Men of Consequence

by Francine Rainey

  He placed his hand upon the small of her back and walked her down the line. His intense blue gaze wandered caressingly from her eyes to her small perfect nose, lingering on her full lips. Darcy’s eyes dilated, and his breathing quickened. Sliding slowly back to her eyes, Darcy’s voice was husky and his gaze unwavering. “Miss Elizabeth, no one, having been granted the privilege of your company could ever grow weary of you or find you wanting.”

  Elizabeth had gasped, and Darcy watched her chest rise and fall rapidly. The air between seemed to crackle like logs in an open flame. She had looked away and then clearing her throat, she spoke, “I thank you, Mr. Darcy, for your compliment. Though given our history, our verbal sparring,” she smiled, “you could not possibly consider my presence ideal.”

  By now, having watched her dance with and smile at other men, having watched them hold her hand and touch her person, Darcy was weak; he could barely keep himself from begging her to smile only at him, to touch only his arm, to look longingly into his eyes only.

  Having lost his control, Darcy now thought that it was no wonder he could not keep himself from uttering his next words.

  “Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy had said, his eyes boring into hers, “your presence, your presence is air.”

  The music had stopped, and the other dancers applauded for the last dance of a spectacular night. Darcy and Elizabeth stilled, for Darcy, the noise of the crowd faded into nothingness and there existed just her and this maddening desire. Darcy stood there, breathing more deeply than the movement of the dance warranted. At length, Elizabeth stepped back and curtsied. Darcy bowed; the trance was broken – but his entanglement was stronger than ever.

  Later that day, as Darcy tended business, his butler entered his study.

  “Mr. Darcy.”

  “Yes?”

  Johns’ face was a mask, while behind his back, he twiddled his thumbs frantically. “Mrs. Francesca Waters to see you, sir.”

  Darcy sighed and steepled his hands. “Show her to the parlor.” His voice was as icy as a glacier.

  “As you wish.”

  Darcy stalked to the window, memories flooding rapidly. He rubbed his chin. Why has she returned now? He did not need, nor want, whatever Francesca had to offer. Sighing, Darcy stood erect and strode from the room.

  Francesca stood by the mantle, aware that her elegant, svelte figure appeared to its best advantage while standing, and she would use everything she possessed to succeed where she had once failed.

  As Darcy entered stiffly, the sight of her, the smell of her perfume, transported him to a time long ago: of their first meeting and of his father’s passing and of a thousand vivid sensations, of fragile hopes and shattered dreams, of pain and pleasure, of life and death. The onslaught was momentarily overwhelming, and for a twinkling he felt all the uncertainty, vulnerability, and timidity of a young male thrust into sudden manhood – as freedom surrendered to responsibility and inexperience knuckled to sophistication, as the son became the master and the lad became a man that characterized his time with the beautiful Mrs. Waters.

  He had sat outside on the bench without his great coat, not even feeling the cold stone beneath him, nor the frigid January wind that howled a mournful dirge that seemed a companion to his mood. The voices of the others, their incessant chatter, was more than his fragile heart could bear. His dear father, the most upstanding man he had ever known, gone now these ten months and still, Darcy felt as if it was just a moment ago. The misery became acute again. The last few months had nearly crushed him. The pressure of standing erect while upholding his little sister and her frightened, fragile sensibilities, of standing tall while holding in his shaky grip the lives of hundreds in his employ and hundreds more in the village, had exhausted him. How was he to know if his decisions were correct or if they would worsen the situation? How did he know how to comfort his frightened sister, beset with questions and heartbreak that no one as young as she should know?

  Even now, entertaining Mrs. Waters and her companion, Mrs. Hayden, (he still was still uncertain how they came to be stranded at his home), was more than he could endure, as the weight of the past few months threatened to crumble, like such fine powder, his carefully erected façade of strength. His days were bleak as if the heartache had overwhelmed the sun and with it his ability to see the way forward. Lost, with head in hand, the master of Pemberley, quietly and for the first time since his father’s passing, wept.

  Lightly, like the first gentle touch of a snowflake, a hand brushed his brow. Startled, Darcy looked up and tried to scramble to his feet, mortified to have been caught in his weakness.

  “Mrs. Waters,” Darcy’s eyes were large and his voice too loud.

  “Shush, please do not rise,” the sweet voice of compassion answered, and the tender touch exerted slight pressure upon his shoulder.

  Then heedless of the cold and the snow, she knelt before him, slowly and tenderly she wiped his tears with the gentle caress of her fingers. “Shush,” she whispered, caressing one check. “Shush,” she caressed the other; her movements were slow as she continued her healing administrations. She did not speak empty platitudes; she just knelt before him, moving slowly and whispering softly – and something in her touch soothed the ache in his soul.

  He breathed rapidly and opened eyes that had closed to better savor her touch. His head was lowered so that they were nearly eye to eye, and all his pain, vulnerability, uncertainty, and fragility was there in his eyes for the taking. She leaned forward and offered him her lips and his lonely, fragile, uncertain soul, took his comfort in her practiced embrace.

  Now, governing his features and sequestering his memories, it was the master of Pemberley that spoke, “Mrs. Waters, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Colonel Saye, welcome to our home,” Jane spoke softly.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, thank you for receiving me. Miss Bennet,” Saye bowed over Elizabeth’s hand, a half-smile upon his face, “a pleasure to see you again, ma’am.”

  The tea served, and conventionalities addressed, Bingley spoke, “Colonel Saye,” Saye turned his gaze from Elizabeth, “how long do you stay in town?”

  “I am at the disposal of the war office,” then turning his gaze back to Elizabeth he said, “and I must say, I find this particular order very pleasing. And you, Miss Bennet, how long do you stay in London?” Saye asked.

  “A few weeks more, or until my sister and new brother tire of me!

  “Nonsense, Lizzy,” Jane smiled and shook her head. “We hope that you stay until the end of the season. There is still so much to entertain.”

  Saye cleared his throat, “Speaking of entertainment, Miss Bennet, do you enjoy the theater?”

  “Very much. Great literature coming to life is stimulating.”

  “Yes,” Jane said, “Lizzy is a great reader. As father’s favorite, they spent many hours in his study, reading and debating.”

  “Yes!” Elizabeth flushed. “Both activities vexed my mother’s nerves.”

  “Interesting,” Saye smiled in his enigmatic way that made him appear as a maven possessing secrets that others craved. “I wondered from where you had sharpened your wit.”

  Saye was very handsome; his dark hair and eyes, along with that enigmatic smile made him appear mysterious, even dangerous. Elizabeth stared and then blinked. “Um, yes,” she laughed and smoothed a curl behind her ear, “yes, my father had an unorthodox approach to education. I studied subjects not considered proper for young ladies.”

  “And do you consider that a benefit, Miss Bennet, or a liability?” Saye steepled his hands and watched her intently.

  Elizabeth stared and then accepted the challenge in Saye’s gaze. “I think ignorance is a liability. It is a travesty when us poor females are relegated to female accomplishments alone.” Elizabeth laughed, “I am only passable on the pianoforte, and I prick my finger nearly as much as the cloth during needlepoint. However, I have viewed the intricacie
s of personalities through the eyes of the Bard, studied the power of love through Wordsworth and Blake, and the wonders of the universe through Sir Isaac, and though society may not approve, all those wonders now live in me, and I am rather richer for it,” Elizabeth arched her brow and locked her gaze with Saye who gazed at her with a half-smile.

  As Saye and Elizabeth continued their non-verbal conversation, Bingley and Jane glanced at one another, feeling almost like intruders. Finally, Bingley cleared his throat and Elizabeth startled, then looked away. Saye, on the other hand, slowly slid his eyes to Bingley, who asked, “Are you a great reader as well, Colonel.”

  “I am not a great reader; however, with a Cambridge education, I have read the greats. Now, I am more a man of action, increasing my knowledge through experience.” Saye looked at Elizabeth, “Which is why it would be my honor if you all would accompany me to the theater this Thursday, and Miss Bennet can experience great literature made alive.”

  Jane and Bingley glanced at one another and then at Elizabeth who nodded. “We would be delighted,” Bingley answered.

  “Excellent! Now, Miss Elizabeth, we will experience the intricacies of life and nature come to life upon the stage, and I look forward to your insights.”

  Francesca stared. It had been a long five years. The lad had been enticing, but the man wore his confidence better than his superbly fitted coat, and it was magnificent. Francesca swallowed. The prize was before her; she must play the game well.

  “Fitzwilliam, it has been too long. How wonderful to see you,” she smiled.

  Ignoring the sentiment, Darcy invited her to sit. Francesca walked languidly to the settee closest to him, eyeing him as she swayed her hips. She sat slowly and peered up at Darcy with wide eyes. Darcy walked to the fireplace and took the single chair furthest from her. He crossed his legs and looked at her, “Mrs. Waters, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Fitzwilliam, it has been so long. I have recently returned to town, and I thought to see my old friends,” she smiled. “How have you been, Fitzwilliam? You look well, very well.”

  Darcy flinched with her familiarity. “I am well. And you? Have you enjoyed your travels?”

  Francesca cleared her throat, her eyes flitting about the room, “Yes, yes, I did. How is Georgiana?” She asked quickly, her voice raising. “I am sure she has grown into a delightful and accomplished young lady. She always possessed the sweetest disposition. What is she, five or six and ten?

  “Miss Darcy is now six and ten, and yes, she is well and very accomplished,” Darcy clipped.

  “Well, I would dearly love to see her again.”

  The entrance of the housekeeper saved Darcy from a response. After Mrs. Pennington had poured tea and exited, Darcy shifted in his chair, while Francesca chewed her lip, her eyes flitting to Darcy at short intervals.

  “Fitzwilliam,” Francesca cleared her throat, dry now despite the tea, “would you do me the honor of paying me a call at my townhome? I am leasing from Sir Devlin.”

  “Why, Mrs. Waters? I cannot see why your business cannot be conducted here and now. I do not see a reason for a call, madam.”

  “Please, Fitzwilliam,” Francesca leaned forward and captured his gaze, her eyes wide, “for old time’s sake. I need your wisdom on a matter of great importance.”

  Darcy creased his forehead and tapped his finger on the armrest. He had once considered her a friend, and her comfort during his time of mourning, though inappropriate, had eased his sorrow.

  “I will call on Friday, at 11.”

  Francesca exhaled a long breath. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam,” she smiled. Darcy nodded, and so they sat, two people mismatched in their intentions, hocking about for common interests and speaking awkwardly to fill the remaining time considered proper for a morning call. Finally, Francesca smoothed her dress and rose, “Well, I should be going.” She swayed to the door and turned, “It was a pleasure to see you again.” Darcy bowed and stood still until the door closed, then he turned and walked slowly away with his head down and his hands behind his back.

  That evening, Elizabeth sat on the window seat in her room and watched as the light faded from the sky. Her book held no interest for her, her mind too full of the events of last night’s ball and today’s calls. The ball had been overwhelming! Two gentlemen showing her particular attention. Elizabeth giggled; Mama would need her smelling salts! And Mr. Darcy! She sat up straight. I cannot make him out. Scowling as if the devil chased him all night, then asking me to dance and whispering that my presence is air! No! No. Elizabeth shook her head so vigorously that she nearly dislodged the pins that held her curls in place. He must have said, ‘fair.’ My presence is ‘fair,’ as in lovely? Vexing man! Elizabeth blew a breath that set her curls a flight. Well, no matter, the proud Mr. Darcy would never consider her, and she had enough to consider with the boisterous and captivating, Colonel Saye, and the sensible and steady, Mr. Lancaster.

  Elizabeth smiled as she recalled Lance’s morning call. She would have thought that it would have been Colonel Saye to arrive nearly too early for propriety, but to her astonishment, it was Mr. Lancaster standing in the drawing room eyeing her sedately. Calm. Safe. Dutiful. Honorable. Mr. Lancaster. Her life with him would be expected, lauded even – just the life for a gentlewoman. Elizabeth sighed. She did not know if she wanted Lance to request a courtship, but he was a good man, and with him, she would be respected and cared for.

  Colonel Saye was a matter altogether different! He had arrived after Mr. Lancaster and had filled the room. His laughter promised adventures, secrets, unconventionality. Lance and Saye were so different, as different as excited is to calm and as ebb is to flow; they were on opposite ends of a spectrum. Elizabeth shook her head as if to free clarity for its mental chains. She frowned as she realized that she rather thought life would be better lived in the middle.

  Back in her leased townhouse, Francesca sat at her dressing table in her silk robe and brushed her hair. Her brushing slowed as she gazed at her reflection. Francesca Waters was beautiful. Tall and slender with an elegant bearing, graceful neck, trim figure, and beautiful face. Five years older than Darcy, she was the only child of a libertine. Her father had used his small estate as a bank and had lost his wealth to licentiousness. He had not been what society would label a cruel father, but rather an indifferent one, (which Francesca thought a cruelty in itself). Since her mother had passed away during childbirth, Francesca had been left to nursemaids and governesses, – some harsh, some kind, most indifferent. Thirsty to belong, by the time she was old enough to be out, Francesca determined to marry well.

  In her first season, in the assembly in her little community, Francesca’s beauty and sweetness captured the attention of a young, handsome heir to a modest estate of 3,000 a year. He was honorable and kind and steady, and she was drawn to him immediately. To her, he felt like warm fires and hot chocolate, snow and sleigh rides and snuggles and giggles beneath the blankets. And strong arms to lean on.

  At each assembly and neighborhood gathering, he paid her particular attention, sitting down with her or requesting the first dance, fetching her refreshments and speaking with her of music and cricket matches and laughter and family and life. After a few months, he requested a courtship, and Francesca’s heart raced. She would finally be loved. She would finally have a home.

  When the young gentleman – all blush and bravery – appealed to her father, he was unexpectantly and brusquely denied. His hopes dashed, he had exited with a long stride and glazed eyes. When Francesca entered her father’s study, he was seated behind his rarely used desk with cigar and brandy. He glanced up at his daughter and said casually, as if he had asked her to pass the potatoes at the supper table, “I have denied your young man.”

  Francesca’s knees had buckled, and she gripped the door frame. “Why, Father?” Francesca cried, her voice an octave higher.

  He puffed his cigar and slowly blew the smoke, “You are promised
to another.”

  Francesca could hear her blood rushing in her ears. “What?” She shook her head, eyes blinking rapidly, “What do you mean? I have promised myself to no other!”

  “Ah,” he sipped his brandy, “but I have.”

  “What! Why? Who, Father?” Francesca listened to her father’s description of her betrothed and collapsed into the chair, the room spinning like her world. She sat, watching her dreams being crushed, and tossed into the flames, like refuse.

  Chapter Eight

  “Darcy!” Richard boomed from the doorway of the breakfast room the next morning. “Will you feed a poor soldier?”

  “Richard,” Darcy folded the paper and rolled his eyes, “I do not know why I say this, but you are always welcome.”

  “You welcome me because I am your favorite male cousin,” Richard puffed out his chest.

  “Ah, with so little competition, I am surprised you wear the title with such esteem.”

  Richard laughed. “There is nothing you may say that Cook’s tarts will not cure.” He filled his plate with the aromatic food and sat. After a while, he spoke, “So, Cousin,” Richard looked Darcy hard in the eye, “what gives at the Lancaster ball?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Richard shrugged, “You appeared…vexed.”

  Now it was Darcy’s time to shrug, “It was a ball.”

  “Indeed,” Richard peered at him, “but this was extreme – even for you,” Richard responded, and Darcy sipped his coffee and looked away.

  “Come now,” Richard said, batting his eyes like a coquette, “tell, Cousin Richard all.”

  Darcy shook his head and smirked. “And they allow you to lead men, do they, Cousin?”