Mr. Darcy's Letter

by Abigail Reynolds

  “If that’s all it is, I’ll marry the girl. She’s a silly little slut, but no matter.”

  Thomas felt no emotion, which made it all the more strange when he saw his fist connecting with his brother’s jaw. He watched with clinical detachment as George crumpled to the floor, his head striking against the bedstead with a satisfying thunk.

  George blinked several times, then propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand rubbing his chin gingerly. “What the devil was that for?”

  “Insulting my wife, who, despite your influence, is a good enough girl, when managed correctly.”

  George cautiously put his head down on the floor. “I must be dreaming. I haven’t had enough to drink to be seeing things yet.”

  “You aren’t dreaming, and yes, I married the girl you ruined, and have done quite well with her. If you had not abandoned her, perhaps you would be the one receiving a generous allowance from Darcy and with a pretty little wife to boot.”

  “Damn Darcy! So he is paying you to betray your own brother, is he?”

  “No, I am behaving just as you would do, by acting in my own best interest, no matter who may be hurt by it.” Thomas hardened his voice. “When Darcy marries, he will be my brother as well, and he has far more to give than do you. He wants you out of the way; therefore, I do as well. So is it to be Canada, India, or debtor’s prison?”

  “There is no need for this,” George said in his charming voice. “Tell Darcy I have left England forever. I will go to the continent and seek my fortune, and when he forgets about all this, I can return, perhaps with a wealthy wife of my own. Surely you would not send your own brother into exile half way across the world?”

  “It will be debtor’s prison, then. I will inform the constable.”

  “No, wait!” George struggled to his feet, holding onto the bedpost for balance. “If I must, I will go to India. There are fortunes to be made there. But I must speak to Darcy first.”

  Thomas seriously doubted George would ever put in the labour necessary to earn his keep, much less a fortune, and he was certain that he meant no good by asking for Darcy. Still, it was to be expected. “I will arrange for it,” he said coolly.

  ***

  “A letter for you, Lizzy,” said Mary, dropping a folded envelope in her sister’s waiting hand.

  “More love notes?” Kitty teased. “Can he not survive a few days without your company?”

  This time the handwriting was not Darcy’s. It was in a hand unfamiliar to Elizabeth, who raised her eyebrows at the seal on the back. “A coat of arms,” she said mildly. She broke the seal and perused the contents.

  “Well, Lizzy, what is it?” demanded Mrs. Bennet.

  Elizabeth smoothed the fine paper in her lap. “It is an invitation to dine with the Earl and Countess of Matlock.”

  Jane’s mouth formed a silent O. “When?”

  “Next week, in London.”

  Mrs. Bennet fanned herself vigourously. “A personal invitation from a peer? Oh, Lizzy, how grand you will be! You must have a new dress for the occasion; yes, you absolutely must. Just wait until I tell my sister Phillips that you will be dining with an earl!”

  Elizabeth could not admit the truth of the matter, which was that she was less excited about meeting the Matlocks than by the guarantee that she would see Darcy again even if he had not resolved the matter of Mr.

  Wickham. It already seemed as if they had been apart forever. She stroked the invitation with a slight smile.

  ***

  Mr. Darcy’s next brief note arrived several days later, and to Elizabeth’s disappointment, it included the news that he did not anticipate returning to Netherfield before Elizabeth herself was to travel to London, having apparently heard of her invitation from his uncle. By reading between the lines, she could tell that the delay stemmed from difficulties in the search for Mr. Wickham, but her heart complained slightly that she wished her betrothed would have found time somehow to return to her, however briefly, or at least to write a longer letter.

  But she was not by nature one to blame others for things that could not be changed, so she mustered her spirits and instead focused on finishing her gown. Jane was assisting her in sewing it, since the milliner in Meryton had not been able to promise to prepare it on time. But Elizabeth was pleased with how the lovely blue silk was taking shape. She had sketched a copy of one of the latest designs from Ackermann’s Repository for her pattern, since the fashions in Meryton were several seasons behind those in Town. She would appear enough of a country cousin to Darcy’s aunt and uncle who were accustomed to the finest London society could offer simply because of her lack of Town polish, so it was important to her to appear her best and not to put Mr. Darcy to shame. Since her father’s pocketbook could not extend to the finest in lace or jewels, she would have to rely on the cut of her dress for style.

  It was a large undertaking involving many fittings, alterations, and late nights stitching by candlelight, interposed by frequent complaints from Kitty about how she also needed a fine new dress and teasing from Mr.

  Bennet about fripperies, but it did serve to keep Elizabeth’s mind off Mr. Darcy’s absence.

  On the day before she was due to leave, she packed it carefully in her trunk, caressing the silk sleeves and smiling at the thought of Mr. Darcy’s expression when he would see her in it. The only time he had ever seen her dressed at her best was at the Netherfield Ball, and even that had been a dress two seasons old. She had a sudden longing to feel the warmth and safety of his arms around her once again, though the thought reminded her of their last meeting and brought a blush to her cheeks.

  She travelled by public stage, grateful that there were only two other passengers, both older ladies. Shortly after they left Meryton, a steady rain began to fall, which at first pleased Elizabeth since it kept down the dust from the road and freshened the air. The sky grew dark as the rain became heavier, and one of the ladies had a fit of the vapours when a bolt of lightning struck not far from the road with a resounding boom of thunder that shook the carriage. Although Elizabeth had always been partial to the drama of storms, she did not think the road the best place to be during one, especially as she began to hear the horses’ hooves slapping through the mud and making it splash up against the coach. But she was not particularly nervous until the coach took a mild slip sideways and ground to a halt.

  The coachman cursed loudly as he dismounted. He circled the coach, complaining under his breath the whole time, then knocked on the side of the coach to inform them that one wheel was stuck in the mud. A steady stream of foul language assaulted their ears as he began to dig it out. Finally he seemed satisfied with the job he had done, and he asked the ladies to step outside the coach to lighten the load while he coaxed the horses to pull it out. Elizabeth was none too happy to be standing in the pouring rain with only a bonnet protecting her, but she stood it with forbearance since the poor coachman had been sitting outside in it all along.

  He nickered at the horses and pulled at the bridle of one of the lead horses. They strained against the load, tossing their heads as their hooves slipped on the muddy road. Elizabeth shivered with the cold and wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to stay warm, silently urging the team on. Finally the stuck wheel began to spin, and with a sucking sound it pulled free. The coachman’s triumph lasted only a minute, though, before the wheel once again was mired deep.

  The road was otherwise untraveled since all sensible people would be staying indoors in the storm, so the travelers were helpless to do anything but stand beside the road until the evening post coach passed, by which time Elizabeth was soaked through, cold and miserable. Her teeth chattered for most of the hour it took to reach the post house in London, where she fervently hoped that someone from the Gardiner household would have stayed all these hours to meet her.

  As they approached their destination, Elizabeth could make out a familiar form standing in front of it, peering into the gloomy rain, and for the first time in what
seemed like days, a smile came to her face.

  Darcy was already beside the coach ready to hand her out by the time the coachman opened the door. As soon as he touched her icy hands – she had removed her sodden gloves some time since, lest they shrink around her fingers – he said with visible concern, “Elizabeth, you are half-frozen!”

  She stepped down past him, eager to reach the shelter of the post house. “I cannot argue the point, but I am very glad to see you. Thank you for waiting for me.”

  “How could I have done otherwise? I was close to sending out search parties for you.”

  She was grateful that he had not pointed out the obvious, that he had asked to send his carriage for her and she had refused, not wanting to make a show of her journey. Once again, he had been proven correct.

  He snapped his fingers at a lad idling by the door. “Have my carriage brought round immediately, and hot bricks for the lady. Immediately, I say!”

  A few minutes later, but not too soon for Elizabeth, she was ensconced in the Darcy carriage, Darcy’s greatcoat wrapped around her, and hot bricks at her hands and feet. The greatest warmth, though, seemed to come from Darcy’s arm around her shoulders, holding her close to him, and his lips pressed to her temple. She had not realized how badly she had missed the reality of him until he was there at her side.

  When they arrived at the Gardiners, her aunt bustled them inside to sit by the welcoming fire in the sitting room, but Mr. Darcy stayed only a few minutes. “It is more important to find some dry clothes for you, and I will not put your health before my own pleasure in your company. After all, I will see you tomorrow evening.”

  “In the evening?” Elizabeth said. She had hoped to spend part of the day with him.

  Darcy made a face which indicated his agreement with her. “Unfortunately, there are matters which require my attention during the day, but after tomorrow, I will be completely at your disposal.”

  Elizabeth looked closely at him. The darkness at the posting house and in the carriage had disguised the fact that his face was drawn and grey with fatigue, more than waiting several hours for her could account for.

  She wondered how hard he might have been working in an effort to be able to return to her, and what the outcome of his labors had been. She did not want to be one more task on his agenda, so she would learn to be patient.

  CHAPTER 22

  Mrs. Gardiner’s maid arranged the loose curls on Elizabeth’s face. “There you go, miss. My, but you do look fine!”

  Elizabeth had to agree. The blue silk set off her fair skin and dark hair, and Mrs. Gardiner had brought out her precious string of pearls - a wedding gift from her husband - to go around her neck. Her hair was decorated with tiny white flowers which looked like stars among her curls. If it was not as lavish as jewels would have been, it was more elegant than her usual ribbons. It was quite a good presentation for a country gentleman’s daughter, which would be enough to let her hold her head up high among the aristocrats.

  It was not the prospect of meeting Darcy’s powerful relatives, though, that made her wish she could pace the room instead of sitting stock-still with a hot curling rod in her hair. That particular urge sprang from her anticipation of seeing Darcy again for long enough to have a real conversation. They had been apart for over a fortnight, far more time than they had spent together since his businesslike proposal. It was natural, she decided, to have some concern given the changes in their relationship and Darcy’s undoubted annoyance at having to spend so much time dealing with the question of George Wickham. For at least the thousandth time, she wondered whether Darcy had found him yet or not, and what had passed between them if he had. It even occurred to her fertile imagination that Darcy’s absence from Longbourn might be related to an injury from a duel, a thought which made her feel vaguely ill. Surely he would not fight Wickham, would he? Was not Wickham’s social status such as to make that outcome unlikely? But perhaps Wickham trained with Darcy in their childhood and learned skills with the pistol and rapier not usually acquired by a steward’s son.

  Elizabeth clenched her hands together. It was not like her to fret unnecessarily; as a rule, she found it best to take each moment as it came, but for some reason, that had never worked when she tried to apply it to Mr.

  Darcy. She half-smiled. He would be happy to know that she cared for him enough to worry so, but she would prefer to have her old carefree self back. But not, of course, if it meant losing Mr. Darcy! She hoped he would arrive early to collect her, if for no other reason than to put an end to her musings.

  Her wishes were destined to be disappointed. Darcy had not yet arrived when she came downstairs. Her appearance was suitably complimented by her aunt and uncle, and with some amusement Elizabeth was made to promise to loan her silk dress to their youngest daughter when she was old enough to wear it, which the little girl seemed to assume would be by the impossibly ancient age of fourteen.

  Half an hour passed as her aunt kept her company in the sitting room, then an hour. Elizabeth, attempting to remain as still as possible so as not to disturb her carefully set hair, more than once had to remind herself to still her impatiently tapping foot. She looked up eagerly each time at the sound of wheels on cobblestones, but as Gracechurch Street was well-trafficked, there were many false alarms.

  Finally she saw a fine carriage pulling to a halt in front of the house. She rose from her seat in a ladylike manner, even though her heart wanted her to jump up and run to the door like an impatient child. To her shock, the gentleman who entered the sitting room was not Mr. Darcy. It took her a moment to recognize that the elegantly dressed gentleman as Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  He must have seen her dismay, since he did not wait beyond the brief moment of a formal bow to speak his piece. “Miss Bennet, it is a pleasure to see you again, although I suspect the feeling may not be mutual when I tell you that I am here in place of my cousin. He has been unavoidably delayed, and sent a note asking me to accompany you to my parents’ house, where he will meet us.”

  Unavoidably delayed? When she had been counting the minutes until she could see him again? Her throat choked up, and it was a minute before her good breeding returned to the fore and she was able to say, “On the contrary, Colonel, I am delighted that we will have the opportunity to renew our acquaintance en route.”

  He smiled amiably. “If I were not loathe to question the veracity of a lovely lady, I would suspect you of polite fiction, but since I am quite happy to have your company to myself, I will not do so. You must, however, allow me to tell you that my cousin will no doubt be rendered speechless tonight by your beauty, though I dare not praise it myself lest I incur his jealousy.”

  The colonel inquired after her health, then asked for an introduction to Mrs. Gardiner, whom he assured that there was a maid in the coach to serve as a chaperone, and that he would safeguard Elizabeth as if she were his own sister. “I do this not only for your sake, madam, since my cousin would run me through if I allowed any harm to touch one hair on her head, which would be a tragedy indeed since her appearance is perfection itself.”

  Elizabeth laughed, as he clearly had intended her to do, and took the arm he offered her. The carriage, as she had expected, was finer than any she had ridden in before, though the colonel seemed to take its luxurious sprung seats and gilt paint for granted.

  Once they were en route to Matlock House, Elizabeth remembered her manners enough to thank him for taking the trouble to collect her himself, rather than merely sending a carriage.

  He laughed. “By doing so, Miss Bennet, I gave myself the pleasure of enjoying your smiles rather than enduring my father’s scowls. He is, I fear, in a temper. He does not countenance tardiness in anyone except himself, and Darcy was out of his favor even before this. But do not worry; his mood will have passed by the time we arrive.”

  Elizabeth decided to risk an extremely frank question. “Does his displeasure by chance stem from Mr.

  Darcy’s engagement to me?”


  Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled amiably. “Never fear, Miss Bennet. He will be charmed by you when you meet, but it is true that my aunt, Lady Catherine, has already had her say with him. She is suffering from bitter disappointment that Darcy will not marry her daughter, not that such a thing would have come to pass even had he never met you. But she finds it easier to have someone else to blame, and as a result, my father has heard that you entrapped my cousin by your arts and allurements. He will see soon enough that his worries are groundless.”

  Elizabeth suspected that Lord Matlock had expressed a stronger opinion of her than an accusation of using arts and allurements to catch his nephew. “I hope so. And Mr. Darcy, is he well? I hope it is nothing serious that has delayed him.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam’s attention seemed to be caught by something outside the window. “He did not offer an explanation in his note.”

  She noticed the colonel’s careful avoidance. It did not signify, though, since Darcy himself would be able to explain himself soon enough.

  ***

  Elizabeth was glad that the colonel had prepared her for her arrival at Matlock House. She had assumed they would be dining only with Lord and Lady Matlock, but as it happened, several other family members had been invited, including the colonel’s eldest brother, Viscount Kenilworth, and his wife; two sisters and their husbands, and Darcy’s great-uncle, Judge Fitzwilliam. There was no sign of Darcy, but Colonel Fitzwilliam led her through the receiving line of his relations. Lord Matlock was gruff, but appeared to have recovered from his fit of temper, though his ruddy face suggested a choleric temperament. Lady Matlock was graciousness itself.