“When do you plan to tell her about the announcement?”
Darcy took a sip of the brandy, then swallowed it quickly as the sharp taste burned his tongue. “Tomorrow, I suppose. Before we return to Rosings, in any case. They may have seen it there.”
“If they have not, my father will have, and I wager he will be on the doorstep within two hours of reading it. Are you ready to face a united front from him and Lady Catherine?”
“I do not care what they say. Nothing will stop me from marrying her.”
Richard set down his brandy and straightened his shoulders. “There is one thing that might. I made her an offer of my own today.”
For a moment Darcy could not believe he had heard him correctly, then he half-rose from his chair as fear and betrayal churned through him. “How dare…. What did she say?”
“She asked for time to consider it. As for how I dared, well, I have as much right to pursue my own happiness as you do.”
Elizabeth had refused him point-blank, but she had not refused Richard. Elizabeth and Richard. Good God, anything but that! “It cannot be. The announcement has already been made.”
Richard shrugged. “It would be easy enough to explain as a misunderstanding. The name, you know – someone heard Fitzwilliam and thought of you, not me. No one would doubt it, especially with your history of avoiding entanglements.”
The sharp edges of the chair arms were biting into Darcy’s fingers as he clenched them tightly, almost as tightly as he had clenched his teeth to keep in the words that threatened to escape him, words that could never be taken back. Richard and Elizabeth. Richard holding Elizabeth in his arms. Richard kissing Elizabeth. His gorge rose. “Why? You never evinced any interest in marrying her until you heard I wanted to. Is that it? I would not have thought it of you, cousin.”
“Or do you mean that you would not have thought it possible that any woman might choose me over you?”
It was true enough, but Darcy was too far blinded with pain and anger to care. “You knew I was planning to marry her!”
“I also knew she did not seem happy with the arrangement, so I offered her a different option. This is not about you or me, Darcy. It is purely up to her.”
That was what frightened Darcy the most. “You may believe that if it gives you comfort. I thought I could trust you,” he bit out as he rose to his feet. He had to remove himself before he lost control completely.
Richard stood as well and grasped his arm as Darcy tried to pass him. “For God’s sake, stop and think for a minute! Think about her! You are entranced by her spirit. What do you think will happen to that spirit after she spends years listening to your insults about her family and living with your expectation that everyone will always fall in with your plans? I am accustomed to living in your shadow. You decide to stay at Rosings, so we stay at Rosings. You decide to leave, so we leave. You decide to marry Miss Bennet, so she has to marry you whether she likes it or not. It does not even occur to you that we may have wishes of our own. No, you are the Master of Pemberley. The world runs to your command. Well, Miss Bennet is not yours to command. Did you even try to woo her, or did you just assume she would be grateful for any attention you paid her? That she would not mind your comments about her family, or how you are degrading yourself with this connection? Do you even care what happens to her, as long as you get what you want?”
“You know her family is not the equal of ours!”
“Of course it isn’t, but I can acknowledge that to her without making her feel degraded and humiliated!”
Darcy stared down at Richard’s fingers gripping his arm, trying to fight back the urge to lash out with his fists. “Let me go,” he said icily.
Richard released him. “Just think about it, Darcy,” he said tiredly.
Darcy did not want to think about it. He strode out of the room and left the parsonage, slamming the front door closed behind him.
Chapter 8
Charlotte Collins was exhausted. She had been relieved initially when Colonel Fitzwilliam offered to find a way to check on Elizabeth, but she had not realized how difficult it would be to manage to keep the situation at Rosings from deteriorating into a disaster. The colonel had seemed to manage his aunt almost effortlessly despite her worry over Mr. Darcy, which had allowed Charlotte to focus on keeping Maria from panicking over being stranded at Rosings and preventing Mr. Collins from aggravating the circumstances with well-intentioned sympathies that served only to distress Lady Catherine even further.
In the absence of Colonel Fitzwilliam, though, Lady Catherine’s veneer of calm cracked. She reduced two maids to tears with a brutal and undeserved tongue-lashing, then turned her ire on Mr. Collins, criticizing everything from his posture to the manner in which he wore his cravat, making the poor man try franticly to say anything that might please her ladyship. Anne de Bourgh had pronounced herself quite unwell and took to her bed, indubitably to avoid her mother’s rage, since Anne had been the only person at Rosings who seemed not to care about Mr. Darcy’s disappearance.
At dinner, Charlotte was forced to maintain the conversation with her ladyship by herself, since both Mr. Collins and Maria had been thoroughly cowed into silence. This, of course, meant that Lady Catherine vented her spleen at her, roundly criticizing everything from her housekeeping to her appearance to her family background. It was almost enough to break through even Charlotte’s calm, but somehow she managed to maintain her composure. She wished that Colonel Fitzwilliam would hurry back. She would be happy to see anyone beyond the current company.
***
Mr. Bennet’s mood had only worsened after he had been forced to abandon his beloved library for the rigors of the unknown. By the time he reached Rosings Park, he was furious. He was barely civil to the footman who opened the door to his knock as he demanded to see Mr. Darcy at once.
“Mr. Darcy is not here,” the footman said curtly.
“Oh, yes, he is,” Mr. Bennet snapped. “I had a letter from my daughter not two days ago telling me so. Tell him Mr. Bennet demands to see him immediately.”
“I regret that I am unable to do so owing to his absence.”
“Where might I find him, in that case?”
“I cannot say, sir.”
“You cannot say? Then I will see Lady Catherine de Bourgh instead.”
The footman seemed on firmer ground here. “Her ladyship is not receiving visitors at present.”
“This is not a social call. I require information from her ladyship, and I require it immediately.”
“If you will wait here, sir, I will see what I can do.”
Mr. Bennet cooled his heels for a few minutes in an ornate dining room, but his hopes to be led to Lady Catherine were destined to be frustrated. Instead, the butler appeared to repeat the same information he had already received: Mr. Darcy’s whereabouts were unknown, and Lady Catherine would not receive him. Only when Mr. Bennet refused to leave did the butler agree to seek further counsel on the matter.
A quarter hour later the door once again opened, and to Mr. Bennet’s astonishment, he was greeted by none other than his former neighbor, Mrs. Collins.
Charlotte stopped abruptly. “Mr. Bennet! I had not expected to find you here when Jamison said there was a caller.”
“I am sure you did not,” said Mr. Bennet grimly. “It seems we are both in places where we are not expected. Is Lizzy here as well?”
“No, she is not.” As Charlotte smoothed her hands over her skirt, Mr. Bennet noted that she appeared fatigued and unhappy. “She is, I presume, still at the parsonage, on the other side of the river.”
“It does not matter. I am here to see Mr. Darcy.”
Charlotte’s face grew pale. “Have you had word of him?”
Mr. Bennet snorted. “So to speak.”
“Where is he? Is he injured?” Charlotte wrung her hands as she spoke.
“I am trying to find out where he is, and I have no idea whether he is injured, though I think it quite possi
ble that I may do him an injury myself!”
“Mr. Bennet!” Charlotte paused, then began again. “I should explain myself. You find us in some disarray here. The river that lies between Rosings and the parsonage burst its banks two days ago, washing out the only bridge, while Mr. Collins and I were dining here. Mr. Darcy disappeared just before the flood began, and we fear the worst, for there has been no word of him since. Lady Catherine is naturally quite… distraught, and Miss de Bourgh has taken to her bed, which is why the butler asked me to speak to you in their stead.”
“And Lizzy, is she safe?”
“I cannot see why she would not be. She did not join us for dinner owing to a headache, so she remained at the parsonage. It is on high ground, and our maid is there to care for her. This morning Colonel Fitzwilliam set out to check on her, but he has not returned. No doubt he had to travel farther than expected before he found a way across the river.”
“Who, pray tell, is Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
“My apologies; he is Lady Catherine’s nephew and Mr. Darcy’s cousin.”
Mr. Bennet nodded slowly. “So, Lizzy cannot be reached, Darcy is missing, and you seem oddly surprised to see me.”
Charlotte’s expression grew puzzled. “I had not expected it, though Mr. Collins and I will be happy to have you as our guest, and I am sure Lizzy will be pleased to see you.”
“I suppose, then, that you know nothing of this as well.” Mr. Bennet took a folded sheet of newsprint from his pocket and handed it to Charlotte.
Charlotte unfolded it and perused it in her usual careful manner. A smile broke over her face. “Oh, Lizzy has been quite the sly one! She hasn’t said a word to me of this.” Then her smile abruptly disappeared. “Oh, no. Poor Lizzy! And she has no idea he is…. lost.”
“I would not waste my time worrying about that, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said dryly. “I would venture to guess that you will find Darcy with Lizzy.”
Charlotte pressed her hand to her chest. “Of course! This would explain where he was going that night. We knew only that he rode out after dark, despite a warning that the roads were unfit for travel, but given this,” she held up the announcement, “he is probably perfectly safe at the parsonage.”
“Perfectly safe until I get my hands on him,” grumbled Mr. Bennet. “I do not like learning of my daughter’s engagement from a notice in the newspaper, and I like even less the idea that he has spent the last two days alone with Lizzy.”
His companion, however, was not paying attention. She was re-reading the announcement and biting her lip. “But what shall I tell Lady Catherine? She is frantic about Mr. Darcy’s disappearance, but if she were aware of this, it might be even worse.”
“He is better off dead than engaged to my daughter?” Mr. Bennet demanded, his objections to the match forgotten in this new indignity.
Charlotte allowed herself a slight smile. “I am certain we will both hear far more than we wish on the subject of Lady Catherine’s wishes.”
A new pounding sounded from the direction of the front door. “Perhaps that is the colonel, with news from the parsonage,” said Charlotte.
A man’s voice bellowed, “Where is he, damn his eyes?”
Charlotte turned back to Mr. Bennet. “On second thought, that would not be Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
***
Elizabeth let the light breeze from the window play over her hot cheeks. The rain had stopped, but the air remained moist, almost as she imagined sea air would be. Someday she would like to visit the sea. It was a pity to be so close to it here in Kent, yet not to see it.
The sky was beginning to clear as well. As she watched, a thin crescent moon scudded out from behind the patchy clouds, making the grounds of the parsonage into a quilt of light and shadows before it was once again swallowed up and blurred into the merest suggestion of light. To the west, the sky blazed with stars, and Elizabeth entertained herself with imagining new constellations from the patterns they made.
The crash of a door slamming broke the stillness of the night. A shadowy form emerged from the front of the parsonage, striding rapidly toward the row of trees that lined the property. She recognized Mr. Darcy by the set of his shoulders. Reaching the trees, he stooped to pick something up – a stick? – and weighed it in his hand. Then, with an abrupt motion, he drew back his arm and flung it hard. It flew away from the house and out of her sight, but Elizabeth heard the crack of wood meeting wood.
After repeating the action with another stick, he looked up at the sky, raking both hands into his hair, then holding his head between them. He stood that way for long enough that Elizabeth realized she should not be watching him when he believed himself to be unobserved. She looked away self-consciously, but her eyes were drawn back to his shape, now crouched down near the ground as his hands collected something too small for her to make out.
So the restrained Mr. Darcy did have limits to his self-control. She would not have believed it had she not seen it herself. What had brought him so close to the edge that he had allowed this side of himself to emerge? Had his calmness in her presence been nothing more than a pretence?
He disappeared then behind the line of trees. Elizabeth found herself straining to hear anything of his passage, but the only sound reaching her ears was the chirping of the crickets. He could not go far in that direction; the path there led down to the river. Would there be enough light to see his way safely and avoid the high water?
The sound of a small splash came, then a second and a third. A pause, followed by more splashes at varying intervals. Her lips curved as she wondered what Mr. Darcy was throwing into the river. More sticks, or had he moved on to rocks? The splashes sounded heavier than what she imagined a stick would create.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. He had, all unknowing, given her a tiny glimpse of his soul as he poured his – what? – anger, or frustration, or sheer bad temper out into the empty night. What did she actually know of him, of the man he was beyond his curt manners and proud behavior? She had been wrong about Wickham’s tale; what else might she be wrong about?
Darcy’s rude behavior at the Meryton Assembly could not be denied. She had heard his insults herself. She could not say whether it was typical of him or not; although he had been proud and distant on other occasions in Hertfordshire, she could not recall other insulting behavior. He had not been so distant here in Kent. Which was the true Darcy?
Colonel Fitzwilliam had confirmed her fears that Darcy had been instrumental in separating Jane from Bingley, and she did not think the colonel would create such a tale with no basis. From what Darcy had said in his proposal, his poor opinion of her family and her low connections would seem to be the cause. She felt the heat of anger just thinking about his words. True, his station was above hers, but it did not follow that hers was anything to be ashamed of!
Opening her eyes, she shook her head to clear it. Anger was not useful in her present situation. She needed to assess this rationally, if for no other reason than to prove to herself that she was not always so foolish as to accept a story like Wickham’s as truth simply because he flattered her vanity. Mr. Darcy had been so far from flattering her that she would have believed any ill of him, yet he was the one who truly admired her, not Wickham, who was soon to marry Miss King. How had she missed that so completely?
Just then his figure emerged from the trees, making her aware that at some level she had been watching for him. He approached the house more slowly than he had left it, his pace almost reluctant. He paused twice to look at something around him, though it was unclear in the darkness what had drawn his attention.
He was but a short distance down the garden path when he looked up. By his sudden rigidity, she knew he must have seen her. How mortifying to be caught spying on him! How could she have been so foolish to remain in the windowseat where she must have been perfectly silhouetted by the candlelight? At least she was still dressed with her hair up. The mere idea of him seeing her in her nightdress with he
r hair loose sent a frisson of sensation through her. It was bad enough that he had spotted her curled up in the windowseat in what could hardly be considered a ladylike pose.
She had to repress an urge to scamper back into the darkness – that would only make her look ashamed of herself. Instead, she forced herself to nod in what she hoped to be a gracious manner and to raise a hand in brief salute.
He hesitated, then swept her a low bow such as would be proper for a duchess at the very least, or perhaps a fairy tale princess. The only suitable reply she could think of would be to drop a handkerchief out of her window, but that would send altogether the wrong message. Still, the idea made her smile. At least there was no trellis, so she was safe from the role of the princess in the tower.
For a moment she wondered if he might speak to her, but then he continued up the path and around the house. She told herself it was fortunate, since neither of them would want attention drawn to her position. It would look too much like she was seeking him out.
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