Chapter 16
Sixteen
After spending the better part of two days drinking himself into oblivion, Darcy felt rather the worse for wear.
It was past ten o’clock when he dragged himself out of bed that morning, and every step of his ablutions, every jostle of his aching head while he dressed, made him long to bury himself within the protection of his bedclothes again.
Alas, Fitzwilliam would not allow it. The dear colonel—who sank in Darcy’s estimation with every hearty slap on the back and word of encouragement—had laid siege to his bedchamber and roused him without taking any quarter.
After wrenching open the bedcurtains to a painfully bright morn, he had then stolen Darcy’s covers and tossed them into the arms of his cousin’s startled valet.
Cursing and shouting at him had done naught but encourage him to grab Darcy by the ankle and bodily haul him from the mattress while Bailey, still burdened by a tangle of linens, squawked in indignation as his master landed on the floor in a disgruntled heap.
“Up, up, up!” cried the colonel, his face wreathed in a mad grin. “Today is a new day, Darcy m’boy, and you are forbidden from missing it.”
Darcy groaned and rolled onto his stomach, hiding his face from the sunlight streaming in through his bedroom windows.
Where was the blasted London fog that was supposed to dull everything?
It was either entirely absent or not serving its purpose, for the light stabbed him violently in his left eye.
“What the devil is wrong with you?”
“Me? You are the one who looks positively ill.”
“All the more reason to let me remain abed!”
Fitzwilliam’s rusty chuckle was yet another irritant to Darcy’s sensitive hearing. “And miss this beauteous day? I think not, Cousin. It is time to get up, make yourself presentable, and win back your lady love.”
Mention of Elizabeth caused Darcy’s heart to constrict. He moaned in a fashion some would call piteous but his pride would declare merely agonised. “It is too soon. She will not see me.”
“Balderdash. I expect you downstairs at the breakfast table in half an hour. If you do not arrive punctually, I shall come back in here to drag you there myself. Bailey, make sure to give him your strongest powders, eh?”
The valet mumbled some sort of agreement while Fitzwilliam’s footsteps clumped away. By the time Darcy heard the door shut behind his meddling cousin, Bailey was hauling him off the floor with apologies.
Once Bailey—the traitor—had made him presentable, Darcy had just enough time to make his way down to the breakfast parlour without incurring Fitzwilliam’s questionable aid.
The footman on duty opened the door to his cousin seated across the table from Bingley.
While the former tucked into a hearty meal such as his cook was famed for, the latter was just lifting a cup of steaming coffee to his lips.
When Bingley spotted Darcy, however, he set the beverage aside and greeted him in his usual cheerful fashion. “Good morning! I say, you look far better than your cousin said you would.”
Fitzwilliam guffawed and stuffed a piece of sausage into his open gob.
While still chewing—a disgusting habit he must have picked up from the army, for his mother, the celebrated Countess of Matlock, would not have stood for it—he said, “I daresay anything is a vast improvement to how I found him. Heartsickness combined with strong drink makes a man appear half dead.”
“Too true,” was Bingley’s sage concurrence. “I am sure I looked a fright myself only a month ago.”
“As flattering as your running commentary is,” Darcy said, gingerly lowering himself into a chair next to Bingley, “I feel it incumbent upon me to ask what the pair of you are plotting. I sense a conspiracy afoot.”
“Less a conspiracy and more an intervention,” said Fitzwilliam, pouring him a cup of coffee. The aroma indicated that it was likely to be quite strong, an assumption borne out by Darcy’s first gratified sip. So far, it was the only palatable thing the colonel had done for him all morning.
“We are here to help, my friend,” said Bingley, ever the peacemaker. “It is time you spoke to Lizzy and put this awful business behind you.”
Darcy scoffed. “What makes you think she will admit my presence? She tossed me out on my arse less than two days ago.”
“She has had ample time to cool off since then. Surely she will hear you out now.”
Shaking his head at his friend’s undeserved optimism, Darcy replied, “You do not know Elizabeth. She does not easily forgive and forget.”
“If you mean that silly nonsense from the assembly, do recall that you were strangers then and she had no understanding of your true character to ameliorate your hasty judgments,” said Bingley.
“Furthermore, she was entirely willing to forgive you after you apologised. All she requires are a few words of contrition, and I am sure she will be magnanimous again.”
Darcy cupped his forehead in his palm and leant forwards to prop himself up on the point of his elbow. “That was different. Then, I merely wounded her vanity. This time, I have abused her trust. She is well within her rights to hate me forever.”
“Oh, do not be so maudlin, Cousin, it does not become you,” said the colonel, jabbing his fork in Darcy’s direction. “If your Elizabeth were such an uncompromising harridan, you would not be half so in love with her as you are. Give her a little more credit.”
Bingley seconded this notion, adding, “If Jane and I can let bygones be bygones, I do not see why Lizzy cannot. She is hurt, it is true, but the best palliation for it is a swift and sincere apology.”
Darcy sank back into his chair, his arms falling limply into his lap. “I would not wish to impose myself upon her after she so loudly demanded my absence. I would go in a moment if I were certain she wished to see me.”
“As to that,” said Bingley, leaning towards him, “I have heard from Jane that Lizzy regrets the…er…acrimony of your last parting and hopes to make at least some sort of amends. I am sure if you were to go to her, she would not turn you away.”
Darcy’s heart gave a tentative flutter. “Are you certain?”
Shrugging, Bingley replied, “Nothing is certain with women, but I have been reasonably assured that rapprochement is at least possible. I have been sent here to collect you for our usual visit by my lovely betrothed, who is anxious to see her sister happy again. Fitzwilliam was kind enough to wake you for me.”
His cousin winked at him from across the table before taking a mouthful of coddled egg.
Darcy turned back to Bingley, shamefully cheered by his friend’s news. “Elizabeth has been unhappy?”
“Miserable, in fact. She took to her bed after dismissing you and has been rather ill ever since. She is in no danger,” Bingley assured him when the panic apparently began to show on his face, “but it is clear enough that she is as affected by the situation as you. If not for yourself, will you please come for Lizzy’s sake? ”
There was really nothing for it. If Bingley said Elizabeth was suffering on his account, Darcy must and would do anything to alleviate it. He stood abruptly, nearly toppling his chair in the process. “Of course. Come, Bingley, do not dawdle!”
Chuckling, Bingley set aside his beverage and stood, allowing Darcy to hurry him from the room.
Fitzwilliam called out to their retreating backs, “I shall remain here with spirits at the ready for either celebration or commiseration.”
After a heartfelt conversation over tea and toast with Mrs Bennet, Elizabeth determined she was well enough to rejoin the household.
Thus, following a liberal dose of headache powders, she donned proper clothing—a dusky pink gown Darcy had once confided was one of his favourites, just in case—and presented herself in her aunt’s parlour.
She was welcomed therein with gladness and gentle enquiries about her health by Mrs Gardiner and Jane, fussed over and made to sit by the fire by her mother, and even received some genuine commiseration from her youngest sisters.
Lydia was prone to difficult courses—as was presumed to be at the root of Elizabeth’s sudden ailment—and had all sorts of recommendations to share.
At length, the flurry of interest at Elizabeth’s reappearance ebbed away in favour of discussing Jane’s forthcoming nuptials and all the shopping they had yet to do.
One would think that her mother and sisters had not come back to the town house loaded down with innumerable parcels on Saturday, but apparently that bounty had been scavenged from only a single warehouse, and there were many yet to peruse.
“And Lizzy must come with us tomorrow, when she is feeling better,” declared Mrs Bennet as they made a fresh list. “She will need all of these things, too, soon enough.”
Elizabeth responded to her mother’s wink with a weak smile at this jovial hint. She could only hope it would be so but still anxiously doubted that Darcy would ever return to her. I surely do not deserve it after the way I acted.
The soft chime of the hour caused Elizabeth to start, and she turned to the parlour door out of habit. Were this any other Monday morn, Darcy would be crossing that threshold just about…
Although her attention remained keenly focused on the closed door for more than a minute, no one appeared there, Darcy or otherwise.
Her heart, which pounded against her ribcage with eager anticipation, slowed its rhythm as disappointment set in instead.
Of course he will not come after the way you cast him out, was her miserable conclusion.
A muffled commotion out in the front hall drew Elizabeth’s eye back to the parlour door. After a moment of heart-pounding silence, it opened to admit first Bingley, then—
Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her mouth to prevent her gasp from escaping.
Darcy was there, just behind his friend, his gaze seeking her out.
When it found her, he stiffened, halting in place at the threshold.
Bingley made directly for Jane and the other ladies; she could just hear their nonsensical chatter over the throbbing pulse in her ears.
An eternity elapsed within the space of a few seconds wherein Elizabeth and Darcy were entirely still. It seemed, to her mind, that he would not move until invited inside, but she was just as frozen by indecision as he.
With some effort, far more than it ought to have taken, Elizabeth managed to stretch her lips into a wavering smile. Darcy’s shoulders eased slightly downwards, and he at last stepped into the parlour.
“Why, Mr Darcy!” cried Mrs Bennet. “How good of you to visit, sir, for we have missed your company. Have we not, girls?”
Kitty and Lydia exchanged an incredulous glance before bursting into giggles.
Darcy seemed taken aback by this friendly greeting and mumbled something indistinct in response. His attention flickered to Mrs Bennet for but a moment, however, before it returned to Elizabeth.
Slowly, steadily, he made his way towards her until he was standing directly before her chair. He cleared his throat. “Miss Elizabeth, I…I wonder whether you would care to take a turn with me in the garden? It is shaping up to be a pleasant day.”
Was it? Elizabeth glanced towards the window and discovered that he was correct. It was not likely to be terribly warm, but the sun was out, and a few birds could be heard twittering a merry tune.
Before Elizabeth could answer him, Mrs Bennet exclaimed, “What a fine notion! Lizzy is a great walker, you know, and takes every opportunity to be out of doors. How thoughtful you are, sir.”
Darcy’s eyes again darted to Mrs Bennet, his expression somewhat wary. “Of course. Miss Elizabeth’s penchant for nature is well known.”
“Go on, then, Lizzy.” Mrs Bennet waved her handkerchief at her second daughter, eyes wide in silent demand. “Show Mr Darcy the garden.”
Jane and Mrs Gardiner added their voices to the scheme, and even Lydia spoke up to say, “And do not hurry back on our account,” with a sly tilt to her mouth. Only Kitty, too busy coughing after her sudden burst of laughter, did not urge her out of the door.
Not that Elizabeth meant to allow this opportunity to pass. She turned back to Darcy and hoarsely replied, “I would be delighted, sir.”
She held out her hand, willing him to take it, and blessedly he did. Warmth infused his features as he assisted her to her feet. “Lead the way.”