Chapter 9
Mr Darcy. Here. In Brighton. Of all people and in all places!
The thought, and the consternation it brought with it, had not left Elizabeth’s mind for a single moment since meeting him.
Neither had her heart ceased rattling about in her chest, rendering the lively set she had just danced even more arduous.
Mr Denny returned her back to Mr Hartham out of breath and thirsty.
Mr Hartham handed her a glass of lemonade and smirked. “Poor Denny. I am sure he was trying his best to be entertaining. He cannot help it if he is as dry as a bone.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, I know he is a little dull, but you might have pretended to be amused.”
Elizabeth glanced regretfully at Mr Denny’s retreating back, then sighed. “I did not mean to be uncivil.”
“You mistake me, my dear. I do not accuse you of being uncivil—only inattentive.” With a smile that belied his words, he added, “It is my fault. I should not have obliged you to come.”
Indeed, he had rather forced her hand. She had left her house directly after her encounter with Lady Preston the previous day, determined not to be present when Mr Hartham returned to make arrangements for the ball.
He had not been so easily deterred, however, and had asked Mr Mullens where she was staying, then sent a note to the Millhouses’ residence, addressed to Mrs Gardiner, informing her that he would collect her niece at nine this evening.
It was a sneaky move, for once Elizabeth’s relations knew she had been invited to go out into society, there was no getting out of it.
Lady Preston had even volunteered herself as chaperon—though she was not paying much attention to anyone or anything beyond the punch bowl, as far as Elizabeth could tell.
Mr Hartham’s overbearing machinations had not vexed Elizabeth as much as they might have, however, for he had sent her a separate note of explanation.
Be not offended, madam, when I say that I have no interest in courting you.
I should, however, be eternally grateful if you would agree to attend Lady Rosse’s ball with me, for then I might appease my aunt, who is unlikely to give me a moment’s peace until she has seen me dance with at least one handsome lady.
Some might argue that I am not best qualified to judge this matter, but I have eyes, and therefore declare that you perfectly fit the bill.
In recompense for my underhandedness, I place myself in your debt until such time as I have repaid your kindness.
Amused, Elizabeth had resolved to come, certain that a ball in the company of such an eccentric gentleman would be the safest way to avoid all thoughts of Mr Darcy. It might have worked, had it not been for her encounter earlier that day.
“I am sorry, Mr Hartham. I am unpardonably preoccupied. I…well, I saw someone earlier today, a former acquaintance who I did not know was in Brighton. It unsettled me more than I wished to admit.”
He frowned. “Unsettled in what way? I hope this person is no threat to you.”
“Oh, no, it is nothing like that. Perhaps only a threat to my equanimity.”
His frown was replaced with a knowing grin. “Ah. A gentleman, I presume?”
Elizabeth wondered briefly at the propriety of revealing too much to someone who was essentially a stranger, but in many ways that was the chief of his charm.
Mr Hartham did not know Mr Darcy—or Mr Bingley, or Mr Wickham, nor any of the web of misunderstandings that had arisen between them all in Hertfordshire.
She had no need to fear his ill opinion of the mistakes she had made.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Someone I thought never to see again. And certainly not someone I would have guessed would be pleased about it if I did.”
Mr Hartham raised an eyebrow. “You are teasing me with these trifling details. I shall need more if I am to be truly invested in your misery.”
Elizabeth laughed, though it felt hollow.
She was not miserable, exactly, but she was not happy either.
Time and the distraction of her house had allowed her to put thoughts of Mr Darcy to the back of her mind.
Not out of her mind entirely—one did not forget so significant an acquaintance quickly, if ever.
But she had been able to set aside her regrets.
Seeing him had brought back all her remorse in a flash—which had surprised her, frankly.
If someone had asked her beforehand what she thought her prevailing sentiment would be upon seeing him again, she was sure she would have said indignation.
It was he, after all, who made such an offensive offer of marriage, he who had separated Jane from Mr Bingley.
But it was she who had hurled unfounded charges at him, and she who had cruelly spurned an earnest, if ill-worded, proposal.
Despite that, he had greeted her with perfect civility, even expressing a wish to see her again.
It had left her feeling…unworthy. And that was not a sentiment which sat comfortably upon her.
“His name is Mr Darcy. He proposed to me at Easter, but there were some unresolved misunderstandings between us, and I refused him. Pray do not mention it to my family. They do not know.”
“My lips are sealed,” he said solemnly. “But do I detect a note of regret in your voice?”
“I have many regrets. I cannot say whether refusing him is one of them, but I am heartily ashamed of the manner in which I did it.”
“But if your reunion went as smoothly as you say, he is clearly bearing less resentment than you expected of him.”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Which is odd, for he told me once that his good opinion once lost is lost forever.”
“Then you have clearly not lost it. The question is whether or not you want it.”
“I suppose that is true.”
Elizabeth only comprehended that she had become lost in her thoughts again when Mr Hartham interrupted them.
“Come, let us peel my aunt out of her chair and take her home. I think we have both danced our fill for the evening, do not you agree?”
She did, and they duly made a discreet exit, both working to help Lady Preston into the carriage—Elizabeth pulling her by her arm from within, and Mr Hartham propelling her from behind.
A persistent rain did not help, though it did give her ladyship something about which to complain for the duration of the short journey home.
Once the same operation had been repeated in reverse at Marine Parade, with Lady Preston handed over to a servant to be escorted to bed, Mr Hartham, instead of following her inside, made a surprising suggestion.
“How about that tour of your house that you promised me, then?” He pointed at her property, looming darkly next to his aunt’s brightly lit home.
“Now?”
“If you are concerned about being alone with me, John will accompany us,” he said, indicating the coachman. “Though I assure you, there is no need.”
“It is not that—but it is very late.”
“Then we may watch the sun rise from your roof terrace. It would be terribly romantic if I were in any way inclined to woo you. As it is, I am merely insatiably curious. Do decide soon though, for I am getting wetter by the minute.”
Unable to think of a good reason why not, Elizabeth agreed and they hastened inside out of the rain.
She found herself talking in hushed tones once they were inside, for the stillness of the house and the lateness of the hour rather seemed to demand it.
She led Mr Hartham across the vestibule—which looked far tidier than it had the previous day—and into the drawing room, where she stopped and let out a muffled sound of surprise.
“What is it?” he cried with muted alarm, looking about as though he expected to see an intruder lurking in the shadows.
“It is this room!” Elizabeth replied, looking around in awe.
“’Tis—well, it is furnished, for one thing.
” She stepped farther into the space, marvelling at how much larger and grander it looked with the correct pieces in all the correct places.
There was just enough light to see that the walls were still bare, and there was still a large patch of unpainted plaster on the ceiling where the pianoforte-shaped hole had once been, but none of that looked quite so bad in the dark.
“This is the most wonderful transformation!”
Mr Hartham screwed up his face and looked around once more. “Is it? I hardly dare ask what it looked like before.”
She laughed happily. “Worse!”
He sighed. “What a shame. For such a wonderful old house to fall into such rack and ruin is shameful.”
“I understand my aunt endured years of legal wrangling before taking possession. She must have spent some time here, for your aunt seems to have known her, but it cannot have been for many years. I certainly cannot remember her coming here. Then again, I understand she did not travel much after my uncle died.”
Informing her that he meant to adjust his expectations accordingly, Mr Hartham was more disposed to be pleased by the other rooms Elizabeth showed him.
“This next one is a particular disaster,” she said as they reached the top of the second flight of stairs and approached the bedchamber that had suffered water damage from the leak in the roof.
Before she could show him, she heard the distinct sound of voices from within and came to a halt.
Another look showed faint light coming from beneath the door.
“Someone is here!” she whispered urgently.
Mr Hartham grew serious. “Let us leave and summon the magistrate.”
“I cannot leave with people in my house! Who knows what damage they might wreak?”
“I am flattered that you think otherwise, but I assure you I am not built for fighting. I should be of no use to you as a protector. Come. Let us away.”
Elizabeth was not foolhardy; she knew there was no sense in either of them attempting to intervene in a burglary. Yet before she had moved anywhere, one of the voices was abruptly raised.