Fitzwilliam Darcy, Traitor

by Jennifer Joy

  Miss Elizabeth dashed through the narrow streets. She did not complain of cold. She did not mumble about aching feet, and she did not say she was hungry until Darcy heard her stomach protest its need for food.

  Appreciative of the coins Richard had “safeguarded,” Darcy hid in the shadows while Miss Elizabeth went inside a bakery to purchase meat pies and whatever else they could carry with them to curb their hunger.

  Stuffing their faces and their pockets as they continued to Mr. Gardiner’s warehouse, Darcy pondered Miss Elizabeth’s strength. She had endured more in the past week than most ladies did in a lifetime — and always, her humor shone through.

  “We must hurry. Once the doors are locked, I do not know how we will get inside,” Miss Elizabeth said over her shoulder.

  Darcy stretched his legs to keep up. For a lady significantly shorter than himself, he struggled to maintain her pace.

  “Will there not be guards to protect your uncle’s merchandise?” he asked.

  She paused too long before answering, “They are known to me. Hopefully, they will not take offense with you.” She glanced at his pocket containing another meat pie.

  Darcy objected, “If we allow ourselves to be seen by them, they will tell your uncle of our presence.”

  She smiled. “I doubt that.”

  His worry increased, and he focused his thoughts on alternative plans. Unfortunately, Darcy could think of nothing better than following Miss Elizabeth to her uncle’s warehouse.

  It neared the quitting hour when they arrived. Had he and Miss Elizabeth not been so out of breath, they might have sighed in relief when they saw the warehouse doors open. Several workers milled about in the lantern-lit, cobblestone courtyard.

  “Just do what I do,” Miss Elizabeth said, turning to face him and stepping backward until she was inside the courtyard facing the outer wall.

  Darcy felt silly, but he imitated her, recognizing the wisdom in the method to disguise their faces. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Miss Elizabeth walk facing the wall until the light of the lantern reached its limits and darkness enveloped her.

  Rough planks scratched his hands and tugged at Miss Elizabeth’s skirts. Several times, she slowed to free herself. When they had hidden themselves deep enough to satisfy her while still allowing them to see out into the courtyard, they waited until the large warehouse doors creaked closed and a chain rattled against the wood.

  The hairs on Darcy’s arms stood on end when a worker shouted, “Release the guards!” just before a rush of laborers ran through the narrow opening and the iron lock was secured.

  Chapter 25

  Elizabeth scrambled out from behind the crates. It was only a matter of time before they were sniffed out of their hiding place. She was certain her uncle’s guards would receive her as they always did, but she did not know how Mr. Darcy would fare.

  She called the English Mastiffs over to her, “Watt! Wilberforce!”

  With two throaty barks, the giant guards bounded over to her, their cheeks flopping and leaving a trail of drool streaming behind them. Had Elizabeth not known the dogs were happy to see her, she might have been afraid.

  Before the dogs reached her, Mr. Darcy stepped in front of Elizabeth, his arms enclosing her protectively.

  Stunned at his action, Elizabeth's first reaction was to shove him out of the way before the dogs attacked him. But Mr. Darcy did not need her help. He pulled the meat pie out of his pocket, split it in half, and tossed the halves across the courtyard to the appreciative dogs.

  Who was Elizabeth to deny her uncle’s dogs a treat?

  Watt and Wilberforce gobbled the pie down in one swallow, then turned their distrustful stares on Mr. Darcy. They would not be won over with a single meat pie.

  Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy’s shoulders visibly relax as he held his hands out wider to the side, turning them palms out. Speaking softly, he praised them for being diligent in their job. He explained his and Elizabeth’s reason for being there. Only when the dogs cocked their heads from side to side, looking at Mr. Darcy like he was crazy, did he step aside to allow them to sniff her.

  She could have saved him the trouble, but it was so entertaining to watch Mr. Darcy speak to the mangy dogs as if they were human, Elizabeth indulged her whim and held her tongue.

  Mr. Darcy stood still while the dogs sniffed him curiously, continuing his monotonous monologue by telling them about his dogs at Pemberley.

  Concluding that Mr. Darcy was not worth the trouble to bite, the Mastiffs turned their attention to Elizabeth.

  She widened her stance, ready for them, but Watt and Wilberforce were each so insistent on receiving more attention from her than the other, they soon pushed Elizabeth over.

  She laughed and scratched their fur, explaining to Mr. Darcy, “They forget how large they are. In their minds, they are still puppies who fit on my lap.”

  Mr. Darcy, being the gentlemanly protector he was, interfered. He was growled at for his efforts.

  Elizabeth tried to appease him. “They are no trouble, Mr. Darcy. I have known them since they were pups, and they are merely happy to see me.” She scratched the dogs under their chins, cooing, “I am happy to see you, Watt and Wilberforce, but you are hardly lapdogs anymore, and I must insist you allow me to stand before my dress is soaked through.”

  She laughed at herself when she realized she had imitated Mr. Darcy. What was stranger was that the dogs had seemed to understand her.

  Mr. Darcy handed her up, and the dogs again became very interested in his pockets.

  They poked and shoved him until they had determined his pockets were empty. Then, with a snort, the dogs left to trot across the courtyard.

  “Watt and Wilberforce? The engineer and the abolitionist?” Mr. Darcy asked.

  “My uncle appreciates inventive thinking and worthwhile causes.”

  “He sounds like an interesting man.”

  “He is,” Elizabeth said, pleased to hear Mr. Darcy praise her family. “You have a way with dogs,” she commented. She ought to have known. The master of a large estate with extensive hunting grounds would have dogs. It had, however, surprised Elizabeth to see the gentleness and patience Mr. Darcy had displayed toward the two large guards.

  “They are more honest than people,” he observed.

  Elizabeth could have made a witty comment about how he must prefer horses to people then, but the melancholy in Mr. Darcy’s tone stopped her. Elizabeth realized how fortunate she was. Her family had many faults, but dishonesty was not one. They exposed themselves for all to see and criticize, but they never did so out of malice nor out of the need to pretend to be anything but what they were.

  She turned in the direction of the apartment, motioning for Mr. Darcy to follow. “Come.”

  Elizabeth led Mr. Darcy up a narrow stairwell at the side of the warehouse building. At the top of the landing was a door with a glassed window frame, above which Elizabeth hoped her uncle still hid the key. Craning her neck back, she looked up, then over at Mr. Darcy. Pointing at the windowsill, she asked, “Can you reach? There should be a key on the ledge.”

  Mr. Darcy stretched up. He was so very tall. Elizabeth would like to visit a library with Mr. Darcy. Too often, she had to ask for a clerk to reach the higher shelves since they frowned upon ladies who climbed ladders. Mr. Darcy would not need a ladder. He could carry a good many novels in his strong arms.

  Before Elizabeth had stacked the pile of books to Mr. Darcy’s chin in her imagination, he held the key in front of her, allowing Elizabeth the honor of opening the door to her uncle’s apartment.

  Pausing in the doorway, she held her hands up. “I think it is best for you to stay here until I find a lantern to light. My uncle likes to accumulate things, and I have a better idea of the layout of the room.”

  As Elizabeth had suspected from her aunt’s letter, the apartment was closed up. Thick curtains covered the windows — not that she could see them, but the impenetrable darkness of the room
betrayed their presence. Nary a sliver of light illuminated the room as Elizabeth cautiously moved in the direction of her uncle’s desk. Reaching forward with her fingers and stepping cautiously, she advanced until she felt what she needed.

  Elizabeth held the lamp up and quickly lit two more.

  Mr. Darcy stood in the middle of the room, turning a circle with his eyes wide and his mouth agape. In awe, he said, “When you said your uncle liked to collect things, I did not understand what you meant. He has an eye for innovation.”

  Pointing at a bulky object which at one time had been the bane of her aunt’s existence, Mr. Darcy eagerly asked, “Is that a Castrol stove?”

  His fingers traced along the edges of the cast-iron, opening the grate where the wood went to fuel the cooking beast. He did not wait for an answer before continuing excitedly, “I read of this, but this is the first one I have seen. Pity it is so large.”

  Elizabeth’s estimation of Mr. Darcy grew even more. She said, “My uncle bought it for his cook. He thought it would make her work easier, but it did not fit inside the kitchen. It resided in the parlor until my aunt insisted he get rid of it. Therefore, he keeps it here.”

  Mr. Darcy stood up from his inspection, shaking his head in admiration of the invention. “It is only a matter of time before enclosed cast-iron stoves are in every kitchen.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “That is precisely what my uncle says. He believes it will happen within the decade. The design only needs to be improved and made smaller.”

  Mr. Darcy smiled, and Elizabeth wished her uncle was present, so he would have the pleasure of discussing his collection of inventions with a gentleman genuinely interested in hearing about them. Uncle Gardiner would like Mr. Darcy.

  Elizabeth noticed the exact moment when Mr. Darcy saw the standing bath occupying the far corner of her uncle’s office. It was difficult not to see, rising as high as the ceiling. Beside it was a copper bathtub professed to hold the heat of water longer than any other tub. To uncle’s chagrin, the bathtub held true to all of its claims, but it had one unforgivable defect. While it excelled in efficiency, it was an eyesore. Aunt Gardiner had sent it away before Uncle could have it properly installed in their house.

  Mr. Darcy fingered the tube that led from a pump at the base of the shower to the top. “This is another invention for the future, I think. Its only defect is that the same cold water circles through the pipes to be used repeatedly.” Mr. Darcy’s eyes practically caressed the implements used to clean one’s body.

  Elizabeth could sympathize with him. She remembered how delicious the hot bath had been at the inn — a luxury Mr. Darcy had not been offered.

  Were it not the height of impropriety, Elizabeth would have suggested he take a bath. She could only imagine how sore his muscles must be and how the hot water would soothe the bruises and cuts over his skin.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam had given Mr. Darcy liniment for his aches and pains. He would feel infinitely better to have the ointment applied on recently washed skin.

  Bending forward, Mr. Darcy latched onto the front of the bathtub and pulled it forward until it was easier to reach. “I apologize, Miss Elizabeth, but I desperately need a bath. I beg of you the indulgence of allowing me privacy in this corner of the room.”

  His distress in asking something so inappropriate made Elizabeth quick to ease his concern. “As we have learned, Mr. Darcy, there are occasions when propriety must yield to necessity. I will help you heat the water.”

  They worked in unison, filling the pails Uncle Gardiner kept beside the water pump in the courtyard and hauling them upstairs to heat.

  When four pails and a tea kettle rested on top of the stove, Elizabeth held her hands out in front of her and closed her eyes to let the warmth wash over her. How glorious it felt!

  She sensed Mr. Darcy beside her and peeked out of the corner of her eye to see him in the exact pose in which she stood.

  Without opening his eyes, he said, “The last time I was warm, truly warm, was in the front parlor of Netherfield Park. I had begun to believe I would never again have the pleasure of feeling my toes.”

  A similar thought had occurred to Elizabeth, and she could only hope with every fiber of her being that Jane and Mr. Bingley were as comfortable as she and Mr. Darcy were presently.

  As if Mr. Darcy sensed her turn of thought, he added, “We should have news of Bingley and your sister tomorrow. Richard will stop at nothing to assist them where he can, and he will not neglect to pass on what he learns. He is trustworthy.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes burned as she thought about Jane, who would silently endure her suffering so long as Mr. Bingley was not harmed. Jane would lend him all the strength in her possession and think nothing of her self-sacrifice because she loved him.

  Elizabeth’s immediate thought was to wish she was more like Jane. But that was no longer the case, was it? Elizabeth may not love Mr. Darcy — may never love him as Jane loved Mr. Bingley — but she had put her life in danger to save his. What was that if not self-sacrificing? And that kiss…

  She peeked at him from under her eyelashes, growing bolder and opening her eyes fully when his were still closed. The bruises and gashes where not so visible under his dark whiskers, but his skin was still purple around his eyes. He tried to hide it, but Elizabeth saw how stiffly Mr. Darcy moved, how he winced in pain. She would gladly take on some of his discomfort, but he would never allow it were it even possible.

  Mr. Darcy opened his eyes, his gaze tangling with hers. Elizabeth could not look away. Nor did she want to. He held her with his look, and Elizabeth felt her body warm and tingle.

  A cloud of vapor separated them, and the hiss of water boiling over the top of the pail startled her.

  Mr. Darcy dedicated himself to emptying the pails into the bath. He did not let her help for fear she would burn her hands.

  Elizabeth rubbed her arms, suddenly cold again. She could not deny the effect Mr. Darcy had on her. He was a man she could grow to love. But could he love her with the ardent passion she craved? His kiss suggested he could. But the expectations he imposed upon himself created a breach Elizabeth was uncertain he could conquer.

  She could not bear to be held at a distance when she still felt the crush of Mr. Darcy’s lips against hers and tasted the brandy lacing his breath.

  Chapter 26

  Darcy dumped the boiling water into the tub, one pail after another. By the fourth pail, the cloth he had used to wrap around the handle had warmed through and burned his fingers.

  Burns and bruises were nothing. Not when compared to the piercing guilt he felt every time he saw Miss Elizabeth’s pained expression and knew she thought of her sister. Of everything bad that had happened to them over the past week, Darcy was at the center. Wickham was there too, but Darcy could not accept that his friends — his only friends, apparently — suffered so badly when they had done nothing to deserve it.

  He arranged a blanket to cover over the corner between the shower and the apartment wall, and as soon as he could peel his clothes off, he slipped into the water.

  Darcy’s body tensed at the heat, but after a few minutes, his clenched muscles relaxed, and the piercing at his ribs dulled so that only deep breaths hurt.

  On the other side of his makeshift curtain, he heard Miss Elizabeth rifling through her uncle’s treasures.

  Would she need help to take the pins out of her hair? Darcy had not seen a brush lying about, but had he seen one, he might have hidden it so he might have the privilege of brushing her locks with his fingers.

  The water suddenly became too hot. Like Miss Elizabeth’s lips and her body against his…. Pulling away from her had been the single, most difficult exercise of control in his entire life.

  “If you do not mind smelling like lavender, I found some soap,” Miss Elizabeth said. Darcy saw her shadow through the blanket. His eyes followed the outline of her figure from top to bottom.

  “Mr. Darcy? Do you want lavender soap?” she asked again.<
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  He shook his head. Would he could wash his mind! Such indecent thoughts tormented Darcy, taunting him to forget he was a gentleman.

  “Thank you. I will use it,” he said, his voice raspy.

  Darcy did not know how she planned to give him the soap, but he did not expect her to send it flying over the blanket with an ill-timed warning of, “Here, catch,” a split second before it smacked him on the forehead and plunked to the bottom of the bathtub.

  He had not thought he had vocalized his displeasure at the one unbruised part of his face taking a hit with lavender-scented soap, but Miss Elizabeth had heard him.

  She exclaimed, “Oh, no! I assumed you knew I would have to throw it to you. Are you hurt?”

  Darcy was not going to admit he now had a neat little goose egg forming in the center of his forehead. Perhaps he had deserved it. “I have been assaulted by far worse than feminine-scented soap,” he answered with a smile, appreciating the ridiculousness of it.

  She laughed. “I ought to be more careful before assuming. You have taught me that.”

  Darcy sat up in the tub, draping his arms over the copper rim. “Really?”

  “Oh yes. I now know I judged you harshly due, in great part, to Mr. Wickham’s accusations against your character. But even before that, there was a time when I would have gladly seen you topple from your proud pedestal.”

  This was news to him. “Before Wickham? Who else spoke against me?”

  “Nobody did. Your own actions made me think ill of you.”

  How could that be when Darcy always behaved with the utmost decorum? … until recently, he amended. Still, he was curious. “Pray explain,” he said.

  Darcy heard wood scrape over the planks and saw Miss Elizabeth’s shadow halve in size as she sat in a chair. She said, “Since we are friends now, I will tell you in confidence. I had not known you but a few minutes at the Meryton Assembly when you made a comment to Mr. Bingley that cut my vanity. Do you recall the occasion?”