A Fair Prospect

by Cassandra Grafton

  “Wickham.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is Wickham.”

  “I do not follow, Darce. What in the name of God could that bastard have to do with all of this?”

  “He was in Hertfordshire when I stayed with Bingley. I saw little of him, fortunately, but apparently Miss Bennet experienced the contrary. Indeed, it would seem that Wickham indulged in his favourite pastime of late, besmirching the Darcy name, slandering me by deed and character.”

  “Good Lord, man. I am so sorry. And Miss Bennet – surely you do not believe her affections engaged by that scoundrel?”

  “I have every reason to suppose it is so, and all I have heard or seen of late substantiates my suspicions. Indeed, I thought that was what you were implying earlier. How intimate they are I know not, but they must be very well acquainted, for she defended him staunchly to me not only back in Hertfordshire, but further – and with great passion – only yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  Darcy nodded.

  “When you took a rather singular drive in a threatening storm?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Ah.” The Colonel nodded too. “I begin to understand the disturbance of your spirits last evening.” He eyed Darcy closely. “Is that all that you base your supposition upon?”

  Darcy dropped his eyes to his booted feet. “No – no, it is not.” The direction of this discourse was painful yet also liberating to be able to share it with another, in particular someone who so well understood the blackness of Wickham’s character and therefore would support his intentions of protecting innocent people from him.

  “Darcy?”

  Raising his head, he met his cousin’s concerned gaze. “Miss Bennet was quite distressed earlier. She concealed it as well as she could, but it took little difficulty to detect her unhappiness over discovering the truth about her favourite. Indeed, though I could not fail to express my concern over her disappointment, I perceived how close to tears she came.” Darcy swallowed in an attempt to ease the constriction that had returned to his throat. “It grieves me to think of her suffering, but over such a cad – how could I not disabuse her of her belief in his character?”

  The Colonel frowned. “How were you able to do that? Surely it was not achieved throughout the course of the evening?”

  Darcy knew the time had come to reveal what his absence today on his long ride had prevented.

  “I wrote to her after our… meeting yesterday.”

  “You addressed her by letter? Heavens, man, what were you thinking? What must she be thinking?”

  “I needed to set before her my dealings with Wickham. There was no opportunity to speak with her; I had no expectation of ever being in company with her again, and it seemed my only recourse. And there is something further that I had intended to advise you of,” Darcy paused and lowered his gaze for a moment, then looked back at his cousin. “I confess that I have told her all that relates to Georgiana.”

  “You told her about Wickham’s designs upon your sister?”

  “I had no choice – did you expect me to sit back and see her throw herself away on that man? Had he been of decent, upstanding character I would have had to stand back, but to see her deceived as much as Georgiana was, know what her fate might be – never!”

  The Colonel stared into the fire for a moment, his expression serious.

  “You should not fear, Fitzwilliam. I have no doubt whatsoever that Miss Bennet can be trusted with such confidential information.”

  The Colonel grimaced. “Over that I have little concern. I had recently felt her to be the perfect sister for Georgiana – how ironic that they both fell for the charms of such a man.” He rubbed his fist across his forehead. “There is some comfort in knowing they are now safe from the bounder, but I perceive it is little consolation in your circumstances.” He paused again. “I take it, then, that this is the reason you surmise Miss Bennet would not have you if you offered?”

  Darcy took a long draught from his glass, letting the fiery liquid burn a path down his throat before responding.

  “I do not surmise, Fitzwilliam, I speak with veracity. It is an irrefutable fact.”

  “What? You did it? You offered for her?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And she did not accept you?”

  “What do you think, Fitzwilliam? With all this evidence before you to support her distaste for me that you admitted earlier to not only understanding but almost sharing.”

  “I am so sorry, Darcy.” The Colonel frowned. “But when did this take place?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Good Lord, what a singular day you had! What dashed ill- timing. And to think I have been struggling to understand why you would not tender a proposal.”

  “Then I am pleased your struggles are over. The offer was made; she would not have me.”

  “Because her affections are engaged.”

  Darcy winced; the suggestion was painful to him and the reality of his situation had begun to hit home. “I believe that might be the least of her objections to the match.”

  “Come now, Darcy, it cannot be as bad as all that. It is indeed unfortunate that you have encountered perhaps the one woman in all of England who would turn down the hand of Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, but her reasoning must be respected. Yet all is not lost; she does not seem to resent you, for she quite clearly approached you tonight to engage you in conversation, and this inclination for Wickham will pass. I know your early hopes have been disappointed but –”

  “Disappointed? Disappointed?” Darcy paced over towards one of the tall, unadorned windows and stared out into the darkness that had enveloped Rosings Park. “Fitzwilliam, you have no idea what my hopes have been, nor what I am feeling. Do you really wish to know why she found my offer so unacceptable?” He turned to face his cousin who made no response other than a shrug of his shoulders. “We argued – heatedly. She knows full well that I destroyed the happiness of her sister, and she believes the very worst of my character.”

  With a frustrated sigh, Darcy walked back towards the fireplace. The merest hint earlier from Elizabeth that she had accepted his word on Wickham had been an unexpected balm to his present anguish; yet acknowledging aloud their troubled past, it was but small consolation.

  “Wickham may have done his worst in blackening my name, but Miss Bennet has other reasons for believing herself perfectly justified in her decision. I have not treated her with the respect she deserves, nor given her wishes or her feelings any consideration. I have been vain and arrogant in my assumptions. Her affection being engaged elsewhere is a blow and that it is for that scoundrel… I cannot even begin to think on it. But beyond all these things, these impediments if you will, the disappointment is all with myself.”

  Darcy lowered his eyes and stared into the flames as he openly acknowledged these words. He felt his cousin’s consoling hand upon his shoulder and fought the overwhelming desire to give in to his pain. Then, he straightened up and faced his companion.

  “You were right, Fitzwilliam. She does despise me and has done for some time, and I have compounded that distaste by not only being the person who has destroyed her hopes of happiness in marriage but also by making my own offer to her in such a way that she was both insulted and angered by it. I have been selfish beyond belief, and now I reap my just reward.”

  “Gracious, Darce, that is a litany of fine proportions!” The Colonel gave his cousin's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before releasing it. “I had no idea your acquaintance with her had been so plagued. You did not stand a chance.”

  Darcy swallowed, hard. The constriction that had gripped his throat on more than one occasion this evening threatened to overwhelm him to the point whereby he would be unable to utter another word.

  “No – no, I did not.” Darcy winced over the concern evident in his cousin’s face; his compassion was almost more than he could bear. “I can talk of it no further, Fitzwilliam; please excuse me.”
And turning on his heel, Darcy headed purposefully for the door.

  ~o0o~

  Having bid goodnight to Charlotte, Elizabeth slipped inside her chamber and closed the door with a sigh of relief. She crossed quickly to the fireplace and gave the glowing ashes a hopeful prod with the poker, stirring a little further heat from the embers, then turned to survey the room.

  There was ample evidence of the distraction of her thoughts prior to their departure for Rosings earlier that evening, for the bed was littered with discarded towels, a selection of ribbons and several hairpins, and some of Jane’s more recent letters were liberally strewn across the table along with that of Mr Darcy. Her journal, which normally claimed her full attention when her mind was troubled, lay open where she had discarded it on the desk under the window, the quill caked in long-dried ink.

  Extricating herself from her shawl, she threw it across a chair. How could she feel so conflicted? Her relief that the evening had ended was understandable; her regret was not.

  Elizabeth shivered and, conscious that the warmth of the room was rapidly receding, she made haste to prepare herself for the night. Within moments, a further shawl wrapped warmly over her nightgown, she was perched on the edge of the bed plaiting her hair, but her hands stilled in their action as she reflected on the evening.

  She felt somewhat comforted by having let Mr Darcy know that she regretted her stupidity in falling for such a tale as Wickham’s. The fact that he had understood her regret gave some ease to her conscience, and the generosity with which he had absolved her merely reinforced her imprudence in putting her faith in the wrong man in the first place.

  Recalling her suspicion that Mr Darcy seemed to think her attached to Wickham, Elizabeth stirred restlessly on the bed. Why should he not, for had she not set herself up as his champion? More fool her for allowing her pride to blind her to both men’s true characters; but in all honesty, could she say that she had been truly attached to the cad?

  Shaking her head, she owned that she had found Wickham all that is charming and attractive, and his attentiveness had been gratifying. Yet thankfully, her heart had not been fully touched by him. This revelation of his true nature had shocked her – how could it not? It had humbled her, yet her overriding emotion was not sorrow for what might have been, but shame for what had.

  She pushed this unsettling truth aside and turned her mind instead to her sister. Try as she might, Elizabeth could not see a way to absolve Mr Darcy of his actions in this quarter. His loyalty to his friend notwithstanding, misplaced though its application was, he had still made an arrogant assumption about Jane’s feelings, and whilst she began to accept that perhaps their own family had been a significant contributor to her sister’s disappointment, Mr Darcy’s interference could be neither overlooked, nor forgiven.

  With a lowness of spirit that she was too weary to examine, Elizabeth stood up and stretched, before turning to sleepily survey her dishevelled bed. Stifling a yawn, she removed the detritus from the counterpane and threw back the covers before tumbling wearily onto the bed and letting her head sink into the pillows. She knew she was too tired to fight her own thoughts and as such let her mind take her where it would and, much as anticipated, it drifted swiftly down the stream of her subconscious towards the gentleman who had occupied most of her attention that evening.

  Her sleepy reflections acknowledged that, relieved though she was that he was leaving Kent the next day, she regretted she had not understood his character better throughout their acquaintance. It was fortunate that this thought, upon which she closed her eyes, was soon lost to her in the realm of sleep, for had she retained it, she might have wondered at it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The faint lightening of the sky that precedes the break of dawn roused Darcy from where he sat near the window of his chamber. He had passed a restless night and, once he had become aware of Thornton’s movements in the adjacent dressing room, he had given up on his fruitless search for rest and had taken a shallow bath before dressing to face the day. Since that time, he had done nothing further than take up his present position. Now, however, he bestirred himself, leaning back in his chair for a moment, his eyes moving restlessly over the ornate pelmet and drapes that framed the window.

  Returning to his chambers the previous evening, Darcy had been drawn to this window by the sound of hooves on the gravel driveway, yet the sight of the conveyance that had recently restored the visitors to Hunsford had been of little comfort.

  During his sleepless night, Darcy had had ample time to reflect on the state of his own feelings. His anger on Sunday had been so fleeting compared to the emotions that had subsequently gripped him, he could scarce recall it; the shock of his rejection had soon been superseded by a painful sense of loss and an ensuing inner turmoil beyond his experience. Considering now the emptiness of a future that he had recently been imagining as full of every possible gratification by securing Elizabeth as his wife, he fought to see his way forward.

  Darcy shifted his position slightly as the carriage clock on the mantel chimed, indicating the passing of the hour. It was time to depart, yet he struggled to shed the oppression of his thoughts and motivate himself. The hollowness that consumed him had an all too familiar resonance, and he knew whence it stemmed. He could liken it, without doubt or hesitation, to the emptiness that shrouded him on first his mother and then his father’s passing. Elizabeth remained as lost to him as they, and accepting that truth had been something he had forced himself to own in the cold emptiness of his interminable pre-dawn vigil.

  Darcy dropped his head into his hands for a moment and closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut for a few seconds. Then, he raised his head. This would not do. He sat upright in the chair, then got quickly to his feet. Inactivity was an indulgence he could ill afford; it would not serve him well. The ache within his breast portended some permanence, and he would have to bear it.

  Taking a last look about the room, Darcy walked over to the bedside table to collect his pocket-watch, money clip and hip flask, weighing the heavy silver canister in his hand for a moment. Then, pocketing the other two items, he left the room.

  Walking swiftly along the landing and down the stairs, Darcy encountered no one. His pace did not cease until he reached the door to the library and, pushing it aside, he headed for the tray of spirits. It took merely a few seconds to fill the small flask with brandy and, tightening the stopper, he turned to survey the room for a moment, unable to prevent thoughts of the previous evening filling his mind.

  Though the sun had yet to rise fully, the lack of drapes permitted a soft light to grace the room, and as he walked back towards the door, Darcy’s eye was caught by the watercolour of his cousin Anne. He crossed over to study the painting, registering not its subject but its intent; then he dropped his gaze to his feet. He had nothing of Elizabeth to comfort him in his loss; there was no miniature for him to secretly cherish, that her features might never fade from his mind.

  Memories of the previous evening swept over him – the awkwardness of their meeting; their silence when first at table; Elizabeth looking up at him with large, serious eyes as she informed him of the effects of his letter; Elizabeth restraining tears over Wickham’s deceit…

  Releasing a slow breath, Darcy raised his head and stared at the painting for a moment before turning on his heel to leave the room.

  ~o0o~

  As the first rays of light whispered across the countryside and the birds began their morning ritual of heralding its arrival, Hunsford parsonage began to awaken. Maisie, the house maid, busied herself laying fires in the grates and Cook stoked the oven in preparation for a morning’s baking.

  Upstairs, Elizabeth tossed and turned in her bed, the tousled covers testament to the disturbance of her slumber, her eyelids flickering but not with the movement that precedes awakening.

  The rain fell; it fell so very hard that every sound was eclipsed by the pounding of the drops on the leather hood above. She knew she tr
avelled at speed, yet though in some form of conveyance, her breath came in rapid gasps, as though she laboured on foot. Despite the protection the hood ought to offer, she felt cold, wet and exposed to the elements. Then, the carriage lurched as it rounded a curve in the road, and she threw her arms out to purchase some balance, but her hands grasped at nothing but air, and she found herself falling…

  ~o0o~

  Conscious that dawn had finally broken, Colonel Fitzwilliam studied his pocket-watch and then spoke to the footman before returning inside the house in search of his cousin.

  He knew that Darcy had risen early, though there had been no sign of him at breakfast, and Fitzwilliam made a methodical check of all the principal ground-floor rooms, coming finally to the drawing room. He stood in the doorway for a moment, his eyes struggling to pierce the dim light that filtered through the drapes. He detected no movement, the room shrouded in a grey stillness that bespoke emptiness, yet instinctively he sensed someone’s presence.

  Slipping inside, his eyesight adjusting, he soon espied Darcy. He sat at the pianoforte, one slender-fingered hand resting on the ivory keys but making no movement and thus no sound, the other across his eyes, his head bowed as if in silent prayer.

  Moved more than he cared to own, the Colonel walked slowly towards his cousin. He understood Darcy’s pilgrimage, for he had seen it often with men under his command. He paid tribute to the last sighting he had had of someone dear to him; his grief was palpable.

  Placing a hand upon Darcy’s shoulder, the Colonel said gently, “Come, Friend. We must depart.”

  ~o0o~

  With no air left in her body to breathe, Elizabeth found her fall had been precipitously halted, and she now rested in the strong embrace of a man. Arms held her close to his body, and a steadfast gaze held hers enthralled. Oblivious now to the still pouring rain and the rumbles of protest in the heavens, she struggled to regain her breath, unable to break eye contact, and as she saw his glance dip to her mouth she swayed towards him as her lips were caught by his in a rough, passionate kiss. No gentleness was expressed, only a raw, angry need. Feeling the heat sear her skin at such intimacy, she clung tightly onto the only thing she could – his shoulders beneath her hands. The closeness seemed unsurprising, as though wholly familiar to her, and when he broke away, breathing heavily, she retained her grip upon him to maintain her balance.