by Gail McEwen
“An apology?” Elizabeth was confused. “For…just now?”
“Of course for that! Please understand, that is not why I came here.”
“Of course it was not. I know that.” Elizabeth struggled with conflicting emotions. What they had done was wrong in so many ways, yet the way he had made her feel… Yes, her body was satisfied, but it was so much more than that. She had felt safe, cared for and treasured, desired even in his heat and haste, and she desperately wanted to hold onto those feelings. “It was, perhaps, not the wisest — ” She tried to console him, but he interrupted her with a snort of derision.
“Not the wisest? That is an understatement indeed.” Now that he was dressed, he paced in agitation around the room as she had seen him do so many times. “It was not only unwise; it was an offence against you, me, God, good judgement, and morality.”
But even as he berated himself, he could not tear his eyes from Elizabeth, sitting on the sofa, still flushed and glowing, but so fragile, so easily hurt. And he must hurt her, there was no other way because, even as his heart went out to her, his shoulders were heavy with other obligations. Fitzwilliam’s admonitions echoed in his thoughts—along with the image of Georgiana’s timid smile as she took her first steps towards a happiness he had no right to endanger.
“I came only to tell you about Wickham. This is the last thing I wanted to happen. I am thoroughly ashamed. There is no excuse for it.” He whirled around and looked at her with something akin to anger in his eyes. “I lost control as I always seem to do when I am around you.”
And with those words, the sense of comfort and peace that Elizabeth had felt at his touch disappeared. Pain, unhappiness, and self-protection crept up to envelop her once again.
“I see. I am grateful for your honesty as, once again, you take pains to make clear that any feelings you have for me are an affront to your will, your reason, and even your character.” She made a desperate attempt to regain a semblance of dignity or control. “I must thank you for reminding me of the truth of my position.”
“Elizabeth, that is unfair. What happened today was a lapse in judgement and self-control; it is no reflection on you or my feelings for you.”
She squared her shoulders, adjusted her skirts, and tried to find that strength she had so recently relinquished. The moment of respite was over.
“It is no matter. It was a mistake; you have apologised; I will accept your apology. You say you came to tell me about George?”
He started to say something more then closed his mouth abruptly. “I thought you should know,” he finally managed to get out.
“I see.” She looked up with a stoic expression. “You are certain? Your information is reliable?”
“It is certain. I witnessed it.”
“You were there?” Stunned, Elizabeth dropped her newly formed guard. “Why ever for?”
“I felt that I ought to…that I owed it…” Darcy sighed. “In truth, I cannot explain half of what I do in regards to that man to my own satisfaction, let alone justify my actions to anyone else.”
“It is just that I had convinced myself you would not be there. There was no cause for you to be present, after all.”
“You are correct; there was no reason, but I felt the need to see it through to the end. I could not do otherwise.”
“But I had convinced myself you would not go…that it was pointless…”
“That what was pointless?”
She stared at him—or through him, rather — as pale as a ghost. Then she rose and walked to the small dining table in the corner and picked something up from a pile of papers. She stood with her back to him, holding an envelope in her hand.
“How was it?” Her voice was not much more than a whisper. “Was it very terrible?”
Darcy pondered how much to say. He feared he could not whitewash the truth; the impression of the agonising death throes and the primal desperate struggle to survive was still too vivid.
“I cannot discuss it,” was the best he could do.
“It was terrible,” she concluded. “I did not want him to suffer, you know. Whatever it was I did want, I did not want that.” She toyed with the envelope. “I saw an account of a hanging once in one of my father’s newspapers when a man from a neighbouring town was hanged for theft. I was twelve years old and had no business reading such a thing, but I did, and I was sorry. The images and ideas haunted me for months—gave me nightmares.” She laughed bitterly. “And I have tried very hard in these past days not to recall what I read, but it has all come back.”
“I thought you should know,” he repeated.
“You are right. I should know. I should know it all. I was prepared to leave without giving it proper consideration—as if it would be less real if I kept it abstract—but that was cowardice on my part. If George suffered so badly for his sins, I should suffer at least a little for mine.”
“Your sins? Elizabeth, what we did…it was after the fact. It had nothing to do with him.”
“How can you say that? George Wickham has been interwoven in everything between us since almost the first time we met.”
“Not everything.”
She stood, her back still to him, turned the envelope over in her hand once more then deliberately placed it back on the table. “A lapse in judgement and self-control you called it.” She turned to face him. “A trifling indiscretion as if we overindulged at table or drank one glass of wine too many. But perhaps it was nothing more than that to you. I always thought a cavalier attitude regarding intimacy was a peculiar trait of my husband’s, but I see I was mistaken. Perhaps it means nothing to any man.”
Darcy sat down heavily, pushing his fingers through his hair in despair. “Mistaken and impulsive as it was, please do not say…do not think it had no significance for me. All I have wanted for so long is you. But as much as I wish things were different, they are not. There are too many things standing in the way. It means a great deal to me, Elizabeth, but unfortunately, it changes nothing.”
“I understand.” She endeavoured to keep the quaver out of her voice. “It is for the best, I am sure. Now, I think you should go. My uncle will be here shortly.”
“Maybe some day,” he persisted, “but — ” He stopped, only then noticing the trunk sitting in the middle of the room. “You are leaving?”
“I am.”
“Where will you go?”
“Home. To Longbourn.”
“Good.” Darcy’s face flooded with relief. “That is very good. You should be with family.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said roughly, walking to the door and holding it open. “Goodbye, Mr Darcy.”
He followed her to the door, straightening his coat, pausing only to retrieve his hat from where it had fallen before turning with an awkward bow.
“Please accept my deepest apologies. I had no right to treat you with such disrespect.”
He could not decipher the expression on Elizabeth’s face; her eyes were veiled, and her lips were tightly pressed together. In hopes of reaching some resolution to that terrible, awkward moment, and desperate to relieve the tension and unhappiness he could feel in her, he thrust out his hand in an old familiar gesture. “I wish… I hope we can still be friends.”
“Goodbye, Mr Darcy.” She closed the door, leaving him standing with his hand untouched. He stared at the door in sadness tinged with only a touch of disbelief before heading back to the courthouse to take care of one last loose end in the Wickham affair.
* * *
The events of that January day — the good, the bad, the pleasurable, and the horrifying—played over in Darcy’s mind a hundred times since leaving Castle Street for the last time. He had not been back, nor had he attempted to see Elizabeth. Instead, he rested in the knowledge that she was home and safe with her family — and that, when the time was right, he would go to her and make amends. In the meantime, he threw himself into fulfilling his responsibilities and taking care of all that stood between him and what he knew
now without a doubt he truly wanted.
Making it through that time was an exercise in long-suffering and a true test of his patience. Once Wickham was safely hanged with no breath of scandal attached to the Darcy name, the elder Mr Franklin happily approved a match between the families, but it took much longer than Darcy anticipated for Robert Franklin to declare his intentions and make an offer of marriage. Georgiana was unconcerned, rightfully convinced that Mr Franklin did not wish to detract from the joy and excitement of his sister’s upcoming wedding by making an announcement of his own, but Darcy fervently wished he would get on with it.
It was not until late February, four weeks after the hanging, and on the evening after Miss Franklin was married to Mr Tibbets, that Darcy heard two sounds signifying the welcome arrival of a visitor—the ringing of the bell followed by two sets of footsteps coming down the hallway.
When Peters cleared his throat in the doorway of his study, Darcy turned, expecting to greet Franklin, be subjected to a long inventory of Miss Darcy’s charms, and to at last give his enthusiastic consent to a marriage. However, he was instead confronted with the smiling face of his cousin.
“Fitzwilliam! What are you doing here?”
“Imposing myself upon you, what else? Are you not pleased to see me?”
“I hoped you were someone else. Nevertheless, come in and help yourself to my Scotch, as usual.”
The colonel did just that before settling in his customary chair.
“Expecting Franklin, were you?”
Darcy shrugged, and Fitzwilliam shook his head.
“For a young man so besotted, his forbearance is the stuff of legend.” The colonel spoke half in wonder, half in jest.
“Indeed. And while that may bode well for their future life together, it is very tedious for those of us who do not have the patience of Job.”
“Yes, quite.” Fitzwilliam nodded. “I am in a peculiar limbo myself.”
“Miss Greyson?”
“Yes. The dear girl has not the patience of a gnat, much less Job, and I cannot hold off a proposal forever, but whether Franklin makes his offer hard upon mine, or I make mine hard upon his, one sweet lady’s fame and distinction will quickly be overshadowed by the other. I would not wish that on Georgiana for the world, and I certainly would not wish it upon myself if Mr Franklin tarries too long and I am compelled to move first.”
“You know Georgiana would be very happy not to be the centre of society’s attention for any length of time.”
“I know.” The colonel sighed, stretching out his legs and toying with his glass. “And I am counting on that because Honoria dotes on being the centre of attention…if only Franklin would get on with it. I hardly know what to do.”
“Neither do I.” Darcy was full of the same impatience as his cousin. Until Georgiana was safely married, he dared not approach Elizabeth for any reason. “Short of confronting him and insisting he propose forthwith, what is to be done?”
Fitzwilliam stared at him, his mind obviously working something over. Suddenly he drained his glass, stood up and declared, “Genius!” before walking purposefully to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To confront Franklin and insist he propose to Georgiana forthwith! Where else?”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Never more so. It was your brilliant idea, after all. Why should we sit around and wait when all we need to do is give the man a little push?”
Darcy considered enumerating a long list of reasons why such a move was neither proper nor desirable, but in the end he realised that he, like his cousin, only wanted the waiting to be over, and he did not much care how it was accomplished. So he simply nodded, wished him Godspeed, and asked for a full report of his success.
* * *
On a cloudy afternoon three weeks and four days later, after dozens of frantic letters crossed and re-crossed the country by express, two lengthy meetings with lawyers to draw up the marriage articles, five dinner parties endured, four hurried fittings with the dressmaker, and three days of travel, Darcy and Fitzwilliam stood proudly in the Pemberley chapel and watched a beaming Georgiana pledge her eternal love to her triumphant groom.
And while well-pleased that his sister’s future happiness, as well as her security, was now ensured, Darcy could not help but imagine, as he watched the simple yet profound ceremony, the day when he and Elizabeth would stand in that same chapel, make those same promises to each other and to God, and at long last begin their lives together. He smiled. Soon, everything would be as it should be.
As the servants enjoyed a celebratory bowl of punch below stairs, Darcy and Fitzwilliam stood in the drive, waving goodbye as Robert Franklin’s carriage carried the young couple off on their wedding trip.
“Ah, young love,” Fitzwilliam quipped. “All sweetness and nerves and — ”
But before the dust could settle from Georgiana’s departure — indeed, before his cousin could even finish his thought — Darcy’s carriage rounded the drive and clattered to a halt.
It was clear from his expression and multiple intakes of breath that Fitzwilliam had any number of humorous comments to make at Darcy’s expense, but he managed to confine his observations to a glance at the gathering clouds, and in the end, he merely reminded his cousin that his presence was soon required in Surrey.
“You have ten days to do whatever it is you need to do; then you are at my disposal. So will you please, for the love of all things holy, refrain from doing anything too scandalous? All eyes had better be on my bride at the wedding,” he said as the footman hopped down and opened the coach door, “and not on any notorious groomsman of mine.”
“I make no promises.” Darcy smiled, climbing into the carriage. He sat for a moment deep in thought then poked his head out. “Fitzwilliam, do you love her? I know you are determined to marry Miss Greyson, but do you see yourself happily spending the rest of your life with her?”
“Oh no, you are not going to drag me into your world of romantic notions and happy endings. Honoria is a lovely girl with a very attractive dowry, and she is pleasant enough when she gets her own way. She may be a little spoiled, but with her own house to rule and her own servants to order about, I believe she will be content to leave me to myself.”
“And if not?”
“Then,” Fitzwilliam grinned, “I shall have to concentrate my efforts on giving her a child to occupy her.”
Darcy shook his head with a smile slightly more melancholy than his cousin’s.
“Goodbye, Fitzwilliam.
“Goodbye.”
Just as he pulled his head in, the colonel spoke again.
“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam’s face betrayed a tinge of worry. “You will be there?”
“Of course.”
“And…alone?”
Darcy could not blame him for the sentiment, so he simply nodded. Sitting back in his seat, he signalled the boy to close the door. The carriage lurched into motion, and he was on his way, at long last, to begin the next phase of his life.
Chapter 21
Shortly after Darcy departed, the clouds opened up with a vengeance. The driving rainstorm followed him down from the north and, apparently determined to defy the changing of the season, grew colder and windier with each passing mile. The first day of travel passed in weary tedium as the miles crept by slowly, hampered by muddy roads yet otherwise uneventful. On the second day, they were twice compelled to stop after coming upon vehicles helplessly mired in the slick mud. Darcy watched and waited impatiently as his men helped to lever the guttered wheels free with branches lifted from the roadside while others pushed from the back and the drivers coaxed the tired and bewildered horses forward in the driving rain. And then, after several hours when they could at last continue on their slow way, they were compelled to stop again a few miles down the road to repeat the entire scene. On the third day, his annoyance turned to chagrin when it was his own coach that required rescue by good Samaritans along the way.
More hours of delay ended with perhaps a few too many coins offered to the hearty souls who heaved and pushed him out of trouble, but finally he was once again on his way.
The storm never let up, and it was not until nearly ten o’clock on the fourth day of hard travel, that a muddy, road-weary Darcy arrived at Netherfield Park. As anxious as he might have been for any news or word of Elizabeth, all he could think about at that hour was a hot bath, a hot meal, and a warm bed. Even in that, he was disappointed, as the master and mistress had long since retired, and he was greeted by a solitary, sleepy, servant who was more interested in reaching his own bed than he was in ushering the long-delayed guest to his.
A tray of cold meat and bread stood in for the hot meal, and a basin of steamy water approximated the bath, but the roaring fire in the bedroom did not disappoint. After three uncomfortable nights on the road, the soft, warm bed was pure heaven on Darcy’s sore and battered body, and he was soon sound asleep.
The next morning, Darcy was pleased to find Mr and Mrs Bingley seated at the breakfast table when he came down. The storm appeared to have lost much of its vigour, the violent torrents giving way to a gentler rainfall, but it was obvious that the day would be spent indoors. The paths and roads around Netherfield Park were in no condition for either walking or riding out.
After much discussion on the trials of his journey from Derbyshire, he ventured an inquiry after the health of Mr and Mrs Bennet of Longbourn.
“It is kind of you to ask, Mr Darcy. They are quite well,” Jane replied.
“And your sisters? I trust they are well?”
“They are. Yes. Quite well.”
He knew it was unlikely that Jane would immediately jump into a detailed account of Elizabeth’s welfare, but still, the vague response frustrated him. He had come too far and waited too long not to follow up with the inevitable question.