A Touch of Night

by Sarah Hoyt

  Even at this advanced an hour, she could hear voices upstairs, the sound of laughter and then the voice of the housekeeper raised in foreboding chiding. One of the younger parlor maids must have forgotten her place. One thing that could be said for Miss Roebottom, their housekeeper in town, was that she kept things running neatly and well, even if she did it with a far more forbidding mien than the amiable Mrs. Reynolds at Pemberley.

  But she -- last of all -- would think she need worry about her young mistress straying. Such a good, quiet girl seemed to be the opinion of every servant who came in contact with Georgiana. And perhaps it was true. At least, she tried to be good, and she would much rather be quiet. But there are the sort of injustices in the world to which no woman of breeding and heart can be indifferent. She'd become more and more aware of it since Icarus Sevrin's death.

  She pulled her pelisse tighter around her -- she wore all black, the sort of attire a respectable widow might wear. It would not fully preserve her from harm alone on the streets of London, of course. But it would keep her safe long enough.

  Outside the streets were quiet and oh, so dark. The first time she'd been out at night she'd been very scared. It was even scarier in the heart of London, because you could see and hear the city -- boisterous fun in taverns, and the steps of revelers out. But you could not see anyone. Not till they were upon you.

  She walked to the preordained corner and was so lucky as not to cross paths with anyone. And she'd not stood out at the corner for very long before she heard the trundling noise of carriage wheels. She held her breath, waiting, until she saw the ducal crest on the door.

  Moving forward, she was ready when the door swung open quietly.

  "Good evening, Miss Darcy," a well known voice said from within.

  "Good evening, my lord," she said.

  "Are you prepared to do what must be done?"

  "I hope," she said. "I have enough fortitude. What is it you wish of me, my lord?"

  * * * *

  "Don't distress yourself, my dear cousin," Mr. Collins said. "For you see that Lady Catherine and her daughter are far from expecting in others that distinction of dress that they claim for themselves. As long as you wear your best and it's clean, they will demand no more. On the contrary. Lady Catherine likes to have a certain distinction of rank preserved."

  They were walking the broad avenue towards Rosings, the many windows of the building shimmering in the evening sun. They'd been invited to dine at Rosings, a distinction that had Maria almost swooning with delight and had kept Elizabeth up all night for quite different reasons.

  Meeting Mr. Darcy had unsettled her, not the least because he didn't seem to exhibit the degree of shame she expected from someone who had been caught in such dreadful behavior. On the other hand, she wondered, perhaps she had been wrong? But how could she be wrong in what she'd seen with her very own eyes. Gentlemen didn't normally absent themselves from balls to go rolling around in the rhubarb plants with their friends. Unless something was very wrong with them indeed.

  Elizabeth realized that, absorbed in her unhappy thoughts, she'd gone all the way into Rosings and was even now in the process of bobbing a curtsey to Lady Catherine. The lady received that mark of politeness with severely tightened lips. Anne de Bourgh leaned into Miss Jenkinson, who supported her. Behind, near the window, Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam were discussing something that involved expansive gestures like wings on the Colonel's part, and a sudden, hastily suppressed laugh on Mr. Darcy's. This shocked Elizabeth terribly, as she didn't know Mr. Darcy was capable of laughter. And as she approached to take a seat, she was further surprised to hear the Colonel say, "But you must agree, Darcy, that a bat would suit miss Miss Bingley to a T. Swoop down when you least expect her, tangle herself in you. Of course, bats are rarely orange."

  "Quentin," Mr. Darcy said, laughter still in his voice. "I believe our guests have arrived and we're being rude." In the next minute both men had paid their obeisance and after a little frivolous talk, dinner was announced. Elizabeth had the pleasure of being escorted to dinner on the Colonel's arm, and of sitting next to him and across from Mr. Darcy at the table. The food was good, in a solid, unimaginative way. Elizabeth noted that Miss de Bourgh ate very little and coughed a good deal. The colonel ate a great deal and talked non-stop, mostly at Elizabeth herself, though he often directed his pleasantries to the rest of the table. And Mr. Darcy talked not at all, but looked at Elizabeth a great deal.

  Elizabeth wondered what particular blemish he found in her, that he stared at her so much. Certainly the man had no interest in, or at least disapproved of, all women, so she must be particularly irksome.

  After dinner, partly to escape Lady Catherine's non-stop talk and never-ending stream of advice, Elizabeth retired to the piano, whence Colonel Fitzwilliam followed her. She played desultorily while snatches of conversation from the drawing room reached her.

  Lady Catherine was getting unpleasant about something. Elizabeth couldn't quite make out the gist of it, but she thought it was related to Mr. Darcy's sister, Georgiana. "I always disapproved of your father's not leaving me with any say in her care. And in the event, you proved quite irresponsible. If it weren't for the fast work of the Royal Were-Hunters, she would now be betrothed to a were."

  "Madam," Mr. Darcy said, his voice maybe reverential and maybe annoyed. It was impossible to tell.

  "And I don't care if he was a lord. Common, debased blood!"

  "Madam."

  "I daresay if I'd ever met him, I'd have known him straight away for the animal he was. I hear before they beheaded him he changed and roared fit to terrorize the town."

  "Madam. That is nonsense. Sevrin--"

  "Oh, Darcy, do not be tiresome. You don't mean to tell me you were there? You've always said it was a vulgar spectacle."

  "Madam," Mr. Darcy said. And this time the voice sounded strained. Moments later, Mr. Darcy stalked into the piano room. He looked pale and his hands were shaking slightly.

  He stood, for a moment, near the piano, looking at Elizabeth's hands, but Elizabeth was sure he didn't see anything. His eyes seemed unfocused. For the first time in a long while, Elizabeth felt a wave of sympathy towards him. However he might have pretended that he supported the were laws, it was clear that he suffered greatly over his friend's death.

  "It must be very hard," she said, softly. "When a were is caught and killed." In her mind there was an image of poor Jane being caught and brought to bay by a regiment in Were-Hunters uniforms. She spoke even as her hands played upon the piano, and looked up to see both men staring at her, the colonel with a slightly amused expression that seemed quite out of keeping. An expression of confused amusement, if that made any sense. Meanwhile, Mr. Darcy was looking at her, his gaze softened.

  "I just thought," Elizabeth said, and blushed, "that when a were is killed, his friends and family are hardly given the time or the chance to mourn. Instead, no matter how good the person was, they are supposed to rejoice that a were has been caught."

  "Yes," Mr. Darcy said, with some force. "Oh, yes." His hand that had been resting on the piano went up to his forehead and rested there, as if trying to erase a headache.

  "Did you ever...?" The colonel cleared his throat. He seemed very amused by the exchange between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth was quite at a loss to know why. "Have you ever met a were, Miss Bennet?"

  Why did he ask that as if he were laughing at something? Elizabeth looked at Mr. Darcy to see if they were having a joke on her, then she shook her head and blushed. "No. I have never had that ... It never happened. But I have always thought that they are people like other people and that the good ones are good and the evil ones are evil."

  "You are singular in that opinion," Fitzwilliam said, his gaze sharpened.

  "I believe that people can't be judged for what they can't help being," Elizabeth said and sighed. "All of us have... evil traits we must fight against. Sometimes I think those more severely afflicted are more worth
y when they conquer."

  "Sevrin was the best of men," Mr. Darcy said, his voice vibrating with such emotion that Elizabeth did not know what to say. She looked up to see the gentleman looking at her with what, in another man, she would swear was an expression of pure adoration. She didn't know what to do, and was rescued from her embarrassment by Lady Catherine's sharp voice, "Of what are you speaking? I must have my share of the conversation. I must."

  "I was merely," Mr. Darcy said, and cleared his throat. "Complimenting Miss Bennet on her piano playing. I have rarely heard something that gave me more pleasure."

  "She doesn't play badly," Lady Catherine said. "But to be a true proficient, she must practice more. She should come and practice on the pianoforte in Miss Jenkinson's rooms. She'd be in no one's way in that part of the house."

  At this, Elizabeth had to smile to herself, and while Lady Catherine went on expounding on her great love of music, Elizabeth played more to herself than to the gentlemen. At any rate, after a while she looked up and noticed that Colonel Fitzwilliam had vanished and only Mr. Darcy remained, leaning against the doorframe and looking at her with an inscrutable expression.

  As she met his eyes, he grinned. "You must know, Miss Bennet, that you have very decided opinions for one so young."

  His unconscious mimicry -- or had he guessed those words, or some very similar, had already been used to her by his aunt? -- discomfited her, and she rose quickly and curtseyed. She crossed the drawing room, avoiding Lady Catherine's attempt at conversation. Mr. Collins was ooking reverentially to some long speech of the Lady's. To Charlotte's enquiry, Elizabeth said, "I believe I must go out for a breath of air. I feel a headache coming on."

  * * * *

  Out in the garden, she walked about for a while, keeping -- for she had learned her lesson -- to the well lighted paths, the ones ornamented with fountains and statues. Which was why, as she rounded a massive fountain in classical style, she was shocked to hear voices from the shrubbery.

  To be exact, she was surprised to hear Anne de Bourgh's seldom-raised voice saying with some feeling, "Oh, how I wish that Darcy were married!"

  She was answered by the colonel's amused laughter.

  "No, only listen to me. Until he's married, my mother will not give up the ridiculous idea that I should marry him."

  The colonel sighed. "She would change it fast enough if she knew what he was."

  "Yes," Anne said. "But I don't hate Darcy. I merely do not wish to enter into what must be, perforce, a loveless match." She was silent a while. "Only I wish he didn't spend quite so much time with Mr. Bingley."

  "No," the Colonel said. "Bingley and Darcy shouldn't spend so much time together. It can't be good for either of them."

  They were silent a while longer and... was that the sound of kisses? Elizabeth started retracing her steps to the house, her cheeks burning, but the voices recommenced.

  "You procured the replacement for the tonic, right?" Anne asked.

  "Of course, and the exact same color."

  "Thank you. If it weren't for you I'd still be taking the horrible stuff mama gives me. I don't know if it retarded my womanhood, but it made me sick enough."

  "What I don't understand," the Colonel said, "is why she wished to retard your womanhood. And still does."

  Anne sighed. "Can you not? She's afraid I'll become a were. And it's no use telling her that at twenty-two I'd already have become one, if it were to happen. She thinks she's stopping it with her awful tonic." Another pause. "She never forgave papa for being a bear, you know?"

  Elizabeth could not believe it. Had she heard it right? Had Mr. De Bourgh been a bear? She ran all the way to the house as silently as she could, vowing to never walk near shrubbery again.

  Chapter Eight

  Elizabeth didn't give any more thought to what she'd heard in the shrubbery. She'd decided that the whole Darcy family and connections were very odd and there was no point at all dwelling on it. And she felt only a slight needle of annoyance that Mr. Darcy could be so sympathetic in his grief for Lord Sevrin. And had he really meant to betroth his sister to Sevrin? Surely, at the time, he could not have known what the lord was.

  On this conviction she slept soundly and woke up rested the next morning, before any of the household was up. She dressed and went for a walk, and when she came back, she found that everyone in the household was still asleep, except for the servants. Elizabeth repaired to the parlor, where she started a letter to Jane.

  "Miss," the parlor maid said, bobbing a curtsey. "Mr. Darcy, to see you."

  Elizabeth thought the visit was odd at such a time, but what could she do but assent to it? "Pray tell him that Mr. and Mrs. Collins are not yet up."

  "I have, ma'am, but he wishes to see you."

  "Oh, very well, send him in," Elizabeth replied with ill-grace.

  Mr. Darcy came in, perfectly attired in his morning coat, holding hat and gloves in hand. He bowed to her. "I pray you forgive me, Miss Bennet," he said, "for calling on you so early in the morning. But surely you must understand that I... It is sometimes safer if I don't sleep... If I don't let my guard down during the night at Rosings. My aunt being as she is. And therefore, I thought... Well, it must be clear to you I've been doing a lot of thinking."

  Clear as the blackest mud, thought Elizabeth, but she nodded, in any case.

  Instead of responding, the very odd man then started pacing back and forth across the room. Since the room was not nearly wide enough for the length of his legs, this meant he took three steps one way, ducked around Charlotte's ridiculous little table with the ornate vase of dubious Chinese design upon it, then took another three steps, stopping just short of running into the mirror, and then did an about face and paced the other way again.

  "Mr. Darcy..." Elizabeth said, thinking to make some excuse about having to go upstairs or possibly being needed in the kitchen to help with breakfast.

  But he turned to her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips and his jade-green eyes filled with an unfathomable expression that -- in anyone else -- she would have said was sweetness.

  "Please, forgive me, Miss Bennet," he said. "This is not a question I ever thought I would be asking, nor believed I would ever have occasion to ask." He resumed pacing and looked decidedly above her head as he spoke. "You see, I had long ago resigned myself to the idea that Georgiana's children would one day inherit Pemberley."

  Was the man truly about to tell her that he had no interest in women? "Mr. Darcy," she said, again, in a tone that she hoped was of warning.

  "No, please listen to me. Please listen, for I have to speak. My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, told me already that it is most risky for a... for one like me to confide in anyone, least of all a woman. But indeed, ever since the ball at Netherfield, when you penetrated my secret and did not in any way... And did not denounce me..." As he spoke, Darcy continued to pace about the room -- three long steps -- detour around the vase -- three long steps. "I've known since then that you are the best of all women and that I can rely upon your kindness and goodness as in no other. As, indeed, I thought I could never rely on anyone, male or female, who was not similarly afflicted." He paused and directed an uncertain look at her, before staring at a point above her head, straightening his shoulders and putting his hands -- still holding gloves and hat -- behind his back, as if he were on parade upon some martial ground. "Please, don't make me wait for an answer. Please, I beg you to relieve my suffering."

  Elizabeth stared, trying to prevent her mouth from opening into an unbecoming look of bewilderment. She ran his words through her head, but she could not make head or tail of what he meant. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy," she said. "But I have not the pleasure of understanding you."

  He looked startled, and chuckled a little to himself. "It is possible I am not expressing myself very clearly," he said. And to her everlasting horror, he knelt at her feet, and set his hat and gloves aside and struggled to capture her hand.

  "Kindest, lovelies
t Elizabeth, will you do me the honor of being my wife and the mistress of Pemberley?"

  She could not have been more shocked had Mr. Darcy actually changed shape into a lion -- or perhaps a dog -- right before her eyes. For many minutes she was unable to utter a word.

  He looked up, in confusion, and finally stood and resumed his pacing. "Oh, I know what the world will say. The inequality of our connections. Your family's occasional total lack of propriety. Even perhaps the difference in our fortunes. But you must understand all that is as nothing to me. Nothing, compared to having a wife who understands me and who is willing to overlook my... eccentricity."

  At this she could contain herself no longer. "I would not call it an eccentricity, sir. In fact, I would call it something very much more to the point. Something in fact, which could mar any attempt at a married life."

  He blinked at her. "Hardly," he said. "Really, I have great control over myself. Oh, I know it might not have looked like that in Hertfordshire. Something about your proximity, perhaps..." He shook his head. "For I have to admit that my feelings for you were of the most violent even then. But once..." He swallowed. "Once we are settled, I presume that it will resolve back into the pattern it has followed since my adolescence. In fact, it should bother me two or three nights a month, no more. The rest of the time, I should be a perfectly normal husband to you."

  "Normal?" Was he truly telling her that his disgraceful behavior with Mr. Bingley had been instigated by his feelings towards her? It was too much. Even in all her reading, Elizabeth had never come across anything quite that strange.

  He sighed. "Well, you must know it doesn't transmit to the children. Or not that way. Oh, our great-grandchild might show it, but it is highly unlikely our child would. Both my parents were perfectly normal. As were my grandparents and great grandparents. But if you truly would object to children, if you'd truly be afraid of their inheriting my defect, there are ways... I beg you to believe, Miss Bennet, that I, of all people, am perfectly aware of the phases of the moon."