Part 3
Returning home to Pemberley had always been his relief, his joy, his comfort, since he was an infant. Even after his parents’ deaths, the grief that surrounded the sad memories was always balanced by the happy recollections of blissful times.
He usually travelled with Georgiana, but this time she and Mrs Annesley were a day behind, together with the Bingleys and the Hursts.
They had all begun the journey together, but after the first stop at the usual inn he used, after bearing Miss Bingley’s and Mrs Hurst’s annoying, arrogant comments hour after hour, Darcy had lost his patience and decided to ride ahead.
His luggage remained with the carriage, except for one thing: the card with the broken heart, carefully hidden inside a book of poems. He kept it in his coat pocket and touched it from time to time, fearing he might lose it.
Once he arrived at Pemberley, he would lock the card in the hidden drawer of his desk.
It carried nothing but sad memories, and yet, he could not part with it.
Unlike past years, this summer at Pemberley would be difficult in too many ways to even count.
He was still searching for the right way to disclose the entire story to Bingley.
He had planned to do it sooner, but when he returned from Rosings, Bingley was visiting a friend at his country estate, and he had stayed there until a fortnight ago.
Disheartened by his own loss of the woman he loved, Darcy often wondered whether Bingley still thought of Jane Bennet and still pined for her.
For him, those four months that had passed since Elizabeth had rejected his marriage proposed had not altered his feelings, nor his wishes, nor his pain.
Again, that was not quite true. His feelings had changed, after the few days of anger and resentment.
He now acknowledged his errors from the first time he had met Elizabeth till the day of his proposal, and he accepted the justice of her statements.
Some of them, at least. Darcy only hoped that her contempt for him would not sully her judgment and prevent her from believing his words about George Wickham.
After all, he had suggested she ask Richard if she had any doubts.
She had not—how could she, since he and the colonel had left Rosings the following day?
If only he could speak to her, just briefly, to apologise for his rudeness towards her and find out what she thought of his letter.
Perhaps if Bingley returned to Netherfield one day…
No, that was not fair. He was being selfish again.
When he convinced Bingley to leave Netherfield, Darcy had felt relieved to distance himself from the danger of an imprudent love; therefore, he had not pondered the situation carefully enough, had mistakenly presumed too much—or too little—and induced his friend to never return to the woman he loved.
He would not use Bingley again. His failure was his own, and he must bear it.
If Elizabeth was right about Miss Bennet’s sentiments—and certainly she knew her sister better that he could presume to—then he, Darcy, had been utterly wrong in separating a couple bound by true affection.
He had ruined the happiness of two worthy people, and perhaps it was only justice that he too had lost his happiness before even finding it.
Entering Pemberley Park in rather dark spirits, a sense of peace brushed away some of the burden Darcy had carried for four months.
Some, but not all. Would his heart ever be light again?
Would his soul open to receive joy? Would he find reasons to laugh again soon?
He struggled with his sorrow and hid his grief from Georgiana.
Her heart had barely healed after Wickham’s deception; causing her more concern would be selfish.
He had failed to conceal his feelings entirely, though, as Georgiana had attempted many times to discover the reason for his anguish and comfort him.
She had failed every time because there was no comfort to be found for him.
His horse quickened its pace, knowing he was home.
But Darcy, for the first time in his life, did not feel quite as home as before.
At Rosings, before that dreadful day, he had often had fantasies about returning home to Pemberley with Elizabeth.
Her laughter, her liveliness, her smiles would have warmed the halls that had been too silent and too cold for too long.
He imagined himself walking with her, her hand tucked under his arm, her body leaning on him a little, feeling her warmth while showing her every inch of the park, every path in the gardens, every view of the lake, and when they had their fill of the out of doors, they would walk inside, to discover every room of the house, the secret and hidden passages, her bedchamber, connected to his…
After dreaming about returning to Pemberley with Elizabeth by his side, the sense of hollowness grew stronger and deeper.
The horse stopped when a stable hand, surprised, appeared to welcome him, and Darcy dismounted.
“Sir! We were told to expect you tomorrow. May I take your horse?”
“Thank you,” Darcy said, unconsciously touching his pocket again. He took off his coat and hat and walked on towards the house.
“Are there visitors?” he called to the footman awaiting him on the front steps, spotting a few figures in the valley.
“Yes. Mrs Reynolds is giving them the usual tour,” the servant explained.
Darcy said nothing in reply, only turned to take a path that led round the back of the manor.
It was rather often, especially during the summer months, that travellers touring the county visited Pemberley, drawn by its reputation.
Usually, Darcy took pride in his home and always greeted the visitors, but that occasion was different.
He had no desire to see anyone; he wished to meet no strangers—the only visitor he would like to see at Pemberley was the person who would never set foot on its grounds.
He walked carefully, mindful not to be spotted; it was hot, so he unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his neckcloth, then brushed his fingers through his hair.
It was perfect weather for a dip in the lake, and he would probably do just that later, as soon as the visitors had left.
The rest of his party would not arrive until the next day, so he would have some private time to enjoy his estate in solitude.
He took the turn into the rose garden, taking pleasure in the sight of the house—a view he had seen thousands of times but still affected him.
He noticed Mrs Reynolds with two people—probably a couple. She was showing them something, but he was content that they were far enough away that they could not see him. Relieved that he seemed to have escaped meeting them, he hastened his pace, only to freeze moments later.
The sun was so bright it had surely affected his sight, and his mind was so exhausted that it had confused dreams with reality.
And yet, even if his eyes betrayed him, his ears heard loud and clear, and the wild racing of his heart confirmed it was not a vision.
But how could it be? Certainly, it could not be reality.
“Mr Darcy?” Her own shock obvious in her eyes and her heightened colour, she averted her gaze, seeming to wish to look anywhere but him.
“Miss Bennet?”
“I…this is…I beg your forgiveness, sir, I did not know you were home. The innkeeper assured us you were not, and the housekeeper said you would not arrive until tomorrow. Otherwise, I would have never…I did not expect to see you here…”
So it was true; she was there—in an obviously perturbed state of mind, her cheeks flaming, maybe from the sun, maybe from embarrassment. But she was there, at Pemberley. How could that be?
“Please do not make yourself uneasy. As far as anyone knew, I was expected tomorrow, but I returned a day earlier. Nobody knows yet…”
“Oh…I am very sorry that we have disrupted your privacy… We should leave. We shall leave!” She made to turn, but his voice stopped her.
“Please do not apologise… Forgive me, I should have enquired—is your family in good health?”
“Yes…”
“Your sisters? Your parents?”
“They are all in excellent health, sir.”
“I am glad to hear that… And are all your sisters at Longbourn?”
“All but one. My youngest sister Lydia is at Brighton. She was invited by Colonel Forster’s wife. You remember the colonel?”
“Yes, I do… May I ask, when did you arrive in this part of the country?”
“Just yesterday. I am travelling with my uncle and aunt. My aunt comes from Derbyshire. She grew up in Lambton.”
“Did she? Lambton is only five miles from Pemberley.”
He spoke, but he barely heard his words or her answers. His eyes were drawn to her pink lips—which she licked with every response—her flushed face, her eyes, her alluring figure illuminated by the bright summer sun.
She looked different from how he remembered her—more enchanting, less sharp, less angry.
Her small, tentative smile and the sparkles in her eyes were also different from his memories.
She had changed. She kept glancing at him, first only occasionally, then more often, with more interest. And at that very moment he realised his appearance was far from proper. He hurried to put his coat back on.
“I am sorry,” he spoke while tugging at his wrists, “I am just arrived myself, from the road… I had no time to change and to greet you properly.”
“I am sorry for keeping you. You must be tired from the journey.”
“Not at all. I am just surprised to see you… Pleasantly surprised.”
“You are very kind, sir.”
“Just honest. May I ask, where are you staying?”
“At the inn in Lambton.”
“Of course. And how long will you stay in the area?”
“A few more days.”