Fitzwilliam Darcy, Traitor

by Jennifer Joy

  Bingley spread his hands out in front of him, a cloud of steam rising off of his coat sleeves.

  Darcy took off his greatcoat, laying it over the woodpile to dry. “We can spread your coat over the table,” he suggested to Bingley. Darcy carried the furniture closer, noting with dismay how his skin prickled at the cold creeping over his flesh only two steps away from the fireplace.

  He helped Bingley out of his coats, taking off more layers of clothing until his friend wore nothing but his shirtsleeves and breeches. Decency prevented him from removing anything more, though Bingley was damp to his skin.

  The ladies doffed their bonnets, gloves, and pelisses. Soon, every available surface in the tiny cottage was draped with soggy clothing in various shades of pink and green. Darcy preferred the dark green Miss Elizabeth wore. It was the same color as the grass at Pemberley and it suited her eyes. She had fine eyes.

  Darcy watched in fascination as she squeezed her muddy hem. He nearly chuckled when he recalled Miss Bingley's shock at the six inches of mud soaking Miss Elizabeth’s hems when she showed up at Netherfield Park to care for her sister. Darcy had thought her lovely then. Looking at her reddened cheeks and bright eyes, he thought her lovelier still.

  She removed her half-boots, reaching under her skirt to peel off a stocking. Darcy looked away before she noticed him, but the image remained with him. The dampness of her skirts against the shadows of the fire made it impossible for him not to notice her figure.

  “You are not with a fever, are you, Darcy?” Bingley exclaimed loudly.

  “I am well, thank you, Bingley,” Darcy replied graciously, relieved his polished manners had helped him utter coherent words when his thoughts were anything but appropriate. He cleared his throat, his voice unusually hoarse. Darcy took a step away from the fire, adding for good measure, “I am only too close to the fire.” He cleared his throat again. “It is the oak.”

  Darcy prayed nothing more was said on the subject.

  “You sound like you are sickening with a cold. Here, have a seat, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Elizabeth said, pulling the other chair closer to the fire, close to where he stood, close enough for her honeysuckle-scented hair to ignite his senses.

  Dear Lord, what had he done to deserve this?

  Miss Bennet, who had been cleaning the grime from the window and could now see his heated complexion more clearly for it, said, “You are rather flushed, Mr. Darcy. I will collect some snow to melt for you to drink.”

  “I do not fall ill,” Darcy growled. Would they not change the subject away from him and his blasted state? It was a good thing he planned to leave as soon as they were comfortably settled.

  Miss Elizabeth stood behind the chair, too near him. He would rather stand too close to the fire than sit too close to her. He sensed the danger she posed to him more than ever.

  Her eyes gleamed impishly at him. “I am not surprised. Few men exercise as much restraint over themselves as you do.”

  She had no idea. Darcy comforted himself in the knowledge of his departure. The sooner he left, the better.

  Bingley chuckled. “You mean, few men could attend a ball and fail to dance even once? What a clever judge of character you are, Miss Elizabeth.”

  Darcy leveled his glare at Bingley. He would air his resentment now? And to Miss Elizabeth, who could not recognize a scoundrel when she stood face-to-face with one?

  Bingley looked comfortable enough. Darcy needed to leave — now. He went over to the window.

  Ice crystals froze against the glass, obscuring his view.

  It would be an arduous walk to the village and a miserable ride to London, but what were a few hours of hardship when he could ensure his traveling companions’ safety, avoid their compromising circumstance, and avenge himself? Darcy returned to the woodpile and put on his coat and gloves.

  “Mr. Darcy, you are not leaving, are you? It is not safe,” Miss Elizabeth said.

  Darcy would wager it was safer for him out of doors than inside the room with her.

  “I must send for help,” he said.

  “In this storm?”

  The wind blew against the cottage, its joints creaking and groaning.

  Amidst the cloud of steam rising from his person, Bingley said, “It sounds worse than it was minutes ago. If you insist on going, then I will go too.”

  Miss Bennet pressed down on his shoulder when Bingley gathered his feet under him to stand. “You will catch your death,” she said, looking imploringly at Darcy.

  “Both of you will,” Miss Elizabeth added, locking eyes with Darcy. The softness in her tone and the concern etching her face confused him. Had he gained her sympathy when he ought to have prevented the events of the morning somehow? Better she direct her pity to the one most deserving: To Bingley who was caught in the middle of this senseless feud through no fault of his own, and who presently suffered the most from it.

  Darcy prayed that Bingley's ruddy complexion resulted from his nearness to the fire and not the beginning of a fever.

  Feeling trapped, Darcy went to the window. The snow fell so thickly, he could not see far. It was perfect weather in which to get lost.

  It took all of his restraint, but he did not strike the wall with his bare fists or cry out in frustration. They were comfortable enough in the cottage, and revenge would be no less satisfying for having to wait for it. The only disadvantage was the most obvious. Already, they faced compromise. If they spent the night together in the cottage without a chaperone, their futures would be decided.

  Mrs. Bennet got her wish after all, Darcy thought sarcastically.

  Bingley would be pleased. And why would he not be? Miss Bennet anticipated his every need. It was she who had the presence of mind to hand him the kettle, to give him a drink of the warm chocolate. Her encouragement had kept him moving until they found the cottage. Now, she pressed a plate (one of the remains large enough to be used as a plate anyway) into his hands. It was piled with cold cuts of ham and bread slathered with butter.

  Miss Elizabeth handed Darcy a plate too. “Will you stay?” she asked.

  He hesitated. He had no stomach for food. Not with what he knew. Not with what he feared would happen if he did not act quickly and decisively.

  She pushed the shard in front of him. “Come, Mr. Darcy. You must be hungry, and we have a lot of food it would be a shame to let spoil.”

  The room shivered and creaked, the wind battering against the side of the cottage. Only a reckless fool would wander out of doors in that storm. Darcy took the plate and sat on one side of the hearth.

  Miss Bennet sat beside Bingley, and Miss Elizabeth sat on the other side of the hearth.

  Darcy noticed how she pushed her food from one side of her plate to the other, and he suspected her thoughts were too disturbed to give much attention to her plate too. It had been a dreadful day.

  He knew the questions would come again soon. He wanted so badly to tell her everything. But for a reason he did not completely understand, he needed for her to discern the truth on her own, without his influence. He needed her to see.

  “You said you knew who attacked us on the road. Now is not the time for secrets,” she said.

  His stomach clenched. She had jumped straight to the point.

  He set his plate on the hearth. “You would not believe me were I to tell you.”

  “You presume to predict my reaction?”

  “You have many accomplishments, Miss Elizabeth, but disguise is not one of them. I am certain you would disagree with me.”

  Darcy could not fathom what he had said to cause her confusion, but he saw it as plainly as every other emotion she openly expressed. He added, “It is not my custom to fling accusations without proof.”

  She nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Very well. Then let us discuss what we know. Those men knew you. They knew when to expect us on the road, and they waited for us. They displayed particular aggression toward you, suggesting that not only do they know you, but they resent you. They knew
you capable of defending yourself, and so they tied your hands like cowards.”

  He ought to have known she would try to puzzle the truth based on the clues at her disposal. Given enough time, Darcy knew she would do it. He only needed to be patient.

  Miss Bennet said, “Mrs. Holton knew about it.”

  She had Darcy’s full attention. “What is this?”

  “Mrs. Holton knew the highwaymen would not be satisfied with only money. She told Lizzy and me that we would be safer in the storm with you and Mr. Bingley than to stay in the carriage with those evil men. She feared for us, and she helped us,” she replied.

  Bingley was dumbfounded.

  Darcy pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. He had known the ladies would not be allowed to remain in the carriage. The highwaymen would not have risked having their identities discovered. Mrs. Holton had only done what the thieves would have done themselves. Did that make her a friend or a foe?

  He asked Bingley, “How did you come to hire Mrs. Holton?”

  “Your London housekeeper recommended her.”

  It was sensible of Bingley to ask Mrs. Bernard, a woman Darcy trusted implicitly with his household, for a recommendation. However, it made Mrs. Holton’s conduct confusing.

  Darcy planned aloud. “I trust Mrs. Bernard completely. Once I reach London, it will be a simple matter to make inquiries. If my housekeeper trusts Mrs. Holton enough to recommend her to you, she will know where she can be found.”

  Miss Elizabeth asked, “If those men knew you and resented you, why did they not shoot you when they had the chance?”

  Darcy did not care for her line of reasoning.

  Bingley shivered violently. “I would rather be shot than die of cold.” He rubbed his hands before the fire, then poured the last of the chocolate and handed it to Miss Bennet.

  Miss Bennet offered it to Darcy. When he refused, she offered it to her sister. Only when Miss Bennet had ensured no one else in the room desired the hot chocolate, did she drink.

  Taking a sip, she suggested, “If they wished you dead, they took a great risk in leaving you alive. Even in the storm, they would have to know it was possible you would survive. That all of us would survive.”

  That was what most disturbed Darcy. His instincts told him that something was amiss, that he had unwittingly walked into a trap.

  He felt Miss Elizabeth’s eyes studying him, and he met her scrutinizing look defiantly. Would that she drew a reasonable conclusion distinct from his own, for his explanation was troublesome.

  “What else do they mean to do to you?” She asked the same question that had tormented Darcy since his first glance at the man who could not hide himself from Darcy. Wickham.

  Chapter 13

  The more Elizabeth thought about it, the more she sympathized with Mr. Darcy.

  He had suffered horrible, humiliating injustice at the hands of two brutes, but he was as strong and resolute in purpose as ever. She appreciated how seriously he took his responsibilities, of which she knew herself to be included, when she would have poked fun at his grave manners before. Well, she was not laughing now.

  She witnessed the determination with which Mr. Darcy provided for their needs when he had not wished for her and Jane’s company in the first place. They had imposed on his generosity, and he treated them with respect. Not once did he imply they were a burden when Elizabeth knew that was exactly what she was. A burden society and the rules of decorum would bind him to marry.

  Jane and Mr. Bingley stood before the fire, turning slowly in circles to dry their clothes and exchanging shy glances whenever their turn brought them face-to-face.

  Elizabeth was happy for them. Maybe Mama’s plan would work out for the best after all. At least, it would for them. They were in love with each other.

  A smidgen of envy filled Elizabeth with longing. There were qualities she admired in Mr. Darcy. He had earned her respect that day. But she could not reconcile the man brooding by the window with the man who had treated Mr. Wickham with contempt and had influenced Mr. Bingley to leave Hertfordshire. How was it possible for a man to possess such opposing traits as honor and treachery, selflessness and pride?

  Were she easily satisfied, Elizabeth would rejoice in her good fortune. Mr. Darcy was handsome and rich, and she did not doubt that many young ladies and their mothers had conspired to ensnare him.

  But fortune and a firm chin were not enough to satisfy her. Elizabeth wanted to marry the man who would become her best friend, a man who would ignite her heart and stir her senses with a touch.

  Elizabeth did not realize she had been staring at him until Mr. Darcy met her eyes. She looked away, embarrassed at her thoughts. He read them too easily.

  She looked about the room. If only there was something with which to occupy herself. She did not trust her thoughts. They were dangerous.

  Her novel sat on top of the table, and she grabbed it eagerly. Of all her possessions, it was the only one she had salvaged by sticking it inside the hamper instead of her reticule. “We are sorely in need of entertainment. Shall I read aloud to you?” She held up the book.

  Jane clapped. “Please do. I love it when you read.”

  “Lovely idea,” Mr. Bingley agreed.

  Mr. Darcy nodded, turning back toward the window. He glared out into the storm as if he could quench it with a look.

  Elizabeth read, doing her best imitations of the characters and losing herself in the story before the turn of the first page. She forgot her concerns, leaving the cold cottage and reputation-ruining situation behind to become the heroine of the novel. She laughed, she danced, she fell in love.

  She took a deep breath and turned another page, jarred to the present when she heard applause. It had been a particularly engrossing chapter, and Elizabeth was not ready to return to reality.

  She looked around her, rubbing her hands over her arms and realizing she was cold. The light in the room had dimmed. It was growing dark out of doors, but the fire cast a comforting glow throughout the room. She stepped closer to it and curtsied at the applause as if she were a grand actress performing at the theater.

  Mr. Darcy did not clap. He held his post before the window like a statue. An attractive statue with stubble covering his cheeks and chin.

  Jane exclaimed, “We could not have been more entertained had we gone to the theater. You must be tired, Lizzy. Please drink some water.” She handed Elizabeth a cup of melted snow.

  Mr. Bingley added, “I see why your nieces and nephews love your stories, Miss Elizabeth. If you tell them with half the emotion with which you read, they would be captivating.” He looked expectantly at Mr. Darcy. It was his turn to pay a compliment.

  Had the monotonous scene on the other side of the glass been more entertaining than her reading?

  Elizabeth tried not to care. She pretended to laugh, using humor to disguise her disappointment. Or, she hoped she disguised it. According to Mr. Darcy, disguise was not one of her accomplishments … though she had to wonder what he had meant by the praise. Emboldening herself, she said, “I am only sorry my performance was not up to Mr. Darcy’s standards. I suppose you are accustomed to better, sir?”

  He turned to her with all the concentration with which he had stood vigil at the window. “To the contrary. I enjoyed your reading and only apologize I could not give it my full attention.”

  She had no witty retort for that. Had the proud Mr. Darcy apologized to her? If he continued this course, she was in grave danger of liking him very much … except for his past dealings with Mr. Wickham and his apparent influence over Mr. Bingley.

  Oh, bother! She had been firmly decided to dislike him earlier that morning, and now, Elizabeth did not know what to think at all! And unless a miracle happened, she would be stuck with him for the rest of her life. Should she weep or celebrate?

  She looked out of the window, willing a carriage with an understanding gentleman who would be willing to overlook their unchaperoned state to rescue them …
in the abandoned cottage … in the middle of a snowstorm … at nightfall.

  Mr. Bingley cleared his throat. “It is unlikely anyone will come to our rescue here, but I cannot be sorry about it when circumstances lend me the boldness to say what I ought to have said sooner.”

  The only sound in the room was that of the driving wind.

  Turning to Jane, he continued, “Miss Bennet, I love you with all of my heart. I have since the first moment I saw you, and my affection has only strengthened as I have learned that you are as beautiful in character as you are in appearance. I wish to make you happy, to share my life with you … if you think you might love me too.”

  Tears trickled down Jane’s face. She whispered, “I do love you.”

  Nobody could doubt the sincerity in her expression.

  Mr. Bingley took her hand, raising Jane’s palm to his lips. “Dearest Jane, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you marry me?”

  “Yes!” Jane shouted joyfully.

  They embraced, and Elizabeth felt tears prickle her eyes when she heard her sister say, “I have never been so happy as I am at this moment.”

  Mr. Bingley cooed softly, “And this is only the beginning.” Abruptly, he shoved Jane to arm's length, burying his face in his upper arm and bursting into a series of violent sneezes.

  Elizabeth hurried to pour more of the melted snow from the cleaned kettle for him to drink.

  Jane pressed her fingers against his forehead. “You feel feverish.”

  Mr. Bingley covered her fingers with his. “It is only the smell of the oak burning. It always makes me sneeze. It is nothing,” he reassured them, adding, “Nobody ever dies of a cold.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Our mother said the same thing when we heard Jane had fallen sick with a cold at Netherfield Park.” Elizabeth did not fail to see the irony. Mama had got her wish. Jane was engaged before they reached London.