“Oh, smooth your ruffled feathers.” The other chuckled. “You will have me thinking you are so conceited as to be offended at the mere thought of anyone refusing you.”
“Offended!” Darcy glared. He was that, and injured by his cousin’s callous manner, so much so that he could not hold back the same reproach. “You might have warned me.”
The bitterness grew worse when Fitzwilliam merely shrugged.
“I am warning you now,” he carelessly said at last. “Anne has not the slightest wish to marry you, so you might as well save yourself the trouble of proposing.”
Anne! Darcy stopped himself at the last moment from saying the name aloud and withheld the relieved breath as well. It was Anne that Richard had in mind. He sipped his drink and turned away, grateful for small mercies.
“How do you know?” he asked, not really caring—just words, to distract the other from the near-loss of his composure.
“We talked about it. How else? That is what people do. You should try it now and then. It has its uses in ascertaining another person’s thoughts. When one is so patently unable to read between the lines, that is. I wonder at you, Coz. Anne has made it plain as day for years that she has no intention of following in your mother’s footsteps. Or Lady Catherine’s, for that matter.”
Darcy sipped his drink again, silently acknowledging the relief for what it was. Not only at the fact that his most painful secret was still safe and he was not forced into stark revelations yet but also at the intelligence Fitzwilliam had supplied. Anne did not wish for them to become united any more than he. Just as well. She was a good enough sort and fairly pleasant company, at least in Lady Catherine’s absence, and it was far easier to imagine accepting her society, enjoying it even, now that he no longer had to contemplate the unpalatable prospect of marrying her—bedding her.
“Nevertheless, you should do her the courtesy of a frank discussion on the subject,” Fitzwilliam said, and Darcy nodded. There was truth in that. “Between the pair of you”—his cousin resumed—“you should be able to determine how to best play your hands and break the news to Lady Catherine.”
“How was she today?”
“Not well. She slept for rather too long due to the laudanum, but then she grew dreadfully restive. As you would imagine, she is not taking well to house arrest,” he affectionately quipped. “Thank goodness for the company from the parsonage. By the bye, as to Miss Bennet’s, I would call it stimulating rather than provoking. And not just for our aunt.”
“You are not willing to let it rest, are you?” Darcy scowled over his shoulder.
The other grinned with disarming candour. “Of course not. When have you known me to?”
“Very well,” Darcy replied through gritted teeth and abruptly set his glass down, making the amber liquid slosh and spill over the rim. Sadly, neither cared enough for Lady Catherine’s sideboard to wipe the spillage—least of all Darcy, who turned to retrieve his discarded coat before striding to the door. He did not get there. Fitzwilliam stopped him with a hand on his arm. Every trace of teasing was gone from his eyes and countenance, leaving nothing but unmistakable affection.
There was deep affection in his voice as well, when he quietly observed:
“You can hide from me in your bedchamber if you wish, but where are you hoping to hide from yourself? Or from your feelings?”
“Lord Almighty, Richard!” Darcy groaned, the full burden of the hideous secret unbearable under his cousin unknowingly cruel jabs. He could speak out. And have Richard’s pity to contend with. Surely it could not be worse than this!
Fitzwilliam let his hand drop.
“Never mind. I’ll go. You can have the library and your so-called peace and quiet. But I beg you, Cousin, do yourself a favour and cease stumbling over difficulties of your own making. So, she has unremarkable connections and no fortune. But you must have seen she has everything else a man could wish for. See sense and secure her, and I daresay she will be the making of you yet.”
She—will—not—have—me!
The anguished truth was battering to come out into the open—and, had they been safely away from Kent and the accursed Hunsford, Darcy would have given in and let it. But not here. Not now. Not when Richard would very likely see her on the morrow—and only Bingley was less poker-faced then he.
She had taxed him for his prideful manner. Very well. He had nothing left now but his pride. And he would rot in Hell before giving her the satisfaction of knowing she had reduced him to a pitiful wretch with her refusal!
The words that could not be allowed to leave his lips must have put such fire in his eyes that Fitzwilliam finally released his arm, took a step back and raised a hand as if to forestall an onslaught.
“Fine. I’ll go,” he muttered.
His breath laboured as though after a long run, Darcy stood watching his cousin walking to the door. But, hand on the handle, Fitzwilliam turned to face him.
“She asked about you,” he quietly supplied.
“Did she?” Darcy bolted to attention.
“She did.”
Darcy’s lips tightened. Yet they still released the burning question:
“What did she wish to know?”
“How you were keeping.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“Precisely what you have maintained for two days together: that you are concerned for Lady Catherine, but otherwise fine. What else?”
Darcy loosened his unconscious grip on his crumpled coat and dropped it on a chair.
“Thank you.” Then his head snapped up. How the deuce had he neglected for two whole days to address that crucial matter? “Did she mention Wi— Georgiana?”
“No. Why should she? They are not acquainted, are they?”
“No.” But as his cousin made to leave the library, Darcy stopped him yet again, little as he had imagined wishing to, only a minute earlier. “Richard, wait!”
“Yes?”
Darcy swallowed.
“If she— If Miss Bennet happens to ask you about … Ramsgate—tell her.”
“What?” Fitzwilliam gaped.
“You heard me. Tell her. All of it.”
A new warmth crept into his cousin’s gaze.
“You would trust her with that?”
The reply came—crisp, brief, and without equivocation.
“I would.”
Fitzwilliam’s lips curled into an unexpected smile. But all he said was, “Very well.” Then he quietly walked out.
* * *
There were only so many hours one could spend pacing—drinking—twisting an anguish that was already too old on every facet—before exhaustion of body and spirit claimed its dues. Darcy gave up pacing at long last to drop onto one of the sofas and eventually stretch across it, his head propped against the armrest.
The careful examination of his anguish engrossed him for a fair while longer as he lay there, in the oppressive quiet of the vast and pretentiously ornamented library, designed to impress rather than offer sanctuary or comfort. While he had often sought sanctuary in like manner in his own library at Pemberley or in Town, it had never crossed his mind to do so in his aunt’s, least of all lie down—and not just because the surrounding show of opulence was as far from his notions of comfort as could be.
Yet now that the cat was bedridden with a broken ankle, the mouse would play. Or rather stare at a heavily ornate ceiling as unwelcome recollections of past encounters and sparkling exchanges perversely played before his eyes, over and over. Even before closed eyes. Even when the fire died out and the three candles in the candelabrum on the sideboard burned very low and came to be extinguished, one by one. Yet the darkness, the brandy, the punishing rides, and the previous restless nights finally worked together to bring merciful blankness. Without notice, Darcy drifted into dreamless sleep.
* * *
The dreamless state came to an abrupt end with a sound which in different circumstances he might have identified as the muted thud of a d
ropped book, followed by a softly-spoken “bother!” But the apparition was effortlessly recognised as she rose from the floor to stand before him, ethereal in the glow of a single candle. That she should still visit him was a surprise, but his unruly heart gave the same old twist. Consolation, was it to be, or eternal punishment? No matter. The visitation was achingly welcomed, either way.
“So, you are back,” he could not help remarking, and the apparition started, turned, and gasped.
“Mr. Darcy!”
“Mr. Darcy, is it? Whatever happened to ‘Fitzwilliam’?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You used to call me by my given name.”
“I never—”
“Oh, I beg to differ. You did, in all my dreams of you. Right from the beginning.”
The vision froze then faltered.
“You…dream of me?”
“Every night. With excruciating clarity. Ever since Sir William’s soiree. Or earlier. I cannot say. Nor does it matter.”
“I am…distraught to hear it…”
“Are you?” Darcy sighed, or at least he thought he did, and ruefully resumed the surreal conversation. “I daresay it cannot be helped, this distress you speak of, and the return to ‘Mr. Darcy.’ Ever since she has made it crystal-clear she is violently against me, I suppose so must you be. A pity.”
“She?”
“Your earthly form, safely asleep at the parsonage as we speak, I imagine, and knowing nothing of your exploits. It would be too much to hope that your visits mean she dreams of me while I dream of her.”
“It would” —the vision quietly agreed.
“Oh, well … So, you have come to chastise me too?”
“No. I … I suppose this is as good a time as any to say that I … that she read your letter.”
“Ah. And did she believe me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank goodness for small mercies. I know she has not asked my cousin for confirmation. Just as well. It would only add fresh grist to his blasted mill. Hmm. I suppose I should beg your pardon for the language—”
“No need. It would be odd to apologise to the figment of one’s imagination.”
“Not necessarily. Speaking of which, pardon me for not doing you the courtesy of standing. But it would defy the object.”
“Oh?”
“I would wake up and you would vanish.”
“By all means, stay as you are. But…of what mill and grist were you speaking?”
“Richard’s. And he needs no encouragement. He has made himself deuced unbearable already.”
“How?”
“He pesters. All the time. Well-meaning but a nuisance with it. Cannot help it, the poor wretch, such is his way.”
“Pesters?”
“Keeps telling me I cannot hide forever. That I should overcome my scruples and offer marriage. I had to hear it several times tonight.”
“Oh. So, your cousin does not know…?”
“Lord, no! I could not tell him. Perhaps I should. Then at least he would stop reminding me you are the very best a man could hope for, and that you would be the making of me yet. As if I needed to be told. As if I have not known that for almost as long as I have known you—her … Forgive me. This is…confusing.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Knowing him, once he hears the rest of the sorry tale, he will have a vast deal more to say. That silent stares make for an odd courtship. That man was given words to speak his mind and open his heart. That I was the greatest fool in Christendom to denigrate my ladylove’s relations in the same breath as offering for her. And he would not be wholly in the wrong there.”
“That is as may be. But you still despise them and would have nothing to do with them if you could help it.”
“I would have little to do with mine, given half the chance. Except Georgiana and Richard. Anne too, perhaps. As for the rest, heaven help us.”
“Heaven help us indeed. Their opposition to the marriage would have brought you to your senses soon enough.”
“Pardon?”
“Cured you of your infatuation.”
“No change there, then.” Darcy smiled. “Still contrary for your own amusement. You know full well it is not mere infatuation and that chance would be a fine thing to find myself cured, as you call it, anytime soon. Just as you know I could not forsake you. My family’s opposition, your relations’ improprieties. Small prices to pay for a lifetime with one’s perfect match.”
“Your perfect match?” —came the astounded whisper.
“You know you are, in everything that matters. Were … Would have been … Might be safe to say … Oh, confound it!”
“Shh … Never mind. Rest now” —the vision urged with something like the softness of old, and it could not fail to soothe him enough to make his lips curl up again. But this time, the smile was rueful rather than diverted.
“Oh, not that. Could not give a damn about finding the right words. I just thought it might be safe to say you will always be.”
“I wish you would not say that!”
“Why not? Little as you care for it, we are perfectly matched. But disbelieve it, by all means, it might serve you better. For my part, I cannot. I have not felt thus, nor found your equal in all the years I have been old enough to wed. Longer, I imagine. Not since I began to notice dimpled smiles and pretty faces. What chance is there of it happening again? Of finding someone else just as bewitching? And challenging, downright infuriating, desirable, adorable, and everything that is honourable and good? If you come across another such paragon of grace, artlessness, and spirit in your night-time rambles, pray point me in her direction. But for now, it seems there is no escape. I love you, Elizabeth, and I am very much afraid I always will.”
“With the utmost force of passion” —the apparition breathed.
“Just so. Have I already told you that?”
“You wrote it in your letter.”
“Oh. I should have told you sooner.”
“Yes…”
“Don’t go. Not yet,” he pleadingly whispered some time later, when the glow of her presence seemed to fade.
“I must. ’Tis very late.”
“True. Too late,” he agreed.
Lost in the gathering gloom, the apparition gasped. Or sobbed. He could not tell. Nor could it make the slightest difference to the agonising sense of loss that settled in his wasted heart.
* * *
“How’s the head, Coz?”
Which one? Darcy felt vaguely inclined to quip but could not be bothered to follow through with it. He felt as if two more had sprouted on his shoulders overnight, and all three were now pounding. The grim rewards for unmitigated folly. As if the heartache was not bad enough. That dream, that impossibly perfect dream! As vivid as all the others, even in his befuddled state. And, just like all the others, leaving him bereft. As always, the details were hard to grasp as they flitted in and out of his memory. Despite every effort, as was the case with dreams, they were forgettable. The agony they left behind was anything but.
He supposed he should thank his cousin for turning up in the hours before dawn to coax him above stairs into his bedchamber, so that Lady Catherine’s servants would not discover him slumbering in the library. He would thank him. Eventually. When he could face stringing the necessary words together.
“I take it that you will not go riding this morning.”
Heavens above! Riding? With three pounding heads?
“No.”
“Good. Stay put. Who knows what might happen to bring you to your senses.”
Darcy gritted his teeth.
“I beg you would not start again. Not now. I have not the stomach for it.”
“That, I do not doubt. Not on a weakened stomach, and an empty one, I’d wager. Muffin?”
Darcy’s weakened stomach heaved.
“I thank you, no. Coffee will do.”
“Fine.” Fitzwilliam set the plate of toasted muffins back on the table
. “Nevertheless, you might wish to know that—”
But Darcy was of the firm opinion that he did not wish to hear anything that Fitzwilliam saw the need to preface with “nevertheless.”
“Is Anne coming down?” he swiftly asked.
“No. She chose to break her fast above stairs with Lady Catherine and Miss Bennet.”
The little coffee Darcy had drunk threatened to make its way back up his gullet.
“She is here?”
“She is. Spent the night, in fact. Reading to Lady Catherine.”
“What?”
No—no—no … No! She did not … Was not … Good Lord in Heaven! Did she?
The utter shock and the flurry of mindless speculations muffled Fitzwilliam’s quiet words and Darcy caught precious little of his cousin’s explanation. Still, whatever he did register served to sufficiently clarify the matter. Lady Catherine could not sleep. Had dozed off for most of the day in a haze of laudanum, and at night, she had been wide awake. Asked for Mrs. Collins to come and read to her. Miss Bennet came instead so that her friend could rest. She came. Spent the night reading to Lady Catherine. And very likely went to fetch a fresh stock from the library. Not a figment of his imagination. Real. There. No!
“Darcy? Are you unwell? Here, leave that coffee and have a glass of water.”
He could not spare either words or thoughts for his cousin plying him with water and goodness knows what else, as though he were a damsel about to swoon. Laughable under normal circumstances.
There was nothing normal about his current ones. And nothing remotely diverting either.
* * *
Mist swirled around Lady Catherine’s topiary, turning it into a hazy and nightmarish landscape. Fitting. Uncannily so. As hazy as his numb brain felt, and as nightmarish as his day had become ever since he had learnt the mortifying truth from Richard. She had been there in flesh. Heard everything—whatever he had seen fit to carelessly disclose. Why she had stooped to perpetrating the deception … he had not the strength to contemplate as yet. Not now, when he could only look upon his miserable state over the last few days with longing and nothing short of envy. He still had his pride then. Until last night when, having blabbed so uncontrollably, he had denied himself even that refuge. She knew everything now. Good Lord above!
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 9