part0013

“I wonder what the Old General will throw at us this time,” Colonel Fitzwilliam airily remarked as the carriage lurched and swayed at high speed over the well-kept road.

“You will know soon enough,” Darcy smiled, as ever amused despite himself by the more than fitting appellation that his cousin had chosen for their aunt. “We are making good time. We have just passed Westerham, I noticed. We should be at Rosings before noon.”

“Heaven help us,” muttered Fitzwilliam, and leaned back against the cushions.

Darcy nodded his assent and turned to look out of the window, his smile dissolving into a frown as her face appeared before him, unbidden. His frown deepened. Was he to be forever haunted thus?

She had been with him everywhere he went. She had been in the house in Berkeley Square, smiling at him from across the long mahogany table. She had walked through the halls of Pemberley at his side, leaned over his shoulder in the quiet hours as he sat at his desk in his study, and cut up his sleep and his peace with dreams of her, day and night. Would this tormenting vision ever leave him?

A part of him hoped it never would.

Darcy poured himself another glass of brandy and walked over to poke at the embers that still glowed in the large fireplace, as heavily ornamented as the rest of the library.

It had been a long, tedious fortnight, and he had found his aunt’s company more taxing than ever. He had sought to withdraw to the study and occupy – or claim to occupy – as much time as possible with Lady Catherine’s estate business, but he could not avoid her at dinner, nor retire from the drawing room in the evenings as soon as he would have wished .

Darcy drew a long breath. He had found his aunt’s inclination to pontificate difficult to bear at the best of times, but her constant veiled or not-so-veiled hints at his duty to marry and continue the lineage at Pemberley were now grating sorely on his frayed temper.

“Duty!” he hissed, earning a sharp glance from the Colonel, who looked up from a folio he was half-heartedly leafing through.

“I beg your pardon, I was not attending. Did you say something?”

Darcy shook his head, and thankfully the other did not pursue the matter. He ought to be more careful, he reminded himself. His cousin was more perceptive than most. A faint smile fluttered on his lips as he remembered Bingley’s remark about Fitzwilliam drinking him under the table to extract his secrets. His cousin would be happy to, no doubt – but there was no risk of it, for now. Even Richard had more sense than to attempt that feat at Rosings.

The smile vanished as the stately room, full of grandeur, but very little comfort, reminded him of the weighty burden of expectations. Duty to his family, his lineage, his estate. What of the duty to oneself? What of the basic need for happiness, and comfort, and truth? What of the deepest truth of his soul? Was he to live a lie for the rest of his days? Was he to perpetually deceive the unfortunate woman who would one day become the mistress of Pemberley, not knowing she had merely acquired an empty shell?

There were dozens of ladies of his acquaintance who wanted just that, the station and the lustre, but he had never imagined he would offer for any of them. He had always wanted a true communion, a union of hearts and minds, not merely one of convenience – and had always assumed that one day he would have it.

It was not remotely possible anymore. Not because somewhere, among his future acquaintances, there would not be fine young ladies of good breeding, good fortune and good connections. It was absurd to think they would all be vain, insincere or dull. He might one day come across the perfect example of the accomplished female. Yet still he would not have the true communion he had always hoped for – because she was not Elizabeth.

The thud of a heavy folio dropped on a table made him start.

“I know not how you bear it, Darcy,” the Colonel said, as he came closer. “Lady Catherine’s constant prodding about your marriage to Anne,” he clarified, in response to his relation’s anxious stare. “Why do you not set her right on that score? ”

“Anne does not wish it,” Darcy said quietly and sipped his brandy.

“Pardon? Are you implying that Anne desires the connection?”

“Nay, no more than I. But she is reluctant to face her mother’s displeasure for longer than necessary. There will be time enough for that, she says, once I have decided I do wish to marry.”

“And will that be anytime soon?” the other good-naturedly teased.

Darcy turned towards the fire.

“You never told me of your trip,” he sought to change the subject, but without much hope of success. Fitzwilliam could be as obstinate as a hound with a bone if he did not wish to drop a topic.

To Darcy’s vast surprise, this time the tactic worked.

“From Plymouth. You wrote you were to call on an old friend.”

“Oh, that. Quite enjoyable, in fact. Brandon is a good man, and great company if you get him going. Not easily done, drawing him out of his shell. He is far too solemn for his own good. But then, I believe he has had more than his fair share of ill-luck.”

“How so?” Darcy asked, feigning interest, glad that the focus of the conversation was moving away from him.

“Darcy, I am shocked. Are you saying you are now about to stoop to gossip?” Fitzwilliam laughed at his own sally, then refilled his glass. “I always had the impression, in our time of active service together, that he did not choose to be a soldier, and was in fact running from some distress in his past. My guess was that it had something to do with a lady, of course.”

“Why would that be the only reason?” Darcy ill-temperedly scoffed, distress related to mystery ladies in one’s past not currently his favourite topic.

Fitzwilliam shrugged.

“Why not? He is far too honourable, so I doubt he ran away with the military circus to evade the consequences of some grievous misdeeds. Besides, there is something he said…”

“One night, over brandy?” Darcy speculated, with an odd smile.

“Aye, and that is all I will say on the matter. I might be a loud and boorish soldier to you, Cousin, but I will not betray a confidence. Least of all one of those. In vino veritas , and all that.”

“Not bad use of Latin, for a boorish soldier,” Darcy quipped.

“Why, thank you. Anyway, to return to the subject of matrimony, from which you have so skilfully drawn me – good attempt that, Coz! – I am rather pleased for my friend. I believe he will soon be wed. Or at least he should be, if only he gathered his wits about him and proposed. And he would be a damned fool not to. The lady is delightful. Not in possession of a great fortune, from what I gathered, but of a decidedly attractive disposition. She is witty and handsome, and her society works wonders for my friend.”

“I am happy for him,” Darcy observed dryly. “But what of all this glowing praise? You will make me believe you were taken with her yourself.”

“You would not be so surprised, had you met her,” Fitzwilliam replied, this time relinquishing the half-jesting manner. “Yes, I might have been. If she did not seem to have Brandon’s interest and had a more substantial fortune, or if I were not a second son, I might not have decamped from Delaford as yet– and you would have had to visit the Old General by yourself this year,” he reverted to raillery, to mask some genuine feeling he had no further wish to share. “As it is, I will be pleased to wish him joy. Miss Bennet is the very best he could hope for.”

Darcy’s only coherent thought was satisfaction that his hand did not shake as he took the glass to his lips. The fiery liquid burned all the way.

“Miss Bennet?” he asked and, to his dismay, his voice did shake. Quite noticeably. He masked it with a cough.

“Aye, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Her family lives at Farringdon Lodge, in Devonshire, just a few miles from my friend’s estate.”

Darcy’s thoughts began to circle in a bewildering, ungovernable whirl, as his cousin’s very precise answer blasted every hope of a coincidence, and dropped him on the brink of an abyss so dark that he could register nothing in the roiling depths.

But Fitzwilliam was not quite finished.

“I wondered why this was familiar. But of course. Was not your aunt married to Lord Farringdon? You inherited the Farringdon estates, did you not? As there were no children from that marriage.”

With no hope of gathering his wits under such a sustained cannonade, Darcy made no reply. Fitzwilliam carried on, to reach his own conclusion.

“In that case, you must have heard of the Bennets, then. Are they your tenants? ”

Darcy forced himself to speak. He was not ready to open his heart to his cousin. Despite their closeness, he could not even entertain the notion of telling him anything of her . It was easier by far to resort to another falsehood.

“No, they are not. The lodge has not been part of the estate for years. My uncle sold it or gave it away a long time ago, to the rector of the parish, I believe.”

Fitzwilliam nodded, crediting the deception – there was no reason why he should not – and, thankful for the smallest of mercies, Darcy took himself to his chambers before his cousin might remember that in fact he had not let on whether or not he was acquainted with the Bennets.

Brandon. Mrs Brandon. Mrs Elizabeth Brandon.

It was to be expected it would happen sometime, but he had never thought it would happen so soon.

Five long strides to the window. Five long strides to his bed.

What sort of a man was he, this Brandon? Did he love her? Would he make her happy? Did Elizabeth love him? Presumably – otherwise she would not be accepting his addresses. She would not marry just for material considerations. Married. Elizabeth, married. Mrs Brandon.

He tried to picture himself bowing to her to offer his good wishes, should they ever meet in town, and her graciously accepting them, on another man’s arm. The pain was searing.

He dropped on a chair, elbows on knees and head in hands.

He had imagined that the hardest thing he would ever have to do was to leave Hertfordshire without offering for her. Fool that he was, he had not seen that the worst was yet to come. That her vision would not cease to haunt him. That there would be no respite from the aching emptiness within. And yet, compared to this , the pain of the last six months was nothing . Nothing!

A muffled sound escaped him – part groan, part broken sigh, part bitter laugh. He had told himself that, naturally, one day she would marry. How did he fail to see he would be devastated when she did ?

And if she should marry Brandon, it would be his doing. Were it not for his misguided interference, she would not have set foot in Devonshire, and they would have never met. But there was more to it than that. It was his pride, his abominable pride in himself that brought about this terrible disaster. His pride in the Darcy name, and in how far above the rest it stood. He could not look beyond her low connections and her relations’ improprieties.

It was a two-day journey from Hertfordshire to Pemberley. A five-day one, or even longer, from Pemberley to Farringdon. How did he fail to see that any improprieties displayed by a Mr Collins at Longbourn, or a Mrs Bennet at Farringdon Lodge, would be of no consequence to a blissfully happy couple settled at Pemberley? And had he been forced to endure their senseless effusions every day, would that have been so high a price to pay for the unparalleled joy of Elizabeth’s love, Elizabeth’s company?

His family would have shunned him. Lady Catherine most certainly would have, but after a fortnight such as he had endured, he could only see that as a blessing. There was less to fear from the others. His Fitzwilliam cousins would have loved her – Richard, dash it, was halfway there already. The Earl of Malvern and his wife would have raised objections, but over time they might have reconsidered, in the face of his happiness and her irresistible charm.

Society would have scorned them. Nay, not society. Most of those whose opinion he valued would have had too much sense to join in the scorn, once they met her and were charmed by her. It would have been just some fops with an inflated sense of self, some withered matrons and their empty-headed progeny who would have said that, like many before him, he had lost his head over a pretty face. And what of it? Was he not a hypocrite, or worse still, a fool, to live by the dictates of people he despised?

The vision of Elizabeth’s joy-filled countenance at the Netherfield ball brought nothing but fresh pain. He could have proposed then. Would she have accepted? Could he have had by now, like Bingley, his own private heaven, where the world could not intrude?

Bingley’s blotted messages full of happy accounts of matrimonial bliss had driven him to distraction. All he could do was scan the illegible scribbles in search of Elizabeth’s name, and attempt not to absorb the all-pervading joy that left a bitter taste in his mouth .

To think that he had once had the gall to warn Bingley off his quest for happiness! Of the pair of them, Bingley seemed now to be the grown man who knew what he most needed, and pursued it. As for himself, he was no better than a callow youth with no mind of his own, swayed to and fro by the opinions of others.

Darcy stood and resumed his pacing.

What was he to do? What in God’s name was he to do now?

“Thank you,” he replied with quiet sarcasm, and went to pour himself some coffee.

“Truly, you do not look well,” the Colonel insisted with genuine concern, the steady, earnest gaze a clear sign of his affection.

“Do not concern yourself. I am well. I slept poorly, that is all. Our aunt’s blasted guest-bed is better suited for lying in state than for decent rest,” he added. At least he did not lie this time, other than by omission.

His cousin chortled.

“Do not let her hear you,” he cautioned, and went to choose something from the plentiful selection their aunt’s cook had regaled them with that morning.

The mere sight and smell of food made Darcy’s stomach turn, but he did not dare concoct some excuse for not coming down for breakfast, in fear not of Lady Catherine’s displeasure, but of Fitzwilliam’s dangerously good nose for bad lies. He took his coffee to the window, to gaze at his aunt’s manicured lawns and topiary, where not a leaf was out of place. The air of formality and constraint the entire place exuded was stifling him.

He cursed his weakness the night before, that had made him decamp in fear of betraying his distress, and thus miss hearing more about his cousin’s sojourn in Devonshire.

What sort of a man was Brandon? From previous conversations, to which he now wished he had paid more attention, Darcy vaguely remembered that he was about five years older than his cousin, and a very private man. A quiet, subdued man, seven years older than himself. A decade and a half older than her , and very likely more .

What did Elizabeth see in him? How would her lively spirit suit his sombre temper? How would she bear the lifelong disappointment foretold by such a difference in age and temperament? Did she know what she was about if she accepted the man?

“What shall we do today?” Fitzwilliam’s voice suddenly rang beside him, making Darcy start so violently that he spilled his coffee. “I do apologise,” the Colonel said with some amusement. “Now, do you not think ‘tis high time you told me what is troubling you?”

“Nothing is troubling me,” Darcy retorted hotly, but the other shook his head.

“Cousin, I know you like the back of my hand. Your habit of clinging to windowsills when you are uncomfortable is nothing short of endearing, but a telltale sign nevertheless. As to nearly scalding me with your coffee…”

“Do not play elder brother with me, Richard. You are not that much older.”

“Whereas you would like us all to believe you were born middle-aged. You need not carry the world on your shoulders, Cousin. Come back down and talk to us mortals sometime, it might do you good. Fear not,” he added, raising a hand to forestall Darcy’s protests, “I was not about to suggest we talk here, when any moment now our aunt might come down for breakfast. There is always the library and, failing that, the long journey back to town.”

To Darcy, that sounded very little like a reassurance, and a great deal more like a threat.

The thought of a morning shut away in Lady Catherine’s library with his tormenting thoughts was unbearable to Darcy. A long, punishing ride seemed the only means of gaining a temporary reprieve from the work of the demons within, as well as from Lady Catherine’s overbearing presence and Fitzwilliam’s affectionate but unwelcome concern.

He rode relentlessly over his aunt’s fields, chasing after a sense of peace that could not be found until, exhausted in both body and spirit, he came to a halt and dismounted on the narrow lane that bordered the park, separating it from the surrounding untamed woodland .

Had Elizabeth ever visited Rosings, she would have doubtlessly chosen the freedom and majesty of the shaded woodland paths over the precisely geometrical walks Lady Catherine’s gardeners had designed. He would have escorted her, and they would have talked about everything that came to mind, her hand ensconced in the crook of his arm…

Darcy frowned and removed his riding gloves with a gesture of vexation. Elizabeth would not visit Rosings. He had ensured it could never happen. And was now paying dearly for his elaborate machinations.

He ran a hand over his face. Then, leaving his mount to rest and graze at leisure, he walked over to lean against the trunk of a towering lime tree and stare unseeing into the woods beyond.

Over the course of a mere evening and a long, sleepless night, the enormity of his misjudgement had become as obvious as the burden of its weight on his chest. And the self-centredness and arrogance of his actions finally struck him as he stood there, in the ancient temple of the forest, closer to his Maker and truer to himself than he had ever felt in his entire life.

He had left Hertfordshire wreathed in self-pity, with the misguided notion that he had done a noble deed and ensured the comfort of the woman he loved. But did he truly love her?

‘Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.’

Darcy caught his breath as the overwhelming depth and beauty of the words sunk in at last, opening his eyes to their full meaning. He had thought of no one but himself. His name. His duty. His lineage. His estate. Not her . Never her. Not her feelings and wishes, nor anything she held dear. He had abandoned her in her hour of need cradling, in his self-righteousness, a sense of personal injury and loss, blaming the dictates of society, his ancestry, the world, but never himself.

Fitzwilliam’s inadvertent disclosures – blithe references to the unthinkable – had finally made him see the full extent of his failings, as well as of his self-deceit .

Long ago, in Hertfordshire, he had told himself that the bequest of Farringdon was destined to give her the freedom to choose, but even then, the thought of her marrying another had been too painful to dwell upon. He had pushed it aside hoping… what? That she would be comfortable enough at Farringdon so as to never marry? That he would never get to hear of it? Nay, he could never have believed that. His connection with the Bingleys would have made it impossible.

He had merely made himself believe that the removal from her society would lessen her hold on him. That he would remember her as a delightful dream of his youth as he would finally settle in the pattern destined for him, in the right sphere and with the right woman. That he would one day conquer this wholly unsuitable attachment, and then whatever she chose to do would no longer matter all that much.

He was wrong. In that, as in everything else, he was wrong. He could not conquer this. He could not forget her. He could forget her mother, her sisters, her cousin. He could forget all the reasons that had prompted him to distance himself from the connection. But not her.

Six long months, and a brief conversation with his cousin, had cleared away the trivialities that had obscured the truth. He needed her . And the thought of a lifetime without her was unbearable.

Darcy was in no frame of mind to dwell on philosophy, nor on the perverseness of human nature, apt to see the worth of a true blessing only when it was no longer within reach. His thoughts took a different turn, once he had grown sufficiently attuned to his own failings to be able to recognise them as such. He had chastised himself for his self-centredness – yet he suddenly felt compelled to own it still coloured his every response. From the moment he had learned of Elizabeth’s possible engagement, his first, his driving thought, had been to travel post-haste to Devonshire; to win her and, regardless of her sentiments, stop her from marrying another. Because he loved her. Because he could not live without her. Because he could no longer force himself to try.

In the wake of his epiphany, from the depths of his soul, the question emerged: if he loved her, how could he bring himself to destroy her peace ?

In his arrogance, he had dismissed the connection as beneath him. He had been selfish and overbearing, cared for none beyond his family circle, thought meanly of the rest of the world, wished at least to think meanly of their worth compared to his. He had not offered his hand and his heart and all that was Pemberley, but arrogantly purchased her comfort instead, without any regard for her wishes.

Darcy winced at the thought that in some respects, this was worse than establishing her in some house as his mistress. At least in that , she might have had a say. The humiliation he had inflicted, without her permission or even her knowledge, weighed on him as he prayed she would not learn of it until he had the chance to atone, at least in some small measure.

Whichever way he thought of it, the truth remained. He had never taken her wishes into account, and however much it cost him now, it was high time he did. If Elizabeth had come to care for this Brandon and set her heart on marrying him, he had no right to interfere.

And if she had not…

He dared not dwell on hopes that were too bright to contemplate. He remounted and rode back to Rosings, having cleared his head sufficiently to decide upon his course of action.

Not one to procrastinate once he knew what he had to do, Darcy carried out his self-appointed tasks without delay. Firstly, that very evening, in the library, he forestalled Fitzwilliam’s further inquiries with the candid admission that there was indeed something weighing on him, which he could not discuss as yet, and asked for his cousin’s forbearance, mollifying him with the promise that as soon as he felt at ease to speak of it to anyone, he would be the first choice. And secondly, once the prescribed penance at Rosings was at an end, he returned to town to collect his sister and set off to the only place he knew where he might gain a notion of Elizabeth’s thoughts and wishes – if he could not ask Elizabeth herself.