Chapter 3
When Darcy pushed himself up, the angel was gone.
He spluttered out the dirt which had splattered against his mouth, then wiped the worst of it off his cheeks. Surely, he was a ridiculous sight. Usually, he came home with at least a shred of his dignity intact, but today he would look as pathetic as he truly was.
He shuddered and pushed himself upright against the tree.
There was a small brook nearby - he had often heard it trickling, irritating him when he wanted the world to be completely silent.
Today, he sought it out deliberately, one wobbly step at a time.
Sitting beside the brackish water, he trickled some into his mouth, then scooped handfuls over his face.
Did he care about being clean? It was an odd thought, but for the first time he actually did. He had seen the expression in the angel’s eyes: distaste, even fear, for surely he looked monstrous.
Sir, you are in pain.
Simple words, and they had struck him to the soul.
A validation: yes, this was pain. Real, physical pain, not the kind of pathetic sadness that his father had called ‘womanish’.
He had always swallowed his emotions back, forcing them into a small, bitter pill that stuck in the back of his throat.
Pain, yes, but only on the inside. Now, he wore his pain on the outside - and it was valid.
A sudden desire to follow the angel, to track her footsteps, made him struggle to his feet. The cold water had sobered him a little, but not enough to get through the slippery river mud. He fell, cracking his knee against a stone, and cried out in disgust.
What had he become? This was not ‘womanish’, this was hopeless. He could see his life before him, stretching out in a tempting slope. Down would be easy, down into despair and soft darkness. Up…
Darcy pushed himself upright once more and limped back to the tree. He sat, catching his breath, and looked at his satchel.
A book, a bottle, and an unwritten letter.
He grit his teeth, took the bottle, and poured it out into the dirt.
***
“I have never been so embarrassed!”
Darcy pressed his hand to his forehead and groaned. The voice was deliberately high-pitched, and the speaker was standing on the landing outside his room to make her protestations. He was obviously meant to overhear.
Charles had made some reply, but his voice was too soft to make it through the heavy wooden door. Caroline Bingley had no such difficulty.
“Farmers! Farmers, dragging him home like a… like a child! Clomping through the front door in their muddy boots, staring around with their jaws hanging open… I can still smell them, Charles!”
There was another reply, this time a little louder. Then a scoff.
“Yes, he is your friend. And when is the last time he did anything for you? While you feed him, and look away when he drinks… he takes and takes, and what do you get? The pleasure of his illustrious company?”
“He is unwell, Caroline.” Now, Bingley was sharp and his voice was clear, “You don’t know…”
“You’re right! I don’t know! You have some great secret that somehow makes all this acceptable! It must be an astounding story, for you to allow such… incivility!”
Don’t tell her. Darcy thought with sudden fear, Bingley, hold your ground!
The thought of Georgiana’s sickness becoming common knowledge was truly awful. He could already see the cloying pity on Caroline’s face when she cooed over her. The false empathy, and then the gossip. Oh, the gossip!
What would they say? What excuses could be made for a woman who had tried to poison herself? They would enjoy spreading that story around, he knew for a fact. And once that story was out, the next question they would ask would be: why?
Naturally, Wickham did not know. Naturally, he would find out. And, naturally, he would try to use it to his advantage.
Darcy sat upright in bed and cradled his head in his hands.
He was used to the hangover, but today it felt worse, because he was determined to let it continue.
He would not have one of the alcoholic restoratives that calmed the thundering throbbing.
Today, Darcy told himself, he would not touch a drop.
Water, though. Water was a good idea! He grabbed the jug beside his bed and started drinking, not bothering with a glass. Beyond the door, he heard another angry exclamation from Miss Bingley, and then quick footsteps snapping down the stairs. It seemed that the secret was safe, for now.