Chapter Two The Art of Righteous Indignation #2
Instead, she collided with a solid, broadcloth-clad wall.
There was a muffled "Oof!" of surprise, and then a pair of strong arms came around Jane, steadying her, holding her upright with remarkable reflex speed.
"Steady on!" a male voice laughed—a rich, warm sound that cut through the street noise. "I know I am irresistible, madam, but usually ladies wait for an introduction before throwing themselves at me."
Jane gasped, regaining her footing and pulling back, her face flushing a brilliant, horrified crimson. "Oh! Oh, my goodness! I am so terribly sorry, Sir! I did not see—I stumbled—please forgive me!"
Elizabeth looked up at her sister's saviour.
He was a tall man in his early thirties, with dark hair swept back in a fashionably windswept style and eyes that crinkled at the corners.
He was dressed with a casual elegance that spoke of immense wealth worn lightly.
He held a stack of books in one hand, but his other hand was still hovering near Jane's elbow, as if to ensure she didn't topple over again.
And he was staring at her.
He was staring at Jane as if he had been walking through a desert for forty years and had just stumbled upon an oasis of cool water. His mouth was slightly open. The teasing glint in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated wonder.
"I..." he started, then stopped. He cleared his throat. "You... bumped into me."
"I was clumsy," Jane stammered, looking ready to die of mortification. "I was avoiding those young men and I—"
"Do not apologize," the stranger said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Please. Bump into me again. Do it as often as you like. I shall stand here all day if it ensures a repeat performance."
Elizabeth, having reached them, stepped quickly to Jane's side, her protective instincts flaring. She took Jane's arm, ready to drag her sister away from this rake who was flirting so openly on a public street.
"My sister offers her apologies, Sir," Elizabeth said crisply, her eyes flashing. "And we thank you for your assistance. Come, Jane."
The stranger blinked, tearing his gaze away from Jane to look at Elizabeth. He smiled—a slow, devastatingly charming smile that probably caused swoons in drawing rooms across Mayfair.
"And a defender, too," he mused. "Double the danger. I am clearly outmatched."
"Robert?" a familiar, deep voice rumbled from behind the stranger. "Why are you blocking the pavement? We are attracting a—"
The voice stopped dead.
Elizabeth froze. She knew that voice. She knew that baritone. It was the voice of judgment. It was the voice of arrogance. It was the voice of the man who had called her "tolerable."
Slowly, dread curling in her stomach like a cold snake, Elizabeth looked past the charming stranger.
Standing there, holding a brown paper parcel against his chest as if it were a shield, was Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.
For a moment, time simply ceased to function. The roar of London faded into a dull buzz, leaving only the small, frozen tableau on the pavement outside Hatchards.
Mr Darcy looked... well, he looked as if he had just seen a ghost. A ghost he had been actively trying to exorcise.
His face, usually a mask of impassive boredom, was slack with shock.
His eyes were wide, fixed on Elizabeth with an intensity that was almost frightening.
He had gone very pale, which made the dark circles under his eyes stand out starkly.
Beside him stood a young girl—hardly more than sixteen—wrapped in a grey pelisse. She looked from Darcy to Elizabeth and back again, her expression shifting from confusion to a dawning, delighted realization.
And between them all stood the charming stranger—Robert, the voice had called him—still looking at Jane as if she were a religious revelation.
"Mr Darcy," Elizabeth said. Her voice was flat. Cold. It was the sound of a judge passing sentence.
"Miss... Miss Elizabeth," Darcy croaked. He cleared his throat, straightening his spine instinctively, though he didn't let go of his parcel. "And Miss Bennet."
"You know them?" the stranger asked, looking at Darcy. "Fitzwilliam, you know these divine creatures?"
"We are acquainted," Darcy said stiffly. "From Hertfordshire."
"Hertfordshire!" The stranger turned back to Jane, his grin returning with blinding force. "The land of fine eyes! I should have known. I should have packed my bags and moved there immediately."
Jane, who was still recovering from her near-fall, managed a shaky curtsy. "Mr Darcy. It is a surprise to see you."
"Indeed," Darcy said. He seemed incapable of forming complex sentences. He was staring at Elizabeth again.
Elizabeth met his gaze head-on. She channelled every ounce of her anger into that look.
She thought of Bingley's abandonment. Jane's tears.
His haughty dismissal of her beauty. She narrowed her eyes, communicating a message that clearly said: I loathe you, and if I could set you on fire with my mind, you would currently be ash.
Darcy flinched. Actually flinched. He looked down at his boots, then at the parcel in his arms, looking for all the world like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the sweet jar.
"This is unexpected," Mrs Gardiner said, stepping forward.
Her voice was calm, but Elizabeth, who knew her aunt well, heard the sharp note of curiosity.
Mrs Gardiner was surveying the group—the terrified Darcy, the smitten stranger, the sweet-faced girl—with the calculation of a general assessing the enemy lines.
"Quite," Elizabeth said. "We were just going into the shop. If you will excuse us."
"Wait!" The young girl stepped forward. She looked at Darcy, waiting for him to speak, but seeing he was currently useless, she turned to Elizabeth. Her voice was shy but eager. "You must be Miss Elizabeth Bennet. My brother has spoken of you."
Elizabeth's gaze softened slightly as she looked at the girl. She saw the family resemblance immediately—the same dark eyes, the same noble brow—but where Darcy was hard granite, this girl was soft watercolour.
"I am," Elizabeth said more gently. "And you must be Miss Darcy."
"Yes," she replied, offering a tentative smile. "I am so pleased to meet you. Finally."
"Finally?" Elizabeth arched a brow, shooting a glance at Darcy. "I was under the impression Mr Darcy found our acquaintance in Hertfordshire... negligible."
Darcy made a sound that sounded like a strangled cat. "I never—that is—Miss Elizabeth, I—"
"He talks of nothing else," the stranger interrupted cheerfully. "He is a bore about it, truly."
"Robert!" Darcy hissed.
"What? It is the truth. Honesty is a virtue, Cousin." The stranger turned his full, beaming attention to Elizabeth and Jane. "Ladies, since my cousin has apparently lost the power of speech and his manners, allow me to salvage the reputation of the family."
The stranger swept into a bow that was flamboyant, elegant, and entirely mocking of the very concept of bowing.
"I am Robert Fitzwilliam," he announced, straightening up and flashing teeth that were far too perfect. "Viscount Keathley. Older, wiser, and significantly more charming cousin to this statue here. And you are?"
"This is my sister, Miss Jane Bennet," Elizabeth said, gesturing to Jane, who had recovered her composure enough to look lovely and demure. "And I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet. And this is our aunt, Mrs Gardiner."
"Mrs Gardiner," Robert bowed to her. "You have excellent taste in nieces."
"I have excellent taste in most things, my Lord," Mrs Gardiner replied smoothly, not intimidated in the least.
"Miss Bennet," Robert turned back to Jane, his voice softening again. "I must thank the cobblestones of Piccadilly. If you had not tripped, I might have walked past without stopping, and that would have been a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions."
Jane blushed again, a lovely rose colour dusting her cheeks. "You are too kind, my Lord. And I am grateful for your reflexes."
"I am at your service. Always. For falling, tripping, or general stumbling."
Darcy finally seemed to reboot his brain. He took a half-step forward, his face a mask of strained politeness. "Mrs Gardiner. I hope you are enjoying the festive season?"
"We are," Mrs Gardiner said. "Though we are here under somewhat... restorative circumstances." She glanced at Jane.
Darcy followed her gaze. He looked at Jane Bennet and saw the sadness behind her polite smile. He saw the lack of Bingley at her side. He saw the way she stood, beautiful but diminished.
Guilt flashed across his face. It was quick, but Elizabeth saw it.
Good, she thought. Feel it. Choke on it.
"I trust," Darcy said, his voice tight, "that your family in Hertfordshire is well?"
"They are well," Elizabeth said coldly. "Though my mother is much distressed by sudden departures and broken promises. But then, such things are common in society, are they not, Mr Darcy? One must learn to expect disappointment from those who lack the fortitude to follow their own hearts."
It was a direct hit. Darcy winced. Robert let out a low whistle, looking between them with glee.
"Ouch," Robert murmured. "Direct hit. Frigate sunk."
"We are keeping you from your shopping," Darcy said abruptly. He looked desperate to escape. He looked like a man who wanted to dig a hole in the pavement and bury himself in it. "Georgiana... Robert..."
"Oh, we are in no rush," Robert said airily. "Are we, Georgiana?"
"Not at all," Georgiana said. She looked at Elizabeth with large, hopeful eyes. "Perhaps... perhaps we might see you again? While you are in town?"
Elizabeth looked at the girl. She wanted to hate her. This was the girl Caroline Bingley wanted for her brother. This was the reason Jane was miserable. But looking at Georgiana Darcy—shy, sweet, and clearly trying to bridge a gap she didn't fully understand—Elizabeth found she couldn't do it.
"Perhaps," Elizabeth said, noncommittally. "We are in town for some time."
"Where are you staying?" Robert asked immediately.
"Gracechurch Street," Mrs Gardiner answered before Elizabeth could invent a lie. "In Cheapside."
Darcy stiffened. Robert didn't even blink.
"Cheapside!" Robert exclaimed. "Excellent. I have always said the air is better in the City. Less pretentious." He grinned at Darcy. "Come, Fitzwilliam. Say goodbye to the ladies. Stop clutching that parcel like it contains the crown jewels."
Darcy bowed. It was stiff, formal, and agonizing. "Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth. Mrs Gardiner."
He did not look at Elizabeth. He couldn't.
"Mr Darcy," Elizabeth returned, her voice cool.
She took Jane's arm, and with a nod to the Viscount and Miss Darcy, she steered her party towards the door of the bookshop.
As the bell chimed above them, Elizabeth glanced back.
They were still standing on the pavement. The Viscount was fixed at Jane's retreating back. Georgiana was watching the door with a wistful expression.
And Fitzwilliam Darcy was standing perfectly still, staring at the closed door of the shop, looking for all the world like a man who had just realized that his heart was not, in fact, dead—it was merely beating for a woman who despised him.
"Well," Mrs Gardiner said as the warmth of the shop enveloped them. "That was illuminating."
"He is a monster," Elizabeth hissed, shaking snow from her cloak.
"Which one?" Jane asked, looking dazed. "The Viscount seemed very pleasant."
"Mr Darcy! Did you see him? Arrogant, rude, stiff—"
"And," Mrs Gardiner added thoughtfully, picking up a copy of The Lady of the Lake, "looking as if he had seen a ghost. Curious."
Elizabeth frowned. "What?"
"Nothing," Mrs Gardiner smiled. "Let us look for books, Lizzy. I have a feeling this Christmas is going to be far more interesting than we anticipated."