Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The house was quiet when they entered, unexpectedly so.
Darcy, who had anticipated something akin to the chaos of Longbourn, was taken aback by it, struck by just how drastically the lives of Elizabeth, Miss Mary, and Miss Catherine had altered when they had lost their father, their youngest sister, and in a way, their mother as well.
Even their eldest sister was absent, a married woman now living in London.
Darcy surrendered his greatcoat and hat to the maid, who promptly informed Elizabeth that both of her sisters had gone up to the manor house at Mrs Cahill’s request, but that they ought to be back ‘very soon’. The last was said with a dubious glance at Darcy.
“And how is my mother, Martha?” Elizabeth enquired, unwinding her scarf from around her neck and placing it on the bench in the anteroom beside her bonnet.
“She is sleeping soundly, Miss Bennet. The nurse is with her, as she always is.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Has the fire been built up in the drawing room hearth?”
“Aye, miss.”
“Please inform Mrs Edwards that a pot of tea and some lemon cakes would be appreciated. That is all.”
Martha looked from Elizabeth to Darcy and again to Elizabeth with an expression that could only be described as profoundly discomforting.
“That is all, Martha,” Elizabeth repeated, more firmly this time.
Averting her eyes, Martha curtseyed and scurried away.
It was then, after observing Elizabeth’s courteous yet authoritative instruction of Martha, that Darcy realised her role within the dower house was that of mistress.
As the eldest of the three sisters who resided there—the sister with an inherent, natural ease and compassionate heart—it was entirely fitting that Elizabeth would step into such a role; but it also made him wonder what other responsibilities had been placed upon her shoulders, and whether she felt them as a boon or a burden.
They proceeded to the drawing room—a lovely, light-filled space with a Persian carpet on the floor and several elegant but comfortable-looking sofas arranged before the fire.
The paintings on the walls depicted scenes, not only of Yorkshire, but of Hertfordshire, and the mahogany cabinet set between the two largest windows held porcelain figurines, painted china cups, and several miniatures, two of which were of persons whom Darcy instantly recognised: Mr Bennet and Miss Lydia.
“The miniatures are lovely, are they not?” said Elizabeth, her voice subdued as she joined him. “Kitty painted them as a gift for my mother, but they only seem to agitate her, so we keep them here, where she is least likely to see them.”
“Your sister is very talented,” said Darcy, wondering whether Miss Catherine would be able to capture the fineness of Elizabeth’s eyes, the arch of her brow, and the teasing turn of her lips with as much accuracy as she had captured the droll expression on Mr Bennet’s countenance.
The two of them were remarkably alike in their looks.
He glanced at Elizabeth, and noticed her eyes trained upon the near perfect likeness of her father.
“You resemble him,” he told her. “His eyes are very much like yours.”
“I was his favourite,” she replied, touching her fingertip to the glass on the cabinet door.
“He taught me so many things that I never would have learnt had I a governess, or had I been sent away to school. I owe him so much. I wish I could thank him. I wish I could tell him how much I love him. I shall feel his absence for the rest of my life.”
“He was instrumental in shaping your character,” said Darcy. “And for that, I owe him a debt of gratitude. You are an incomparable woman.”
A flush of colour appeared on her cheeks. “I am nothing of the sort,” she protested.
“You are to me. Because of you, I have become a better man.”
“You are an excellent man,” she insisted. “You are honourable and generous, and a wonderful brother to Miss Darcy.”
“You know, as do I,” he told her, lowering his voice, “that I have not always been as attentive to her as I should have been.”
“You arrived in time. You prevented something terrible. Something she would have regretted for the rest of her life. You saved her.”
“My arrival was entirely by chance.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “That does not matter. Miss Darcy is safe. And she is happy. You know where she is in the world. Lydia…we may never learn what became of her.”
“Then permit me to help you find her,” he said, his tone tinged with frustration.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam has access to persons who are endlessly useful in such a regard.” He stepped closer, so close that he could see a light dusting of freckles on her nose, and tiny flecks of green in her eyes.
“All I need know is the blackguard’s name. ”
For what felt like an eternity, Elizabeth regarded him in silence. At length, when Darcy had begun to resign himself to the fact that she might never confide in him, she turned her head aside and whispered, “You already do.”
“Wickham!” Fitzwilliam spat. “Her sister ran off with Wickham?”
“Lower your voice,” Darcy warned him, “else the entire house will hear you. This is not something that is generally known here, and I would prefer to keep it that way.” He handed his cousin a scrap of paper upon which was written Mr and Mrs Gardiner’s London address, and the address of Mr Anderson’s business in Oxford Street.
Frowning, Fitzwilliam glanced at it. “Who are these people again?”
“The Gardiners are Miss Bennet’s aunt and uncle. They are sensible, educated people and should be amenable to your assistance. I do not know Mr Anderson, but I am acquainted with Mrs Anderson. She is Miss Bennet’s eldest sister.”
“This is not, by any chance, the sister who Bingley threw over?”
“She is one and the same. I suggest you do not mention his name within her hearing, or her husband’s. He did her very poorly.”
“Aye.” Fitzwilliam tucked the scrap of paper into his coat pocket.
“I will leave at first light tomorrow and send word once I arrive in London. It should not take me long to find Wickham, or to at least find someone who can tell me where to find him. Miss Bennet’s sister, however, should she no longer be with him, may take longer to locate.
Fortunately, I am well-connected. She will be found. If not immediately, then eventually.”
Darcy withdrew a purse from his coat pocket. “Wickham and his associates cannot be worked on without adequate inducement.”
Fitzwilliam cracked his knuckles with a rueful twist of his mouth. “There are other, equally effective methods of persuading a wastrel that do not involve pound notes, you know.”
“You may do as you see fit. Just do your damnedest to find Lydia Bennet, and I will be in your debt.”
“So long as you do your damnedest to convince her sister to marry you, you may consider your debt paid in full. Miss Bennet certainly seems to like you well enough.”
“I would prefer to have her love me.”
“Then get to it, man,” his cousin told him, slapping him on the back before quitting the room.
The next morning, Darcy returned to Rosewell’s dower house at the earliest possible hour that was considered acceptable for a call.
Martha showed him to the drawing room, where he found Elizabeth playing Mozart.
As was the case when she had performed at Sallow Hall, her eyes were closed as she focused intently, entirely on the music.
The sound of the door being shut made Darcy glance behind him with a start.
Martha had abandoned him.
They were alone.
It was then that Elizabeth noticed him. She stopped playing at once and began to stand, but Darcy bid her to remain where she was.
“You play so beautifully. Pray do not cease playing on my account.”
“I have been practising long enough,” she told him as her lips lifted in a smile. She abandoned the instrument for the sofa. “Will you not sit down, Mr Darcy? My sister Kitty is with my aunt this morning, and Mary is upstairs, reading to my mother. Once again, you have found me all alone.”
“I am by no means sorry for it. May I?” he asked, indicating the vacant cushion beside her.
“As you wish.”
He sat as close as he dared, and endeavoured to ignore the sweet, subtle scent of her perfume—the same perfume she had worn the other evening; the same perfume she had always worn.
It was as enticing as it was soothing, and Darcy found himself wanting very much to move closer; to press his lips to the pulse at the base of her neck, and to show her precisely how much she affected him.
As you wish.
Those three little words, spoken so innocently and coupled with the scent of orange blossoms and lavender, had only increased his yearning for the one thing he wished more than anything else in the world: for Elizabeth Bennet to become Mrs Darcy.
Images of standing opposite her in church, of slipping his ring on her finger, of kissing her senseless as his carriage lurched forwards, taking them home to Pemberley, filled his head.
Before he even knew what he was about, he blurted, “Will it always be Mr Darcy?”
For a moment, she appeared to be taken aback. “Mr Darcy is your name,” she informed him with undue seriousness, but the mirthful little glint in her eyes belied the severity of her tone.
He shook his head with a wry intimation of a smile. “It is my surname. My Christian name is Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “I know. But I can hardly call you that, sir. It would be improper.”
“There is nothing improper about it. It is a respectable family name.”
“That is not what I meant at all,” she replied, smiling despite herself. “As you well know.”
“What I would like to know, more than anything else in the world,” he told her, boldly reaching for her hand and entwining his fingers with hers, “is whether you would do me the honour of marrying me.”
“Oh,” she said on a breath as her eyes widened in surprise.