Chapter Four
Darcy strode briskly down the lane, his thoughts dark. It was only his cousin’s gentle reprimand that it would be only good manners to take his leave of the Collinses and their guests that had made him change his wet clothes and walk on out again.
Elizabeth thought him entirely devoid of manners. Well, he would rectify that impression as he had rectified Wickham’s charges against him in the letter.
The letter. By God, had she even read it? His hands clenched and he gritted his teeth. She would have been well within her rights to throw it back in his face. He had behaved like an utter ass the previous evening, his wits destroyed as usual merely by being in her presence.
‘Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner…’
He winced at the memory of her chilly tones as she spoke the words. ‘Your arrogance, your conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others…’
While Wickham’s charges against him were false – and he still could not entirely regret separating Bingley from Miss Bennet – Elizabeth’s words had cut him to the quick.
It had been a long, sleepless night looking into the darkness of his own soul, and Darcy had not much cared for what he found there.
He had been so angry with Lady Catherine for her rude condescension to Elizabeth.
But he had behaved even more disgracefully towards the Bennet family, and with less cause.
At least Lady Catherine actually paid Elizabeth attention!
What had he done but look down his nose and sneer, and laugh behind his hand with Caroline Bingley on occasion?
He shuddered to think on it now; his behaviour had been nothing short of despicable.
It was no wonder that Elizabeth hated him so.
There was no possible way to make amends. Elizabeth would surely never want to see him again. At least he could hold the knowledge to himself that she would be safe from Wickham.
If she had read the letter. He had to know if she had read the letter, because if she had not, she would be as vulnerable to the scoundrel as ever – more so if Wickham should somehow discern how precious she was to Darcy. He quickened his pace.
He had to see her. Just one more time.
The parsonage door stood wide open. Puzzled, Darcy stood upon the threshold, looking into the hall.
“Hello?” he called, removing his hat. “Mr. Collins? Mrs. Collins?”
There was no reply, and he stood undecided for several moments, before realising that it would be the height of rudeness to enter the house without invitation. After a minute of hesitation, Darcy decided that he would walk around the house, perhaps see if anyone was in the garden.
He had circumnavigated the house entirely, stood at the open front door again, hat in his hands, when quick footsteps on the path behind him made him turn his head.
“Cousin! It is most odd, the door is open but nobody is home – why, Richard, whatever is the matter?” He saw his cousin’s grave expression as the other man removed his hat.
“Come inside, Darcy.”
“But…” Darcy glanced around the hall.
“Just come inside.” A firm hand on his elbow propelled him into the house, and, bemused, Darcy let Fitzwilliam guide him into the parlour.
“What is going on?” he demanded as the colonel closed the door.
Fitzwilliam glanced around, but saw no brandy decanter. He took a deep breath. “You’d better sit down. I have some distressing news to impart.”
“Out with it, man, for God’s sake!” Darcy barked impatiently.
“Darcy, Miss Bennet has been in an accident.” He was watching for it, saw Darcy sway on his feet and grabbed his elbow to guide him into a chair. “I told you to sit down, you fool.”
“Elizabeth,” Darcy whispered, and the look he turned on his cousin was agonised. “Is she – is she…” he couldn’t bear to say the word.
“She lives, but she is gravely wounded. I am just returned from sending Expresses to her family, summoning them to her side. I found her, Darcy, fallen in a stream along one of the lanes, bleeding from a nasty head wound.”
Darcy had gone very white about the lips. He lifted his fingers to his eyes, pressed on his closed eyelids for a moment. “What – what has been done?”
“I brought her here for Mrs. Collins to attend to and summoned the doctor. I daresay Dr. Trent is with her now.”
“This is my fault,” Darcy said despairingly.
“Do not be ridiculous, how could it possibly be your fault?” Fitzwilliam scoffed.
“She must have been distracted after seeing me…” Perhaps she was reading the letter, Darcy thought, but he did not speak of the letter aloud.
Doing so would irrevocably compromise Elizabeth in Fitzwilliam’s eyes, and he would demand Darcy marry her.
Elizabeth would be put in an untenable situation, and he would not do that to her.
Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head impatiently, and just then Maria Lucas came hurrying back into the house, a basket in her hands.
“Miss Lucas!” he hailed her as she passed the parlour door.
“Oh! Colonel – and Mr. Darcy!” Maria startled to see them both there, bobbed a hasty curtsy.
“Have you news of Miss Bennet?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“Not yet, sir, I have not seen her since the doctor went up to Rosings to get ice. I have here ointments and medicine he sent me for…”
“Quickly, then, go on up, and I pray you, let us know if there is any news,” Fitzwilliam requested, and Maria nodded nervously.
“I will come back down directly to report to you on her condition, sir!” she promised, scurrying towards the stairs.
Darcy dropped his head into his hands, and Fitzwilliam turned to see him tearing at his hair. Hesitating only a moment, he crossed swiftly to his cousin and put a hand on Darcy’s shoulder.
“She will be well, Darcy, I am sure of it. Mrs. Collins is a fine, competent woman who will no doubt nurse her friend devotedly, and you know well how good a doctor Trent is. You pay the man a very fine salary to ensure he stays here close to Anne, as we both know!”
“What shall I do if she dies?” Darcy said brokenly into his hands.
“None of that, now,” Fitzwilliam said bracingly, his heart breaking for the cousin who was also his closest friend.
“Miss Bennet shall be perfectly fine and tramping the lanes again as is her wont very soon, I do not doubt it. Come now, Darcy, buck up. Mrs. Collins may have need of us and you will do Miss Bennet no good to sit here and go into a decline over her, no matter how much you love her.”
“I am very obvious, am I not?” Darcy sighed and looked up at his cousin.
“I’m afraid so. But I must commend you on your excellent taste,” the colonel said, straight-faced. “She will make a very fine Mistress of Pemberley.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened, and he was about to tell Fitzwilliam that could never be, no matter how much he wished for it, that his own selfish, boorish behaviour had forever set Elizabeth against him, when light feet pattered down the stairs and Mrs. Collins entered the parlour.