22. Forcing His Hand
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FORCING HIS HAND
Early in the morning, Darcy sharpened his quill and dipped it into the inkwell.
Elizabeth—
Forgive me. You offered more than I deserve, and I found I could not take what I have not yet earned the right to claim.
The words blurred before him. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, as if he might banish the tremor from his fingers by sheer force of will. Three meager sentences, when she merited volumes—sonnets whispered by candlelight, and the truth laid reverently at her feet.
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state…
The sonnet would not leave him. He had read it to her last night, his voice cracking on the curse, her eyes watching his mouth rather than the page. She had kissed him afterward, had offered herself with alluring words, and whispered, I will be waiting.
And he had stood before her door for a full hour without finding the courage to knock and go through.
This is no reflection upon you, he continued, although words could not convey how he had longed to draw her into his arms, to consummate that fiery love that burned so ardently. The fault lies entirely with me…
And so it was, for he could not untangle the lies that barred him from accepting the gift he most desired and least deserved. She had given without knowing, and he suspected her anger, once awakened, would burn twice as fiercely for having been deceived.
Crimson wax pooled beneath the flame, and Darcy pressed the unmarked seal, pointedly omitting the proud Darcy crest, as though anonymity might redeem the cowardice of sending his wife a note in place of himself.
He pushed back from the desk and drifted to the window.
From this vantage, he could survey the path Elizabeth preferred, winding past the rose garden and down to the stream where Thomas conducted his earnest excavations for treasures.
She was not likely to walk this path today, yet he watched all the same, as if the mere act of looking might summon her into being.
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, like to the lark at break of day arising…
The sonnet again. He could not escape it. He had chosen it for her because it said what he could not—that she had redeemed his disgrace, lifted the loneliness that had been pressed down for years. That she filled that aching void of rejection—of not ever being enough.
Yet she did not know the shape of the burden he bore. Until she did, he could not claim her, nor make her truly his, while this lie gaped between them like an open wound.
You want her to choose you, a quiet voice observed. You want her to know everything and choose you, anyway. Because everyone else who has known you has turned away.
Amelia had refused him—not once but three times, each refusal gentler than the last, each one a blade nonetheless. I love you, Fitzwilliam. But I will not be owned. Not even by you.
And now Elizabeth had offered herself without reservation, her generosity eclipsing anything he had ever known.
She had come to Pemberley as a bride acquired by arrangement, mothered a child not her own, and bestowed affection where none was owed.
She kept no secrets, locked no doors, but waited behind an open one while he stood motionless, certain he would lose her the instant she learned the truth.
Stop. He pressed his palms flat against the windowsill. You cannot know what she feels until you are honest with her. You cannot ask for her love while offering her lies.
A soft knock disturbed the noise of his thoughts. Jamison entered with the gravity he reserved for early mornings. “You rang, sir?”
Darcy handed over the sealed paper. His fingers did not want to release it. “To Mrs. Darcy. When she wakes.”
“Very good, sir.” A pause. “Mr. Blythewood sent word. He will arrive before noon.”
“And Viscount Drake?”
“His lordship will arrive by one o’clock.”
Darcy gave a curt nod. The day stretched before him—hours of waiting that would feel like years. “I shall take breakfast in my study. I do not wish to see anyone.”
Jamison withdrew, and Darcy returned to the window. The east lawn lay empty. Elizabeth had not yet appeared, or if she had, he had missed her. Perhaps she remained in her chamber—avoiding him or collecting her things, ready to call a carriage after being so thoroughly humiliated.
He could not complete the thought. Could not imagine Pemberley without her, or Thomas calling for his Lizba and finding only empty rooms and the cold solitude he had inhabited before she brightened their lives.
For he had not known, until she came, how lonely he had been and how much he yearned to be chosen, despite his flaws, his mistakes, and the ruin that lay at his feet.
By nine o’clock, he had reviewed every document in the Apethorpe files—Lady Amelia’s hastily written will, composed almost as a jest during a game of charades, specifying the settlement of her effects but more importantly the guardianship arrangements; and a copy of the damning christening record with George’s signature noted where his own ought to have been.
He had read Blythewood’s recommendations to uphold George’s rights as the father and checked his ledgers, totaling the amounts he had forwarded to his wayward brother.
He made notes and anticipated objections, yet none of it held his attention.
His mind drifted to the chamber above, to a woman who might be weeping, or worse, composing a letter to her father to announce her marriage a mistake.
Shortly before ten, he could bear the confinement no longer. He emerged from his study to stretch his legs and stopped short at the sight of Elizabeth descending the main staircase.
She did not see him as she moved with purpose, her expression composed in a way that told him she had armored herself before leaving her chamber. She appeared tired yet beautiful—a woman determined not to show that she had been wounded.
His chest constricted painfully. He wanted to go to her—to take her hands and confess all… but he stepped back into the shadow of the corridor, watching as she crossed the entrance hall and disappeared toward the breakfast room.
Footsteps approached from the servants’ stairs. Clarice emerged, carrying a small tray, and she stopped short when she saw him.
“Mr. Darcy.” She dropped a curtsy, her expression arranging itself into careful neutrality.
“How is Mrs. Darcy this morning?” He studied her face—the composed features, the downcast eyes, the slight tension around her mouth that suggested she knew more than she would ever admit.
Clarice hesitated with the barest pause. “She is well, sir. She mentioned a slight headache, but she went down to breakfast nonetheless.”
“Thank you, Clarice.” He made himself nod to maintain the fiction of casual inquiry. “That will be all.”
He went back to his study, determined not to be disturbed, but an hour later, he emerged to stretch his legs.
The library door stood partially open, and the familiar scent of Elizabeth’s lavender water told him she was somewhere within.
He could well guess her destination: the locked cabinet containing Lady Amelia’s manuscripts—the answers he had not yet given her.
He dared a peek inside and saw her skirts disappear between the shelves housing classics and philosophy.
She was mistress of Pemberley, and she had the right to examine every area of her domain… but…
Footsteps behind him alerted him, and he turned to find Jamison with a silver salver.
“Sir. An express has arrived for Mrs. Darcy. From Longbourn.”
The breath left Darcy’s lungs. Longbourn. Her father. The illness that had brought her to him in the first place.
“Give it to me,” he said, and then corrected himself. “No. Take it to her. She is in the library.”
He watched Jamison knock on the library door and quickly withdrew himself into an alcove filled with miniature portraits, aware of Elizabeth emerging, her face pale and troubled.
She did not look toward the location where he stood, but moved swiftly toward the main staircase, her skirts gathered in one hand, the half-open letter clutched in the other.
Go to her, the voice urged. Whatever it is, she should not face it alone.
But she had not asked for him, and his pride told him she had not sought him out. She would rather manage without him, and that was exactly what he deserved.
At half past eleven, as the clock chimed the quarter hour, Blythewood arrived, his leather case bulging with documents.
“Mr. Darcy.” He settled into the chair opposite the desk, accepting coffee. “I have read the copy of the Apethorpe correspondence and have sketched out our options. When will they arrive?”
“They will be represented by Viscount Drake. He arrives at one.”
Blythewood’s eyebrows rose. “The brother. That is… unexpected. I had assumed any inquiry would come through their solicitors.”
“As had I.” Darcy passed him the letter bearing the crimson seal. “He wants to discuss Thomas’s guardianship and his sister’s manuscripts. I am uncertain whether his solicitor would be present or if he intends to handle this personally.”
“Interesting.” Blythewood rubbed his chin. “Perhaps he is concerned with a personal matter—another gentleman’s agreement which I have advised you against entering into.”
“I cannot say.” Darcy kept his voice even. “Lady Amelia’s will names me as guardian. There is nothing irregular about that, and my brother has left a note confirming the same.”
“Except that no one has seen Wickham since Lady Amelia’s death.” Blythewood set down the letter. “I have made inquiries, as you requested. He boarded a ship at Portsmouth, and the turnaround of shipboard correspondence is unreliable.”
“Except Apethorpe claims to have been in contact with him.”
“Which would raise questions, then: where is he? And why would the Apethorpes be concerned with a man who, by all accounts, abandoned his child and disappeared?”