by Jennifer Joy
“Thank you, Wilson. I do have something I cannot trust with anyone else.” He paused, the ache in his heart consuming him. “And something I am not brave enough to do even if I were able to.”
“I doubt that, but it will be an honor for me to be of service,” Wilson said, calmly pouring water over a linen cloth and holding it against Darcy’s collar.
Wilson’s faith in Darcy deepened his wound. His worst fear had been realized. He had made Elizabeth a target. Honor, justice, and decency demanded that Darcy sever all connections to her. But writing that letter would kill a part of him he had only recently found. With her, he felt complete. Without her, he would be lost.
His future was determined. He would not return to Pemberley. He could not burden Georgiana with his grief. She would be better off remaining with their aunt than with her shell of a brother. He would continue working for Leo until he drew his last breath.
If Darcy could never be free, he would fight for Elizabeth’s freedom. He would make sure England was a safe place for her to travel. He would smooth the way for her to travel the world.
Darcy would see her happy from afar. It would have to be enough.
He pulled another sheet of paper toward him and began writing.
Chapter 25
Elizabeth slept a little later than normal the next morning. With such delicious dreams, she was not in a hurry to wake.
Fitzwilliam Darcy. Fitzwilliam. Last night, even before her dreams, he had been charming and interesting and … exciting. She could have talked with him for hours. Her father had been enchanted with his company as well, conversing at length about his favorite topics, to which Fitzwilliam replied with greater insight and more passion and conviction than even Elizabeth could have envisioned. It was a side of him she looked forward to drawing out.
Washing her face and dressing, Elizabeth took her second volume of Pinkerton’s travels down to the front parlor where she could reread the sections on Derbyshire with a cup of tea. She did not expect Fitzwilliam to call so early in the morning, but she would not mind it if he did. Hope reigned eternal, and she chose to sit at the small table placed in front of a window overlooking the street.
Captivated by Mr. Pinkerton’s description of Derbyshire, which came alive to her now that she heard Fitzwilliam’s baritone reading it, Elizabeth was startled when a maid approached.
“There is a man to see you, Miss,” she said.
Elizabeth’s heart leapt into her throat. How had she missed him? Some sentinel she was!
She followed the maid’s gaze to the entrance hall where a man stood. It was not Fitzwilliam. It was Wilson. He held his hat in his hands and stared down at the carpet.
Her heartbeat slowed. Was something wrong? Where was Fitzwilliam?
Leaving her book on the table, Elizabeth rose. “Thank you. I will see him,” she muttered to the maid.
Wilson bowed his head, his stance repentant. “Good morning, Miss Bennet,” he said, his eyes flickering upward to meet hers before returning to their downcast position.
Elizabeth’s fingers reached for her brooch, settling for fiddling with her fichu when the familiar stones were not there to soothe her. “Good morning, Wilson. Is all well?”
He lifted a folded, sealed paper. “I was asked to deliver this. It is not my place to interfere, but—” He shook his head, his cheeks bunching up. “But I wish for you to know how difficult this was for Mr. Darcy to pen.”
Elizabeth stared at the letter, alarm stirring her stomach. She did not want to take the letter, but neither could she expect Wilson to stand in the entrance hall all day.
She took the missive, not knowing what to say.
Wilson looked at her, his soft gray eyes imploring. “Would that life were just, Miss Bennet. Would that the people who most deserve happiness could attain it.” With a quick bow, he whispered, “Good day to you. God bless you,” and limped away.
Tongue-tied and feet-frozen, Elizabeth stood in the middle of the floor until people started trickling into the parlor from their chambers. Her cheeks burned and her eyes clouded, but she smiled and nodded to them until she closed the door of her room behind her.
Hands trembling, she opened the letter.
Miss Bennet, it began. She had hoped to see an endearment. “Dear Miss Bennet” would have been satisfactory. “Dearest Miss Elizabeth,” even better. “My Dearest Elizabeth” better still. “Miss Bennet” was too impersonal. Too distant.
She crumpled onto the edge of her bed and continued reading.
Miss Bennet,
I regret to inform you that I must depart from London immediately. I will not bore you with details. It is enough to tell you that decisions I have made in the past do not allow me the freedom to live as I would wish. The blame is mine, and I accept it fully. I have been selfish, and for that I must beg your forgiveness knowing how undeserving I am.
Goodbye, Miss Bennet.
Pray forgive me. Pray forget me.
Forever Yours, Faithfully,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Her hand dropped to her lap, limp. Forever yours, Faithfully. How could he write that after telling her to forget him? Did the ease with which he begged her to dismiss him from her heart suggest she was so easily forgotten?
Elizabeth looked about the room, but if the answers were there, she did not see them. She hardly saw anything at all. She did not feel anything. A void swallowed her whole, leaving her empty and more alone than she had ever been.
The man who had given her a taste of the life she had always wished had snatched her heart away, and now he wanted to return it?
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks as her anger rose.
He said he had been selfish. Elizabeth looked down at the page, taking note of how many times “I” was written. “I” cursed every sentence. If Fitzwilliam was so concerned about her, he had an odd way of showing it by writing a note focusing solely on himself.
Granted, his focus was on his faults (which no genuinely selfish man would do), but all Elizabeth could see was that cursed letter “I.”
He did not bother to offer an explanation. The nerve! He claimed it would bore her as if he understood her better than herself. As if she were like Miss Bingley. What a pompous, arrogant brute!
She crumpled the paper in her hands, the creased wads and folds piercing her palm. The dreadful note would not disappear no matter how tightly she squeezed it.
Oh, she could strangle Fitzwilliam Darcy! How dare he presume to order her about as if he were the master of her emotions!
Unless…
Was it possible there was a perfectly reasonable explanation? The prior evening had been marvelous. Elizabeth had imagined how it would feel to spend every night in thoughtful conversation and meaningful gazes with Fitzwilliam. She was convinced it had been real for him, too. He had shared stories of his youth, of growing up at Pemberley with a loving mother and father. He had spoken of his little sister, whom it was clear he missed dearly. That had been real. More real than the letter balled up in her fist.
She uncurled her hand, folding out the letter and smoothing the paper. Had she missed something?
No, there was nothing more to see. If only she had read it in front of Wilson, she would have insisted he tell her what had happened between dinner last night and this morning. Something had happened. Fitzwilliam had to have a reason — and it had better be a very good one — for writing such a horrible letter. For saying goodbye and trying to convince her to forget his existence.
Well, the damage was done. She could no sooner forget Fitzwilliam and erase his impact on her life than she could forget Charlotte or Jane or her own father. He was a part of her whether he wished to be or not, and she would not be dismissed with a letter. A gentleman would have told her directly, not sent his valet to deliver a message … no matter how difficult said message had been for him to write. Had he told Wilson to put in a good word for him?
She dismissed the thought. Fitzwilliam may not have acted as she woul
d have preferred, but he was not devious. She would not berate his character until she understood his reason for distancing himself. She had to know. Otherwise, (she swallowed hard) she would never be able to accept that he truly wished her to forget him. It would haunt her. This need went beyond her normal curiosity. It was necessary.
But what could she do? She could not call at Darcy House. Nor could she invite him to dine with her and her father again so soon, and certainly not without arousing Papa’s suspicions. He had already exerted himself so much to give her an adventure away from Longbourn, she could not repay his kindness by turning her attention to another.
Steady enough to stand, Elizabeth walked over to the wash basin. Dipping her handkerchief in the cool water, she pressed the soft linen against her face. Once the redness in her eyes disappeared (mostly), leaving a brightness she doubted her father would notice, she placed the hateful letter inside her book, which she placed inside her trunk. She had no desire to read either of them again, but something prevented her from tossing the cursed page into the fire.
She opened her door just as her father was about to knock on it.
“Perfect timing,” he said with a happy grin, lowering his fist and extending his arm gingerly. He patted her hand when she wrapped her arm through his. He was in an exceptionally good mood.
“I am famished. Let us see if the breakfast is as delicious as dinner was,” he said, leading her into the main dining room. “Let us join the other guests. We can watch them and poke fun at their odd habits and extravagant fashions.” His eyebrows wiggled, and Elizabeth caught herself smiling when she followed his line of vision to a woman wearing a stuffed bird on her shoulder.
Papa whispered into Elizabeth’s ear, “I am sorely tempted to say ‘Ar, me matey,’ as we pass. Or perhaps, I would do better to offer her bird a cracker? What do you say, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth began to see the difficulty before her. She felt miserable — somewhere between wretched and vengeful — and yet, she must pretend to be happy for her father’s sake. Without humor, she lacked her customary wit, and she was certain he would notice that before he noticed the red rimming her eyes.
“I must be as hungry as you, Papa, for I cannot settle on a retort worthy of such a sight.” Of all the excuses she could have given! Now, she would have to eat when she had absolutely no appetite.
He smiled and patted her hand again. “I will see if they have any chocolate, then. That will do the trick. I find chocolate appeases the soul as well as it satisfies the stomach.”
“That sounds delicious,” Elizabeth said, meaning it.
Settling at a table for two, Papa requested a banquet.
“Papa, I do not know how we shall fit all of that food on the table, let alone eat it,” Elizabeth said, her smile feeling less forced as she focused on her father to the exclusion of everything else. If she could only go the entire day without thinking of Fitzwilliam, she would manage.
“Your mother is so worried about my health, she insists I avoid certain foods that I, as a result of her prohibition, particularly crave. It is my intention while I am away to partake of as many sausages, pastries, and so-called unwholesome foods as I can.”
Elizabeth raised her cup of chocolate, the rich aroma teasing her nostrils. “I will drink to that. Why do we always want that which we cannot — or should not — have?”
Father sighed. “Human nature. Dissatisfaction has been passed down from one generation to the next, intensifying with each passing, I think. Which is why we must find happiness where we can. We must latch on to it, for it is precious.”
The conversation was taking a serious turn.
He laughed. “Your mother is a testament to tenacity regarding her happiness. She determined that I was the one to make her happy, and Lord love her, she did not give me a moment’s peace until I relented and proposed.”
“And have you been happy?” Elizabeth asked, setting down her cup.
He considered for some time, then said, “I believe from the depths of my heart that I am as happy with her as I could have ever been with anyone else. She gave me a son and five healthy daughters. She manages our household as well as she can, and she allows me more freedom to pursue my own interests than I deserve. Your mother is very good to me.” He paused, his eyebrows drawing together until he nodded. “I can do a better by her. She loves shiny baubles and fluffy fripperies. Would you help me select a gift to bring back to Longbourn for her?”
Elizabeth smiled. “She would love that.”
Leaning back in his chair, he said, “This has proved to be an eventful trip so far. I can hardly wait to see what else transpires. Take Mr. Darcy, for example. He was exceptional company, do you not agree?” He sipped his tea, squinting his eyes at her through his fogged spectacles.
“I enjoyed his conversation very much.” Her tightening throat did not permit a longer reply, nor did she wish to encourage her father in this topic. It made her chocolate taste bitter.
“So well-informed, and his ability to defend his views was admirable. And yet, I would not describe him as close-minded. I felt his rapt attention where our views differed, and I will admit that while we were not like-minded in some areas, I still felt that his heart was every bit as sincere and as passionate as mine in defending my opinions. It was refreshing.”
Elizabeth reached for her chocolate with every intention of hiding behind her cup.
Papa added, “I am of a mind to call again at Darcy House.”
Her fingers fumbled around her cup, spilling some of the chocolate onto the tablecloth. “Call again?” she squeaked.
Papa looked as though she had caught him sneaking into Longbourn’s pantry to eat something Mama would certainly disapprove of. “About that. I told you I had chanced upon Mr. Darcy, and while that is true, it is not the complete truth.” In a quieter voice, he said, “A gentleman is far more likely to ‘chance’ upon another if he calls on him at his residence.”
She stared at her father, stunned.
He continued, “I noticed how out of sorts you were when you quit Netherfield Park. So, I asked Emily—”
Elizabeth dropped her head into her hands and groaned. “What did she say?”
“Only that she was convinced that you and Mr. Darcy seemed well-suited to each other.”
She prayed that was all Emily had said.
“Do you love him, Lizzy?”
She lowered her hands from her face. Papa’s eyes looked like shattered glass, shimmering and fragile. How could she tell him that she loved a man who wanted her to forget him? But she did love Fitzwilliam. And she would not lie to her father about it.
Nodding, she simply breathed, “Yes.”
His chin quivered, but his voice was bolder, braver. “And so it begins. I had never thought I would lose you, dear girl, but I could not give you up to a better man. It is clear to me, especially after last night, that he adores you. As he ought to. I could not approve otherwise.”
Hearing her father praise Fitzwilliam when she wanted nothing more than to think of anything but him was the worst torture. Pretending to be happy when she was miserable and confused would be a formidable challenge, but she was determined for her father’s sake — and her own — to hold herself together.
Their breakfast arrived, and fortunately for Elizabeth, Papa was distracted from further conversation by the delights crowding the small table. She pushed food around her plate and tried not to think of Fitzwilliam.
Finally, when he had eaten his fill, he rubbed his hands together. “I apologize for the lack of conversation, Lizzy. I have been deep in thought, and I believe I have come up with a promising theory. It is no secret that I do not often agree with Mrs. Bennet’s methods, and so, I am tempted to treat Mr. Darcy very differently from how she is enticing Mr. Bingley to Jane. While she stays at home and waits for him to call, making Jane an easy catch, I believe an opposite approach is more suitable for Mr. Darcy. He seems to be more of a sporting man, a gentleman who enjoys the chase
more than he triumphs in achieving his prize.”
Elizabeth chafed. “I am not a fox to be caught, Papa.”
“Of course not. Please forgive my overenthusiastic use of the hunting metaphor, but the idea is similar enough to prompt its use. You are my favorite daughter, and if I can in any way ensure that your happiness lasts, then I would like to see if my theory works in your favor.”
“Thank you, Papa,” Elizabeth started, shaking her head, “but—”
“But nothing.” He rubbed his hands together, the twinkle returned to his eyes. “Of what use is it for me to hypothesize if I never test my theories? I have dozens, if not hundreds, of them I have never tried to prove, and if I am to begin now, it might as well be with a theory which will benefit you.”
She knew she would regret it, but Elizabeth said, “What is it you plan?” Only in a bookshop had Elizabeth seen her father so excited.
He rubbed his hands again. “I am glad you asked. We shall make ourselves scarce. If Mr. Darcy is sincere in his affections, he will pursue you. The effort he must exert on your behalf will strengthen his love. Years from now, when you have a squabble over some trifling matter, he will remember how hard he worked to win your heart. He will remember how precious you are, and his upset will subside. You, in turn, will remember his exertions, and you will not be able to remain cross with him for very long. You will appreciate each other all the more for having endured a … strenuous … courtship.”
“You make it sound like we will spend all our time fighting.”
He grinned. “You will, but if you are wise, you will learn to make the most of it.” Clearing his throat, his cheeks pink, he added, “We will join Sir William later today. Then, I think, we shall quit London for a spell. We will give Mr. Darcy a bit of a chase.” Papa stabbed a piece of potato with his fork and popped it into his mouth, chewing gleefully.
A chase. Elizabeth tingled with anticipation despite her misgivings.
Chapter 26