Chapter 20
JUST AS WELL
B y mutual agreement, card tables were set up in the saloon that afternoon.
Darcy played and lost, and played and lost again, and played and received a ribbing for his bad form, and played some more, and maybe won, or maybe lost this time; he was not paying attention.
He excused himself from the next round and went to look out of the window.
The sky was cerulean blue with not a cloud in sight, as though nothing worse could be happening in the world than Mrs Hurst losing a fish in a card game.
He adjusted his gaze to the reflection in the window. All his guests were present, and it was a large party, but they might as well all go home. There were not enough people in the world to disguise the chasm left by Elizabeth’s absence.
“You are very quiet, Mr Darcy,” Miss Bingley called—very loudly. “I hope whatever it was that required you to miss dinner is not troubling you still.”
“It is not, but thank you, madam.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” She paused. “Though, we were all rather wondering what was so urgent that it could not wait.”
Darcy did not answer. Let her wonder. Too late, he caught the glint of cunning in her countenance.
“Will our friends from Lambton be gracing us with their company today? Perhaps, if your urgent business took you to see them last night, you would know better than the rest of us what their plans are.”
Darcy glanced around the tables and observed more than one fixed expression as his friends all awaited his answer.
Well, that was no more than he deserved, was it?
One did not lavish such attentions on a woman without raising expectations.
What was it of which Elizabeth had once accused him?
Exposing Jane Bennet to the derision of the world for her disappointed hopes.
Was this his comeuppance? It was exceedingly effective, if so.
A new possibility occurred to him: that Elizabeth had left because, regardless of her own sentiments, she could not forgive him for separating her sister from Bingley. He almost bared his teeth in anger at all the consequences of his own ill-considered interference.
“I was with my steward and Lord Felixstowe last night, Miss Bingley. But Miss Bennet and the Gardiners will not be joining us. They have departed on the next stage of their travels.”
Bingley looked up sharply. “I should have sent my regards to her sisters at Longbourn if I had known that was the last we were to see of them.”
“The whole party were delightful company,” said Mrs Cox. “I hope we shall see them at Pemberley again.”
Darcy did not answer. Next to Mrs Cox, Georgiana sat quietly, regarding him with an obvious question in her countenance.
He gave the slightest shake of his head; she gave the merest nod of hers and returned to her cards.
They would discuss it later, though heaven only knew what he was to say to her.
He returned to looking out of the window.
After what seemed like an interminably long time, the low murmur of conversation returned to the room. If it was more subdued than before, there was nothing he could do about it. There was precious little he could do about any of his present troubles. He had never felt so powerless.
He saw in the window that Bingley was approaching and steeled himself for an uncomfortable exchange.
He knew his friend had noticed his partiality for Elizabeth—had caught him frowning at it more than once.
A lesser man would have demanded to know why a connexion with the Bennets should be no obstacle to the master of Pemberley when it had been presented as such an evil to himself.
But Bingley was not one for recriminations.
He would never presume to interfere in Darcy’s affairs as Darcy had done in his.
“Did you know yesterday that the Gardiners were leaving today?” Bingley enquired quietly.
“No.”
“I thought not. ’Tis a shame. I should have liked to ask—” He exhaled noisily. “Miss Elizabeth did not say anything to you this week, did she? About her sister?”
Darcy stared hard at a tree in the middle distance and kept his countenance blank.
Several times over the last week, he had considered confessing his misapprehension of Jane Bennet’s regard.
The only thing that prevented him was Elizabeth’s silence on the matter.
Surely, if her sister were still enamoured of Bingley, she would have found a way to let it be known?
Yet she had not mentioned it, thus neither had he, for fear of it no longer being true.
He shook his head. It was not, strictly speaking, a lie—Elizabeth had spoken to him about Jane in April. Still, he disliked the disguise.
“Probably just as well.”
Darcy refrained from looking at Bingley in surprise. Just as well? Was that apropos of his own warning against the Bennets, or had Bingley’s regard begun to wane?
“I had wondered whether you might be—” Bingley began.
In the periphery of his vision, Darcy could see he was peering at him expectantly. His gut clenched, dislodging the cloud of numbness that had crept over him since that morning, threatening to expose the turmoil lurking beneath.
“You are right,” he interrupted. “It is probably just as well. Excuse me.” He did not take his leave of the rest of the room and did not care what anyone made of it.
He yanked the door open and swung it closed behind him, obviously startling his footman, then made his way with purpose towards the stairs.
“Wait!”
He halted, mouthed an oath, then turned reluctantly to face his sister.
She hastened to him, all tender concern—the worst sort. “What happened?”
“She left.”
“She did not tell you she was going?”
He shook his head.
“Something must have happened. Nothing else would induce her to slight us, to slight you in such a way. It is obvious she admires you.”
Darcy’s heart leapt into this throat, only for reason to swat it back down again.
His sister was scarcely an impartial observer—hers was not a sound assessment.
“Her unannounced departure rather discredits that theory.” Her face fell, and Darcy abruptly reached the limit of what he could withstand.
“Return to the card tables, Georgiana. Your friends will be missing you.”
She nodded sadly, but to his consternation, before she left, placed a hand on his arm and squeezed. “Do not give up hope.”
A weight fell inside him as though he had swallowed a stone. He gave her a desultory smile and escaped up the stairs to his dressing room. Vaughan was there already, laying out his clothes for dinner.
“My coat and boots if you would, Vaughan. I am going for a walk.”
“Of course, sir.” He glided silently around the room, removing Darcy’s discarded house shoes from sight and setting his boots on the floor beside him in one fluid movement.
Darcy watched him work and refused to allow any other thoughts into his head.
Questions were too many, and answers entirely lacking.
Vaughan helped him into his boots, gestured for him to turn around, then did the same with his coat.
Darcy waved off his attempt to fasten it for him, too impatient to be gone to wait for the bother of button hooks.
Yet, as he strode to the door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze on the spot.
“What is this?”
“Your green coat, sir. The black had mud on it after your ride this morning. It is not yet dry.”
“I can see it is my green coat. I mean, where did you get it?” The last time Darcy had seen it, it had been wrapped around Elizabeth as her carriage drove away.
He met his man’s eyes in the mirror and understood immediately that Vaughan knew the cause of his distress.
It was in his voice, too, when he answered.
“A servant brought it to the house last night, sir. From Lambton.”
“With a message?”
Vaughan’s face said it all. There was no need for him to reply, “No, sir.”
That was it, then. Elizabeth had returned his coat with neither thanks nor farewell, but her message was loud and clear, nevertheless.
She wanted nothing more to do with him. He knew not how or why, but he had lost her all over again.
Feeling alarmingly close to high emotion, he opened his mouth to dismiss Vaughan, but his man had already gone. Darcy was utterly alone. Again.