Chapter 4
A WAKE-UP CALL
Whitby fell asleep quickly, but slept restlessly; some noise, however, woke her abruptly.
Once awake, she could not fall easily back to sleep.
The mystery of whether her mistress had drugged the household’s occupants poked at her, disturbing her rest. At the mantel clock’s two soft chimes, she began wondering if Miss Bingley had finished her cordial and whether she was sleeping soundly or had suffered any ill effects of her own.
Rising, she lit a candle from the hearth and quietly crept into the dressing room that adjoined her chamber.
It, in turn, connected to Miss Bingley’s bedroom.
She poked her head into the room, and threw up her hand to stifle a gasp.
Mr Darcy lay across Miss Bingley’s four-poster, barefoot, half-undressed, still and silent as the tomb.
Is he dead?
She hurried to Mr Darcy’s side, relieved when he exhaled a heavy breath. Suddenly, and feeling extremely na?ve, she realised the substance of Miss Bingley’s plot, and that it had always centred around this gentleman.
I do not know how she managed to bring him in here, but of one thing I am certain—he did not come willingly.
There was only one thing to do—somehow, she must get him out, and without waking Miss Bingley, who, if Whitby had to guess, intended to make a scene and accuse Mr Darcy of scandalous behaviour.
Sadly, she had not even finished her cordial!
Had she drunk enough to keep her asleep?
Never mind that she would likely dismiss Whitby without references if she learned her part in Mr Darcy’s escape.
If only Havers were here to help! But his absence was undoubtedly why Miss Bingley had chosen tonight for her despicable plan, was it not?
She crept around to Mr Darcy’s side and began shaking him. It did nothing to rouse him, and what was worse, it made the whole bed wobble. Miss Bingley stirred. Whitby froze, unsure what to do. She must induce him to move!
“Mr Darcy,” she whispered in his ear. “Please, Mr Darcy! You must move! Now!”
It was no use; he remained unconscious. Spotting one of Miss Bingley’s feather headdresses upon the dressing table, she picked it up and began tickling his nose and ears with the thing. In his sleep, he only batted at the feather, but she persisted. Finally, finally, he blearily opened his eyes.
“Wake up, Mr Darcy! Go to your own room!” she whispered hoarsely.
To her great relief, he sat up, the bedsprings creaking. However, he did not look around or appear to recognise his danger. Plainly, he was still little more than half-conscious.
Miss Bingley stirred again.
“Get up, Mr Darcy,” she urged, pushing hard on his back. “Go to your room.”
Thankfully, at last he stood. Whitby hurried to the door, opening it. “Hurry,” she hissed. “Go!”
After a moment, moving like a sleepwalker, he unsteadily departed. Gratefully, she shut the door behind him, nearly crying with relief.
Miss Bingley muttered something, and Whitby’s heart nearly stopped. The woman rolled over, and after a moment, resumed her snores. As quietly and quickly as was possible, Whitby crept from the room, through the dressing room, and nearly leapt into her own bed, her heart beating hard.
When no sound or scream of outrage reached her from Miss Bingley’s bedroom, she finally calmed.
Thank you, dear Lord, Whitby murmured in prayer. For once, my life is not lived in vain.
Darcy was having the best dream of his entire life. Elizabeth was soft and warm beneath his fingertips, the shape of her thrilling him, the promise of a lifetime of happiness enveloping him in heated desire.
How could I have ever delayed in making her my wife, he thought, with a passion that nearly consumed him. It is everything I have ever wanted, her figure moulding to my own. She fits me perfectly. I want her with every fibre of my being.
Suddenly, he realised that it was, somehow, his wedding night. He need not wait another moment to merge their two, separate beings into one! Dearest, sweetest Elizabeth, my only, my wife! Cautiously, with infinite care, he moved atop his bride.
The screams came out of nowhere. Darcy’s eyes abruptly opened.
As in his dreams, he was in bed with his wife…
with his Elizabeth. But instead of a woman whose skin was flushed with passion, hers showed pale with distress in the grey light of dawn.
It was not happy tears which rolled down her cheeks, and although one arm of hers was caught beneath him, the other was beating at his chest.
Hastily, he rolled off her. “I am sorry!” he cried, as her screams echoed in his ears. At the doorway stood Miss Bennet, gasping, as well as a maid who had been lighting fireplaces.
“Was sleeping…it happened in my sleep! This is all a mistake!”
“I will say it is!” Elizabeth cried, holding the sheet up to her chest. “You despicable beast! You depraved swine!”
Miss Bennet ran to her sister and put her arms about her protectively. Bromley, wrapped in a quilted robe, and Mrs Hurst, enshrouded in velvet, appeared in the doorway with identical shrieks of disbelief.
“I was sleeping!” Darcy cried. “This is impossible! I was sleeping! By myself!”
Lastly and to cap it all off, Bingley in dark blue brocade, his hair wild, emerged from his rooms.
“What is happening here?” he shouted.
Mrs Hurst pointed into Elizabeth’s room. “Mr…Mr…Mr Darcy!” she stuttered. “He is…he was with Miss Elizabeth!”
There was nothing to be done, no apology acceptable, no explanation possible. Humiliated, mortified, Darcy pushed his way past the gawping crowd, stalked down the hall, opened the door of his room and closed it quietly behind him.