Chapter 26 If I be Waspish, Beware of my Sting
“Mrs Darcy, there is a gentleman here to see you.”
Elizabeth’s hands flew to her hair. It was no use; the wind had pulled several locks from their pins, but it was impossible to mend without a mirror.
“Where is h—” The words died on her lips as she turned to address the maid. Mr Darcy was striding towards her with his coat billowing around his legs. The hair at the back of her neck rose to stand on end, her solar plexus hummed, and a knot formed in her throat.
“That is no gentleman!”
Her rage was instant and violent. The poor maid looked like she was about to have an apoplexy.
“You are excused and may return to the house,” she ordered the servant. She did not want anyone to witness the spectacle that was certain to follow.
Elizabeth was quite ready to offer the prig the set-down of his life.
Mr Darcy looked as if he had seen a ghost; all colour left his face, and his pointing finger trembled like a dry autumn leaf.
Did he believe she was a phantom, or a memory from a different time when they had been deliriously happy? He stood frozen before his outstretched finger touched her cheek. He flinched at the contact and recoiled several steps before he surged forwards to tower over her.
“It is really you,” he determined in a quivering voice. A thunderstorm brewed beneath his calm guise.
“Yes,” she admitted, though she would have preferred to lie. Lydia’s unfortunate situation was by no means resolved and would not be for several weeks, if not months.
“How could you!” Mr Darcy accused in a raised voice that slapped her like a whip.
Her husband’s colour returned tenfold. His cheeks and neck bloomed with angry shades of red.
“Very easily. You cannot proclaim to have acted as a gentleman should.”
Mr Darcy waved his hand like the air was filled with gnats.
“How could you leave me, without a word? First, I thought you dead at the bottom of the Serpentine, then that an accident had befallen you and you were lying injured and forlorn at an obscure and remote location. Why else would you not have the decency to send your husband the barest piece of civility, a note to confirm your wellbeing?”
Mr Darcy’s voice rose with every word. Elizabeth had not expected him to be outraged because she left but rather that he would be relieved to be rid of his irksome, inferior wife.
“I am sorry you thought me dead or injured. Did you not find my letter? Never mind. You were admonishing me for denouncing your status as a gentleman.”
“Do not be a fool,” Mr Darcy growled. “And for the love of God, do not test me because the performance would reflect no credit on either of us.”
That Mr Darcy was furious there could be no two opinions.
It was not directed precisely at her but at the circumstances.
She knew him well enough to know it was a fury born of fear.
He had seen her vulnerable to the scorn, subjected to the derision, and utterly at his mercy.
He is afraid of losing control, afraid of being vulnerable, afraid of being at my mercy because he has, to some extent, been at my mercy since the moment we met.
“You know why I left.” Elizabeth mellowed her voice to soft and breathy. “Had I not, Lydia would have been Mrs Wickham by now. I could not sacrifice my sister to that reprobate. You did not demand such a punishment of your own sister. I could not do less for mine.”
Mr Darcy recoiled as if she had slapped his face.
“You cannot deny that you did everything in your power to make Lydia marry a man who had forced the matter.”
“Firstly, both Lydia and Georgiana are our sisters!” Darcy growled, empowered by his rage. “Although there are similarities, you must admit that they differ vastly in disposition.”
“So, by your account, a woman of a vivacious nature is guilty of her own abduction and should expect to be abused in the basest of manners?”
Mr Darcy’s head snapped away from her, his lips pressed into a thin line. When he turned back, his expression had mellowed.
“Lydia entered Wickham’s conveyance willingly,” Mr Darcy argued.
“And Miss Darcy agreed to an elopement.”
Mr Darcy’s face paled a second time.
“How can you imply that only I was at fault? May I remind you that both Mr Bennet and Mrs Bennet were in perfect accordance with me.”
Elizabeth’s resolve wavered, assaulted by a peculiar sense of vertigo.
It was true. She held him to a higher standard than she did her own parents.
It was not because of his wealth and position but because he was the better man.
Her disappointment had, therefore, been much more profound when he did not make the effort.
“If the whole world were in accordance with you, it would not change my wish to save my sister.”
Mr Darcy stared at her with tempestuous eyes—dark like the clouds of a rainstorm—and her skin felt singed. But behind the gale directed at her, there was hurt. When she could no longer bear it, she lowered her eyes to his clenched fists, which reminded her of another matter in need of addressing.
“What have you to say for yourself in the matter of Judge Darcy? I overheard you and that vile uncle of yours discussing our divorce. Not to forget your abominable conversation about infanticide,” Elizabeth growled in disdain.
“It was not I who spoke those dastardly words!”
“No, it was Judge Darcy, but you did not gainsay him, and those who remain silent are consenting!”
“Not where Uncle Darcy is concerned. You can gainsay him all you want, but he never listens. It is better to let him speak and then forget all about it. Though I did not remain silent in this instance. If you had eavesdropped a while longer, you would have heard me curse him to the devil for his preposterous suggestions.”
“I do not believe you.” Elizabeth searched his face for signs of subterfuge but found nothing but earnestness in his expression.
“Why would I travel the continent to find you if I wanted to divorce you? I could have continued none the wiser if I truly wanted you out of my life.”
“Then why are you so enraged?”
“A man who felt less might have held himself under better regulation,” Mr Darcy bellowed. “I am not that kind of man. My rage’s auxiliary strength is born out of fear and loss.”
Elizabeth studied her husband. The semicircles of shadow beneath his eyes were so dark they resembled bruises, and the red rims made his blue irises livid.
His face had a strained, blank look, and parentheses of fatigue bracketed his mouth.
Mr Darcy appeared as if he was contending with a significant amount of pain and desperation.
A shard of ice thawed in Elizabeth’s heart. She was not the only one who had suffered.
“Is this all the reply I might expect, after all the pain you have caused me for the last five weeks. A deafening silence?”
Mr Darcy closed the remaining gap between them, and for the first time, Elizabeth felt a shiver of intimidation running down her spine. His countenance was reddened in anger, his rigid stance loomed over her like a thundercloud, while his rapid breath tickled the ringlets around her face.
“Do you know how I discovered your absence?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Martha came running into my study, crying that you had drowned in the Serpentine.”
Well, that explained his earlier remark about her resting on the bottom of the river. His anger was better understood with this pertinent information.
“I waited for hours before the poor girl was brought to the rescue house and it was established that it was not you.”
“I am sorry you had to suffer that experience, but you know as well as I the incentive for my leave-taking. When left with the choice between inconvenience to me and to my sister, I shall always choose my family. But it is not only that which made me flee your company…”
“I may repeat to exhaustion that I do not want a divorce. Will you do me the honour of believing me in earnest?”
“I may have, if you had not mistaken me for Miss Bingley. In my own bed, I might add. Your disappointment on discovering it was your wife rather than your mistress made you shove me to the floor.”
Mr Darcy barked a laugh, then stared at her like a fish on land—wide eyed and mouth agape. An extremely uncomfortable minute elapsed where neither said a word.
“You are jealous of Miss Bingley?” Mr Darcy finally spoke, derision marring his handsome appearance.
Elizabeth did not deign to answer but pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest.
“That is ridiculous!”
His mocking tone unravelled her pent-up emotions into a volcano of ire.
She waved her hands and cried. “Why?” Planting her hands upon her hips, she approached him in the one step forward–two steps back dance in which they were engaged.
“Because Miss Bingley is a beautiful, accomplished woman of wealth.”
With each praise, she poked him in the chest. Mr Darcy stared at her impaling finger, but he did not retreat.
“Yes,” Mr Darcy agreed.
Elizabeth gasped, spun round, and marched away from the insufferable man. Moving further from the house and deeper into the garden, to escape the half-witted libertine, she managed quite a few angry steps before he followed. Idiot! Why can he not leave me in peace?
Mr Darcy grabbed her arm and halted her movement. She glared at the offending object arresting her.
“Will you let me finish?” His plea was delivered with jagged edges.
Elizabeth seriously contemplated disobeying, if only to prove her independence.
But her heart was not interested in disobedience—she remained as surely tied to him as if she were a puppet on a string.
His fingers trembled on her elbow, the uneven in-and-out of his breathing moved her, and she understood how difficult this was for him.
Safe! She admittedly was safe with him. She slowly closed her eyes and braced herself for whatever was to come.
“I suppose it is to Miss Bingley’s advantage that she is not subjected to the derision of the beau monde.”