Chapter 19
GONE
T he months following Elizabeth’s rejection had been some of the most wretched of Darcy’s life.
He had wasted many months prior to that moment, tormenting himself with all the reasons he ought not to marry her.
In the end, when his feelings had grown too strong to master, he had allowed himself to imagine what it would be like were Elizabeth his wife.
Desire had already left its mark on his nocturnal dreams, but his waking imagination centred on their happiness in marriage, teasing him with the hope of replacing solitude with solicitude.
It was not something he had known he wanted until he met Elizabeth.
He had not comprehended how desperately he needed it until she denied it to him.
Exacerbating that most painful of forfeitures had been the coinciding bereavement for the man he once believed himself to be.
That he might have won her affections had he troubled himself to be more modest, more forbearing, more considerate—more gentlemanlike —was a regret that tortured him still.
He could not, he would not, repeat his mistakes.
The ground was a quagmire after yesterday’s storm, forcing him to ride slowly.
A good thing, for it gave him time to consider what he would say—and a very bad thing for the same reason.
He could not conceive of a worse method of declaring himself than his previous attempt, and that had been the product of altogether too much deliberation.
But he would try and find the right words, for speak to her he must. He was uncertain of his reception—what man who had already been rejected once would not be?
Yet by the end of the previous day, he had committed to his purpose.
Elizabeth had driven him almost to distraction at the picnic, scarcely taking her eyes off him the entire day.
More than once he had convinced himself he could feel the heat of her gaze and chided himself for such foolishness, only to turn around and find himself looking directly into her eyes.
It had stirred his blood more each time, and he longed to know what she had been thinking, though he could not believe she observed him with disapprobation.
He had seen what displeasure looked like on her, and this was as far from it as was possible.
By the time she came to be standing toe-to-toe with him, soaking wet, wrapped in his coat, and staring up at him with naked admiration, he had been ablaze with desire.
Never had he wished to kiss anyone as much as he wanted to kiss her in that moment.
He had not allowed his thoughts to go further; nevertheless, it had still been necessary for him to retreat into privacy to regain his equanimity when he returned to Pemberley, proving what he already knew—that if he never succeeded in winning Elizabeth’s hand, he would be utterly useless to the rest of the world.
As he had climbed into his bed that night, desire had been replaced with a different but equally intense longing.
He had missed dinner, making do with a light supper in his room, for his evening had not gone at all to plan.
The first part of it was passed in the gamekeeper’s cold, damp cabin, along with his steward and an exceedingly disgruntled magistrate, deciding what was to be done with a poacher Sheldon had apprehended.
After that came Ferguson’s grim report of the fiasco at the dig, a brewing disagreement with the stone mason over rates, and the difficulty of finding suitably secure storage for the contents of the library.
Such was ever the way. There were always problems to solve, always decisions to be made.
He no longer wanted to make them alone. He wanted Elizabeth there to reassure him with kind words or to comfort him with her touch.
He wanted, instead of climbing into an empty bed after a difficult night such as that, to climb into her arms. He had resolved, before he closed his eyes, that he would not allow her to leave Derbyshire without knowing his affections and wishes were unchanged.
As he turned his horse onto Lambton’s main thoroughfare that morning, he hoped to God it would be enough.
* * *
“What do you mean gone ?”
“They left yesterday, early evening.”
“Are they coming back?”
“They did not say so. Mr Gardiner settled his account in full.”
It required every ounce of Darcy’s self-control to keep his voice steady. “I understood they were not planning to leave until tomorrow. Was there some emergency?”
“None they deigned to tell me about, sir.”
“Did they seem distressed?”
“They were keen to be gone, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“It was pouring down with rain—they must have had good reason to travel in such bad weather.”
The innkeeper reddened. “Begging your pardon, Mr Darcy, but this is an inn. People come and go all the time.”
Darcy felt his dismay begin to spiral towards panic and forced himself to ask collectedly, “Do you know where they were headed?”
“I do not, sir. Shall I ask the chambermaid?”
Darcy gave a curt nod and waited, fist clenched rigidly around his riding crop, while the innkeeper left to make his enquiries. A dream-like quality overtook proceedings; everything moved too slowly, nothing quite made sense, and disaster seemed to be waiting, eager, in the shadows.
The innkeeper returned. “Nell says she heard them talk about going to either Chesterfield or Sheffield after they left Lambton.”
North? “Not Hertfordshire?”
“Not by the sounds of it.”
“They left no forwarding address? No messages for anyone?”
“None that I know of.”
Did the man pay attention to nothing that went on in his own establishment? Darcy wanted to shake him until he remembered something, anything of use! The innkeeper backed away slightly as though he, too, thought a rattling might be imminent, and Darcy knew he must leave.
He mounted his horse, a thousand misgivings flooding his head as he turned homewards.
He hoped there had not been some problem that necessitated their immediate departure.
It dismayed him to think of Elizabeth in distress—and that she had felt either unable or unwilling to come to him.
Yet he could not imagine, even if their situation were dire, that none of the party would have left word.
A prickle of apprehension cut through him.
People who did not take their leave generally did not intend to maintain the acquaintance.
Was not that why neither he nor Miss Bingley called at Longbourn before they followed Bingley to London last autumn?
Damn! Had he misunderstood again? Was it merely a rapprochement Elizabeth had sought, and instead, he almost kissed her? No wonder she ran away!
He did not want to believe it. It was too appalling to allow that he could have been so egregiously mistaken a second time—but what, then?
Had Elizabeth told him they were leaving yesterday, and it slipped his mind?
In which case, was that meagre goodbye at the picnic, shouted through the carriage door as her uncle pulled her out of the rain, the best for which he could hope?
Was that why she had stared at him all day—had she been waiting for him to declare himself before she left?
Damn, damn, damn!
She had apologised! Dear God! As though she were in any way to blame—and he had said nothing.
Nothing! A gentleman would have dismissed her apology as unnecessary, told her how profoundly he regretted every reprehensible thing he had ever said to her, explained that he was attending to her reproofs.
A sensible man would have told her he still loved her.
He had only shoved her into a carriage and sent her on her way without so much as a promise to call the next day.
Why would she leave word for such a man?
Darcy pulled his horse up and closed his eyes, his breathing laboured and a palpable hollowness in his chest. Elizabeth was gone, and there was no way of knowing why and no easy way of finding out.
Even if it were sensible to follow her and ask what went wrong, he would have to wait until he could be sure she was returned to Longbourn, for he had no idea where she was at present.
Whether that was sensible, he was in no state to judge.
If she had left to get away from him, he ought to let her go with dignity on both sides, but every fibre of his being revolted against giving her up.
He knew only one thing: he could not leave matters as they were.
He would go mad. Indeed, he felt as though he were most of the way there already.