Chapter 23
Darcy despised the trepidation cascading through his veins as he knocked on the front door. He was a full-grown man, with experience of the world and hundreds of people dependent upon him. He was unused to feeling like a stripling boy, liable to be undone by a coy glance or fleeting touch.
Or the desperate hope that the woman he loved was not lost to him.
He had resolved, at some point in the night, to leave Elizabeth alone.
She was an intelligent woman who knew her own mind; he had no right to question her decision.
His resolve had lasted less than half a day before he launched himself from his chair and walked out of the drawing room, ignoring Saye’s and Fitzwilliam’s startled enquiries, and marched all the way to the Millhouses’ residence without stopping.
His knock was slow to be answered; the reason, when the housekeeper gave it: callers had not been expected, and the family was not at home.
“I see. Pray, is it only me who is not being received?” he blurted, unable to stop himself regressing further into undignified adolescent petulance.
“You mistake me, sir. They are out.”
“All of them?”
He may have spoken more severely than he intended, for the servant paled and began to babble.
“My mistress and Mrs Gardiner have taken the children to the beach. Mr Gardiner and Mr Millhouse are in Haywards Heath. Miss Bennet is, I believe, calling on her sister.”
Not avoiding me, then. Just not where I need her to be.
It was a relief, though perhaps even learning that much did not alleviate his ill humour enough to make him appear less fearsome, for the housekeeper continued to try and appease him with yet more information about the family.
He wished she had not when her next words were, “Although I believe I heard it said that she would be meeting with Mr Hartham afterwards.”
His stomach dropped, and he clenched his jaw to prevent his face from betraying his dismay. “Is she well? Does she seem…out of sorts?” What the hell am I saying? “Miss Bennet. She had a cold. I trust she is recovered?”
The housekeeper regarded him as though he had sprouted a second head, no doubt as bemused by his questions as Darcy was to have asked them. “I heard her aunt say that she was still a little pale, but she is a hale lass. I daresay she will be well soon enough.”
Darcy nodded and thanked her, turning away before his muttered curse escaped his lips.
Surely newly engaged people glowed with joy?
Why was she pale—because she was still unwell, or because she was unhappy?
Not knowing was torturing him. The idea that she had felt compelled to accept Hartham was abhorrent to him, but the prospect that his reckless kiss had distressed her enough to precipitate it had begun to burrow into his guts, making him feel permanently sick.
He wished he could turn back time, remain outside Saye’s cupboard, control his damned ardour.
Had it been any other man’s arms into which he had sent her running, he could almost—almost—live with it.
But she could not be happy with Hartham.
Settled, perhaps. Content, possibly. But she would not be cherished in the way she deserved. She would never be truly loved.
His feet took him away from the house, and he paid little attention to his direction until he heard his name called. Looking about, he saw that he had reached the Steyne, where a large group of people had gathered around what looked like an impromptu cricket match.
“Mr Darcy!” came another call.
This time he saw Miss Hawkridge waving at him.
He was in absolutely no humour for company, but he would not slight Saye and Fitzwilliam’s relation and so tipped his hat, meaning to say a quick good day and be on his way.
And that might have worked, had not Miss Larkin appeared out of the crowd the moment he drew near.
“Mr Darcy!” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes and looking unabashedly delighted to see him.
He tried not to groan. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
“This is fortunate indeed,” Miss Hawkridge said. “I have been meaning to come to the house, to see how well our plan is working. You must tell me all.”
Darcy stared at her, his head too full of Elizabeth to be able to parse her meaning. “Plan?”
“Yes—the haunting?”
“Oh, that. It seems to be having the desired effect. Saye was particularly vexed by the violin.”
Miss Hawkridge grinned. “Hats off to Fitzwilliam for that idea. Although…hats off to Miss Bennet for suggesting the whole scheme. No wonder Mr Hartham asked her to marry him.”
“What do you mean?” Darcy asked sharply.
“That is why she suggested it, do you not remember? She was cross that Saye tried to cheat him at the card table. And who would not have proposed on the spot upon discovering the lengths she had gone to in defence of his honour!”
Darcy’s face was hurting from clenching his teeth so tightly. Was that why Elizabeth had suggested the prank? He did not recall thinking so at the time, but if it had been, and she had preferred Hartham all along, that made his kissing her even more egregious.
“Georgette has told me all about this diverting ruse,” Miss Larkin said, matching Miss Hawkridge’s enthusiasm. “You are wicked. Poor Lord Saye.”
Darcy nodded. It was all he had in him to do.
Miss Hawkridge frowned. “You are not feeling sorry for him, are you?”
“Hardly.”
“Good, for he certainly does not deserve it.”
Darcy stopped listening, for in the blink of an eye, a shout went up, and the cricket ball came hurtling through the air directly towards the ladies.
He thrust his hand between them to intercept it, pain lancing across his palm and up his arm at the impact of the awkward, one-handed catch.
Miss Larkin squealed in surprise, and Miss Hawkridge spun around to see what had incited his sudden lunge.
“Faith!” she cried as a small ripple of applause went up around them. “That was positively heroic, Mr Darcy.”
He threw the ball back to the waving bowler and inclined his head towards the batsman who was calling a rather sheepish apology. He shook his aching hand. “It was positively careless of the incompetent buffoon at the stumps.”
Miss Hawkridge smirked. “Your cantankerous veneer does not fool me. You have now abetted me in terrorising my most vexatious relation and saved my life. I am entirely convinced that you are secretly a perfect gentleman.” She put a hand on his forearm and leant forwards to kiss his cheek.
Darcy might have overlooked her familiarity, given their close familial connexion, except that it seemed to give Miss Larkin leave to adopt a similar boldness.
Rather than lay a hand on his arm, she wrapped both hands around it, clinging on tightly as she rose to her tiptoes and planted a kiss to his other cheek.
“My hero!”
Good lord. With his arm now aching almost as intensely as his heart, he had no patience for Miss Larkin’s fawning and rued giving her another reason to do it.
He forced himself to smile down at her. “I am pleased you are both unhurt, but I must be going. Excuse me.” He tugged his arm from her tenacious grip, bowed to them both, and walked away.
He grew wary as he neared Marine Parade, dreading an encounter with Elizabeth if she had indeed come to see Hartham, for he did not think he could stomach seeing them together.
But he caught no glimpse of her as he trudged up the steps to his own front door—which was thrown open before he could reach for the handle, and two angry workmen bowled out, shouting that they would never work in the house again.
“What is going on?” he asked, stepping around Tucker, who was hastening after the men, and addressing his cousins, both of whom were in the vestibule.
“They are refusing to work here anymore, because the house is cursed,” Saye answered testily. “They found markings on the library walls. Pleas for release etched into the woodwork. Scratches like claw or nail marks. They are convinced there must be bodies in the walls.”
“There might be,” Fitzwilliam said agreeably.
Darcy looked at him. He was leaning against the newel post with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised, though he looked less amused by his brother’s pique than he did contrite about the unintended consequence of their pranks.
Darcy shared his concern. This would give yet another delay to the renovations about which Elizabeth was already feeling anxious.
He regretted embroiling himself in any of it—not least because it had somehow escaped his notice that the entire scheme had been devised for Hartham’s gratification.
“Let us hope Tucker can find some more rational men to work for him.”
“That is all you have to say?” Saye demanded. “The labourers are not the problem. Our house is cursed!”
“Certainly feels that way,” Darcy replied before walking past both his cousins and retreating to his bedchamber in miserable defeat.
Elizabeth got almost all the way home from visiting Lydia before she stopped walking and forced herself to turn in the direction of Marine Parade.
It was cowardly to avoid a meeting with Mr Hartham, and even though he had evidently not thought it imperative to call on her in a timely manner, she needed to set the record straight.
Before the misunderstanding could gain any more momentum.
She retraced her steps back to the top of town and wove her way through the pretty lanes that would bring her down to the seafront.
Trepidation fluttered uncomfortably in her breast as she drew nearer, for with her own house directly adjacent to Lady Preston’s, there was every chance she would encounter Mr Darcy in the vicinity.
Hope fluttered around her heart at the prospect.
She was increasingly certain that he must not have called because he had heard about her supposed engagement.
Whether he now thought her fast, or capricious, or heartless, she could not guess, but she dearly hoped to see him so that she might correct the misapprehension.
But for a small boy and his dog, the road was quiet, however, and she could see nobody in the windows of her house as she climbed next door’s front steps.
If her tenants were at home, they were sitting quietly within, paying no attention to the outside world.
She thought briefly of knocking under the pretence of speaking to Mr Tucker but quickly dismissed the idea.
Not even she had courage enough for such an obvious ploy.
If Mr Darcy wished to see her, he would call.
She knocked on Lady Preston’s door instead.
“Good day,” she said to the servant who opened it. “Is Lady Preston at home?” Or her nephew? she did not add, for propriety’s sake.
“I am afraid not. Mr Hartham has taken her to visit her physician in Eastbourne.”
Thus, the question of why he had not called on her was answered.
Though it would not have harmed him to send a note!
she thought, begrudging the distance she had walked that day without resolving any of her problems. “Thank you, sir. I do not have a card to leave, I am afraid, but if you could tell her that Miss Bennet called, I should be grateful.”
He assured her that he would, and she meandered back towards town.
Perhaps she would ask her uncle to send a note, inviting Mr Hartham to come to the house, where he would be forced to speak to her.
Or perhaps she would call here again tomorrow.
Perhaps he would come later that afternoon, when he had finished doing his aunt’s bidding.
Perhaps I shall never see him again and remain engaged to him for the rest of my life!
She sighed deeply at the horrible unfinishedness of it all.
There was a large gathering on the Steyne when she reached it, with what looked like hundreds of people milling about watching a game of some sort.
She walked around the periphery, avoiding the worst of the crush, but turned when a wave of gasps arose, followed by a spattering of applause.
Her heart came to a thudding stop when she saw Mr Darcy, with Miss Larkin all but hanging off his arm, both her hands wrapped around it in an overtly possessive fashion.
Elizabeth watched as she rose up to her tiptoes and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, and he looked down at her and smiled fondly.
She whipped her gaze away and quickly resumed walking, her mind a noisy, unintelligible riot.
Her chest squeezed painfully, and she began to run.
She ran and ran, ignoring the shouted enquiry from a stranger as to her well-being.
She ran until her lungs burnt and her feet hurt from pounding on the ground.
She ran until she had left the town behind and she was almost at the Millhouses’ residence.
She stopped before going in, not wishing to see anyone until she no longer looked as though she had been crying.
She took several deep breaths, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
The voice that had chased her all the way here and that still echoed around her head was Lydia’s, asking, ‘What harm can a little kiss do?’ She had said it during their conversation about Wickham’s many seductions in Meryton, arguing that his trysts had been meaningless—not worth anyone’s condemnation—too trivial for anyone to attribute any actual intentions to them.
Elizabeth’s worry that Mr Darcy regretted kissing her seemed silly now.
As did her fear that he had changed his mind about her after hearing the rumour of her engagement to Mr Hartham.
Instead, her heart whispered—nay, screamed—that there was a much simpler reason for why he had not called.
Their kiss—the one which had weakened her knees, quickened her pulse, and left her aching for more; the one that had allowed her to believe that he still loved her—had meant nothing to him.
Nothing at all. Not if, in the next moment, he could return to warmly welcoming another woman’s open affections, as though what had happened in the secret of Lord Saye’s closet had never occurred.