part0005

The wind rustled in the yellowing leaves above, sending a handful in a flurry to the ground and billowing his greatcoat behind him, but Mr Darcy stood rooted to the spot, oblivious to the wind – although not to his surroundings. Here. It was on this very spot that he caught sight of her the other morning, when she arrived at Netherfield on foot to inquire about her sister’s health. A picture of health herself, rosy-cheeked, her eyes sparkling, her lips curled in amusement as though over a private jest.

He sighed and his brow furrowed. It would serve him well to resurrect another recollection: the mother in the drawing room the previous day, extolling Sir William’s virtues in contrast to his own – Sir William Lucas, that local paragon, seemingly exactly suited to Mrs Bennet’s standards of gentlemanly behaviour.

Darcy snorted audibly – ungentlemanlike as it might have been – at the very notion of Mrs Bennet’s standards of behaviour. He had not often met with such a degree of deliberate incivility. But then again, he had known little other than obsequious fawning, in recent years at least, and everything else would strike him as discordant, he thought in passing, then instantly retracted. Nay, there was more to it than that. The loud matron had shown not lack of fawning but manifest dislike, and for a moment Darcy wondered why, before dismissing the inconsequential thought. Mrs Bennet’s view of him mattered not one jot – and frankly, neither did the lady – other than as a stark reminder of the Miss Bennets’ unsavoury connections.

He cleared his throat and scowled. His peace in Berkeley Square. Ha! The very notion. There was no peace to be had ever since the summer when, through the grace of God, he had been able to preserve Georgiana from the vile designs of—

He had not. His first concern had been his sister – her anguish, her mortification. And later, in an attempt to reconcile him to the lack of well-deserved satisfaction, Fitzwilliam said it was just as well. Darcy sighed. Perhaps his cousin had the right of it. Turning himself into the scoundrel’s target would not have lightened Georgiana’s burden. Yet the very thought of Wickham staring down the barrel of his duelling pistol sent a thrill through him. A savage, vicious thrill.

And then the guilt returned to temper the fierce bloodlust. He should not have left her in Mrs Younge’s care. He should not have left her now – and would not have, had she not looked so stricken, so uniformly mournful in his presence. She still would not believe he did not blame her, that was painfully obvious, and it was only in the hope of giving her some respite from tormenting thoughts that he had eventually agreed to let her spend some time with Lady Malvern, Fitzwilliam’s mother.

Darcy looked down to the ground, teasing the fallen leaves with his boot as he wondered whether she was feeling any better. There was so little to be garnered from her letters. Yet he could not doubt that his young sister stood a better chance of reviving her oppressed spirits amongst their boisterous relations than in the quiet of their London home.

As for himself, he had followed Bingley into Hertfordshire to escape the same wretched quiet – and landed into this. Again he snorted, less audibly this time, and made an about-turn to head back to the house. His step was slow and measured, yet his thoughts were all ajumble and, with another deep breath, he set about to order them, one by one.

True, she was enticing. He had stubbornly denied it, to himself as well as to the others, but he might as well begin to deal honestly with his troublesome thoughts. Because, and there was another truth, she was not and never would be his suitable match. Her station in life, her impudent connections… Oh, aye, she was enticing – but pour twenty years over the lively charm of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and whom could one hope to see rising from the mix but the young lady’s mother?

Darcy shuddered at the thought, at the same time as disbelief and sudden guilt washed over him. Nay, he was not in earnest. Much as he tried, he could not picture her turning into Mrs Bennet, in twenty years or a hundred. The witty repartee, the laughter. The adorable little dimple at the corner of her mouth, when her lips curled into that smile he found so utterly bewitching…

Bewitched. Aye, perhaps he was. After a summer such as that, after the vilest of betrayals, was there any wonder that he should be captivated by candour and warmth? That he should be enchanted by someone who had wit and charm and goodness, and not a trace of guile? A fascination – unsuitable, no doubt – but nothing more than that. A passing fascination that drew him from his troubles. There was no need to fret, perhaps no need to fight it, but quietly enjoy it, for a few days at least. They would be gone, and soon. She would be gone, and there was little reason to imagine they would come across each other often, if he did not choose it, and before too long he would return to town in any case.

His slow amble eventually brought him to the entrance, and the ornate door was hastily opened for him by one of Bingley’s footmen. The man relieved him of his hat and coat and vanished with a bow to diligently tidy them away, leaving him alone in the hallway bathed in the glow of the morning sun.

Pursing his lips, Darcy consulted his pocket watch. It was very early, too early for the family to have emerged from their chambers and congregate for breakfast, which was perhaps a good enough reason for him to go and avail himself of the repast. At least thus he would be spared from Miss Bingley’s officious attentions. But he dismissed the ungenerous thought with a shrug. He had accepted Bingley’s invitation with all that it entailed, and it would therefore behove him to do his duty by his friend and host.

Absentmindedly, Darcy returned his watch to its pocket and strolled down the corridor towards the left side of the house, and the predictable sanctuary of his choice. The library would be deserted at that time in the morning. At any time of day, to be precise. For all his other virtues, Bingley was not an avid reader, and neither were his sisters, despite some vocal protestations to the contrary – which, in truth, suited him very well indeed.

He opened the panelled door and entered, closing it quietly behind him. Sparse would be the kindest way of describing Bingley’s collection, and Darcy wondered what he could choose today. He slowly ambled in, aiming for the furthest shelves where, a few days earlier, he had found a tome about some intrepid explorers and their perilous travels to the far-flung reaches of the Orient – and suddenly stopped, frozen in his tracks.

The library was not deserted at that time in the morning. Previously hidden by the high back of the sofa she reclined upon, the sole occupant was now revealed to him, and Darcy all but gasped. A book loosely resting in her lap, her thumb still keeping her place between the pages, Miss Elizabeth Bennet sat before him, oblivious to his presence – and for a moment Darcy contemplated the wisdom of a swift retreat. But nay, she was bound to notice, and deliberate discourtesy was not something Darcy had ever wished to display – except towards those who patently deserved it.

He drew breath to greet her, but as his slow footsteps brought him at last in full view of her countenance, the civil words faded on his lips. She was asleep. She must have come down in the early hours of the morning for a brief respite, after tending to her sister for the best part of the night, and tiredness must have overcome her as she sat reading her book.

It forcefully struck him that, for the very first time in their acquaintance, he did not have to swiftly look away for fear she would catch him staring, and the unhoped-for chance to take in every detail of her appearance rose to his head, with all the effects of a fine wine.

Beautiful? He had taken great pains to make it clear to himself and to his friends – impudent dog that he was! – that she hardly had a good feature in her face. Yet he had scarce persuaded himself of the fact before that very face began to draw him with the beautiful expression of her eyes, with every play of genuine emotion over the less-than-classically-perfect features, with every smile for her eldest sister, with every arch look towards him.

Whether she was beautiful or not to other eyes no longer mattered. It was she who drew him, more than any reputed beauty. Her warmth, her artless charm, her smile. She was smiling now, her lips ever so slightly turned up at the corners, ever so slightly parted, allowing quiet, tranquil breaths, softly in, softly out.

She had very long lashes, he suddenly observed. He had never noticed this before, too mesmerised by the mirth in her eyes to pay any heed to something as mundane as lashes. They were long, dark, and curled up at the ends. Her head was tilted to one side, and the chestnut ringlets that framed the oval face were now in disarray – she had obviously intended to slip out for a moment from her sister’s chambers, and had not readied herself for anybody’s company, and certainly not his.

It took all the restraint he still possessed to not drop down on one knee beside her – not reach to brush his fingertips over the rosy cheek. He slowly flexed his unruly fingers into a tight fist, one by one, pressing his thumb against them in a forceful endeavour to ensure that he would not succumb to the inconceivable temptation – yet even then, in defiance of his strict control, tantalising thoughts began to weave ever so slowly through him, spreading subtle, delicious poison in their wake.

To have the right to do so! To have the right to reach and caress her cheek, as she would lie asleep in his bed, beside him. To see her eyes flutter open and crinkle at the corners as she would smile at him. To be allowed – encouraged – to lean towards her and taste the sweetness of her lips, to feel them soft and pliant beneath his, as he would take her in his arms, her warm, lovely form cradled to his chest. Tender. Loving. Beautiful. His .

His mouth suddenly dry, he swallowed hard and drew a ragged breath, so loud that he feared it would wake her. She did not wake and, mindless of the dangers of exposure, he still stood exactly where he was, drinking in the sight of her and recklessly courting disaster. If she should wake, this very moment…

Seconds passed, one… two… three… a number. And every shred of reason cried out at him to leave, not only to avoid detection and the attendant mortification, but to preserve himself from an enchanting vision that would most likely haunt him from now on in all his sleepless nights. At long last, he obeyed and walked back to the door, on mercifully sturdy floorboards. The hinges did not creak, another mercy, and he noiselessly closed the heavy door behind him – just as the thud of a book falling to the floor could be heard from the room that he had quitted.

Whatever possessed her , Darcy wondered in acute vexation, to deliberately rile him in this fashion? Presumably Miss Bingley regarded her endless discourse on the topic of his supposed marriage to Miss Elizabeth Bennet as the most sparkling wit. If only she knew how little he thought of her efforts. If only she knew that, far from recommending herself to him for her mordant sense of humour, she was making herself more intolerable by the minute. She did not know – thank goodness – and with a steadying breath, Darcy drawled with feigned indifference:

“Oh, yes. Do let the portraits of uncle and aunt Phillips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s likeness, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes? ”

He did not heed Miss Bingley’s answer, if indeed she made any, for at that very moment his unruly heart lurched violently in his chest as, a few steps before him, where the path joined the one coming from the orchards, Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Mrs Hurst suddenly emerged from behind the tall, manicured hedge. He did not speak – he doubted that he could, with any semblance of composure – but merely bowed to the newcomers as Miss Bingley greeted her sister and their guest.

Indignation flared as he caught her meaning. He was of course familiar with Mr Gilpin’s treatise on the picturesque, and could not help wondering what he had done to deserve his share of the jesting slight. But then, as Miss Bingley thanked her with obvious pleasure for what she mistook for a compliment, his vexation melted into amusement and his lips involuntarily twitched. Clearly, Miss Bingley was blissfully unaware that the picturesque preference for three rather than four came from Mr Gilpin’s doctrine of grouping larger cattle …

A conspiratorial glint in his eyes, Darcy sought Elizabeth’s glance for the sheer delight of a shared jest, but she did not look his way. With an airy “Good bye,” she ran gaily off, leaving him feeling empty and strangely bereft as he endeavoured to remove every trace of regret from his countenance. Yet, to his discomfort, much as he fought against it, he could not fully silence that tireless, irksome voice in his head that urged him to consider just how bright, how perfect the morning might have been if it were she, rather than Bingley’s sisters, who remained at his side.

The walk was lengthy and the company uninspiring – tedious, truth be told – despite, or rather because of, the ceaseless chatter that drew him from his thoughts. Not that he wished to indulge those thoughts, mind. Nothing would come from them; nothing but further trouble. No good would come from deliberately seeking her company either. It was enough that they would meet later on, at dinner. So, much to the ladies’ disappointment, Darcy refused to escort them to the drawing room and, having courteously seen them back to the house, he made his way towards the stables.

He briefly considered returning to find Bingley and ask if he would join him for a ride, then dismissed the notion for the useless endeavour that it was. Doubtlessly Bingley would choose to while the morning away somewhere in the house, in the hope of catching the earliest glimpse of the eldest Miss Bennet who, her sister had informed them, was well enough to contemplate emerging from her sickroom later that day.

Poor old soul. After his time in town, he deserved better than to be cooped up in Bingley’s stables, so Darcy went to pat his neck in silent apology as the groom swiftly fetched others to help ready Samson for their outing. Before long, they left Netherfield behind to tear across the fields of Hertfordshire, the large black stallion answering every unspoken command. His old companion carried him away, his hoofs pounding in a steady beat, his breath even, the exhilarating pace freeing Darcy from his troubles, for a while at least .

He steadfastly refused to allow them purchase even later on, as he lay with his eyes closed in the bath while his man, Weston, moved quietly in the adjoining room, going about his duties so as to assist him in readying himself for dinner. He heard the muted footsteps and opened his eyes when the man came in to ask if he wished for more hot water.

A sigh escaped him without notice. Yesterday, after Mrs Bennet’s infuriating visit, he had returned to his quarters, hoping for some peace and well-deserved quiet. He had read awhile, had written a long letter to his sister and, some time later, had walked up to the selfsame window to cast a glance outside – only to spot her strolling below, towards the avenue bordered by tall chestnuts, shortly to be met by Bingley, who was returning with his hounds. He could hear her laughing as she patted the ever-boisterous pair – as ebullient and excitable as their owner, truth be told – showing none of the demure reticence and exaggerated fear that any lady of his acquaintance, bar Georgiana, would have displayed in like circumstances. She merely laughed again as they carelessly bounded, leaping over one another and brushing against her skirts, with Bingley calling out in a fruitless attempt to subdue them, until the stick she threw sent them chasing after it with eager barks. Bingley had chortled too, turned towards her with a comment – an apology hopefully, if he had any sense – then offered his arm, and they strolled away from the house together. He had watched them go, and the unreasonable wave of envy he had experienced at the time swept over him again at the recollection – unwarranted as it was.

“That is a failing indeed. Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me,” she assured him with that delightful archness that was without a doubt one of her most enticing traits.

“And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody,” she retorted, clearly determined to keep their repartee within the bounds of playful banter, in present company at least.

Her sister made not the smallest of objections, so the pianoforte was opened and, after a few moments’ recollection, Darcy was not sorry for it. He had long felt the danger of paying her too much attention – yet somehow, tonight he had thrown caution to the wind and had allowed himself the full enjoyment of their light-hearted interactions.

They had engaged in verbal fencing throughout the evening – thrust, feint and parry – and he could not remember another time when he had felt as caught, as intrigued, as alive. She made him talk , not just a great deal more than was his wont, but more openly as well. She made him share thoughts he had not shared often – and he could only wonder what she would encourage him to say if he ever had the privilege of speaking to her alone, their conversations no longer restricted to cheerful banter, but deep and honest, touching on what mattered most. Georgiana. Pemberley. What soothing words of comfort would she offer, in her kindness! What gentle solace would she generously bestow .

He surreptitiously shook his head as he pretended to give his full attention to the book he held. Unwise. Not merely unwise, but blatant folly to indulge such thoughts. They would not go on long walks together. He would not share his distress regarding Georgiana, nor disclose that, even after all those years, walking in his father’s footsteps was still a daunting task – for she could not share his life, his troubles or his thoughts.

Yet the lure of an impossible future stayed with him throughout the evening, its hold stronger than ever hours later, as he paced in his dark bedchamber, glass in hand. He had never made a habit of nursing drinks before bedtime – least of all brandy – and, had he been able to spare it a thought, he would have wondered what had possessed Weston to offer him the glass. He did not wonder, but merely took it, tonight oddly fitting, and bade his man good night.

And now he was still pacing – the best part of an hour later – and sleep eluded him still, as he considered that this was perhaps the last night they would spend under the same roof. That somewhere, in some part of this house, she might be, even then, preparing to retire. Sitting before the mirror in her nightdress, her robe carelessly cast across the bed. Small feet encased in tiny slippers, tapping in some impatience under the dressing table as she did battle with her tresses, slender fingers diligently working the brush through tangled waves. Once she had finished, would she linger before the looking glass, smiling at her own reflection, or would she hasten to blow out the candle and nestle into bed?

He sighed and drained his glass, endeavouring to close his mind to the unruly thoughts. Nothing impure, nay, nothing of the sort, he told himself with keen determination and sighed again, wondering how in God’s name he was to make it through the night – and through all the other sleepless nights that were bound to follow.

She was asleep, her lovely face framed by ringlets loosely spread in an auburn halo over the pillow. She smiled, at happy dreams perhaps, and suddenly she stirred and her eyes opened. She smiled again, at him this time. Love shone in her eyes, and a new warmth coursed through him at the thought that, in a moment, she would turn to him and nestle into his arms .

‘A dream. Nothing more,’ he told himself, still shaken. A foolish, ungovernable dream brought on, no doubt, by the blasted brandy. He should have known it was a mistake. A foolish dream, nothing to it. Of course he did not love her—

He bit his lip, choosing not to pursue the thought. It mattered not, one way or the other. None of these mattered – dreams, fascinations, futile wishes. He had known for the best part of five years, and very likely more, that they mattered not. He had a duty to uphold, and in the face of that, his foolish dreams and wishes could hold but little sway.

He ran his hands over his face. She would be gone in a day or two, and then he would be able to shake her hold on him, and regain his peace. Darcy released a long breath that sounded far too loud in the very quiet room, and turned to vent his frustration on the blameless pillow, pummelling it into shape, as he steadfastly refused to acknowledge the sickening suspicion that the peace he craved was nothing but yet another empty promise, and self-denial was a virtue that brought the blandest of rewards.