Mr. Darcy's Obsession

by Abigail Reynolds

  “Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The letter concerns her family’s situation, with which she requests my assistance.” Darcy rang the bell. A maid hurried in to remove the fragments of broken crystal.

  Bingley’s face paled. “Miss Elizabeth? What has happened?” He looked ready to leap from his chair. His previous relaxation vanished as if it had never existed.

  “Are you certain you wish to hear this?”

  “Darcy, if you do not tell me this instant, I will take that letter from you by force!”

  Darcy held up his hand. “No need of that. Her sister’s husband, Mr. Browning, is seriously ill, and her sister is recovering from childbed.”

  If Bingley was pale before, now he looked ashen. “A child? She has a child? Good God, how much more must I suffer for my errors?” He sprang to his feet and then looked around the room as if uncertain what to do next. “Excuse me,” he said stiffly and hurried to the door.

  He stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned slowly back, his look ominous. “Darcy, how do you come to be involved with this? Why, of all her acquaintance, would she write to you, asking for your help? What are you not telling me?”

  Darcy, feeling all the disadvantage of the moment, said, “I hardly know where to begin. Miss Elizabeth and I renewed our acquaintance some months ago, but I assume the reason she wrote to me is because I am an investor in Mr. Browning’s shop.”

  “You?” Bingley said with disbelief. “Why would you invest in his shop?”

  “You were distressed over her circumstances. I found I was, as well. I thought to ease her situation financially by making the investment.”

  Bingley’s eyes widened, and he struck his forehead. “Of course! Why did I not think of that? What a fool I am!”

  “I doubt Mr. Browning would have been prepared to accept funds from his wife’s former suitor,” Darcy said dryly.

  “I must go to Meryton. Immediately.”

  “Are you certain that is wise?”

  “Of course it is not wise! What has wisdom to do with it? I must see her!”

  “Bingley, she is still a married woman, no matter how ill her husband may be.”

  Bingley turned a haunted face in his direction. “Do you think I forget that for more than even a second? I, who could have prevented it, if I had only listened to my heart? Did you know that she always cared for me? You were wrong when you thought her indifferent to me. She even followed me to London after we left Netherfield, did you know that?”

  Darcy’s palms grew damp. “Yes, I did know,” he said in a low voice.

  “You knew?” Bingley cried in disbelief, but then his countenance cleared. “Of course you knew. I told you of it myself last year.”

  “I knew before that. Your sisters told me of her presence at the time.” Darcy braced himself for Bingley’s deserved wrath.

  Bingley turned red as his hands tightened into fists. “You knew, and you chose not to inform me?”

  “I am guilty of that. I thought at the time to protect you, but I know now that was an unspeakable presumption on my part, and a grave error.”

  Bingley moved abruptly, and for a moment Darcy thought he intended to strike him. He had never seen Bingley in a rage such as this. The last year had changed him.

  “An unspeakable presumption? That does not begin to describe it. How could you? And even after all this, you are still trying to keep me from her,” Bingley spat out.

  Darcy shook his head. “Only for the sake of her reputation.”

  “I suppose you expect me to forgive you,” Bingley said contemptuously.

  “Not at all.” Darcy felt his calm slipping and poured himself a much-needed glass of port. “It would make little difference if you did, as I will never forgive myself.” It was the truth; he could never forget his role in causing Elizabeth to face such discomforts as her life afforded. He should bear the burden of it. Bingley’s wrath was but a minor punishment in comparison.

  “Why, then, are you telling me this?”

  Darcy had been asking himself the same question. He raised his glass to his lips to buy himself some time, and a vision flashed before him of Elizabeth’s face on that fateful day she struck him. “Because I am no longer the man I was then.”

  “What, pray tell, does that mean?”

  “I have been a selfish being all my life.” Darcy struggled to find the words to express himself. “As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves, allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. But recently I have come to understand a truth you knew innately, that a man’s value lies not in his birth or in his connections, but in the life he chooses to lead. In my pride, I thought my judgment superior to everyone else’s, merely because of an accident of birth. I did what I thought was right, but rarely considered the effects of my words and actions on those of lesser situation, as if their comfort and happiness mattered less than my own.” It was a relief finally to say it.

  Bingley said, “I cannot believe what I am hearing.”

  “Believe it.” Darcy drained his glass, welcoming the burning heat in his throat.

  Bingley stared at him for another minute, turned on his heel, and strode off without another word.

  Suddenly exhausted, Darcy sank into a chair, wondering if Bingley intended to leave his house. He could not blame him if he did; how could he expect Bingley to remain under the roof of the man who had wronged him so cruelly? He dared not imagine what he would feel should he discover Elizabeth had borne another man’s child. Even the notion filled him with a primitive rage. He tried to calm himself. Elizabeth was not in the same situation; she would return to London soon and then she would be his wife.

  But the friendship that had so recently been rekindled would now break irreparably. Reaching back, Darcy massaged the back of his neck. His other hand, as if of its own accord, reached for Elizabeth’s letter. He scanned the elegant script again, almost able to hear Elizabeth’s voice. Only she could manage to tease in such circumstances. The thought soothed his troubled nerves.

  She needed his assistance. Her act of faith in writing him must be answered in full. Certainly he must travel to Meryton at first light, but what to do then? Elizabeth and her sisters would require protection; Mr. Browning needed care that would be difficult to obtain without the income from the shop; and who would provide for Mrs. Bennet? Her sister would shelter her, but he suspected it was Mr. Browning’s financial support that made her situation tolerable.

  He would have to take action, but how could he protect Elizabeth’s reputation while he did so? Perhaps he could work through her cousin, Mr. Collins. Almost as soon as the thought occurred, he discarded it. He could not trust Mr. Collins to keep his actions private, especially from his aunt. Likewise, it would look suspicious if Mr. Gardiner were suddenly possessed of a large sum of money, and given Darcy’s history with that gentleman, he might well suspect Darcy’s motives.

  He drummed his fingers on his knee. There must be a solution, and he had to find it for Elizabeth’s sake. He must help her and protect her at the same time.

  With sudden decision, he crossed to the writing desk and uncapped the inkwell. The pen blotted the first word he wrote, but a sharp knife in the drawer served to mend the quill. There was no sound beyond the scratching of the pen on paper.

  He scattered sand over the freshly penned notes and then blew lightly on them to dry the ink. Perhaps the words would run, but they would be legible enough to serve his purpose, and time was short. Quickly he wrote the direction.

  Simms appeared as soon as he rang. No doubt Mr. Bingley’s raised voice had caused the butler to stay near in case his services were needed.

  “Simms, I will be going
out directly. Please arrange for these letters to be delivered immediately. They cannot wait until morning.”

  “Will you require the carriage, sir?”

  “A mount will suffice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Simms left, Darcy turned a critical eye on his own attire. Good enough for everyday, but perhaps not for an interview of this consequence. A change of boots and his newest coat were in order.

  ***

  It was late when Darcy finally returned to Brook Street, both weary and exhilarated. He had completed his tasks. Mr. Gardiner had received him and agreed to his plans with only minor alterations, and he had given Darcy his blessing. Mrs. Gardiner had fussed over him and told him he should not be on the streets alone at this hour. A smile crept onto his lips. It was a far cry from when Mr. Gardiner had called on him to return his letter and told him he had no character. Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle understood that people could change and redeem their past mistakes. Darcy hoped the other people in his life would believe the same thing.

  Simms opened the door for him and took his hat and gloves. Darcy nodded his thanks and then paused. “Simms, it is nearly midnight. You should be abed.”

  The butler looked taken aback. “I always wait up for you, sir.”

  “You should not. You are already at my beck and call all the day and will be up again at dawn. One of the footmen can admit me so you can rest.” If Henry were to hear this conversation, he would be certain Darcy had lost his mind.

  “I am perfectly able to perform all my duties, sir.”

  “I am well aware of it. There is no reason why the burdens cannot be shared. I insist upon it.” Darcy ignored his puzzled look and strode down the hall, well content with his evening.

  To his surprise, Bingley’s voice called his name as he passed the sitting room door. Darcy changed direction to greet him. “Bingley! You are still here.”

  “Yes, unless you wish me to depart.”

  “Not at all. I had thought you might wish to leave.” For some unknown reason, this night he felt free to speak whatever came to his mind, without judging each word in advance. “I am glad you did not.”

  “I have a favour to ask of you.” Bingley rubbed his hands together.

  “Anything within my power.”

  “Will you be travelling to Meryton soon?”

  “Yes. I plan to leave at first light.”

  “Would you deliver a letter for me?”

  Darcy hesitated. “To Jane?”

  “Yes.” Bingley took a few short paces across the room and then turned to face him again. “I know it is improper and a risk to her reputation, and you would be completely justified to refuse to do it.”

  A year ago he would have done just that, trusting himself to know better than his friend. “I will take it if you wish, if you have thought the matter through and are certain it is the best course.”

  “You will?” Bingley lowered his voice. “And will you really give it to her?”

  “Bingley, I made an error in not telling you when she was in London, but when I say I will do a thing, you may count on it.”

  “I did not mean to imply you would not keep your word, but I know you do not approve, and—”

  “Whether I approve or disapprove is irrelevant. I have made too many mistakes in my own life to think I have the ability to counsel others on theirs.”

  “You truly have changed!”

  Darcy only smiled in response. In truth, it was not that he had changed, but that his love for Elizabeth had changed him. And in a few short hours, he would be in her presence once again.

  Chapter 15

  Once Charlie had posted the letter to Darcy, Elizabeth fell into a fevered waiting. She expected Darcy would respond in one manner or another, but whether it would be in the manner she hoped and longed for was another question. If he had thought better of the idea of marriage—and she could not blame him if he had—he might, out of generosity and affection, still provide material support. It would give relief of a certain sort, but the idea that it was all that might be forthcoming brought tears to her eyes.

  Despite her fatigue, she could hardly sleep that night for worrying about it. It would be days or even weeks before she would have her answer, and she did not know whether she more desired it or feared it.

  She regretted her lack of rest when she woke to the sound of the baby’s cry. The noise was quickly silenced, no doubt by his mother, but Elizabeth dragged herself out of bed. The sun was already up, and there was work to be done. Kitty would arrive later in the morning to sit with Mr. Browning, but special soft food must be prepared for him, as well as sustenance to keep up Jane’s strength. It was hard to believe she was the same girl who had once lived at Longbourn with servants to care for her needs.

  She looped her hair up in a simple style and splashed water from the ewer onto her face for a moment’s refreshment before facing the heat of the kitchen. As she approached the back of the house, she heard the clanking of dishes. Beside the hearth, Charlie stirred a pot of porridge.

  He did not hear her over the crackling of the fire until she said, “I have heard it recommended that people should sleep at least once every few days, Charlie.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her with a cheeky grin. “Then they haven’t learned how to sleep standing up, like I do.”

  “A useful skill, I am sure, but not often practised.”

  “What would Mr. Darcy say, if he knew I was lettin’ you do all this work?”

  For a minute she had actually managed to forget Darcy, but her anxiety swelled again. “We shall know soon enough, I suppose.”

  He laid the spoon aside and poured a cup of coffee. Handing it to Elizabeth, he said, “When will he get that letter?”

  “It should have reached him yesterday if he was in London, another day or two if he has gone to Pemberley. You did not need to make coffee, but I thank you.”

  “I thought you might need it. Sounded like you had a restless night.” He returned to the porridge. “I still don’t understand how you drink that stuff. It smells so wonderful, I thought it would be tasty, but it’s horrible bitter.”

  “It is an acquired taste, much like working through the night.” The banter eased her anxiety a little.

  Warm fur bumped against her leg. She looked down to see the ginger cat, proudly holding a wriggling mouse in her mouth. She dropped it on the floor and waited expectantly for praise. Elizabeth laughed at the tableau, sending the mouse skittering away, with the cat in hot pursuit.

  “Caught a rat yesterday, she did,” Charlie said. “Half as big as she is.”

  Elizabeth wondered what Mr. Darcy would think if he knew Charlie was discussing rats with her. It made her wish fiercely for his presence. He was the only one she could tell of her worries. “If the porridge is ready, I will take some to Mr. Browning,” she said.

  “I can do that, miss,” Charlie said. “You sit and have some breakfast.”

  She gave him a curious look. Charlie did not usually interfere with her work. She must look more tired than she thought. “I will have time for that later.”

  Charlie crossed his arms, his slight figure a parody of a worried adult. “You didn’t eat nothing of your dinner yesterday.” His eyes widened at something beyond her. She looked back over her shoulder to see what had caught his interest.

  Darcy stood in the open doorway, his tall form casting a shadow through the room, his gaze fixed intently on her. Elizabeth’s first thought was that he must have left London before first light to reach Meryton by this hour.

  It was not until then that she admitted to herself how much she had feared he would not come. With an inarticulate sound, she ran the few steps to him. As his strong arms closed around her, joy welled up from deep within her, and she knew she would never in her life be happier than she was at that moment.

  ***

  Darcy had spent the hours riding from London in planning precisely what to say when he finally saw Elizabeth. He did not wish
to make any foolish mistakes as he had that day in Moorsfield, especially since the deed was already done in this case. He could not imagine why Elizabeth would object to his actions, but she confounded his expectations on a regular basis, so he prepared his arguments as carefully as a barrister going before the judge.

  All his planned words, though, flew out of his mind the moment he saw Elizabeth’s fine eyes light up at the sight of him, and then she was in his arms. How had that happened? All thought stopped and there was only sensation—the softness of her, her intoxicating scent of lavender combining with the kitchen smells of smoke and baking bread, the tiny curls that escaped from her plait and lay trembling against his shoulder, and the fragility of her frame, which brought out his deepest protective instincts. An indescribable lifting of his soul accompanied the sense that his heart might break through his chest wall.

  Every inch of his body was alive—his arms, holding Elizabeth close, his body, drunk on the shape pressed against him, his hands, splayed across the rough fabric of her dress. Never again would he allow her to wear such a garment; she deserved the finest satins and silks, and yet he was able to delineate the bones of her stays through the linen, see her delicate features in repose against the lapels of his coat, her fine eyes closed, her dark lashes striking against the fairness of her skin. To think that he would soon have the ability to experience this miraculous sensation whenever he desired!

  It was altogether too soon for Darcy’s taste that Elizabeth drew away from him, leaving his arms aching because of the loss of her.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said in a shaky voice, wiping her eyes.

  “Elizabeth.” Her name slipped from his mouth like a caress. “You need never ask pardon for that.” It was as if he were bound to her by invisible ties that sought to bring them together, and he had to struggle not to give in to the almost overwhelming force.

  Elizabeth must have felt something of the same, because she closed the short distance between them until he embraced her again. He could never tire of this sensation. He whispered against her hair, “My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.”