part0032

“Confound it, Darcy, you win again,” Bingley was prompt to state the obvious when, propelled by his friend’s unerring cue, the spotted ball followed the red into the pocket. “I daresay I should not be surprised,” he observed dryly, “seeing as you had a great deal of practice lately.”

Setting his cue down Darcy shrugged, refusing to acknowledge his host’s amicable teasing, although there was a fair amount of truth in that. Many were the nights when he had chosen to while away the hours in the billiards room once everyone had retired to their chambers – once she had retired – and take out his frustration fuelled by loneliness and impatience on blameless red and white billiard balls.

The joy of spending day after day under the same roof was unmistakable, but then so was the restlessness of the nights. The very notion of Elizabeth abed a few doors down from his bedchamber was enough to chase his sleep away, and make him seek his peace elsewhere in the house – not that it could be found. Not that the scattering of billiard balls over the table covered in green baize could temper his impatient turmoil. Five weeks! Great heavens, five more weeks until the wedding…

At least the date was set. They would be wed, and he knew full well that he should bless his unbelievable good fortune, but the plain truth was that it was sheer hell to wait.

“Well, I am for bed,” Bingley said almost apologetically, setting down his empty glass. “Are you ready to retire?”

He was not. Darcy huffed.

“In a while,” was all that he would offer, and once more chose not to acknowledge his friend’s understanding smile.

“See you in the morning then, old chap,” Bingley said, reaching to retrieve his discarded coat from where it was draped across an armrest. He seemed disposed to elaborate, but then thought better of it and merely gave his friend’s shoulder a hearty pat. “There is a port decanter in the library,” he observed instead, “and brandy as well. I trust it will serve the purpose,” he added with a knowing glance, then walked away leaving Darcy in a room that suddenly was oppressively quiet.

His long sigh rang too loudly and, with something of a scowl, Darcy picked up his own coat, but did not don it. He carried it into the library, only to discard it again on another chair. He cast a glance at the drinks tray that Bingley had mentioned. Well stocked it was, with more than enough to choose from, and with a shrug Darcy went to pour himself a generous measure. The fire was still burning in the grate and he walked over to it, although the warmth it offered was not the kind he sought. Five more weeks, blast them!

With another sigh, Darcy cast a glance around him. The part-filled shelves would offer no distraction – that, he knew full well. He grimaced as he wondered in passing how it was that, of the three men who found themselves at Netherfield waiting for their wedding-days – too goddamn distant – he seemed to be the only one struggling the most with the curse of Tantalus.

Or was it that the others hid it better? What did they do to occupy their evenings, Ferrars and Brandon? They would sometimes linger below-stairs too, in the library or in the billiards room. Nevertheless, on the few occasions when the three of them had endeavoured to while away time together, the others cut it short, presumably self-conscious and uneasily aware of the similarities in their situation – three lonely men who dearly wished they could be elsewhere.

They could not. Five more damned weeks!

Darcy huffed again and cast a glance at the brandy in his glass, reluctant to purchase sleep and peace in such a fashion. He left it on the mantelpiece as a rousing thought occurred, and he walked to the writing desk with purpose.

He could not be with her , but at least there was something he could do to temper his impatience. He sat, chose pen and paper and began to write in swift, bold strokes, born of his deepest wishes.

The bedchamber was quiet. Very quiet. And yet she could not sleep. She had not even readied herself for the night, but still stood at the window, gazing at the darkened grounds, much like he would whenever he was uncomfortable, or just deep in thought.

Elizabeth smiled at the foolish notion that she missed him – as if he were not, even then, under the same roof – and wondered what he might be doing at that very moment. Was he perhaps gazing out of his windows, over the same grounds shrouded in the shadows of the night? Was she in his thoughts just now, as he was in hers? Or was he in dreamless sleep already?

Her lips curled up at the endearing picture – beloved tousled head, resting on a pillow – and a sudden blush crept into her cheeks. Elizabeth raised her chin. This would not do. Unruly thoughts, although delicious, would not bring rest or ease or, for that matter, sleep. With a small shrug, she stepped back from the window and gathered the shawl cast over an armchair to wrap herself in it, then picked up the candle with a determined hand.

The corridor was dark and of course empty, and a smile tugged yet again at the corner of her lips, at the recollection of the not too distant night when she had seen him walking the same way, in quest of some elusive comfort, or at least distraction. It was her turn now, she thought with a quiet chuckle, and reached to steady her hand on the banister as she slowly picked her way down the darkened stairs.

Darcy set his pen down and sanded the letter. It was done, and it would serve the purpose. Stratton would see to it, and promptly, there was no doubt about it, which would bring them another step closer, and yet not close enough. He cast another glance over the instructions, then folded and deftly sealed the letter. He looked up – and stared, as his jaw tightened.

As though conjured up by his every dream and all his wishes, a slender form stood in the doorway, wrapped in a shawl, candle in hand, lips curled into an adorably self-conscious smile .

Darcy stood and forgot to bow, his eyes trained on the beloved features, and his breath caught when he saw her biting the corner of her lip, in the same maddeningly enticing fashion.

Neither spoke as he slowly drew nearer. Her hand shook, making the candle tremble, and Darcy reached to steady it in her uncertain grasp, then took it from her to place it on some irrelevant flat surface as his other hand reached to close the door.

Blood sang in his veins – violent, forceful, hungry – and his lips found hers. Her shawl fell off her shoulders as she reached up to hold him, and his hands roamed over her back, bringing her closer, clasped against him, as though he could never bear to let her go – which he could not. Her lips parted under his, driving him to distraction, and he claimed them, devoid of all restraint. He clung to her like a man drowning, and passion swept through his scattered senses, dragging them both into whirling, dangerous waters; into an intoxicating madness beyond reason and control.

Elizabeth’s head swam as his lips carried her away into a realm where nothing mattered. Nothing but his touch, and his compelling kiss. Her hands slipped off his shoulders and slid along his arms, strong and warm under the fine lawn of his shirt, her fingertips tingling as she learnt the contours that formal coat-sleeves had previously concealed. Her breath caught – or she was rendered breathless by his kisses – as her palms came to rest against his chest and feel the wild drumming of his heart, matching the mad flutter of her own.

Madness! This was sheer madness, Darcy knew full well, as the desperate urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her up the Netherfield grand staircase to his bedchamber clouded his senses with a promise so intoxicating that he could scarce breathe.

Intoxicating. Dangerous. Unthinkable. Her mother – sisters – aunt… For goodness’ sake, her uncle! If he chanced upon them now, Mr Gardiner would be driven to skin him alive, and rightly so. He had to stop this – had to! It was too dangerous by far. Much more dangerous than the stolen kisses on their ambles through the grounds, for here, now, he could forget himself, and make her forget herself as well. The very private hour… Alone. Unknown. Unheeded .

Yet they were not alone, but crowded by a houseful of relations. Hers. His. The dangers of detection made everything insanely more appealing – and yet he knew he could not forgive himself if he succumbed to the inconceivable temptation and lured her into something she might come to regret, when sanity returned with the cold light of day.

Five more cursed weeks!

Darcy drew a ragged breath and his arms tightened around her as he forced himself to break the all-too-dangerous kiss. As once before, in the very same library, he leaned his head to rest his brow on hers, eyes closed, his breath still ragged. He sighed – a low, tortured sound – and opened his eyes as he brought himself to whisper:

“Elizabeth… for God’s sake, go. Go, my love. Sleep well, and… I shall see you on the morrow…”

He did not trust himself to lower his lips to hers again, but pressed them on her brow instead and swallowed hard, shaken to the core by the warm glow of abandon in her half-closed eyes.

His jaw tightened as his arms dropped to his side, unbearably empty. He bent down to retrieve her shawl and draped it around her shoulders, and the candle shook in his hand too, when at last he picked it up again and gave it back. And then she left him, with a breathless endearment and a tremulous caress over his cheek, and Darcy stood in the doorway watching her retreat, the glow of candlelight dimming, and then dimming further, as she slowly made her way back to her chamber.

His breath still uneven, Darcy tightened his grip on the door’s edge as he willed himself to remain rooted to the spot and, by Jove, not follow!

The sound of footsteps finally died out, and so did the glow of the retreating candle and, forcefully running both hands through his hair, Darcy released a sigh of frustration, then strode back to the fireplace and his abandoned glass of brandy, his hand unsteady on the goblet as he drained its contents in one burning gulp.

He had not slept well. In fact, he had barely slept at all, so it came as no surprise that he awoke with an almighty headache. Worse still, he was denied the comfort of Elizabeth’s presence for she, along with most of her relations and their mother’s friend, was engaged to spend the morning at Mrs Phillips’ house. Mrs Bingley did not join them – she seemed to be rather poorly yet again – but remained at home to sit and rest in the smaller downstairs parlour, with no one but Darcy for company, as Bingley had been called for an urgent conference with his steward and the others had chosen to go for a ride.

The said pursuit did not appeal to Darcy. His headache made him feel unequal to it. Yet he could not object to the arrangements for the morning. In Elizabeth’s absence, there were few others whose society he would have chosen over Jane’s. She had always shown him kindness, presumably because such was her way and in view of his closeness to Bingley, but over the last few weeks, and especially after their very open conversation, she had begun to offer him the warm affection of a sister, and that pleased him very well indeed. They did not speak much as they sat together in the small and cosy room, but there was a twinkle in Jane’s eye whenever she saw him put his book down and walk to the window, as if she knew full well that he was hoping to catch the earliest glimpse of a returning carriage.

“You need not keep me company, you know,” she eventually said with a smile, glancing up from the infant cap she was embroidering. “Should you not go for a walk instead? It might soothe your headache. And help pass the time.”

“Am I so very obvious?”

“To some,” she replied with a light laugh of her own.

“Very well. At least it will keep me from wearing out your carpet,” he quipped, and Jane laughed again. “Would you care to join me?” Darcy added, but Jane shook her head.

“I thank you, no,” she answered, and Darcy had enough sense not to press the point.

A man was summoned to fetch his hat, gloves and greatcoat, and Darcy donned the latter but, as he prepared to bid his adieus, the smile destined for Jane suddenly turned into a fierce scowl.

“I beg you would excuse me. It seems there is something I must attend to,” he said abruptly, and quitted the parlour in a trice.

Jane raised her brows, wondering what it was all about. His stiff bow and terse leave-taking did not make matters any clearer .

She walked up to the window, only to espy a noble equipage advancing down the drive, preceded by a liveried servant. Neither the carriage nor the livery were familiar, but as she caught a glimpse of the occupant’s grim and very haughty profile, Jane pursed her lips.

“Oh,” she said quietly. She was not acquainted with the visitor, but her powers of perception did not fail her, leaving her under no misapprehension of what was taking place.

Unladylike as it might have been to spy from one’s front window, Jane did not budge – and was not surprised to see Mr Darcy briskly descending the short flight of steps, then striding purposefully towards the carriage, his long coat flapping belligerently at his heels.

‘The knight in shining armour, rallying for battle,’ she thought, not unkindly, and noticed with some amusement the surprise on the dour face of the visitor when the carriage door was opened and, instead of a footman, it was a stern-looking Mr Darcy who handed her out.

With a little pensive smile, Jane determined it was time to step away from the window, and did just that. She returned to the sofa, delighted in no small measure to see that Darcy was as good as his word – not that he had ever given her any cause to doubt it.

She wondered in passing whether she should follow him below-stairs; stand by his side perhaps, and lend assistance, or at least offer a civil welcome to the visitor, from the mistress of the house. But then she thought better of it. There was every reason to believe that Mr Darcy would much prefer she were not party to this conversation, and he knew where to find her if he thought otherwise. With a small sigh, Jane rearranged a cushion in the small of her back. No, there was no need for her involvement. Mr Darcy seemed to have the matter well in hand.

For his part, Mr Darcy would have claimed nothing of the sort. He could barely control his voice as he asked his aunt if she would like him to escort her to the house. And even more so when she pursed her lips and shrugged.

“I have not come for introductions or refreshments. ‘Tis you I wished to see. Give me your arm, Darcy, and walk with me to that wilderness yonder,” she commanded .

He offered his arm and his aunt took it, and they walked away from the well-trained servants, down the gravelled path that snaked around the corner towards the shrubbery on the left side of the house.

Darcy held his peace. There was no purpose in asking Lady Catherine to what he owed the pleasure of her visit. Still riled in no small measure by her offensive letter, he was not disposed to play the game of bland, civil exchange. And neither was her ladyship, of that he was quite certain, even before Lady Catherine bluntly asked:

“Is she within?”

For a brief moment, Darcy pondered between a frosty “Of whom are you speaking?” and taking her to task for the dismissive tone and appellation. In the end, he simply said, “No.”

“On a morning call.”

They walked a few steps further, her arm resting heavily on his, and he could see her wince. From such close quarters, she appeared frail and very tired. Despite his deep resentments, Darcy found it in him to spare her a thought that bordered on compassion. She was, after all, of no mean age, and the long journey hither must have caused a great deal of discomfort. But then he shrugged. It had been her own choice to tax herself so.

“You can be in no misapprehension as to the purpose of my call,” his aunt began with her customary frankness, and Darcy could do nothing but return it in full.

“You should have spared yourself the inconvenience. I will not be worked upon.”

“Let us sit and speak sense,” her ladyship retorted crisply.

Yet neither sat, but turned to face each other. Nor did she begin to speak sense, for that matter, for the first words were an appeal to sentiment.

“Darcy, I have come as one of your nearest relations. Your dear departed mother’s sister—”

He would have none of that, and his retort showed it plainly.

“As my dear departed mother’s sister, I would have hoped you might show me the affection of a mother.”

“There is nothing I want more, you know that.”

“But on your terms only.”

“What are you implying? ”

He disdained to gracelessly point out that a mother-in-law was not a synonym for mother. Instead, he said blandly:

“As my mother’s sister, I hoped you might consider my wishes and sentiments.”

Lady Catherine drew herself up to her full height.

“Do you imagine for a moment that Lady Anne Fitzwilliam would have welcomed that upstart in our midst?”

“To our misfortune, there is no way of knowing what Lady Anne Darcy might have said or done, were she still with us,” Darcy shot back tersely, his countenance darkening at the insulting term. “I can only imagine she would have wished her son to be happy.”

“Happy!” Lady Catherine sneered. “You expect then to be happy, if you turn your back to everything you stand for?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened.

“Lady Catherine, I believe you should spare yourself the trouble of this conversation, for it serves no purpose.”

“Surely you do not expect me to stand idly by and see you ruining your life in this fashion. Connecting yourself to shopkeepers, Darcy? Heavens above! Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”

His countenance turned stony, and his voice grew sterner.

“May I remind you that Miss Bennet is a gentleman’s daughter.”

“But what of her mother? Or her aunts and uncles? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition. Are we to see our blood mingled with theirs? The blood of the ninth Earl of Malvern running in the veins of children born to her? ”

Children born to her.

Darcy’s chest caught in ways Lady Catherine had not anticipated, and his fists tightened at his side. Yet the tirade continued.

“Do not expect any of us to welcome either her or them, Nephew. If you go down this path, doors will be closed. To all of you – including Georgiana. What of your sister’s marriage prospects? Are you prepared to blast them for your ends? Once she is out, she can make a sterling match, provided you do not besmirch the Darcy name with an imprudent marriage. Open your eyes into the world, Nephew, the world as it is, and abandon this foolish scheme that can only lead to your disgrace. You must see that you would be despised and censured by anyone that matters, and Georgiana with you. And above all, she and her half-caste offspring. Is that the happiness you aspire to? ”

Darcy did not trust himself to speak – not yet, for savage anger ruled supreme, and he would not open his lips until he had subdued it. Yet he should have known better than to expect he would be allowed to do so. Encouraged by his silence, Lady Catherine pressed on:

“For everybody’s sake, pray see sense, Darcy. Your head was turned by arts and allurements, that is all. You are not the first, and God only knows you will not be the last to be worked upon in this base fashion. At least the so-called engagement was not made public yet, thank goodness. If that person is graceless enough to hold you to a breach of promise, then a price must be paid, but there are ways to extricate yourself from this mésalliance . Heavens above, child! What on earth were you thinking?”

All manner of retorts screamed in him for release, from reminding Lady Catherine that he was eight and twenty years of age, and his own master, to the sharp need to tell he precisely what he thought of her advice. Yet he would not disgrace himself by sinking to her level. The measured voice took undertones of steel.

“May I escort you to your carriage, Lady Catherine.”

“I shall not leave until you have given me the assurance I require.”

“Then your stay in Hertfordshire will be of some duration.”

“Darcy, this is not to be borne! I have not travelled all this way to be thwarted in my purpose. Nor to fall out with you. You see I have not even mentioned that your mother and I have planned your union to Anne ever since you were in your cradles. We shall address that at a better time. The pressing matter now is this dreadful error—”

“The only dreadful error was my hope for a peaceable resolution,” Darcy interjected. “My choice is made, Lady Catherine, and is not open for discussion. The date is set for five weeks hence. You are welcome to attend and wish us joy if you can bring yourself to do so – and just as welcome to return to Rosings at your leisure. My compliments to Anne if you choose the latter, for I fear I will not have the pleasure of seeing her for quite some time.”

Lady Catherine drew back, and her eyes narrowed.

“So you are determined to ruin yourself in the eyes of the world and renounce your nearest relations for the doubtful pleasures of the flesh. So be it – and I hope I live long enough to see you rue the day! ”

She winced again, and her features twisted, but this time there was no shred of answering compassion in Darcy at the sight.

“I take note of your goodwill and gracious wishes,” he scathingly retorted and, with the curtest nod, he turned on his heel and left her, full to the brim of poison and desperately longing for the antidote.

Yet he had to live through two more gruelling hours until he was granted the joy of seeing Elizabeth return, and even longer still until he had the comfort of walking out with her, arm in arm. Much as he loathed bringing back the poison into the hour of healing and of hope, he had to let her know of his aunt’s visit, lest she hear of it from another source. He gave her none of the details of course, but she was wise enough to glean his distress and anger from as little as he told her. And then she brightened the tenor of the day, and likewise his humour, in her glorious, inimitable way. She stroked his arm, and her eyes twinkled as she chuckled softly:

“What a dreadful notion I just had, my darling,” she said, and Darcy smilingly waited for the rest, for her countenance showed that what she was about to say was anything but dreadful. “It occurred to me you might have had a more agreeable morning with my Aunt Phillips – and that, my love, is a terrifying thought.”

He laughed, and could not stop himself from gathering her up into his arms – and devil take whomever was around and saw them.

“I love you, Elizabeth,” he fervently whispered, before hungrily lowering his lips to hers.

A great deal more about the vexing encounter was disclosed later that night to his cousin over a few glasses of brandy, in the privacy of his chambers, and the hour of unguarded conversation went a long way towards putting Darcy in a better frame of mind. The shared indignation and Fitzwilliam’s mordant humour greatly improved his disposition, so much so that by the time his cousin took his leave Darcy was able to chuckle as he gave silent thanks for Mrs Bennet’s and Mrs Jennings’ blissful ignorance of the sordid affair – otherwise there was no telling when they might have tired speaking of it.

Fortunately for everyone concerned, Mrs Bennet heard nothing, and in any case she had far more pressing matters to consider now. Ever since she had learned of her second daughter’s engagement, she had been beset with worry regarding the same daughter’s attire. At her unrelenting insistence, a local seamstress had been engaged to make new dresses for Lizzy and Kitty, and Mrs Bennet positively despaired at the thought that Lizzy could have ordered hers ages ago, when she had first heard of the ball. And then at least her dress would have been finished. But nothing had been done about it for well over a fortnight. Goodness, what was the girl thinking?

Lizzy did say something about meaning to wear the same gown she had worn at the last Netherfield ball, and at that Mrs Bennet could not but throw her arms up in the air in exasperation. That was almost a twelvemonth ago. What would people think? She was to marry one of the most illustrious personages in the land, and her family could not afford a new dress, even?

She should have carried her point while they were in town, Mrs Bennet thought wistfully, and have some new gowns made for the girls at one of the best houses, that was what she should have done. But how could anyone imagine what was about to happen in just a few weeks’ time?

She certainly did not have the faintest notion, otherwise she would not have allowed herself to be gainsaid. And now they had to rely on what Meryton could offer, and goodness knows that, much as it pleased her to see the old place again, Meryton was not renowned for its haute couture . And then there was no telling if the new dress would be ready in time. Gracious, the mortification! Dear Lizzy was to marry someone as wealthy as Mr Darcy, and she might not have a decent gown to wear at her own engagement ball.

A dress of Jane’s should have been altered to fit Lizzy, that would have taken far less time, and Jane had a host of pretty things made when she was married. But Lizzy insisted that if the new gown was not finished, she would wear the old one, and there was no moving her once she got a notion in her head – that, Mrs Bennet knew of old. Not that it bothered her, not now, not anymore. Lizzy could be stubborn if she chose. The dear girl! Who else, in the entire breadth of their acquaintance, had done something as clever as securing ten thousand a year?

Perhaps an old dress of Jane’s could be altered for Kitty. She was more amenable, and in all honesty, why worry about Lizzy’s attire? She was already spoken for. Now, with Kitty… Did not dear Bingley say there were at least seventeen unattached young men expected at the ball? Seventeen! Dearest Kitty could have the pick of the lot.

For her part, Mrs Bennet cared not one jot how many other girls would be in attendance. Her daughters had always stood a head above the likes of Mrs Long’s nieces, the Goulding girls or the Lucas brood. They did her proud, her dear girls, each and every one of them. They always did her very proud indeed!