Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Since his return to London, Darcy congratulated himself on managing to maintain some semblance of dignity, even though he felt very much as if he had been eviscerated.
On the day of his arrival, he found an express awaiting him; Mrs Bingley had given her husband a son, and they called him William.
The note joyously proclaimed that he had a nephew, and he morosely reflected that it was one more thing that he had lost in all of this: the right to claim a family tie to the Bingleys.
His household were naturally curious as to why Mrs Darcy had not returned with him and why he floated around the house like a darkened spectre. He called Mr and Mrs Hobbs into his study on the second day of his return to tell them the news.
They stood before him nervously as he cleared his throat.
“Mr Hobbs, Mrs Hobbs, there has been some…unfortunate…news. Mrs Darcy is not… she is not Mrs Darcy. As you know, she was believed to be a widow since August of 1809. Her husband—” His voice broke.
“Lord Courtenay was found alive in Kidsgrove, and he has returned to his former life, which includes Mrs…Eliz…her.”
His two most senior servants stood before him in shocked silence, completely still with their mouths agape.
After gaining his composure, Darcy added, “Our marriage is thus to be annulled. That is to say, it is annulled. It never was, after all, a legal marriage.”
Mrs Hobbs’s shock caused her to behave out of turn though Darcy would never censure her for it. Faintly, she questioned, “But…little Henry…what about…”
“Henry is not my son. He belongs to his father. Please see that his things are sent to Towton Hall at once.” These words caused him to feel his emotions were dangerously close to overcoming him, and he hurriedly said, “That is all. You may go.”
They did not move.
“Please go,” he whispered fiercely, certain he would lose his composure.
They hastily bowed and left but not before he saw Mrs Hobbs dabbing a tear from her eye.
It would not be the last time he witnessed a servant mourning the loss of not only Mrs Darcy but little Henry, who had captivated the entire household during his short time in residence.
On Darcy’s third day back, an excessively remorseful and obsequious retinue of servants accompanied Elizabeth’s maid to Darcy’s house, where they efficiently removed her personal effects, and Henry’s, from her chambers and the nursery.
Darcy knew they had come, of course, and despite the pain it caused him, he could not stay away.
He entered Elizabeth’s bedchamber, and all the servants immediately stopped, looking at him uncertainly.
“Please carry on,” he told them, and hesitantly, they did.
Gowns were packed into trunks, books were boxed, and items from her vanity were carefully wrapped.
He sat on her bed and watched in silent agony as all trace of her was removed from the room.
A manservant named Redmond came to him to tell him they were finished. Darcy stopped him.
“Lady Courtenay, is she…she is well?”
Redmond froze in confusion, not wishing to act beyond his station, yet utterly undone by the expression on Darcy’s face. He replied tentatively, “As well as can be expected, sir.”
Darcy did not know what he had imagined he might hear but was relieved to know even that small bit.
There is nothing quite as desolate as a room abandoned by its owner.
The hollow ache of it matched the one in Darcy’s gut as he entered her dressing room where her scent still lingered.
He opened the empty closet with its bare shelves, and he sat at the vanity whereupon no perfumes, powder, or jewellery remained, only a blank surface.
Mrs Hobbs and a young chambermaid entered unexpectedly, both surprised to see him. “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir.”
He nodded, and they turned to depart. In a low voice, Mrs Hobbs said, “When the master has left, remove the bed linens—”
“No,” he called after them. “Pray, do not.”
Mrs Hobbs paused, her face again surprised. “Sir?”
“Leave this room just as it is—no alteration. In fact, no one is to enter it without my permission.”
Mrs Hobbs stared at him, her countenance blank, and then curtseyed. “As you wish, sir.”
The remaining days of the first fortnight without her were passed in a dark despair.
Darcy drank often and much. Thinking of how he might kill himself became his most diverting occupation, followed closely by reliving his memories of their short time together.
He knew not how he might go on with the gaping wound of loneliness in his chest.
The essence of the problem was that there was simply nothing he could do for the situation.
He had never been faced with a challenge for which some action could not be taken.
He could neither buy anything nor persuade anyone, work at something nor study a topic, take himself away from his pain nor have the pain removed.
He did not even have the comfort of despising someone.
There was no one to despise, not even himself, for all had acted with honour and integrity and done the best they could with the hand they had been dealt.
It was nothing more than a circumstance beyond anyone’s control, and that made it completely insupportable.
After leaving him to wallow about in his despair for a fortnight, his cousins came for him as he had suspected they eventually would.
“Have you left your house at all, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam’s face bore a look of vexing kindliness.
“What do you think—I sit here all the day pining for her?” he snapped.
“That is precisely what I think,” Saye replied, tousling Darcy’s hair as he walked by and then further compounding his sin by not even looking to see the angry scowl Darcy gave him. “Let us go have exercise—a visit to Jackson’s perhaps?”
The idea of punching something was enormously appealing to Darcy, and he agreed at once.
Jackson’s was crowded with young gentlemen who were feeling the effects of too much time indoors, resulting from the poor weather in London of late. After changing into the appropriate attire, Darcy sparred with Saye while Fitzwilliam partnered with another colonel from a different regiment.
It was relieving to engage in sweat and exertion, to punch and be punched, and to feel oneself grow weary from the task.
Darcy thought he might frequent Jackson’s parlour daily to enjoy the respite from thoughts of Elizabeth and the all-too-brief time he was able to call her his own.
Sweat poured from him, and he wished it might cleanse away all his troubles and cares.
When they had finished, he accompanied his cousins to their club where they sat over tea, speaking of future engagements and the like.
Darcy decided he would attend the theatre soon.
There was a play he wished to see, and he was beginning to recognise his days would pass more quickly if he kept himself busy.
As they rose to return to their homes, Saye remarked, “I question why Courtenay did not come back sooner.”
“I have wondered that too,” Fitzwilliam said.
“He likely wished to see his killer put to death before he appeared,” Darcy replied, tiredly. “Wickham was a bit player, but Courtenay did not know that. He did not know who his brother’s friends were.”
“Wickham might have gone on for several months before being apprehended, though, or perhaps even indefinitely. Would he have remained a miner?”
Darcy shrugged. “I suppose you will have to ask him that.”