Chapter Twenty-Six #2
A sigh escaped Elizabeth. “I imagined they would be, and I agree, they cannot be turned out. No matter what has been said, Mary is our sister. None of us would see her suffer.”
“Mama would. She is not pleased.” Jane smiled in the dim light filtering in through the scullery’s small window. “So much so, that she stood up for you. When Mr. Collins learned that I will be returning to Netherfield Park—”
“Oh, Jane, that is wonderful.” Elizabeth hugged her sister again, quickly. “I truly do believe you and Mr. Bingley are meant to be happy together. It is only the interference of Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy that has prevented that.”
“Neither of them kept Charles from telling me the truth about his uncles,” Jane pointed out, but with only faint asperity.
“Regardless, when Mr. Collins learned that I am returning to Netherfield Park, he said he and Mary must have our room, but Mama assured him that they would not be staying long and so there was no need to uproot you.”
“That would surprise me, if I could not guess that Mama simply means to make their stay here unpleasant, so Mr. Collins will find a new position as quickly as possible.” If he could with a bishop turned against him.
“Well, whatever the reason, she is immovable on the matter.”
“That is good to know,” Elizabeth said, and mustered a smile for her sister.
With many hugs and well-wishes from Elizabeth and her sisters, Jane returned to Netherfield Park the following morning after breakfast, upon which Mr. Collins immediately renewed his pursuit of the larger bed chamber.
After hours of putting him off and a light, strained luncheon at which the row of flower-filled vases down the center of the table fortuitously blocked Mary and Mr. Collins from Elizabeth’s view, Mrs. Bennet ordered Mary and Mr. Collins into Mr. Bennet’s study.
There, she decreed, they could write letters inquiring for any prospect of a position and stay well away from her, her unmarried daughters, and anyone who might call.
Bemused to have her mother on her side for once, Elizabeth settled into the front parlor with a book she hoped might keep her from thinking about Fitzwilliam. Rather, Mr. Darcy, she chided. She must force her mind to regard him by his honorific and his surname, not his cousin’s.
The afternoon ticked on, Elizabeth having read very little by the time a knock sounded on the front door. One of the maids passed the parlor doorway, while Kitty and Lydia crowded into the window.
“That’s not more flowers,” Lydia said.
“Why would it be? Jane is no longer here.”
Lydia turned a frown on Kitty. “Because Mr. Bingley would already have ordered them. You are so simple.”
“I am not simple. You are simple.”
“Girls,” Mrs. Bennet snapped as a masculine voice rumbled in the entrance hall.
A voice that caused Elizabeth’s heart to halt mid-beat.
Their maid stepped into the doorway. “Mum, Mr. Darcy is asking if you are at home.”
Elizabeth’s heart decided to pick back up, triple time, dizzying.
“Which Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Bennet asked. “There are too many Mr. Darcys to keep track of.”
“Even one Mr. Darcy is too many, if he is going to raise our hopes and then dash them,” Kitty declared.
“I thought the first Mr. Darcy was the most fun. He insulted Lady Lucas’s hat, but it is the boring, serious Mr. Darcy.” Lydia huffed a sigh and plopped back down on the sofa, then added, “The one who is really Miss Darcy’s brother.”
“Is Miss Darcy with him?” Mrs. Bennet asked.
“I did not see her, but I never had the chance to ask if I may write to her. If he is her brother, I can ask him.”
Kitty joined Lydia on the sofa. “I will ask as well.”
“You always copy me.”
“I do n—”
“Show him in,” Mrs. Bennet said over Kitty and Lydia’s squabbling, then, “Girls, silence. Pinch your cheeks, Elizabeth. You look like a ghost.”
Elizabeth ignored that, but Kitty pinched cheeks already gone red from arguing with Lydia, causing white blotches to form.
“Mr. Darcy, mum,” the maid said as she and that gentleman appeared in the doorway.
Mr. Darcy…somehow taller, more brooding, and more handsome than Elizabeth recalled, and she recalled him as quite a bit of all three. Her heart gave a dangerous flutter as she stood to exchange greetings. She clenched that treacherous organ, for she did not esteem men who lied to her.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Bennet greeted. “How pleasant to see you again, and this time knowing you are you. Would you care for tea?”
“May I write to Miss Darcy?” Lydia cut in, stepping forward.
Kitty mimicked the movement. “I want to write to her as well.”
“You may if she wishes,” Mr. Darcy replied, then returned his attention to Elizabeth’s mother. “Mrs. Bennet, I thank you for the offer of tea, but I have come to ask Miss Elizabeth to walk with me.” Eyes like a tempest caught Elizabeth’s gaze.
“Elizabeth has been out of sorts.” Mrs. Bennet gestured. “Kitty is in lively spirits, and the fresh air does her so much good.”
“I am afraid it is Miss Elizabeth with whom I must speak, madam.”
“Well, then, Kitty and Lydia can follow—”
“There is no need, Mama,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Mr. Darcy and I will speak in the garden. We will not stray from sight of the windows. I will fetch my cloak.” Elizabeth dropped her gaze, not meeting Mr. Darcy’s as she strode past him.
She administered like treatment moments later when she returned to lead the way from the house.
Ignoring the arm he proffered, she marched to an open area set with a sundial and four cardinal benches.
When she reached the dial, she made a show of studying the afternoon shadow, her every nerve aware of Mr. Darcy halting behind her.
“I have come to apologize.”
His voice rumbled through her, full of worry, tugging at her. “For?”
“For deceiving you, and for putting you through the anguish of believing that I had become engaged to Miss Bingley, if you believed such?”
“If I believed such, you presume that would cause me anguish?” Anger sparked in Elizabeth. So he had seen her growing esteem for him. Seen it, and apparently counted her regard as worth little.
Coming around the sundial to face her, he said, “I would be lying if I did not admit to a hope that my engagement to another would pain you.”
“And you lying would be out of character in what way?”
He flinched as if struck. “I abhor pretense of any sort.”
“You will allow me to take that with a certain amount of skepticism, sir.”
His jaw worked, the muscles rippling. “I deserve that.”
“Indeed.”
Such torment filled his eyes, it hurt Elizabeth to meet them, but she had no intention of relenting. The man before her had lied about who he was for the better part of a month. Not only to her but the whole of Meryton. He had deceived her friends, her family, her entire community.
Her heart.
And for what? His safety?
No. Mr. Darcy, though obviously possessing faults, did not strike her as someone who would lie simply for his own safety. “Why did you do it?”
As always, he did not reply immediately, adopting that thoughtful expression that made her feel as if he truly considered her question. As if speaking his heart to her were of eminent importance. As if she mattered to him.
Or he simply sought time to conjure up a convincing lie.
“I did not know of the threat to me—” He broke off with a grimace. “I should confess first that the threat was one of murder, not abduction. Mr. Wickham offered ten thousand pounds for proof of my demise.”
“So I have since been informed.” She studied the hard plains of his face, seeking the truth there. “And you did not know?”
“Not until I arrived in Meryton. I had spent over a year ensconced in my estate, Pemberley, with Georgiana, trying to find some way to break her from her misery. I had no notion that Wickham had put out a reward for my demise.”
“You have left everything to your sister,” Elizabeth realized, pieces tumbling into place. “You have lost both of your parents. Miss Darcy is the closest family you have left, and she married Mr. Wickham.”
He flinched again. “You know that?”
“Miss Darcy told me.”
“Please tell me you did not share that information?”
Elizabeth eyed him. “Do I truly appear to you as someone who would share your sister’s greatest secret?” Before he could reply, she gave a bitter laugh. “Obviously, I do, for if you had any faith in me, any trust, we would not be in this predicament.”
“You believe that is why I did not tell you the truth,” he said slowly. “You think that I do not trust you.”
She thought precisely that, but it stung to hear the words leave his mouth. Elizabeth drew back her shoulders. “What other reason is there?”
“This.” His sweeping gesture encompassed them both. “I did not tell you at first because Richard convinced me of the necessity of his plan and of the folly of attempting to derail his mission, but later, it was because I could not bear to see the very betrayal that is even now upon your face.”
“So you planned what? Never to tell me?” Why must he appear so bereft?
So miserable? She was the one who had been wronged.
Her hand twitched, longing to reach for him.
To smooth the lines of anguish from his face.
“I met with you, spoke with you, and permitted a certain amount of esteem for you to enter my thoughts, and all the while I did not even know your name. I believed I was…was coming to hold affection for you, when in truth I know nothing about you.”
“My name may have been a ruse, but none of my actions were. Nothing about me was.” He drew in a deep breath. “Please permit me to begin anew. To call on you as Mr. Darcy.”