thoughts of him from her mind. How dare he disturb her so? This was all his fault. His unsolicited attentions, his arrogant interference in the affairs of others were all of his own doing, and as the man who had caused such turmoil, he warranted far less notice than this.
She pushed aside the small voice that attempted to remind her of her culpability, that her own pride had led to the physical encounter that might well account for some of her current distraction of mind.
With sudden determination, she marched over to the bed and retrieved Mr Darcy’s letter from under her pillow. Should she read it or destroy it? Walking over to her nightstand, she took a taper and lit a candle. Slowly, Elizabeth sank into the fireside chair, placing the candle on the side table. She weighed the letter in her palm, forcefully rejecting the memory of the feel of Mr Darcy’s touch against her skin. What would haunt her more? Never knowing what he had to say, or permitting him to defend himself when she could anticipate no justification for his actions?
With a sigh she succumbed to the inevitable and, before further doubt could ensue, she purposefully broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
~o0o~
Darcy reached for the water jug, attempting to ignore his despair. That Elizabeth might not accept the letter had filled his mind throughout the writing of it. Indeed, he could hardly blame her, for to address her in such a way was nothing if not irregular.
Oblivious to the clearing of the table around him as dessert was served, his mind continued its ceaseless replay of their last meeting.
The silence between them had stretched painfully; her eyes had moved from his face to his letter, a frown upon her countenance. His mind urged her to accept it, his heart begged her to want to understand him, but when she failed to reach out and take it, Darcy felt he understood her wariness of its content.
Forcing himself to speak, he had made an attempt at reassurance but his voice sounded distant, as though belonging to another and spoken aloud, his reasoning had sounded little more than trivial.
Conscious of the futility of their encounter, he had stepped closer to her; her eyes had widened but she had not retreated. Reaching out, he had taken her gloveless hand in his, savouring the feel of her skin as he pressed his letter into her palm and closed her fingers over it.
Elizabeth had spoken no words; her eyes had remained locked upon his, a light blush staining her cheeks, and he had fought the desire to reach out and touch her face. Almost forgetting to breathe, achingly aware of her fingers under his and drinking in her features for the last time, he had raised her hand and rested his lips against the smooth, warm skin. Then, he had released her, turned on his heel and mounted his horse, refusing himself the indulgence of even a backward glance.
Darcy stirred on his chair, conscious of the table being cleared. Seeing the coffee cup being placed before his cousin Anne, he realised he had missed the remainder of the meal, and he cast a wary look in Fitzwilliam’s direction, noting with relief that he was no longer in his seat.
Excusing himself abruptly, he rose and left the dining room, but ventured no further than the hallway as the heavy doors closed behind him. He leaned back against them and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. How he was to pass the more than four and twenty hours before departing for London he knew not; he suffered no illusion but that this was to be the most difficult night of his life. He wondered bitterly what would be the better fate: that sleep would evade him entirely and he would pass the long hours until dawn drowning in the memories of this dreadful day, or that he would sleep but dream – and who knew where the depths of his subconscious might take him.
A hand gripped his shoulder, and Darcy’s eyes flew open only to encounter his captor’s assessing gaze.
“I know not where you tarried this past hour, Darcy, but I am certain of where you are going now!”
Darcy studied Fitzwilliam’s amused countenance with narrowed eyes. Then, with a heavy sigh, he acknowledged his surrender. There would be no escape from this ambush, and all Darcy could hope for was sufficient wit about him to deflect any attempt to draw him out and that the brandy would be of a quality to make it bearable.
~o0o~
The separation of the parties at Rosings had become permanent, and the tolling of midnight on the ornate clock in the library was noted with appreciation by both gentlemen, but for contradictory reasons.
Darcy felt a little hazy, but believed he had survived his captivity relatively intact and mulled with some satisfaction on his improved ability to counter his cousin’s tactics. Feeling confident that he had revealed little of the day’s events, he raised his glass to his lips to drain it, failing to register either the lack of liquid within, or that he had repeated the same gesture three times in as many minutes.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, meanwhile, reflected with satisfaction on a campaign well run and savoured his victory as he swallowed his last mouthful of liquor. Admittedly, his cousin had put up as good a fight as ever, but the Colonel had managed to play upon a weakness in his defence that Darcy had failed to consider – his empty stomach. The effects of alcohol on such never failed to deliver results, and as the man had merely toyed with his breakfast and seemed unable to consume his dinner, his capitulation was assured.
Unfathomable to pass a day in such neglect of one’s digestion, mused the Colonel, who had a healthy appreciation for his food that little could impede.
Despite the co
llaboration offered by Darcy’s empty insides, it had, nevertheless, taken the Colonel much patience and the valuable support of their aunt’s finest cognac before Darcy had yielded. His cousin had not been an easy opponent – not that the Colonel had anticipated otherwise – and at first he had let Darcy steer their discourse towards his sister, Georgiana. Indeed, after the first cognac had been sipped reverently in appreciation of its quality, Darcy had almost seemed content. The rigidity in his frame had begun to ease, and by the end of his second glass he was even smiling slightly as he recounted an anecdote from his sister’s latest letter.
Yet as time passed and the contents of the decanter diminished, the Colonel’s fortitude was rewarded. His carefully interspersed remarks that slowly but surely brought the conversation around to the enhanced company to be found at Rosings this year were followed equally stealthily by the occasional mention of Miss Elizabeth Bennet herself. It had only taken the passing observation that he assumed his cousin had called at the parsonage during the afternoon to enquire after the lady’s welfare (an aside that had earned him a disconcerted glance from Darcy), followed by the Colonel’s polite enquiry into how she fared, before Darcy’s head dropped into his hands and a long silence ensued.
But Darcy’s comment, uttered as if the words were torn from him: “How is she? She is everything… everything…” had finally led him to put together the pieces of the puzzle; his cousin had fallen at last. The only thing not apparent to the Colonel was why Darcy was so ill-affected by the realisation of his condition.
He squinted over towards his cousin now, slumped in his armchair and staring morosely into the dying flames of a fire that had been neglected by them both as the evening waned.
Darcy’s repeated avowal, the only words he had uttered thereafter, despite considerable goading – that she despised him – the Colonel put down to the effects of alcohol, and as he had been unable to draw anything further from him once Darcy had sunk into his seat and refused to say another word on the matter, he was left to draw his own conclusions.
For many years, the Colonel had observed his cousin at the mercy of society, fully cognisant of Darcy’s lack of interest in the parade of young women all more intent upon becoming Mrs Darcy of Pemberley than to be his wife.
Never had he seen him thus affected, and never had the Colonel imagined witnessing such emotional despair in a man who prided himself on his self-control. Something would have to be done, and without delay.
Just then, Darcy hauled himself to his feet, and the Colonel watched as his cousin appeared to adjust his gaze a little, then set off purposefully across the room. He bit back a smile, trusting that he was not going to have to wrestle the decanter from him. Darcy had definitely downed sufficient liquor for one evening and was no doubt going to have the devil of an ache in the head to show for it in the morning.
Darcy, meanwhile, was a little disconcerted to find that, though he had set off in the direction of the drinks table, it seemed to have moved. When he eventually fetched up next to an armchair instead, he stopped, frowned, then looked to his right. There it was! Reaching out he very carefully placed his empty glass on the silver salver, raising a brow at the unexpectedly loud noise it made. Then he headed for the door; he needed his bed – except he was not entirely sure how to find it.
Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned as he watched Darcy’s progress towards the door. In general, his cousin was well able to hold his liquor – though he knew how to appreciate a fine wine, he made no habit of turning to spirits to make his way through life’s difficulties. Yet this evening he had required little persuasion to have his glass filled repeatedly.
The Colonel stood up, savouring the remaining drops in his glass before placing it on the tray as he passed. Darcy had managed to fetch up by the door, but now leant his head against it, eyes closed and, if the Colonel was not mistaken, not far from falling asleep.
“Come along, old chap!” he encouraged as he joined his cousin. Darcy’s head shot up, and he blinked rapidly. His eyes appeared to be trying to focus on something, anything. “Let us retire for the night, for in the morning the campaign must begin, my friend, and you should be fully rested so that you are prepared!”
Darcy, having finally realigned his vision into some semblance of order, peered at his cousin in confusion. He had no idea what Fitzwilliam was rattling on about, but no doubt it was down to the fact that his military cousin had consumed far too much alcohol for his own good. Darcy grunted rather than try to formulate a response and allowed the Colonel to steer him out of the room.
Chapter Four
The weak spring sunshine of a new day filtered through the drapes at Hunsford Parsonage, rousing the inhabitants from their slumber.
Drained of emotion after a sleepless night, Elizabeth lay on her bed staring at the canopy. If she had thought that reading Mr Darcy’s letter would ease her troubled mind and allow her to put the man out of her thoughts once and for all, she could not have been more mistaken.
The letter had been read and re-read, yet she could not discard it. Even now, it remained clasped in her hand. How poor had her judgement been? Flattered by Wickham’s attentions and slighted by what she had perceived as Mr Darcy’s disapproval, she had been blinded by her own vanity into accepting the attentions of a cad and wounding a man of good character. Ashamed of her behaviour and appalled at her poor discernment, she could have wept over her stupidity.
Elizabeth sat up wearily. How fortunate that she would never have to cross paths with Mr Darcy again, for how could she ever look the man in the eye?
Look him in the eye… For a fleeting second, the remembrance of being held against him flooded her senses, but she shook the disturbing memory aside and swung her legs off the bed. The morning would be long past if she did not make some effort to ready herself, and placing the crumpled letter on the bedside table, she hurried over to the dresser.
The maid had left a pitcher of fresh water, but as Elizabeth poured some into the basin she caught sight of herself in the mirror above the washstand. A pale face and solemn eyes stared back, the person in the reflection a stranger to her.
Uncomfortably, she lowered her gaze. The letter had revealed things about both Mr Darcy and herself, all of them most unexpected. Not only did she have to revise her long-held opinion of his unworthiness, but she had to credit herself with that very characteristic. Once again, a feeling of shame swept through her, but she ruthlessly pushed it aside and forced herself to look up and face her own likeness again. She would overcome this; she had to. Besides, poor though her judgement may have been and improved though her opinion of him was, there was no denying that not all Mr Darcy’s supposed transgressions were justifiable.
That he had acted with arrogance and a blatant disregard for the feelings of either remained a truth that Jane and Mr Bingley would no doubt suffer from for no little time. That his proposal to a woman he professed to love could be couched in such terms as his had been was unfathomable.
Such was the pattern of thought that ebbed and flowed through Elizabeth’s mind as she prepared herself for the day. Her guilt and embarrassment warred with her indignation, yet she could not deny that she also felt for Mr Darcy and wished that she had not thrown such unfounded accusations at him. She regretted little over her actual refusal other than its delivery, for her long held ill-opinion of him was too ingrained to be swept away in an instant. Even so, her behaviour of the previous day did not sit well with her.
Nor did she have much tolerance for her recalcitrant memory, which would persist in recalling with vivid clarity the intensity of their unexpected embrace.
~o0o~
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam greeted the new day with optimism. Admittedly, his head was a little less clear than he would wish but a strong cup of tea and a platter of hot food would soon set him to rights and remove any lingering remnants of last night’s indulgence.
With a bounce to his step, he left his room and made his way along the landing, pausing briefly
outside his cousin’s chamber to discern if there was yet any sound or movement within. The silence that greeted him was reminiscent of the previous day, and the Colonel’s expression sobered as he continued on his way downstairs.
Recalling Darcy’s demeanour yesterday, he wondered at the depth of his turmoil – could this intense reaction be due to the shock of finding his emotions engaged? Darcy had never so much as hinted at any expectation of making an alliance of affection. The Colonel knew from personal experience the pressures from family to make a suitable marriage, both in terms of fortune and connections.
He had reached the hall, yet despite the tempting aromas drifting along from the breakfast room, he paused by one of the tall windows and stared out over the manicured grounds.
Darcy could not have anticipated making the acquaintance of a woman, in the Colonel’s opinion, as suitable as Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She would be a fine sister to his young cousin, Georgiana. Her lively spirit and her refusal to be intimidated by the likes of their Aunt Catherine indicated a temperament that could only complement and benefit the reserved manners of both Darcy siblings.
From his understanding, she brought no increase of fortune to the Darcy coffers, but it was hardly as if it signified. She was a gentleman’s daughter, that he did know, so there could be no other objection, and he was keen to encourage Darcy to put aside his reservations and grasp his chance of happiness.
With a sigh, the Colonel turned towards the breakfast room. Darcy clearly needed help. He must be debating with himself over the lady’s suitability or otherwise, and his sense of duty was in conflict with his heart.
Nodding at the footman to open the doors for him, Fitzwilliam entered the room, his brow creased in thought. His cousin’s repeated mutterings last evening that the lady loathed him, he negated. Darcy had doubtless interpreted her lively manner and her confidence in challenging him, her failure to fawn upon him as was other ladies’ wont, as disinterest. But dislike? Impossible. There was no finer person than his cousin Darcy – a true gentleman, a loyal friend, devoted brother and much esteemed master, both on his estate in Derbyshire and in his London home.
A Fair Prospect Page 3
