Chapter Twenty-Four
Though weary, Darcy was in a much more pleasant mood than the last time he’d journeyed from Scotland to Pemberley.
He’d secured the second document acknowledging his sister’s union with Wickham, and now both were no more than ash.
Georgiana would, certainly, need to reveal the truth to any serious suitor, but Darcy had high hopes that they had contained her folly well enough that she would be free to move in society.
To be like any other young woman and meet a gentleman who cared enough for her to overlook such a serious error, rather than be shunned and be beset by desperate men who knew she had little choice if she wished to wed.
Darcy looked forward to giving his sister the happy news when next he saw her.
Perhaps it would help her forgive him for keeping Wickham’s final days from her.
He did not journey straight to London, however, nor even yet to Hertfordshire, but rather to Derbyshire.
He must, after all, travel south, and taking the western route would add little time to the journey.
Why stay in an inn on his way, when he could spend a night in his home?
Furthermore, he longed for a day in his beloved Pemberley.
A day unmarred by threat of Wickham’s continued extortion or by Georgiana hovering about like a melancholy wraith.
Guilt did touch Darcy regarding his relief over the lack of both, for George was dead and Georgiana had every right to her misery, but could not dampen his mood.
Darcy felt as if he’d been caged, trapped, for months upon months, and finally the catch was sprung and he was free.
After a day’s rest, he would return to Hertfordshire, where he could put right the misconception that he was Richard, and beg for Elizabeth’s forgiveness.
Worry niggled on that count, for she possessed considerable right to be angry with him, but he had done nothing she would not comprehend once he explained.
All would be right between them, he would be able to court her properly, and, assuming that went well, he would take her to wife.
That happy thought in mind, he made his way down to the private parlor he’d secured for his morning meal, manfully resisting the urge to grin.
He’d been too long under dark clouds, first of his sister’s sorrow and Wickham’s evil, and then of the lie Richard had forced upon him.
It was a joy to be master of himself again.
Darcy sat to coffee and the paper, curious what day’s news the pages held.
On the journey to Scotland, the London paper, when even available, had gone backward in time, an older issue than the last available at each stop farther north.
Now that he traveled south again, that reversed, though he had yet to catch up to the day’s date and what was actually taking place in the world.
Still, the paper today should be newer than yesterday’s, which was something.
The one thing that had reached him, and with alacrity, was a letter from Lady Catherine.
Pausing in opening the paper, he once more contemplated the confusing missive.
His aunt had gone on for pages about how it did not matter what game he and Richard played, Darcy must return and wed Anne with all immediacy.
He had little idea of what Lady Catherine spoke, though he imagined it was another mess of Richard’s that would require tidying.
Uncertain precisely what had his aunt so riled, Darcy had replied that he did not play any game and would not marry his cousin Anne, no matter what arrangements Lady Catherine claimed she’d agreed on with his mother over a quarter of a century ago.
Shaking his head to dispel Lady Catherine’s bizarre accusations and unreasonable demands, Darcy opened the paper.
He idly paged through, sipping coffee and enjoying a thickly sliced, dark bread, intent on giving Patrick and his coachman time to breakfast, pack, and tack out the team without being rushed.
An extra half an hour in the morning little impacted the course of such a long journey, and they would still be on the road earlier than most.
Miss Caroline Bingley of—
Darcy’s gaze caught on the familiar name.
—has become engaged to the Honorable Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, second son of the Earl of Matlock, of—
Bread caught in Darcy’s throat, mid-swallow. Coughs racking him, he grabbed for his coffee and downed a swig.
So Richard truly had become enamored with Miss Bingley, and had asked for her hand, and the announcement was in the paper, and—
Elizabeth would see it.
Cup clattering to its saucer, Darcy surged to his feet. He was through the inn and into the courtyard in a blur. His carriage did, indeed, occupy the space before the stable, Patrick helping his coachman hitch the team.
“We must make all haste to Hertfordshire,” Darcy blurted.
“Sir?” Both men regarded him in surprise.
Realizing he clutched it still, Darcy thrust the paper at Patrick. He and his valet hadn’t discussed Elizabeth, but Patrick would know. He would understand, and Darcy could not form the words.
Scanning the page, Patrick murmured, “Oh dear.” He held the paper up for the coachman, tapping the listing.
The coachman’s eyes went wide. “We will have you there as quick as can be, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
He went to the carriage, wrenched open the door, and climbed inside.
It would be days before they reached Hertfordshire.
Days of Elizabeth believing he’d betrayed her.
Or, perhaps worse, of her having learned the truth from someone else, and be forming who knew what opinions of him.
Blasted Richard and his schemes.
Elizabeth sat at her dressing table, numb, as Kitty brushed out her dull tresses.
Mrs. Bennet had taken one look at Elizabeth when she came down that morning and said, ‘I know you are fretting over Colonel Fitzwilliam, as if you ever had a chance with him once Kitty declared her interest, but you are not standing up with your sister looking like that,’ and ordered Kitty to help Elizabeth with her hair.
“…cannot imagine what Jane is thinking, asking you to stand up with her when you are in such a state,” Kitty was saying as she worked.
“She should have someone pretty at her side, but not pretty enough to distract from her, which would normally be you, to be certain, but not in the state you are in now.” Kitty reached for several pins, sticking some in her mouth.
Mumbling around them, she continued, “So not Lydia. Obviously, it should be me.”
The window shook, the harsh gusts reminding Elizabeth that it was nearly December first. Whatever had happened to the import of that date?
The date Fitzwilliam said all threat to Mr. Darcy would end.
So odd, to have a specific date for attempted abductions to end…
and then for that date to apparently no longer matter.
Did the change have anything to do with Mr. Wickham’s death?
Elizabeth sighed. Not that it mattered. Nothing did, really.
“Stop sighing,” Kitty ordered, jabbing pins into Elizabeth’s hair. “It is Jane’s wedding day and you must be happy for her.”
“I am,” Elizabeth murmured. At least, somewhere beyond the numbness that froze her heart, she imagined she was.
“Then smile. Mama will only torment you if you do not.”
Elizabeth tried, unused muscles straining.
“Ugh. That is hideous. Never mind. Do not smile. Not if it looks like that.”
Elizabeth issued another sigh. In the mirror, Kitty raised her gaze heavenward in silent supplication and opened her mouth to speak.
The door banged open, Lydia barging in. “Are you done with Lizzy’s hair yet? Did you hear about the letter? Mama said to tell you to hurry. Papa and Jane are ready, and so am I, and Mama.”
“What letter?” Kitty asked. She pushed another pin into Elizabeth’s hair. “I am nearly done. Does she not look pretty?”
Elizabeth took in her stark white face and dull eyes. She looked about as pretty as someone recovering from brain fever.
“Her hair looks pretty,” Lydia allowed. “The letter from Mary. It arrived after you came up to do Lizzy’s hair. Mary and Mr. Collins are married and will soon reach Kent. She mailed it from London.”
“From London?” Kitty’s brow furrowed. “Would they not have passed through Hertfordshire on their way south? They could have visited.” Her gaze flicked to Elizabeth.
Lydia scrunched her nose. “Who would want them to?”
Elizabeth could only be grateful they had not.
She did not believe she could become more miserable than she already was, but if anything could make her so, it would be Mary and Mr. Collins.
Them, or Miss Bingley, who Elizabeth must soon face, for she would attend her brother’s wedding.
Elizabeth would see her, possibly come face to face with her…
the woman who had capriciously taken Fitzwilliam from her after signing away her right to pursue Mr. Darcy.
How Miss Bingley could be so cavalier with so many hearts, Elizabeth couldn’t fathom, but the thought of seeing her thawed some of the numbness around Elizabeth’s heart, in a blaze of anger.
And what if Fitzwilliam attended? Elizabeth hadn’t had the heart to ask Jane if he would, but he very well might.
If he’d traveled with urgency to Scotland and back, depending on his destination there, he could attend Jane’s wedding.
Not only could, but ought to. He was Mr. Bingley’s friend, after all.
Nearly his family, though Fitzwilliam and Miss Bingley were not yet wed.
They set a longer than usual engagement.
Rumor said they waited for everyone to be in Town.
That their wedding early next year would be the event of the season.
Elizabeth expected no less from Miss Bingley.
She had expected so very much more from Fitzwilliam.