Chapter Five #2
Darcy’s eyes were on Elizabeth as she blinked.
He could almost see the weight of duty and responsibility settling over her shoulders like a cloak.
It was a feeling he knew intimately, and impulsively, he reached out his hand to hers.
She looked up at him, and there was no fear or weakness there, only anger and worry and determination.
A deep and abiding love for her surged through him, and he tried to give her a little smile as he felt her fingers curl around his.
“You are a Russell, Elizabeth, but you will soon be a Darcy as well,” he told her. “You will not face any of this alone.”
“Will you meet us at Longbourn?” she asked, still holding his hand, but indicating her ball gown and slippers. “I cannot travel like this, and I should like to be back to Aunt Olivia by morning.”
“Of course,” he said. “Richard?”
“With you,” Richard said, his words tight and clipped. He gave a short bow to Elizabeth. “Miss Russell, we shall see you shortly.”
Elizabeth stood and drew in a deep breath. “Francis,” she asked, “shall we go?” She was out the door before her cousin could respond. He watched her depart, a fond smile playing on his lips.
“By all means, Lizzy,” he said to her back. He turned to Darcy and indicated the empty doorway. “I hope you have what it takes to be married to a Russell woman.”
Darcy’s eyes lingered on the last place he had seen her and could not bring himself to smile. “I hope the same.”
The small group entered the hall to see their hostess gracefully descending the staircase.
“Mr. Darcy, Mr. Fitzwilliam, Miss Elizabeth,” she said graciously, “I noticed you had not returned to the ball and wished to see whether I might offer any assistance.”
Mr. Fitzwilliam barely acknowledged Miss Bingley, and Mr. Darcy only offered the woman an irritated glare.
Elizabeth, knowing the quickest way out was to directly address the woman standing in their way, took over.
She glanced at Francis, who gave her a wink, which she took as permission to make the introduction.
“Lord Tavistock,” she said, “this is Miss Bingley, Mr. Bingley’s sister.
Miss Bingley, this is the Marquess of Tavistock. ”
Miss Bingley’s hand hovered briefly over her heart, though she trained one eye on Elizabeth. No doubt wondering why I am the one facilitating the introduction, Elizabeth thought.
“Lord Tavistock,” Miss Bingley intoned, and curtsied deeply.
Elizabeth saw Francis’s lips quirk up and nudged him. Hard.
“Hey,” he hissed. “Sharp elbow, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes quite wide and tipped her head in the direction of Miss Bingley, who was rising, a questioning expression on her face as she fixed her attention on Francis.
“Charmed,” her cousin said. Elizabeth frowned, and he shrugged a bit.
“And to what do we owe the pleasure, my lord?” Miss Bingley asked, nonplussed. “Would you care to join us upstairs?”
“No, I thank you, Miss Bingley,” he replied. “I am only here to retrieve my cousin.”
Miss Bingley paled, her lips parting slightly.
She cast a quick, desperate look first at Mr. Darcy, who shook his head once, then did the same with Mr. Fitzwilliam, who rolled his eyes.
Her vision then landed on Elizabeth, her face frozen with shock, a red spot appearing on each cheek and beginning to spread.
“You should speak to Jane, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth instructed the stunned woman.
“Perhaps your brother’s match has hidden benefits.
” Thinking that there was simply not enough time for a more complete explanation, she touched Francis’s arm.
“We really must be leaving.” She bobbed a quick, shallow curtsey for Miss Bingley.
“I thank you for your hospitality. It was a lovely ball. Good night.”
Elizabeth fidgeted as the carriage pulled away from Netherfield, a maid perched next to her.
Normally Elizabeth would have held a conversation, even if a brief one, to learn the girl’s name and inquire after her family, but she could not.
She could sense Francis observing her, but she could not help growing sick with anxiety for Aunt Olivia.
She has had an attack. Had the night not been so cold, even in Francis’s fancy closed carriage and with the heated bricks she knew were likely being readied at her father’s house, she might have considered heading to London in her ball gown and dancing slippers.
She might even have mounted Kensington and ridden there herself.
“Do not get any wild ideas about riding to London, Lizzy,” Francis grumbled from the other bench.
“Even after a two-year absence from your company, I know how your mind works. Your aunt would skin me alive, and my father would finish the job. Even my gentle wife might have a go at me.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I should remind you that your betrothed would not be able to ride with you in the carriage if you mounted your mare and rode away like a heroine in one of those terrible novels my wife loves.”
“Your wife loves them. Truly?“ Elizabeth replied, knowing he was attempting to divert her, but willing to allow it.
“Of course,” he responded. It was dark in the carriage and she could not see his face. “When I read them, it is research.”
“Research,” Elizabeth scoffed. She was quiet for a moment but could not resist. “I shall be sorry I inquired, I know, but whatever would you be researching?” Her nausea began to ebb.
“The female mind,” he parried, and she knew he must be grinning. “It is ever a mystery to me, but I do find that these novels open up an entirely feminine world of intrigue and swooning.”
“Intrigue and swooning,” she repeated, rubbing her forehead and willing the throbbing to subside. “Francis, you can be such a ninny.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, triumphant.
She laughed softly. “Thank you, Francis.”
His words were affectionate, though all he said was “Of course.”
She leaned forward, now able to see his eyes in a shaft of light from the lanterns outside. “Now I should like to hear about Aunt Olivia. What exactly happened?”
Francis frowned. “I was not there, but His Grace said that Olivia had trouble with her breathing and complained of her heart.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. Remain calm. “Was this all?”
“The worst of it, yes. She mentioned a numbness in her fingers, and His Grace mentioned that there were some spasms in her hands.”
Elizabeth drew a deep breath and forced her eyelids open. “Yet she is resting now and appears well?”
“When I left her, she was much recovered,” Francis reiterated, “but adamant that I retrieve you.”
Elizabeth thought of another question to ask but was stopped by a sudden swerve of their carriage to the left.
She and Francis hit the side of the coach, and the maid was forced against her.
Another carriage, less grand than their own but still rather expensive, swept past without stopping, traveling at a speed that was unsafe even during daylight.
The maid immediately began to apologize as she swiftly returned to the other side of the bench, but Elizabeth assured her there was no need.
“This particular stretch of road has become increasingly dangerous in the past weeks,” she said, her mind still with her aunt. “Let us hope they arrive at their destination safely.”
Francis was indignant. “If we were not in such a hurry, I should catch them up myself and insist on an explanation.”
Elizabeth watched the landmarks as they traveled past. “We are nearly to Longbourn, Francis,” she said. “Let us not waste any time.”
Darcy and Richard made their apologies to Miss Bingley, who remained where she was as they hurried upstairs to change out of their formal attire.
Darcy burst into his chambers, where Hanson had already laid out a nightshirt and banyan.
His features registered surprise that his master had come upstairs so early; by the time Darcy began rooting about for trousers and grabbed his newly polished boots, the young man’s expression had regained its accustomed coolness.
“Sir,” the valet asked, “may I assist you?”
“I have received an urgent summons to London, Hanson,” Darcy said, removing a clean cravat from a drawer. “My cousin and I are leaving immediately. Get some rest tonight. You should follow with our things tomorrow.”
Hanson nodded, but passed a critical eye over the items his master was hurriedly tossing on.
He reached into the closet where he had hung Darcy’s coats and selected one from the group.
Then he chose a waistcoat in just as decisive a manner.
He selected a shirt more suited to travel than a ballroom.
Then, without further conversation, he helped Darcy dress.
He tied his employer’s cravat in a simple, neat knot, then disappeared into another room and reappeared with his master’s hat and greatcoat, already brushed and ready to be worn.
“Thank you, Hanson,” Darcy grumbled, as he shook himself into the warm coat and grabbed the brim of the hat. “You will be expected at Grosvenor Square by the end of the day tomorrow.”
“Very good, sir,” the young man said, picking up the discarded clothes to put them away properly. Darcy dashed away.
Richard was waiting, already dressed for a cold ride.
As Darcy joined him, they heard a single furious howl of frustration from the direction of a family sitting room at the far end of the hall, followed by what sounded like the word unbelievable.
The men exchanged grimaces, and as they reached the top of the main stairs, they heard a door open.
Richard turned to see who it was, and though Darcy was sure he already knew, he remained with his cousin.