Chapter 14
Merry had herself a suitor, and Elizabeth could not have been happier for her.
Senor Esparza was a Spaniard from the Basque region who had fought at Badajoz.
He had come to England seeking relief from the turmoil that was post-Napoleonic Spain and instead found love.
Of course, it was difficult not to love Merry—she was pretty and sweet and played the pianoforte with the hands of angels.
It was how they had met; one evening, as Merry played, Senor Esparza, passing by, heard her through the window and vowed that he should one day meet her.
He did, and Senor Esparza had captured Merry’s heart, and they made a handsome pair. Elizabeth had not the least doubt that she would soon lose her friend and Bennet’s nurse to the bonds of matrimony.
The three of them sat at the beach with Bennet happily playing in the sand beside them, and Elizabeth felt herself decidedly de trop.
She had asked Senor Esparza—Pedro, as she now heard Merry calling him—a few questions about Spain and Badajoz, but it was clear that he was far less interested in speaking to her of his homeland than he was of lovemaking to Merry.
With a smile, Elizabeth turned away, deciding to visit the bookstore that was mere steps away on the esplanade.
“Bennet, would you like to come to the bookstore with Mama?”
“No!” Bennet cried enthusiastically. “Dig!”
“Leave him with us,” Merry urged. “He is full of sand, and I am sure Mr Richie would much prefer he stay here.”
“That is true.” Elizabeth bent and kissed her son’s sandy cheek. He would need a bath after this, to be sure. “I shall not be very long.”
Darcy entered the bookshop in Weymouth, seeking nothing more than respite from all the talk of fripperies and lace.
Even Georgiana had succumbed to it, but then again, it was enjoyable to see her behaving as any other lady of eighteen would.
There was a book he wanted for Bingley’s children—heaven knew, Bingley’s library was as sparse as it ever was, yet somehow Bingley’s daughter, like her namesake, was already voracious in her appetite for the written word.
He was perusing the book when he heard the shopkeeper call out, “Good day, Mrs Elizabeth.” Hearing that name caused him to look up, and there she was.
For a moment, he could do no more than doubt.
His heart dropped into his stomach, and he froze, unable to do anything but cry out her name.
By the time Darcy had recovered his wits sufficiently to act, she was gone, having flung wide the door with a raucous jangle. He ran after her immediately.
The street was clogged with passers-by, and he halted, looking left and right.
His eyes frantically roved over the crowd—groups of ladies, a gentleman with an odd green-coloured hat, a bearded soldier carrying a small sandy boy, who was protesting violently, off the beach—none of them were Elizabeth.
She had been too fast and had had a clear advantage being close to the door. Had it really been her? Had his eyes, his mind, his heart deceived him? Frustrated, he called, “Elizabeth!” into the crowd, causing some of those on the esplanade to give him strange looks—but none of them were her.
Breathing quickly, he turned, running towards he knew not where, acting on pure instinct, but the next corner showed no dark-haired beauty with enchanting eyes. Turning, he ran back the other way, his eyes always seeking but finding nothing.
How could she have disappeared so quickly?
The area held no alley ways; she must have had to run up some length of pavement.
But she always had been light-footed, and he supposed she must have some knowledge of the place.
He glanced into some nearby stores and walked the length of the shops—there was no sight of her.
At length, Darcy went back to the bookshop. “Sir? The woman who was just in here—”
Mr Richie looked up from his counter with a smile. “Mrs Elizabeth?”
“Mrs Darcy. Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.”
Mr Richie appeared suddenly wary. “I do not know anything about a Mrs Darcy.”
“Mrs Elizabeth, then. She is known to you?”
“She is a good customer.”
“How long have you known her?”
Mr Richie’s eyes slid over Darcy. It was clear he was no fool; his shop was prosperous, and men like Darcy were likely the reason for it. Still, he was slow to reply.
“About two years, I think, since she came to live with her aunt, Mrs Macy. The aunt just passed, some disease in her brain. Very sad. May I ask your interest in the matter, sir?”
Darcy disregarded the question. “My intentions are honourable, I assure you. What is her direction?”
“Forgive me, sir, I cannot give that information away, not without the young lady’s permission.”
“But she does live here? In town?”
With a frown, Mr Richie lowered his eyes.
“Sir, I believe…I think Mrs Elizabeth might be a…a relation of mine. A long-lost relation. If I should give you a letter for her—perhaps I can add it in with this book she wished to buy—would you deliver it to her?”
Mr Richie considered that, his grey brows contracted as he folded a piece of paper on his counter carefully.
After watching him for several expanded minutes, Darcy reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew some money, all the money he had on his person. He laid the notes on the counter and slid them towards the man. “For your time, Mr…?”
“Richie,” the man said, glaring at the money and sliding it back towards Darcy. “And I do not need to be paid to do what’s right. I just need to know that it is, indeed, right.”
“It is,” Darcy said urgently. “I assure you, it is the right thing.”
“Bring me your letter,” said Mr Richie. “And I shall see that she gets it.”
Bennet was howling with dismay as he came into the house with Merry and Senor Esparza, but Elizabeth could not even go to him.
She heard Merry sending for water to bathe him, but she could not move from where she was curled into a chair, her legs tucked under her, and shaking and shivering like nothing she had ever known.
Her mind would not form rational thought, and her lips could not form words—she could only tremble.
Merry found her there some minutes later. “Elizabeth? Why, my dear, you are as white as a ghost!”
Merry went to her at once, and she found she scarcely had the strength to turn towards her friend. Merry laid her hand on Elizabeth’s head. “No fever,” she pronounced. “But you are clammy and cold, which might be just as bad. Let me help you into bed.”
“I am not ill,” she whispered.
“But of course you are! I never saw you in such a state.”
“A fright,” Elizabeth managed. “I…something frightened me. Is Bennet…is he…?”
“Perfectly well, but his skin was turning pink. It was time to leave the beach, and he felt otherwise.” Merry smiled as she said it. “Gave Senor Esparza quite a kick when he picked him up.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Poor Senor Esparza. Do extend my apologies on my son’s behalf.”
“Bennet does love the beach.” Merry was moving around as she spoke, picking up the reticule, the shawl, and the shoes that Elizabeth had tossed away when she entered the room.
“He does,” Elizabeth agreed, “though…though maybe it is time to leave here.”
Merry stopped what she was doing, staring in shock at Elizabeth. “Leave?”
“Some other place.” At once, the chair was too small; indeed, the room itself felt too small, and her corset seemed to be preventing all breath. She rose, pressing her hand to her chest. “Spain? Senor Esparza speaks so very eloquently on the beauty of Spain, I daresay I should—”
“Senor Esparza fled Spain,” Merry reminded her gently. “Too much political unrest. What is this about? What has you so unsettled?”
Elizabeth felt the doors closing as surely as if they had slammed her on the nose. She was no longer a woman alone in Yorkshire. There was a house, servants, a child, a nurse, all of whom depended upon her. She could not set out with a satchel in the night any more. A sob escaped her.
Merry left the room, returning a moment later bearing a glass of sherry. She handed it to Elizabeth, who sipped at it. He did not want me, she reminded herself. He sent me away. Likely he wishes to see me as little as I wish to see him.
She smiled at Merry. “I…I think I need only lie down a little. I think I have also had too much sun today.”
Elizabeth could see that Merry did not believe her. There were clear questions in her eyes as she nodded and left, promising to keep Bennet occupied while his mother rested.
Elizabeth could not rest, not the whole of the day or the night. She sat at breakfast the next morning, jumping out of her skin every time a carriage slowed or any sound resembling a knock was heard. He cannot find me, she assured herself over and over. He barely saw me. He does not wish to see me.
She did not dare venture out of the house, and poor Bennet was forced to stay in his nursery even though the day was sunny and bright.
Rarely did her child know a day without being outdoors, but this day would be the exception.
She wondered where Darcy stayed and for how long.
Was he passing through? Had he taken a house?
A note was given to her on the next morning at her breakfast. She knew the handwriting immediately and her heart sank.
Elizabeth,
Pray do me the honour of meeting me Thursday. I shall come to you, wherever you stay, or meet at some place convenient to you.
With hope,
FD
She was out of breath when she finished reading it.
To see her husband seemed a ridiculous fancy, yet here it was, a meeting arranged by a note in his own hand.
For a moment, she wished to weep, but she did not.
Her first inclination was to refuse him, to toss away the note and pretend it was never seen; but could she?