Chapter 5
Fields was restrained the next morning, looking wary and unhappy as he shaved Darcy and set about helping him dress. Darcy had not slept at all after arguing with his wife and was in no mood for an ill-humoured valet.
“What is it, Fields?” he asked sharply.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“You are in quite the brown study this morning.”
Fields sighed. “Forgive me.”
“Of course, but if there is something that troubles you…”
Darcy watched as Fields’s face displayed…well, next to nothing. A sure sign of trouble when one’s loyal retainer was so stoic. “Fields?”
“Mr Wickham was again seen leaving right around dawn. Not by me, but by Robert,” he said, indicating one of the younger footman.
Pique blossomed into something far more serious, and Darcy fought to remain calm. “And what did young Robert do for it?”
“He tried to stop him, naturally, but Wickham punched him, breaking the poor fellow’s nose, then took off running. Our boy did his best, but he was injured.”
Wickham’s sins were compounding rapidly. “And what was his purpose in being here?”
“Wickham’s? He did not say, but I daresay we might assume it was nothing good.”
Perhaps he did not say, but a sick feeling in Darcy’s gut informed him of all he feared. Had she sent for him after they argued? If Darcy had gone to her chamber in the night, would he have discovered his worst fears tangled in her sheets?
Fearing he might vomit, he hastily sent Fields away, then stood against the mantel, shaking and furious. He could not imagine sitting across from her at the breakfast table and sent for a tray to be brought to him in his study.
He slipped into the servants’ hall, hearing silence, and made his way to his study without anyone seeing him. Surely his countenance would have sent them all scurrying regardless, but he did not wish to speak for fear he might scream.
Alas, Georgiana had need of him and was already pacing the floors when he entered. “Brother—”
“Not now, Georgiana, please. Later.” He sank into the large leather chair that had been his father’s, wishing the man himself was there to advise him.
She paused, no doubt observing the sleeplessness on his countenance, the scarcely hidden emotion. “Is something wrong?”
He shook his head. “No. Just…did you sleep last night? Sleep well?”
She nodded. “I was asleep early. I think I walked too much yesterday with Miss Bingley.”
“Oh, um…yes, Miss Bingley. Did she say…did she tell you any more about…?” He looked at her expectantly.
“About?”
With a sigh, he lowered his face into his hands. “Wickham and Elizabeth. My wife. Any rumours about any of that?”
“No. Only what she told me before.” There was a pause. “Why?”
“He has been here to see her,” he said solemnly, praying she was not so much a girl as to misunderstand him. A glance at her face—which had gone flame red—said she took his meaning perfectly.
He was spared further conversation by his butler, who told him Colonel Fitzwilliam needed to speak to him. Georgiana excused herself, and moments later, his cousin entered.
Fitzwilliam carried with him the air of a man on a mission—a grim one. “I have only a moment, but I wished to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“Wickham left the militia. Not sure exactly why, but he seems to have found himself in possession of a bit of money.”
“How much money?”
Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I don’t know, but he is back in town, ordering up all sorts of new suits, and somehow has managed to get himself invited to quite a few soirees over the next weeks.
Not the first circles, of course—his currency does not extend so far as that—but certainly higher than his usual groups. ”
Darcy stared at his cousin a long time whilst he absorbed the news. Fitzwilliam’s eyes were mostly inscrutable, containing only the slightest hint of what Darcy saw as pity. At last, Fitzwilliam came towards him, his boots thudding heavily against the floor. He clapped Darcy’s shoulder.
“Forgive me, I must be off. Will I see you at Bickerdyke’s ball?”
After a moment, Darcy said, “No.”
The yellow silk gown Elizabeth donned that evening was among the most beautiful she had ever worn.
Although she had never imagined she would need nearly so many gowns as she had purchased for the Season, dressing was quite enjoyable with such an array of fine and fashionable gowns to choose from.
Her maid had done wonders with her hair that day as well, managing to tame her profusion of curls by sweeping them up into an elegant style, adorned with sparkling jewels and small flowers.
As she stared at her reflection, she allowed hope to creep into her heart.
Relations between her and her husband had grown strained. For over a fortnight, Darcy had been grave and silent, often watching her for reasons unknown.
But tonight, she looked pretty—she did not think it wrong to admit that to herself—and perhaps they would dance and regain some of the ardency of their earlier days.
And that might induce him to confide whatever it was that troubled him.
Likely it had nothing to do with her—perhaps trouble at Pemberley?
She knew she ought not hope that was the case, but she did.
Walking into the sitting room that adjoined their chambers, she was surprised to see Darcy had not even begun to dress and was reading a book in a chair by the window. “Oh! You are not dressed?”
Darcy glanced up, a mask of hauteur on his face.
“Um…I mean, are you not going to dress for the Bickerdyke’s ball?”
“I sent our regrets.”
“You did?” She felt stupid, exclaiming and remarking as she was, and schooled herself to speak more calmly. “I beg your pardon, I was not informed. Are you ill?”
He shook his head and kept his eyes on her. She met his gaze, remaining calm through the nerves that were making her stomach roll and her heart ache. What was this? Why had he not informed her? And why was he staring at her in an almost challenging way?
“Excuse me,” she said at last. “I shall go change my gown to something more suited for an evening at home, then.”
“Are you terribly disappointed?” he asked, though he did not much sound as though he cared.
She turned, forcing herself to smile at him. “No,” she said. “No, this will be nice too. Perhaps I shall get my book and join you.”
She left it at that and returned to her chambers to summon her maid.
Her maid arrived in confusion and apologies that Elizabeth met with her own apology, assuring the girl it was she who had erred.
All the while, a litany in the back of her head wondered what on earth was happening to the man she had married.
Darcy was more himself over the next few days, and she was relieved.
Eventually, she persuaded herself that she had imagined much more to it than it was and resolved to forget about it.
Part of marriage was learning how to form a life together from what had been two separate existences.
She was finding that her husband was a complicated man and his controlled demeanour at times hid great emotion.
Some days later, she held in her hand an invitation to a ball hosted by Mr and Mrs Geoffrey Morton.
In truth, she cared little for the Mortons; he was very nearly the haughtiest gentleman she had ever met, and the wife was silly and vain.
However, Darcy had gone to school with Mr Morton, and they encountered them at many of the same dinner parties.
Darcy always made an effort to be friendly with the gentleman, once explaining to Elizabeth that with an estate that was nearly as large as Pemberley in another part of Derbyshire, the Mortons were their equals in consequence and Darcy wished to maintain good relations with them.
Thus, she knew Darcy would want to accept their invitation, and so she did without hesitation.
That evening after dinner, as they both enjoyed listening to Georgiana play the pianoforte, she remarked offhandedly, “The Mortons sent us an invitation to a small ball next week. I have sent our acceptance.”
He stared at her, looking inexplicably tense. She could see a sudden hardness in his eyes and an almost angry set to his mouth as he replied in a tight voice, “I wish you had asked me first.”
“But…you always wish to accept their invitations.”
Rising abruptly, he strolled over to the window, staring out into the darkening evening for several minutes.
When he turned back to her, he seemed to have regained his composure. “Please do send regrets to them tomorrow, if you will.”
She said little when he refused to attend the next two balls for which they had received invitations. When he at last decreed they would not attend any more balls, she spoke, mentioning advice she had received from Lady Matlock.
“Your aunt felt it important that I be seen amongst—”
“Is it such a hardship for you to forgo an evening spent in the arms of other gentlemen?”
“Of course not!” she exclaimed, stung. “You cannot think that is why I wish to—”
“No more balls. I do not enjoy them.”
They sat for a moment, Elizabeth staring at the note in her hands that had prompted their disagreement. She startled when he rose and exited the room with nothing further said.
In the first months of their marriage, she had seen nothing to indicate that Darcy was capable of being so arrogant and high-handed as he now seemed.
He appeared to have little concern for her thoughts on the matter—but as her husband, such was his prerogative.
Had she embarrassed him? Was that why he wished to hide her away?
There were days when Darcy persuaded himself that his growing fears had no basis. Other days, he was certain he had fallen prey to what he had dreaded all his life—a fortune huntress.