Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Darcy watched with horrified fascination as Lady Carlisle grabbed Emerson by the ear and yanked him back into the hall, slamming the door behind her.
“Out!” she ordered. “Get out now! And by out, I mean out of this house. Saddle your horses and race each other to Dore and back. Leap over fences or walls or assist Mr Gregory by repairing the hedgerow in the southern pasture. I cannot countenance your presence in this house another moment.”
He had not been part of the argument but had been trying to put an end to it.
Fitzwilliam, for reasons that Darcy was not privy to, had thrown himself at his brother in the hall and subsequently all hell had broken loose.
Had he foreseen the disaster that awaited them upstairs, he would have remained where he was or gone for a gallop across the park or to the village and back; anywhere that would have spared him the mortification of receiving a tongue-lashing that made him feel like he was back at Eton. He had hated Eton.
“But what about Miss Baumgarten?” Emerson enquired with a disappointed moue as he rubbed his ear. “She is quite handsome, far more so than I imagined. Why is she still single?”
“Who in the world is Miss Baumgarten?” said Lady Carlisle in exasperation.
Emerson frowned. “The young lady presently taking tea with you in that infernal floral parlour you favour.”
“You mean Miss Bennet?”
“Bennet, Baumgarten,” Emerson replied. “It is all the same to me.”
Before Darcy could stop himself, he blurted, “Bennet? Which one?”
“Which one what?” asked the countess, appearing perplexed and more than a little irritated. “Do speak sensibly, Nephew. I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”
Fitzwilliam laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It so happens that Darcy and I are acquainted with a Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It has been more than two years since we were last in company together, and in that time, we have learnt that she has lost her father, a sister, and her home. Her whereabouts are presently unknown to us. We would be most obliged if you would tell us whether the Miss Bennet you are taking tea with is a relation of hers.”
“She is not merely some relation—she is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Briefly shutting his eyes, Darcy exhaled in relief.
For two years, he had made enquiries in Hertfordshire and London and everywhere in between in search of her, but it was as though she had vanished from the face of the earth.
To discover her at long last in his uncle’s house of all places was extraordinary!
Forcing his feet to remain firmly rooted to the floor as his heart hammered in his chest was a challenge.
“And is she well?” he heard himself ask as though from a distance.
“She is very well. At least she was before the three of you nincompoops decided to interrupt an otherwise lovely visit. For all I know, she could be clambering down the side of the balustrade as we speak.”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “I would not put it past her to do it, too. Miss Bennet is unlike any lady I have ever known. Her society was very welcome at Rosings Park. Lady Catherine did not know what to make of her.”
“Ha!” said Emerson, rubbing his hands together. “She sounds like a fun one.”
“Catherine met her?” said the countess, her tone and her expression incredulous.
“Miss Bennet dined at Rosings Park several times when Darcy and I were visiting at Easter in the year twelve. She was in every way delightful.”
“If you would be so kind, your ladyship,” said Darcy, “we would pay our respects to Miss Bennet without delay.”
The countess pursed her lips. “Absolutely not. I will invite Miss Bennet and her family to dine with us. You may speak with her then.”
Darcy, feeling as though he had waited a lifetime already, began to object, but his aunt refused to hear another word.
“You have, all of you, done quite enough for today. Take yourselves elsewhere for the rest of the afternoon. Unless you would like me to mention your brawling to his lordship, I suggest you do as you are told without argument.” With a curt inclination of her head, she said, “Off you go. Miss Bennet’s aunt would not want her niece to be importuned in such a manner, especially by a bunch of brutes who were throwing each other into the wall not two minutes ago. ”
Having said her piece, Lady Carlisle turned on her heel and rejoined her guests, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Darcy muttered an oath as he heard the unmistakeable click of the lock.
While Emerson had sought refuge in his bedchamber, mumbling all the while about being a grown man, not an infant who had yet to be breeched, Darcy was far too restless to remain indoors.
He required exercise. And his mind required time to come to terms with the fact that Elizabeth was in Yorkshire.
Did she reside in the area? If so, where?
Was she comfortable? Was she happy? She was still Miss Bennet, so she remained unmarried; but did she have a suitor?
Was she engaged? The idea of losing her all over again made Darcy feel sick to his stomach.
To say it was an effort not to return to the house at once and force his way into the room where she was taking tea with his aunt was an understatement.
Only a lifetime of keeping his emotions tightly reined and his respectability intact prevented him from doing precisely that, and a good deal more.
Bloody hell!
If only Collins, that obsequious pig-widgeon, had sense enough to remember where Elizabeth was in the first place!
Alas, calling at Longbourn each year had yielded nothing but frustration, especially as Mrs Collins was never at home to interject a modicum of sense into an otherwise painful and unproductive half an hour; nor was the rest of the neighbourhood willing to speak to him of the Bennets.
The moment Darcy had mentioned their name, even Mrs Philips’s door had been shut in his face.
And so it was that he kept returning to Longbourn and the former Reverend William Collins, who, while overjoyed to find Darcy on his doorstep time and again, claimed to have no recollection whatsoever of where Mrs Bennet and her daughters had gone, only that an aunt had taken them in.
Elizabeth had been travelling with an aunt and uncle when they had met by chance at Pemberley, but it had been months since Darcy had been in company with them and he no longer recollected their name.
Hoping to glean any bit of information he could about the man’s identity and whereabouts, he had returned to Derbyshire and applied to the innkeeper in Lambton, only to learn that the guest registry had been burnt to a crisp by an inebriated Scotsman during a brawl the week prior.
Elizabeth’s uncle, he recalled, had been a fashionable, educated, gentleman-like man who bore no resemblance whatsoever to Mrs Bennet.
He had also taken the time to pen a note to Darcy before departing Lambton, but the boy who had been dispatched from the inn to deliver it to Pemberley was involved in a mishap along the way, rendering all but the very beginning and a few lines in the middle illegible.
From what little he was able to make out, Darcy had gleaned that some matter of business or other had required their immediate departure, and that his hospitality was much appreciated.
The gentleman’s signature and a postscript in which Darcy could only make out four words—‘Elizabeth’, ‘regrets’, and ‘Miss Darcy’—were blurred and blotted beyond recognition.
He had carried it in his coat pocket ever since.
Darcy rubbed his hand over his chest, feeling ever more constrained with each breath he sucked into his lungs.
Beside him, Fitzwilliam was engrossed in the business of saddling his horse.
He was further along than Darcy was, likely because he was not consumed by memories of Elizabeth—her smile, her eyes, her scent.
The sweep of her shoulder and the curve of her neck.
The way one dark curl always seemed to escape its pins and brush against her cheek, much in the manner that Darcy had desired to caress her for longer than he cared to admit.
She had not liked him when they were in Hertfordshire, nor when they were in Kent, but at Pemberley her opinion of him appeared to have changed.
While she had retained that delightful mixture of archness and sweetness that Darcy had found so irresistible, there was interest and sincerity in her expression as well, neither of which had been present during their past interactions.
Whenever her eyes met his own, the look she gave him was open, welcoming, and warm; so very different from the anger and hurt that had hardened her expression during his abhorrent marriage proposal.
He was not so na?ve as to believe that a handful of meetings in as many days had been enough to make Elizabeth love him, but what she had felt appeared to be far from dislike. Darcy was certain of it.
If he could see such a look in Elizabeth’s eyes again, he would be ever grateful, especially if it meant that he would have another chance to make her love him. God willing, he would meet with success this time. His happiness depended upon it.
Lady Carlisle had kept her word and arranged for Elizabeth, her aunt, and Miss Mary to dine with them two days later. Miss Catherine was indisposed, and Mrs Bennet rarely left her rooms, never mind the house.
Darcy had felt like a candidate for Bedlam.