part0018

Good things come to those who wait, claimed the old adage, but Fitzwilliam Darcy seriously doubted its wisdom as he tugged absent-mindedly at his cuffs, his countenance closed and his jaw set. With a short, impatient huff, he turned to cast a cursory glance at his reflection in the tall looking-glass, only to note that he seemed prepared to face another day – outwardly at least.

“I thank you, Weston, that will be all.”

The valet bowed and withdrew, leaving his master to his thoughts, none pleasant. Unwilling to indulge them, Darcy hastily left his chambers and crossed the hallway towards his private sitting room, wishing he could leave his thoughts behind with the same ease with which he would discard a coat.

His eyes came to rest briefly on the collection of choice volumes lining the bookcase behind his desk, but he impatiently waved off the mere thought of such pursuits, for which he now lacked both patience and inclination. Hands behind his back, he wandered instead towards the vast windows overlooking Berkeley Square and cast a disinterested eye over the ornamental trees and neatly-trimmed topiary. Bright, cheery sunlight filled the square and Darcy’s sitting room, but did not raise his spirits. He felt restless, heavy-hearted, and at odds with himself.

The resolution taken at Rosings, very much against his every wish and inclination, had to be cast aside now, surely! Keeping himself from rushing to Devonshire to propose, spurred by possessive jealousy, was one thing. Keeping his sentiments from her even now, weeks later, when he knew she was still unattached, was quite another.

All is fair in love and war. The sudden thought made him start. That was not a principle he had ever envisaged following, and yet he now found it ringing staggeringly true .

Needless to say, it was not fairness to Brandon, or rather lack thereof, that concerned him, although in a better world perhaps it should. All he cared about was Elizabeth. What did she wish for? What would make her happy? Yet how was he to know, if he did not ask?

He rubbed his brow and drew a long breath as he raked his fingers through his hair. He would have to ask, and soon. But he knew not how to go about it – nor how he would bear it, if all it brought was pain.

He winced as he turned away from the window thinking, as many times before, that perhaps she had already given him an answer, on the day of their encounter in Green Park. There was not enough vanity under heaven to make him believe that Elizabeth had not chosen Brandon’s company over his, that day.

Darcy ambled towards his desk and sat, leaning his head against the back of the chair, his gaze fixed beyond a distant spot on the ceiling.

The meeting with Brandon, and Elizabeth’s obvious pleasure in it, had severely undermined his confidence and had done away with any ease he might have felt in her company. Whatever opinion he might have held of Brandon from Fitzwilliam’s casual references had to be cast aside upon making his acquaintance. Darcy had seen an amiable, well-spoken man, with unaffected manners and a pleasant, gentlemanlike address. A man with the quiet confidence of one several years his senior, who had experienced a great deal more of the world than the young master of Pemberley had ever had the opportunity, and indeed the wish to.

Reserved as he might be in indifferent company, Brandon clearly had no such encumbrance in Elizabeth’s presence. He spoke to her freely, and she reciprocated, their conversation open, almost intimate, with all the ease and friendliness that came with a longstanding close acquaintance. Whereas, despite having met her many months before Brandon, Darcy could not claim they shared a fraction of that closeness, and their discussions still had the mark of bland civility and constraint – no better than exchanges between strangers.

It was a novel and most uncomfortable feeling for Darcy to envy another man. Without being vain, he had always known that his attributes, personal, as well as those pertaining to his position in society, made him the object of envy to others .

That was not to say he had never wished for different traits in himself. A greater ease in new and uncomfortable circumstances, for instance. Perhaps a touch of Bingley’s effortlessness in company, if not his readiness for conversation. Heaven help him, there was one time at Cambridge when he had even wished for a dash of Wickham’s outward charm. That was well behind him now, naturally. Not only because he could not wish for what he could not respect – he had come to respect Bingley, after a fashion – but in general, with his own character and disposition he had no reason to be dissatisfied.

He now found himself wishing for Brandon’s ease and confidence in Elizabeth’s presence. For his intelligent discourse, which appeared to flow effortlessly, without any need to impress. He wished he could dismiss the other as an older, staid, unattractive man, but found that he could not, on any of those counts. Brandon did not appear staid, was definitely not unattractive, and even the difference in age seemed to work in his favour, making Darcy feel quite the inexperienced, gauche schoolboy in comparison.

Indeed, it seemed he could not feel superior to Brandon in anything but wealth – with which Elizabeth was, by all accounts, least likely to be impressed. As to her welcoming manner towards their ‘Devonshire neighbour and dear friend,’ it was exactly wrought to rob him of any confidence in his own reception.

He remained at odds with himself for days as a result, painfully aware of her presence less than a mile from his home, and unable to decide whether he would be better advised to call in Portman Square to propose – or to spy. He did neither, held back by a sense of self-doubt more alien to his nature, and more crippling, than anything he had experienced in his life.

By the time a visit had become long overdue, he had yet to decide on the best course of action, but called in Portman Square regardless – only to discover that her passing comment about returning to Devonshire in September did not mean they were to remain in town until then. How foolish to have thought so! Of course she would wish to visit the Bingleys, and return at least for a while to the places she held dear.

Thus, it was with no great surprise, just heavy disappointment, that he learned she had already left town. And yet there he was still, battling with the same demons of his own making, instead of following her post-haste to Netherfield .

The thought made him pound the armrests, and propelled him out of his chair.

Aye, hell and damnation, aye, he was afraid. Of what he might see. Of what he might learn. Afraid that knowing would be a vast deal worse than any torment of uncertainty. Afraid that Brandon had escorted her to Netherfield, and he would find them engaged. Or that she would reject him , once he had declared himself. Afraid of not being able to choose the right time or the right words to persuade her that his life was not worth living without her.

“Enough now,” he repeated in a whisper, as he strode forth to tug the cord that summoned Weston. He had to ask. He had to know. He had to. He would go to Netherfield, by Jove! And, finding her still not engaged, God willing, he would open his heart and lay the full truth before her, come what may!

The door opened quietly and Weston bowed.

“I beg your pardon, Sir, I asked for your coffee and papers to be readied for you in the study, but should you desire them here, they will be brought up directly.”

“That will not be necessary, I thank you. I have summoned you for another reason altogether. I wish to leave for Netherfield as soon as may be,” Darcy said with an evenness of manner he was very far from feeling.

Spur-of-the-moment departures were as unheard-of in the Darcy household as could be, but Weston was too well trained to let his surprise show.

“Very well, Sir. May I ask, will your visit be brief, or of some duration?”

The thought flashed through his mind, catching him unawares, and so did the visceral panic that came with it. Nothing but rejection would keep his visit brief. His jaw tightened, and Darcy looked away as he tried to maintain a blank countenance. He cleared his voice.

“That, I cannot say. I wish to be gone by noon,” he said, before quitting his sitting room to descend the wide and intricately carved staircase, and then stride purposefully into his study, to read that blasted paper for the final time .

The coffee had gone cold, of course, but Darcy did not ask for another. He sat at his desk with a frown. Had anyone told him, this time last year, that he would take to devouring the society columns within a twelvemonth, he would have dismissed them for foolishness and impertinence, he thought bitterly and opened the paper – only to fold it in some haste, as the door opened and Colonel Fitzwilliam was announced. His cousin bounded into the room in his customary manner, leaving him no time to relegate the paper to a more discreet location.

“Good morning, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam greeted him as he came in, then unceremoniously let himself drop into an armchair. “I must say, I imagined I would find you awake, even at this ungodly hour, but I thought you would still be at breakfast, rather than already installed in your study with…” He leaned over the desk and casually unfolded the paper Darcy had in front of him. “…the society pages?” Fitzwilliam finished his sentence, his brows raised in surprise and disappointment. “Why would you waste your time reading that drivel, Coz? I thought you were caught up in estate business or reading of the campaign on the Continent, but that?” Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I never thought you in need of any advice of the kind, Darcy, but it seems you have been spending rather too much time in the wrong company. Speaking of which, for your sake as well as everybody else’s, I hope you are not considering making Miss Bingley an offer of marriage.”

Darcy folded back the paper, his vexation clearly showing, fuelled in no small measure by the fact that he still did not know whether it contained the dreaded announcement or not.

“I thank you for your concern, but I assure you it is entirely misplaced,” he snapped, then he thought better of it and softened his tone. “In any case, I have not sat down for breakfast yet. Would you care to join me, for coffee at least?”

“As a matter of fact, I was hoping to avail myself of the delights of your breakfast table,” Fitzwilliam quipped, “particularly as I had to leave much too early to do justice to mine.”

“Then, by all means, pray do,” Darcy said with a gesture of invitation, and stood. They left the study together and made their way into the breakfast parlour .

The Colonel was easily persuaded to fill his plate and sample the delicacies prepared by his cousin’s cook, although it would remain a mystery to Darcy why Monsieur Gustave should still give himself the trouble, since he had never had much of a taste for elaborate breakfasts, and virtually no interest in the pleasures of the table in recent months. Finally, Fitzwilliam poured himself some coffee, and Darcy refilled his cup.

“So, why are you out and about so early in the morning? Hardly your hour, this. Besides, should you not be at Malvern?”

“I should,” Fitzwilliam conceded. “But a short while ago a friend came to ask a favour, so I agreed to remain in town, at least until today.”

“Let us just say I had to make an appearance on Wimbledon Common at dawn, and that should answer both your questions.”

Darcy turned to eye him with genuine concern, but Fitzwilliam chuckled and leaned back in his chair.

“Do not look so anxious, Cousin, I had very little to do with it. I was merely Brandon’s second.”

“Brandon!” exclaimed Darcy, shocked in no small measure.

Why should Brandon be compelled to call somebody out?

Sudden, intense panic gripped him.

Did anything happen to Elizabeth?

The thought that he had no knowledge of anything that might have befallen her, and that it was another man’s duty and privilege to protect her and defend her name was unbearable.

“Aye, Brandon,” Fitzwilliam casually repeated. “Why are you so surprised?”

“I thought him at Netherfield, that is all,” Darcy replied with feigned unconcern, but his feint only served to pique Fitzwilliam’s curiosity further.

“Why would you think that? I did not know he was acquainted with Bingley.”

Darcy made a show of sipping his coffee to mask the slip of the tongue, then inquired, trying to sound as disinterested as possible:

“What was that about, then?”

“I do not know the particulars, nor would I gossip if I did. Not even with you,” Fitzwilliam shot back, slightly put out. “All I know is that there was some sort of an offence involving Brandon’s ward. ”

Darcy breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“And is your friend well?” he civilly inquired.

“Well enough. No one was seriously injured, thankfully, although his opponent should have been. Nevertheless, ‘tis done now and Brandon is safe. His betrothed must be quite relieved.”

Darcy felt the sudden blow with all the force of a physical impact.

“Betrothed,” he repeated numbly, his voice flat. “So he is engaged to be married?”

“Aye,” Fitzwilliam unconcernedly confirmed and poured himself more coffee. “It will be announced soon, from what I gathered. They both wanted to get over this sad business first.”

Darcy stood and walked slowly to the window, his arms crossed over his chest, the full weight of his despair crushing. He stared outside, unseeing, for what seemed like a very long time. The Colonel made to join him, but thought better of it. Instead, he sat with his coffee, true to the promise to forbear from probing, until his cousin was prepared to let him into his thoughts.

At length, Darcy spoke quietly, without turning.

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to give them my good wishes.”

“Of course,” the other agreed, then added, rather puzzled, “I was not aware you were acquainted with either of them.”

“We have met,” Darcy said curtly, then turned around at last. “There is another favour I would like to ask. I would appreciate it if you did not mention my connection to the Farringdon estate. It is of little consequence now,” he wearily continued, “but I imagine you will come across Miss Bennet more often in the future, so you might have cause to speak of it. I would much rather you did not.”

“Miss Bennet? Miss Elizabeth Bennet? Is she in town?”

“No, at Netherfield,” Darcy owned, heartily sick of the futile game of cat and mouse. “But I assume she will return to town soon.”

“Oh. Glad to hear it. It will be good to see her again. What is this about Farringdon, though? Fear not, I will do as you ask, but why the mystery? Not your style,” Fitzwilliam good-naturedly remarked.

“No matter. Too late now to make a difference, either way,” Darcy said and shrugged, as he turned towards the window again.

Fitzwilliam straightened in his chair and frowned, his eyes boring into the little that he could see of his cousin’s profile. What the devil was the meaning of all this? Too late for what ?

He was about to ask those very questions, old promises be damned, when Darcy snapped out of his trance and his voice finally broke the stony silence. It sounded unnaturally loud, although it was barely above a whisper. The words tumbled out, as though he had neither the power, nor the will to stop them.

“So, when is she to marry him, then?”

The Colonel’s perplexed countenance grew solemn.

“Brandon did not say,” he replied, the implications of his cousin’s line of questioning finally becoming as obvious to him as the pain in Darcy’s voice. Fitzwilliam set the cup down and stood. The slow cadence of his footsteps rang on the old floorboards as he neared his cousin’s spot, but Darcy did not turn to face him. Not even when the Colonel laid a hand on his shoulder. He only started at the touch. The other tightened the clasp for a brief moment, then let his hand drop. “Have you known her long?” he asked, as gently as he could.

The affectionate concern was the last straw for Darcy. He knew he should appreciate it, but could not. It was no comfort, just another burden. In due course, he might find the energy to urge his cousin to at least spare him from having to endure compassion. But for now, he could only nod, thus confirming Fitzwilliam’s misplaced notions – until fragments of their conversations in Kent began to prod at the back of the Colonel’s mind, and momentarily confuse him. Nary a word of Miss Dashwood then, yet Darcy had been just as affected…

Putting two and two together and finally making four, instead of any other number, Fitzwilliam said swiftly, with no small amount of contrition:

“My mistake. Forgive me, I should have made it plain. Brandon is engaged to Miss Dashwood, not Miss Bennet.”

The effect was instantaneous.

“He is to marry Miss Marianne Dashwood,” Fitzwilliam repeated, and to his shock and not insubstantial pleasure, his younger cousin finally acted anything but middle-aged, as he forcefully raked his fingers through his hair, exhaled deeply, excused himself and strode out of the breakfast room.

Darcy sought temporary refuge in his study and shut the heavy door behind him, still reeling from the suddenness of the transition from abject misery to wild, explosive joy. He gripped the lion heads that adorned the back of an armchair until the protrusions dug into his palms, and for the first time in months drew a full, unhindered breath that filled his lungs as readily as relief flooded his heart.

Elizabeth was not engaged!

Elizabeth was not to be married. Well, not to Brandon, anyway.

A sobering thought checked his elation. Did she know of this other attachment? Was she hurt by Brandon’s different preference? Or was her heart as blissfully unengaged as her hand?

Darcy released the wooden ornaments and absent-mindedly rubbed at the dents left in his palms. Only Elizabeth held the answers to these questions, and many more, and he intended to ask the ones pertaining to his own happiness as soon as might be.

A knock on the door distracted him from the whirlwind of bright thoughts and plans. At his invitation, the head-footman entered with a number of letters on a tray.

“The post has just arrived, Sir,” he announced.

“Thank you, Dermott. Leave it on my desk,” Darcy impatiently instructed, hoping to regain the solitude of his study – only to find that on Dermott’s retreating heels, his cousin advanced into the room expertly carrying two half-full goblets in one hand.

“Dear old Smithfield was shocked speechless to find me looking for brandy at this hour in the morning, but it’s just what you need right now, if you ask me,” Fitzwilliam said with a wide grin, and Darcy could do nothing but return it. He would have been hard-pressed to be out of patience with his cousin today, or indeed any day, all things considered.

“There, Coz,” Fitzwilliam continued, handing him a glass. “Get this down thee, there’s a good lad. It’ll do you a world of good. Although you must be giddy already, without the benefit of brandy,” he teased, not unkindly, then settled down in Darcy’s chair, behind the desk. He poked at the paper Darcy had left there earlier, and pushed it away to make room for his own glass. “Well, at least we have established why you were busying yourself with that ,” he quipped. “I am delighted to discover you have not lost your senses, because I was seriously beginning to wonder.”

“Leave off, Richard,” Darcy replied, laughing despite himself .

The Colonel made himself more comfortable in his cousin’s chair.

“I believe you owe me a very long and entertaining tale,” Fitzwilliam drawled, but Darcy gave an impatient wave of his hand.

“Very well. Have it your way, then. I daresay I can hold my curiosity in check until we are on our way to Netherfield,” the other said, then laughed at Darcy’s perplexed stare. “Why, do you think Bingley will object if I invite myself? I should imagine not, he is a pleasant chap, and his wife is delightful. Oh, come now, Cousin! Do you really think I would miss the chance to see you in the role of the besotted fool?”

Darcy cast him another grin over the rim of his glass and rolled his eyes in so unguarded a manner, and so reminiscent of their boyhood, that Fitzwilliam chortled wickedly.

“Admit it, man! You cannot be vexed at me today, can you?”

“Probably not. But do not push your luck,” Darcy shot back in a matching tone, then went to tug the cord.

He sent word to hasten his departure, then collected his post from the desk. There were several letters of business, one from Bingley, one from Georgiana, and another one from Lady Catherine. Darcy discarded the letters of business as well as the one from Kent, and chose Bingley’s, slightly diverted by the thought that he would have opened it far less calmly, had it arrived one hour earlier.

He unfolded it and picked up his glass as he began to read, only to scowl and peer more closely at the sheets in his hand. Bingley’s blots and scribbles were more vexing than ever. What was that? Elizabeth expected at Netherfield? When? How? Was she not there already?

Much to Fitzwilliam’s amusement, Darcy cursed as he tried to decipher his friend’s illegible hand. Why did Bingley give himself the trouble of putting pen to paper, if that was the result?

With some considerable effort, the contents were finally revealed. Elizabeth had visited at Netherfield for a few of days only, and then left on a tour of pleasure with her uncle and aunt.

Darcy heaved a sigh of frustration.

“Ill tidings?” his cousin asked, and drained his glass.

A gesture of impatience was Darcy’s only answer. Why must his friend be such an unreliable correspondent? Bingley was apt to let him know at Christmas that she had visited for Easter, Darcy scoffed, too disappointed that he had missed her yet again to concede that although he might have had earlier knowledge of Elizabeth’s plans, Bingley could not possibly have guessed the nature, and indeed the depth, of his own interest in them.

His eyes followed the uneven script, only to stumble upon the phrase ‘…we are expecting them to return from their tour by the end of August. Miss Elizabeth will spend some time with us at Netherfield, and as you can imagine, Jane is delighted…’

Much as he understood Jane’s delight, Darcy chose to forgo its description and allowed his gaze to drift as he considered his options. He would have to cancel his travelling arrangements, then. Or rather amend them. He would not leave for Hertfordshire now, but in a fortnight or so, to ensure that he would be at Netherfield well before Elizabeth’s arrival. He glanced over the rest of his friend’s letter with nothing like the earlier urgency, merely to assure himself he had not missed anything of import. He had not, so he folded the letter, dropped it on his desk and returned to his brandy as he pondered over what he could possibly do to occupy his time until the momentous journey into Hertfordshire.

His sister’s letter, opened next, gave him his answer. In less than an hour, Darcy and his cousin were travelling at breakneck speed towards Pemberley.

Just as they were thundering out of Camden, Fitzwilliam said kindly, without any trace of teasing:

“I shall not press you, but if you wish to talk, I can listen.”

Darcy nodded in appreciation, but still could not bring himself to speak. Too many thoughts prevailed, and the dizzying speed, rather than comforting him, was only fuelling his impatience. As his carriage took him relentlessly onwards, Darcy searched his pocket-book yet again for his sister’s letter, and perused it for what must have been at least the sixteenth time. Georgiana’s delighted description of their meeting warmed his heart, and the thought of Elizabeth at Pemberley, in the library, the music room, in Georgiana’s sitting room chatting with his sister over cups of tea, Elizabeth’s clear laughter ringing in the halls where he had been haunted by visions of her in endless hours of longing, made him curse every single one of the many miles separating him from his heart’s desire.