She wondered if he resented having saved her, now. If he thought about her at all.
Sometime before dawn, the snow stopped. Darcy, shoved uncomfortably in the far reaches of the cave, shifted carefully, so as not to wake his guide. They’d huddled together in this meager rock shelter, hoping to outlast the freezing gales that had buffeted their ascent and forced them to not only abandon the attempt, but also prevented them from returning to the base of the mountain. His guide had told him that way lay certain death— they would slip and fall to their dooms.
Was that not what he had wanted, on some level?
His guide was older. He’d been climbing these mountains for decades, and did not care much for the fancies of a wealthy British fop. And so Darcy had been dragged into this tiny overhang of rock, where he’d spent a cramped, malodorous, freezing night in the arms of a grumpy, taciturn Swiss trying his best not to die from the cold.
But now… now the storm had stopped. His muscles burned with a cold fire as he maneuvered his way around his man. They had been tied together with a length of hemp rope, and he unknotted the fastenings with fingers numb from cold. He wrapped his furs around him, hat and cloak and big wool mittens, took his walking stick and hatchet, and crept towards the opening.
The howl of the winds had passed. The air beyond the crack was cold and clear and silent as the grave. The snow was silver, the sky a similar shade. He felt as if he were walking into a cloud.
Ice crunched beneath his hobnailed boots. He made his way forward and up, cracking through the crust of ice and into the snow with his hatchet, as he’d watched the guide do. He could barely tell the difference between snow and sky. Any moment, he might plummet to his death among the craggy rocks below.
There lies Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. Once so fine a man. Now food for the worms.
Those worms had come for Wickham as well. One errant shove, one tiny trigger, one bullet in the gut.
It was so easy to die, Darcy had thought on that terrible night. So very simple to put a hole in your flesh and bleed out onto the Netherfield lawn.
But, to his consternation, it turned out that it wasn’t all that easy to die. He’d tried drinking in the lowlands. He’d tried mountaineering in the peaks. He’d tried freezing to death last night, but that bastard in the cave had just held him tighter, not wanting to perish himself.
Was it lighter now? Did it make a difference? He was moving slowly, panting hard between each step and each swing of his hatchet. All around was utterly still and silent. Crunch, step, puff, puff, puff. Crunch, step, puff, puff, puff, puff. Crunch, step, puff, puff, puff, puff, puff.
But at least he was breathing. George would never breathe again. He would not know the agony of drawing frozen air into his lungs, the pain of lips that cracked and bled in the winds on a mountaintop, of stinging eyes that were just starting to see the first rays of daylight through the mist.
George Wickham was dead, and he was not. And he wasn’t entirely sure why.
All at once, his hatchet went into nothing. Darcy stopped himself a split second before tumbling into a crevasse. He sprawled in the snow, clutching the rock beneath him, and breathed, for he was unable to do much more. Time passed—how much he knew not. Perhaps this was what it was to die.
And then…
The sky opened up. The ice turned to diamonds, an endless plain of sparkling jewels that shone with the brilliance of stars as the light of dawn hit each crystal. Blue—blindingly blue—vistas opened before him. A sea of mist, with mountaintops like tiny islands poking through.
And the sun. The sun like the very face of God. It was too bright to look at, too great to ignore. It seared through his furs, his skin, his soul.
Darcy was on his knees, arms spread, helpless in the face of all this glory. He whipped the hat from his head and closed his eyes, bowing low.
Enough.
“Yes,” Darcy said. “Enough.”
Chapter 20
Dear Georgiana,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that the news it bears will be as felicitous on your end as it is on mine. You may recall my uncle’s scheme to take my aunt and me to the Lakes this summer. I have just been informed that his business will not allow him all the time away he would require to tour so far from home, and so we must content ourselves with a different schedule—but fear not, for I have good news. We are to go to Derbyshire.
I do hope that we may endeavor to meet again while we are in your lovely county. I have heard its beauties are not to be equaled. My aunt spent much of her youth in Lambton, which I am told is only a few short miles from Pemberley. I hope I might have the honor of introducing you to them while we are there. I believe you shall like Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner very much. My uncle is in trade, but though that may disturb your aunt, I believe you shall find them a very sensible and intelligent sort. They are two of my very favorite people, and that should be reference enough.
It is in Lambton that we will lodge during our visit, at the inn. We expect to arrive in your neighborhood near the date of August the first. Please do write back and tell me that you remain at Pemberley, and that I might see my darling friend again.
With all affection,
Elizabeth Bennet
Dear Elizabeth,
I am overjoyed to have received your letter. But on one point I must disagree—you shall not lodge at the Lambton inn. We shall receive you at Pemberley itself. It would be my honor, as well as a privilege, to have you as a guest in my home, along with your aunt and uncle. I have spoken to Colonel Fitzwilliam as well as our housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, on this subject and they await your arrival with only slightly less eagerness than your own dear friend,
Georgiana Darcy
Elizabeth was in high spirits on that fine summer day when she drove along in her uncle’s carriage, watching for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods. Thus far, the countryside of Derbyshire had far surpassed even her high expectations for loveliness and wonders. The peaks had been sublime, the houses splendid. Were there ever such extraordinary sights in any other place in England? The gardens of Kent had nothing to the wild and untamed beauty to be found here.
Her aunt, too, was in as high a state of excitement as she had ever seen in the sensible, well-bred woman. She had not been able to keep herself from exclaiming on multiple occasions of how little she could believe that she was to be a guest at Pemberley. Elizabeth was somewhat amused, in fact. At first, she had feared her aunt and uncle would refuse the invitation, or suspect that there remained some connection between herself and the master of Pemberley, who had gone to such extraordinary lengths to protect her name. But, soon enough, she was able to explain the friendship she had forged with Georgiana in Kent, which the Gardiners were not at all surprised by.
“But does her brother know how close you have become?” Mrs. Gardiner had once asked.
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth had replied with a shrug. “Though I am afraid Miss Darcy has not been in contact with her brother for quite some time. He is unreachable on the continent, I am told.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Gardiner, wistfully. “To live such a life that one might run away from all cares and responsibilities in that manner. I should have liked it myself, I think, at one time.”
“When?” asked Mrs. Gardiner with a laugh.
“I believe there was that period, when little Teddy was not yet two, and you were confined with our youngest, and Margaret had the croup—”
“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Gardiner had replied. “I think every person in the house must have wanted to vanish into Switzerland on that occasion.”
Soon enough, the conversation turned to other things, to Elizabeth’s relief, and her aunt and uncle had not, to their credit, lingered too long on the topic, nor fallen into the trap of ascribing to Mr. Darcy the common condemnation of worthless young men of fashion who ignored their estates and ran around Europe. Perhaps they knew that it was more serious troubles that had driven the master of Pemberley from England’s shores
.
Elizabeth wondered if he was happy, where ever it was he had gone. She remembered all too clearly his professed fondness for the woods of Pemberley, for the very trees they might now be driving past.
The park was very large and contained great variety of grounds. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent. The trees were in full leaf, glowing in their summer glory of greens and golds and deep, rich browns. The air was clear and warm, and the sound of birds and insects serenaded them as they rode along.
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then the wood ceased, and before them, on the opposite side of a valley, lay the house itself.
The large stone building instantly caught the eye. The road they were on wound throughout the valley toward the edifice, following the path of a large stream. The house was backed by a ridge of high, woody hills, and in front of the massive columns, the stream swelled until it almost took on the appearance of a pond. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned.
Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. She did not know to which Darcy ancestor the look of the place might be credited, but at once she held a greater understanding of conversations she had once had with Mr. Darcy about his love of nature and his fondness for the picturesque.
At the time, she’d thought him posturing, as well she knew his disdain for the country life his friend Mr. Bingley was pursuing in Hertfordshire. But had he not told her, that afternoon beneath the yew, that one felt much different in one’s home county? Sitting in the carriage and looking at the tremendous vista before them, Elizabeth found she could not but allow that he had a point. Nothing at home could compare to this. Not Netherfield, not Longbourn. Nothing at all.
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove toward the house. With every yard they passed, the meticulous care the people of Pemberley took with their property was made ever more apparent. The lawn was neat, the gardens fragrant, the waterways well-tended. Even in the absence of its master, the estate clearly thrived.
“A sign of good management,” her uncle observed.
“And a massive fortune,” added her aunt with a smile.
Soon enough, they arrived at the house, where they were greeted by a veritable army of servants and led directly into a handsome sitting room, where the lady of the house awaited them.
“Elizabeth!” Georgiana exclaimed at once, rising. She stopped, blushed, and curtsied. “I mean, welcome to Pemberley.”
Elizabeth smiled and came forward to take her hands. “Georgiana. It is so good to see you again.” She made the introductions.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam had hoped to be at home to greet you as well, but he is out with the steward this afternoon. You shall see him at dinner.” She folded her hands in front of her. “There are ever so many duties to attend to on the estate. I was not aware until this season how great my brother’s responsibilities have been, and I am ever more grateful for all the time he devoted to me, considering the demands which must have weighed upon him all these years.”
“An ideal older brother, then,” said Mrs. Gardiner in a kind voice.
“Oh, yes. And always too generous. He is very much missed in this house.” The smile fled from her face, but a moment later she rallied. “But let me give you a tour. I will call our housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds. She is ever so much better with dates and things than I.”
Presently the housekeeper came. She was a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less fine than Elizabeth had any notion of finding in such a house, and though she treated Georgiana with all the deference her rank afforded, it was clear from their manner of interacting that Mrs. Reynolds had known the girl all her life, and had taken an eager hand in making sure she was properly brought up and made accustomed to the ways of Pemberley. Georgiana might think that Mrs. Reynolds was well-educated as to when this wing was added or who was pictured in each portrait in the gallery, but, as it turned out, she knew things that even the elderly housekeeper had forgotten.
They moved through room after room, each larger and more beautifully furnished than the last. All were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor, but Elizabeth saw, with a growing sense of admiration for Mr. Darcy’s taste, that it was neither ostentatious nor uselessly fine. Despite the obvious wealth of Pemberley, here she saw more real elegance and less the gaudy splendor of Rosings or even some of the other fine houses she had toured with the Gardiners since entering Derbyshire.
Elizabeth noticed that the house was built such so that lovely prospects were visible from nearly every room. She soon grew quite familiar with the sights of the distant hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, as well as the glistening river, and the winding of the valley as far as she could trace it. As they passed into other rooms, she caught every angle of their beauty.
She could not help but picture the master of Pemberley seated in these rooms, or even running through them as a boy. She pictured him writing letters at that table or studying in that library. The library, certainly, was as impressive and extensive as she had been promised in that long-ago conversation at Netherfield.
At last, they were brought to an upstairs gallery, in which there were many portraits of the family throughout the ages. Elizabeth walked on in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last, she found it. Before her hung a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she scarcely remembered the original wearing.
Except for perhaps that one moment, when they were together under the yew. Or maybe when they danced at Netherfield, in those last moments before the entire world turned upside down.
Where would they be if things had gone differently that night? She would likely not be standing in Pemberley, looking at this portrait. And perhaps Mr. Darcy would be here, where he belonged. How very backwards it all felt, to be so far from him, yet still feel so close. The painted face haunted her, as if at any moment he might ask her a question or nod in agreement to something she said. Elizabeth shook her head. It was very silly indeed, to think so much of a man one barely knew.
Mrs. Reynolds moved on with the Gardiners to describe the lives of Darcys past, further down the hall, but Elizabeth could not look away from the picture of Pemberley’s master and wondered how he was, wherever in the world he might be.
Chapter 21
Soon enough, Elizabeth had her answer.
Georgiana joined her in looking at the image of her brother. In a low voice, she said, “I had hoped to see high summer bring him back to us, but our last letters have gone unanswered. He left the alpine town in Switzerland which was his last known location, and we have had no word yet of where he has gone.”
Elizabeth reached for her hand. “I am sorry. I know he is doing only what he believes is best. That is, I think, what he has always done.”
Georgiana did not appear comforted. “Returning to Pemberley has been the very best thing for me. Here, people know his worth and are not bothered by any stories that might be told in town. Here, everyone misses him terribly.”
Elizabeth felt she must ask. “Do they speak at all of the other gentleman?”
“Of course, but they are not ignorant of his ways. Mrs. Reynolds, if you ask, will call him very wild, and tell you she is not surprised to hear he has met a careless end. Do not underestimate her, Lizzy. She is a force of nature.”
“I can well imagine that!” The housekeeper of such a great estate would have the experience nearly of a general.
Georgiana spent another moment in quiet contemplation of her brother’s image. “Colonel Fitzwilliam recently had a letter from his mother. She says in London, talk has moved on to more scandalous topics. Something about the Baron of Roc
hdale?”
“Lord Byron!” Elizabeth exclaimed, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Yes, indeed. We have heard these rumors even in Meryton. I must say, the gossip is so bad that it makes all other stories pale in comparison. But Lord Byron appears by all accounts to relish it—not for him to run off to the continent to escape the shame.”
“He does seem shameless,” Georgiana observed.
“Perhaps that means he is guilty of the things being said of him. Whereas another, who has been mortified, is also one we know is innocent.”
Georgiana turned to her. “What news from Meryton? Is your family in good health?”
“Excellent health, though I am sorry to say, poor spirits. The regiment left for Brighton nearly two months ago, and though Lydia begged my father to take us there for the summer, she was refused. She even received an invitation from the colonel’s wife to go thither as her special companion. But Papa felt we had enough near-scandals involving the regiment to risk it, and denied her the pleasure. She says she will never recover.”
Georgiana laughed. “Dear Lydia! I hope some day to meet her. I am sure she cannot be half so silly as your stories.”
“Then I am not as convincing a letter writer as I had thought.” Elizabeth glanced down the gallery. “They are moving on. Should we not join them?”
“Only if you want to know the history of the west wing.”
Nevertheless, the girls walked to catch up with the others.
“And how is Jane?” Georgiana asked.
“Very well,” Elizabeth lied. Jane still mourned the loss of Mr. Bingley, though Elizabeth did not think it prudent to discuss this too much with Georgiana, who knew the Bingleys even better than the Bennets did. But she did not want it to be too long until her sister rallied. After all, was she not here in front of Georgiana, who had experienced an even greater romantic disappointment, and one under much more mortifying and permanent circumstances?
In Darcy's Dreams Page 14