Chapter 35 #2
The party dispersed with quiet efficiency—Georgiana and Elizabeth together, the ladies to their own preparations.
Darcy followed Richard down the hall towards the study.
He had always hated this room at Rosings.
It had been decorated in the typical garish style that Lewis de Bourgh had so favored.
After his death, Lady Catherine had attempted to redecorate a few rooms, but the change triggered an attack of nerves in Anne so fierce that Lady Catherine was forced to leave things as they were.
Richard pushed the door open and strode in without hesitation.
“Well,” he said, casting a glance around as he went to the sideboard, “if ever a room deserved to be set ablaze for the sake of improvement, it is this one.”
Darcy allowed himself the faintest huff of agreement. “You would have to consult its present mistress—or your future bride—before undertaking such a project.”
Richard poured two glasses. “I should sooner face the French again.”
Darcy took the offered drink.
Richard leaned one shoulder against the sideboard, studying him with open amusement. “So,” he began, “shall we speak of the blissful state of matrimony? You seemed to be enjoying—”
“Richard.”
The single word was quiet, but it was enough.
Richard stopped. For a moment, something like surprise flickered across his face. Then it vanished, replaced by something more thoughtful.
“My apologies,” he said, more soberly. “I seemed to have forgotten all of my manners on the battlefield. I meant no disrespect, to you or to Mrs. Darcy.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “It is quite alright. I am accustomed to it.”
Richard gave a small, wry smile. “I know you were often mocked for it. At Cambridge, in Town—your principles. Your… restraint.”
Darcy said nothing.
“But I never joined in,” Richard continued. “I may not have shared your views, but I admired them. Still do.”
He lifted his glass slightly. “And I suspect you are the happier man for them.”
Darcy studied him more closely now. There was something beneath the lightness, something quieter.
“Are you certain of what you have chosen?” Darcy asked.
Richard’s mouth curved slightly. “You mean marrying Anne, I presume?”
“Yes. You have always enjoyed society. Movement. Freedom. Anne… does not.”
Richard set his glass aside, folding his arms loosely. “You fear I shall feel confined.”
“I fear,” Darcy said carefully, “that you may not fully comprehend what such a life would be like. And that she—” he paused, choosing his words, “—may be further distressed by the married state and all that entails.”
Richard was silent for a moment.
Then he took a slow breath.
“I have seen men like her before,” he said.
Darcy frowned slightly. “In what way?”
“Men who return from battle uninjured in body,” Richard said quietly, “and yet cannot bear to cross a room. Or step outside. Or endure the press of voices.”
His gaze grew distant.
“It is not cowardice. It is not weakness. It is… something else. Something that takes hold and does not easily release.”
Darcy watched him closely.
“I have seen what helps,” Richard continued. “And what does not. What drives them further inward—and what allows them, sometimes, to take a step back toward the world.”
He gave a faint, humorless smile. “I do not flatter myself that I can cure her. But I think… I may understand her. Better than most.”
His voice trailed off, and his eyes glazed over. Darcy watched as his cousin stared into the fireplace, the flames dancing in his eyes. Richard was there, but he seemed to also be somewhere else.
“Was it that bad, then?”
Richard uttered a short, humorless snort. “Worse than you could possibly imagine.”
The words settled heavily between them. For once, Darcy did not know what to say. He had always been the elder cousin, the one to give advice, to provide guidance. But all he could think to say was, “I am so sorry.”
Richard pushed away from the sideboard, poured himself another measure, and drank it down in a single swallow.
“It is done,” he said, more briskly. “Behind me. And if Anne and I may find some measure of peace together—then I shall call it a fortunate outcome.”
He glanced at Darcy, a faint edge of his usual humor returning. “Rosings offers a far more comfortable alternative to the battlefield, in spite of its ghastly decor.”
Darcy allowed the hint of a smile. “That it does.”
“And Anne…” Richard added, more quietly, “Anne deserves someone who will not try to force her into a world she cannot endure.”
Darcy inclined his head. “That is reason enough.”
Richard looked at him, and for a moment, something like relief crossed his face. “Then you do not think me a complete fool?”
“Not entirely,” Darcy said.
Richard laughed softly. “High praise indeed.”
Darcy set his glass aside. “You will not face it alone,” he said simply. “Whatever is required—whatever assistance you may need—you have only to ask.”
Richard met his gaze, and this time the gratitude in his expression was unguarded. “Thank you.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then, as though unwilling to let the weight linger too long, Richard gave a small shake of his head.
“Well,” he said, lighter once more, “we had best turn our attention to more immediate concerns. Namely—my own impending doom.”
Darcy allowed the faintest hint of amusement to return. “I believe you entered into it willingly.”
“That I did. Well, given that there is no turning back now, I propose we do it as soon as possible and marry tomorrow. What good is a special license if I never use it?”
Darcy’s brow lifted. “I believe the misuse would be in failing to appear.”
“A fair point,” Richard said. “Then let us ensure I am present, properly dressed, and at least moderately respectable.”
Darcy nodded.
And with that, they turned to the practical arrangements of the day ahead.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth sat in the library, a book open in her hands and not a single word of it truly read.
She had meant what she had said the day before. She was not offended—how could she be? The account of Anne’s distress had been explanation enough. If her absence ensured the bride’s comfort, then it was a small sacrifice indeed.
Still…
It was a strange thing, to be so near a wedding and yet entirely removed from it.
The house felt different—quieter in some ways, and yet filled with a kind of restrained movement she could not quite see. Doors opening and closing. Distant footsteps. The occasional murmur of voices carried faintly through the corridors.
Elizabeth turned a page.
Then turned it back again.
She had not taken in a single sentence.
The sunlight streaming through the tall windows drew her attention instead. It fell in bright, golden swathes across the carpet, across her skirts, across the very book in her lap until the words seemed to blur beneath it.
She shifted in her chair, and her legs—quite traitorously—ached. Not with discomfort, but with restlessness.
When is the last time I took a good walk?
It had been days since she had climbed to Oakham Mount back in Hertfordshire. Days since she had felt the air on her face, the steady rhythm of movement, the quiet clarity that always came with it.
She closed the book.
Surely… a short walk could do no harm.
If she avoided the front of the house—if she remained out of sight—
Her decision was made almost before she had finished the thought.
Elizabeth rose, smoothing her gown, and slipped quietly from the library.
She made her way down the back stairs, choosing the less frequented passageways, until she reached the kitchen corridor. A servant looked up in visible surprise as she passed.
“Miss—Mrs.—” the girl faltered.
Elizabeth smiled. “Pray do not be alarmed. I merely wished to take a little air, and I did not wish to disturb the wedding.”
The maid blinked, then bobbed a quick curtsy as Elizabeth continued on.
She slipped out through the kitchen door and into the open air.
The warmth struck her at once.
For December, it was astonishingly mild—the sun bright, the sky clear, the air fresh without being sharp. Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment as though she might drink it in.
“Oh,” she murmured softly. “How I have missed this.”
She took a few tentative steps—and then, unable to help herself, quickened her pace.
Yes.
This had been needed.
She walked without direction at first, simply following the line of the house, keeping to the gardens at the side where she would not be seen from the drawing room windows. The gravel crunched softly beneath her feet, the movement settling something restless within her.
For the first time in days, she was alone.
Completely alone.
The quiet made room for thought.
Papa.
She slowed slightly.
How could he have done what he did? To drug her? To take her away? To force her to marry someone other than Darcy, to marry a stranger.
Elizabeth’s hand tightened faintly in her skirts.
It did not make sense.
Unless—
No. She stopped herself. She would not untangle it here. Not like this. Not now.
She reached the far end of the garden and turned around, facing the house. Rosings loomed above her, and she wondered how long they would remain there.
A movement near the front caught her attention, and she watched as the parson put his hat on his head and began to talk down the path.
It was done, then.
Richard and Anne were married.
A small, genuine smile touched her lips. She turned back toward the house, intending to return before her absence could be discovered. Darcy, she knew, would soon be in search of her.
She had almost reached the servants’ door at the kitchens through which she had made her escape, when a sudden sound gave her pause: the crunch of wheels upon gravel.
Elizabeth froze. A carriage coming up the drive was not unusual, but an odd sense of unease settled over her. Something in her chest tightened, and she hurried back to the front of the house, watching in dismay as a familiar carriage came into view.
Her breath caught. No. It cannot be.
Horror-struck, she watched as it rolled to a halt before the steps. The door opened, and a man stepped down.
She gasped.
“Papa!”