“It is an easy thing to tie him to the back of the carriage. But you must promise me, Lizzy, that you will not ride out too far on your own, as you are unfamiliar with the terrain.”
She gave her father a long embrace and thanked him over and over again. Besides Charlotte’s companionship, she would be able to look forward to riding Florio in a beautiful new setting, discovering new places and adventures. She smiled at the very thought.
********
Darcy pulled the watch from his waist coat pocket and checked the time; the ride to Rosings Park seemed to get longer every year. The rain had not stopped once since he’d left London, making his journey most arduous. But he consoled himself with the fact that at least the April temperatures had finally turned pleasant enough that he need no longer worry of snow; winter had seemed endless this year.
Once again he was on his way to meet his cousin Richard for their annual pilgrimage to Kent. It was a ritual they performed every Easter: spending the holiday with their Aunt Catherine and Cousin Anne, while they reviewed the books and toured the grounds, making note of any major repairs or renovations that were needed to the estate.
He was more apprehensive than usual this year due to the fact that he knew Mr. Collins was in residence at Hunsford. After their meeting in London over three months ago, he was now certain that Elizabeth had finally wed the obsequious clergyman. Darcy found it hard to imagine her in such a role, and witnessing it would be even more painful.
He was still avoiding Bingley’s letters as he did not want to actually see the words in black and white informing him of Elizabeth’s marriage. Such images would certainly be offensive should he bring them to mind. Was the clergyman now enjoying her kisses? Was he lying with her each night and taking his marital privileges?
The thought of that simpering man’s mouth on Elizabeth’s sweet lips, of his hands tracing her abundant curves, of his engorged . . . bloody hell . . . how could she have married such a man!
But who was he to talk? Had he not convinced himself that marrying Alyssa was the prudent thing to do? No, neither of them could to be acquitted on that account.
However, he was not the one who had expressed the opinion that falling in love would be a most exquisite experience or that never giving nor receiving love would be an unbearably lonely existence; those had been her words. Why, then, had she settled for a marriage of convenience?
He took a deep breath as he looked out the window of his carriage; he was still miles from his destination, and the rain had not abated. Darcy settled back, his head resting against the seat cushion. He recalled the events that had taken place in Alyssa’s parlour that night, the night he had received her explicit note summoning him.
***
As the door to the townhouse opened, Stivers seemed even more confused than usual. “Miss Marston is expecting me,” he assured the elderly man.
Stivers gave him a look of perplexity but nodded and led him down the hallway. As the butler opened the parlour door ready to announce his presence, Alyssa stood, a slight gasp escaping her lips.
Darcy entered the room and noted her look of shock. He then observed her disheveled appearance and the two half-empty glasses on the table, much the same as the night he had returned from Hertfordshire.
But something far more intriguing had now caught his attention as his eyes alit upon the coat that was flung casually across the arm of the loveseat, its deep shade of red now an exact match to Alyssa’s complexion.
“I . . . I can explain, Fitzwilliam.”
“I seriously doubt that, Alyssa.”
For a moment he stared at her, as if challenging her to come up with some sort of reasonable account, but when she offered nothing further, he turned towards the door.
“Wait!” she beseeched him.
He turned back towards her, and their eyes met. As he looked upon her, he wondered why his mind and emotions were not reacting as they ought. Why was he not angry, outraged? Where were the feelings of betrayal and loss? Astonishingly all he felt was . . . relief.
Grateful that he had not entrusted his heart to her, here was proof, yet again, that his convictions in that regard had been more than justified. Love . . . it was a word of use only to poets.
“Yes, Alyssa?”
She saw the look of abhorrence in his eyes and knew any effort to persuade him of her innocence would most likely prove useless, but still she had to try. However, as she opened her mouth to speak, a voice from the hallway effectively established her guilt.
“Alyssa, where the devil have you put my boots?”
Darcy’s spine straightened as the man who was the bane of his existence strode unbuttoned and bootless into the parlour.
Wickham stopped short but did not seem surprised by Darcy’s presence. “Ah, Alyssa, you did not tell me we had a visitor. I’m afraid we have been well and truly caught.”
Knowing her fate was sealed, Alyssa released her pent-up breath. Beyond any uncertainty, Fitzwilliam Darcy was now lost to her forever. But rather than remorse, it was anger with which she addressed him. “I imagine you will waste no time seeking solace in the arms of Elizabeth Bennet,” she accused.
At the mention of her name, Darcy startled. He tried desperately to maintain a look of composure, but a physical assault upon his person could not have been any less effective.
Wickham eyed him with curiosity. Despite his thorough study of the man over the many years of their acquaintance, he had never before witnessed such an unguarded reaction from him.
Just who was Elizabeth Bennet, he wondered, and why did the mere mention of her name have such an impact on Darcy? Was she someone Darcy had once cared for? From the exposed look of his countenance, perhaps he still did. Wickham silently vowed he would make it his business to find out.
“You are quite mistaken on the matter,” Darcy calmly replied.
He turned abruptly, and as he took his first step towards the door, a sudden thought plagued Alyssa’s mind. “May I inquire what prompted you to see me this evening, Fitzwilliam? Our plans were not until tomorrow.”
He reached into his coat pocket and produced her note. “It was delivered earlier this evening.”
Recognition of her personal stationery and the message she had written was reflected in her stunned look. She turned incredulous eyes towards George Wickham. Her mind was now formulating the truth of her situation: Wickham had planned for the discovery of her betrayal and disgrace.
“One day you will go too far, Wickham,” Darcy warned.
“I eagerly await that day, for I am curious to see just what it will take to finally break you.”
***
Darcy now shifted uncomfortably in his carriage seat. Although they had not professed love for one another, he had expected Alyssa’s conduct to be proper and respectable. He had assumed a contented marriage would exist between them. She would manage their social life, run his home and bear his children in exchange for the benefit of his money, land and place in society. It was shocking, to say the least, that on the very eve of their betrothal she had sought another man’s affections. The fact that the man had been none other than George Wickham, however, was beyond the pale.
She had betrayed him with his worst enemy. If he had been truly waiting for some sign that he and Alyssa were destined not to wed, he certainly could have hoped for something a little more subtle.
But what had been far more troubling was the fact that Wickham had undoubtedly witnessed his flustered countenance upon hearing the name of Elizabeth Bennet. Had his reaction placed her in danger? Darcy quickly dismissed his unease. Now that she was Mrs. Collins, he need not fear her becoming the next victim of George Wickham’s resentful vengeance. At least her marriage would save her from that ordeal.
He forcefully turned his mind from the memories of that detestable night and tried to think upon more pleasant thoughts. At least he was looking forward to seeing his cousin Richard again. His duties in the military had not allowed him a leave in almost a
year, except for a short visit with Georgiana at Pemberley last September. Darcy had written to him, vaguely describing the events that had taken place over the last several months, but being a man of pride, he may have altered some of the details to accommodate his ego.
His description of the occurrences in Hertfordshire had left out many of the details, and certainly his letter made no mention of his attraction towards the young lady he had been asked to call upon. No, he had not revealed anything beyond the simple facts, though nothing about the entire situation now seemed simple.
As for the events that had taken place in London with Miss Marston, he felt some discretion was required, and he had not disclosed the indelicate nature of the situation. However, he was sure a man of Richard’s considerable experience did not need to have it spelled out for him.
His cousin had always had a way with the ladies. Despite his lack of fortune, his rugged good looks and congenial manner had practically guaranteed his success with the fairer sex. But Darcy doubted that any woman would ever induce him into marriage; he seemed more than content in his bachelorhood.
His cousin’s two rules were steadfast: be completely candid regarding his intentions and never engage an innocent. Darcy smiled to himself. There was no question about it; his cousin was definitely a rogue, but at least he was an honourable one.
He closed his eyes and eventually allowed sleep to overtake his thoughts. Hours later the carriage’s abrupt halt awoke him. He had finally arrived at Rosings.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As he entered the parlour he was greeted by his aunt who informed him that Richard had sent word that a last minute assignment would delay him for several days but that he would join them as soon as he was able.
Darcy was somewhat dismayed by this news as he was counting on Richard to be a buffer between his aunt, the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and himself. The woman had schemed for years in the hope of his marrying his cousin Anne, despite the fact that they could not have been less suited.
Anne was a sickly sort of girl who exhibited no pretense to beauty. As far as any attraction between them, none had ever existed, at least not on Darcy’s part, and he could not even imagine bestowing his affections upon her. In addition, aside from the lack of her physical appeal, she showed no particular interest or talent in any endeavour.
As far as Darcy knew, she could neither embroider, nor sew, nor paint, nor play the pianoforte, nor cover screens, nor ride. And he could not say that he had ever heard her converse on any topic of interest whatsoever. Honestly, he had never seen her do anything other than sit and occasionally bring her handkerchief to her nose, which seemed to be constantly running.
They gathered for their evening meal, and as they sat cozily around the twelve-foot long table, Darcy did his best to deflect his aunt’s inquiries.
“It is time you settled down, Fitzwilliam, and who better than Anne? She was raised a most proper young lady, and certainly you cannot argue her connections! And you know it was your mother’s greatest wish, as well as mine, from the time you were both infants in your cradles that the two of you should marry. Why, her dowry alone would make any eligible gentleman of the ton willing to offer for her. She would make a most satisfactory wife.”
All of these facts were related as if the young lady herself were not seated at the table, a mere six feet away.
“I am sure my mother would have considered my feelings in the matter and would not have pressed the issue. And while I find Anne a perfectly charming young woman, I believe we are not well suited, Aunt. I am sure Anne would agree.”
Darcy was beginning to think he might have a career in His Majesty’s diplomatic corps.
“I am convinced you are the last person to know what is good for you, Fitzwilliam. At least you thought better of your choice of Miss Marston. I could have told you she was not the woman for you, but I’m glad to see you came to your senses before it was too late. And as far as you and Anne not being well suited, I must disagree and so would Anne. Is that not so, my dear?”
They both looked over to Anne to hear her opinion, but she seemed oblivious to their conversation, as she had not once stopped her annoying habit of cutting all the food on her plate into tiny little pieces before allowing herself a single bite.
A change of topic was desperately needed.
“I understand there is a new clergyman at Hunsford,” he said as his curiosity could no longer be denied.
His aunt seemed annoyed at this diversion from her pointed questions regarding his marital intentions and answered him begrudgingly.
“Yes, yes, you speak of Mr. Collins,” she said with a great deal of agitation in her voice.
“Yes, Mr. Collins. I had the pleasure of meeting him on a recent trip into Hertfordshire, where he informed me of your very generous patronage.”
This seemed to mollify his aunt as she now showed interest in this topic of conversation.
Yes, definitely the diplomatic corps, mused Darcy to himself.
“Yes, he told me of your acquaintance. He is a very accommodating young man, is he not? You know how I try to encourage young people whenever I can, especially those whom I feel can be a benefit to others. He has proven to be very solicitous of my wishes.”
“Does he reside at the parsonage alone?” asked Darcy, surprised to find himself still clinging to the slight thread of hope that Elizabeth had finally come to realize she was worthy of someone far more agreeable than Mr. Collins.
“No, he has recently wed, a young woman he met during his stay at Longbourn, an estate he is to one day inherit. It was at my recommendation, of course, that he took a wife, a quiet and genteel sort of girl; they should do well together. She has a sister and a friend visiting her at the moment.”
A sick feeling in his stomach arose upon hearing his aunt’s words. As much as he had tried to prepare himself for such news, he could not believe Elizabeth had actually gone through with it; she was now Mrs. Collins.
He reached for his wine glass, quickly emptying its contents, his emotions suddenly experiencing all the indignities he had previously escaped that night in London: anger, betrayal and loss.
That these emotions should come to him now made little sense. Elizabeth was never his to lose, nor did she betray him. As for the anger he felt, there seemed to be no one to direct it towards, except himself.
“I will invite them to dine on Thursday, but perhaps you might call on them tomorrow, Fitzwilliam,” suggested his aunt.
“I will see if time permits after I have finished reviewing the accounts,” he stated stiffly. But he already knew he would avoid the parsonage, for to see Elizabeth again, knowing she spent her nights lying with Mr. Collins, would be a torture he could not bear.
As he lay sleepless in his bed that night, his thoughts were confused. He questioned just what exactly he wanted out of this life that he had been granted. He had been prepared to live until the end of his days without ever experiencing romantic love. And until the events that had taken place in Hertfordshire, he had been quite convinced of the merits of his views on the subject.
But he could now admit he had not been happy with his choice of Alyssa Marston. Even if she had not betrayed him, he would not have been content with her. He had suddenly found himself longing for a deeper connection, a connection she could never have provided, a connection he had only felt while holding Elizabeth Bennet in his arms.
********
Elizabeth stared out the window at the rain. For the past several days it had thwarted her every attempt to escape the confines of the parsonage at Hunsford. The only departure from her captivity was those occasions when they dined at Rosings Park with Lady Catherine, and the reprieve often proved worse than the sentence.
She had arrived at Hunsford almost a fortnight ago with Sir William and Maria and, fortunately, Sir William had monopolized much of Lady Catherine’s conversation when in her company. But with his departure back to Hertfordshire on the evening before last, Elizabeth was s
omewhat fearful that now she would be the focus of Lady Catherine’s discourse.
Besides Charlotte’s enjoyable company, her daily adventures with Florio had been her only refuge. Unfortunately neither Charlotte, Maria, nor Mr. Collins rode, and there was no one else who might accompany her to tour the adjoining meadows beyond the boundaries she had already explored. Yet any ride upon Florio, no matter how confined, was one she was happy to take. But four consecutive days of wretched weather had made even that prospect impossible.
Still, she walked the short distance every afternoon to the stables at Rosings to brush Florio’s shiny coat and present an apple to her beloved stallion. When she returned from one of these visits, she joined her friend in the small parlour that Charlotte favoured, and they sat conversing as they sipped their tea. The faint sound of the outside bell informed them that a visitor had arrived at the parsonage. He was shown in, and the two young women rose as he was announced.
As Darcy entered the parlour, her heart stilled and her breathing ceased. His reaction was similar as they both seemed momentarily frozen in place. Their eyes had locked immediately, and the look they conveyed was one of resigned sadness, for each believed the other had married.
Darcy did his best to appear composed while chastising himself for his lack of will power. He had not been able to stay away for more than a day. Despite knowing she was now the wife of Mr. Collins, he could not resist the desire to be in her company once again. Apparently he was a glutton for punishment. He bowed to both young women.
“Mrs. Collins, Miss Lucas, a pleasure to see you both again.”
The two women looked at each other in confusion.
“I am afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Darcy; it is my friend Charlotte here who is married to Mr. Collins.”
“I . . . I beg your pardon, forgive me. I was under the impression that it was you, Miss Bennet, who had married Mr. Collins. I guess my aunt did not make that clear.”
Darcy felt his heart pounding against his chest. “I wish you every happiness in your marriage, Mrs. Collins.”
The Last Waltz: . . . another pride and prejudice journey of love Page 16