Chapter 21
Finally, the disruption of Christmas and New Year was over. Darcy had remained in his chambers as much as he could, knowing his temper was on such a hair-trigger that he could barely think of what lay outside his safe, familiar rooms.
He had ventured out on only a few occasions; to fetch a book, or sometimes to have some fresh air when he found the walls closing in on him; but on two of those ventures he had encountered Miss Bennet — no! He grimaced. She was now Mrs Darcy.
He had not known what to do, what to say to her, and had escaped back to his chambers as if the devil himself was chasing him. The ache in his ribs following each occasion had angered him, even though it was his own fault.
At least she was not attempting to impose her company upon him. Not that Maunder would let her past him, although he had mentioned that she asked after him each day.
He snorted disdainfully; it must be all show. Mrs Darcy must despise him, a failure of a gentleman unable to protect himself, needing a woman to rescue him. And her resentment would have been all the greater when she was forced to marry him.
Darcy went to the window and stared out over his beloved Pemberley while his valet moved around the room, gathering the shaving paraphernalia.
And he had needed to marry her to protect himself and his sister from the dreadful rumours — and he could damn the whole of society that had driven him to it.
He sat in his chair to be shaved, forcing his thoughts away from anger to keep his features impassive.
It would not do to castigate Maunder for a shaving cut if it was Darcy’s fault for moving.
His lips tightened in his mortification; it had already happened more than once.
When the razor hesitated, Darcy drew a quiet breath and attempted to empty his mind of all thought.
His breakfast tray cleared, Darcy hurried down to his study and closed the door in relief at not having encountered her. He had been away from his desk too long, and must begin to pick up the reins of duty. Master of Pemberley.
He began to look through the great pile of post awaiting his attention, his lips thinning as he put aside many addressed to Mrs Darcy, his anger growing as he did so.
He could not read them yet, and would not give them to her until he had done so.
He was relieved when the duty footman carried in a tray of coffee, and he nodded.
“Thank you. Please summon the steward.”
After two hours in conference he decided he had had enough, the last insult to his mood being that he’d had to listen to Mr Reed informing him that all four under-stewards had been impressed with Mrs Darcy, who had arranged to visit their wives each week to learn about the tenants under their purview.
Darcy took his lunch in his chambers, following which, he took to his bed and slept heavily, and was dismayed when he awoke later.
He snapped at Mr Maunder when the man tried to reassure him that it was not a weakness, but part of his needed recovery.
Then, of course, he brooded on his feelings of guilt at mistreating his long-standing loyal servant.
“I apologise, Mr Maunder. Again.”
The man was taking out his dinner tray. “Think nothing of it, Mr Darcy. It is improving, sir. Soon this will all be but a distant memory.”
Except that Darcy was now married. To a lady who despised and resented him. And that was irrevocable. He snorted and crossed the room to gaze out of the window until he was alone again. It was better this way — or so he told himself.
The following morning, he descended to his study again. Routine had sustained him for many years; it would do so again if only he could immerse himself in it. Today he ignored the pile of correspondence to read a report on the mill repairs out at Tansley. This he could do.
But it was only an hour later when the butler carried in the morning’s post on the salver, followed by a footman with his coffee, and Darcy reluctantly set the report aside.
As he flipped through the letters, he saw several addressed to her and once again anger and guilt began to consume him.
How could he return to his previous satisfaction with his business if every morning he was to be reminded of her and his unwavering need to control information concerning him that entered and left this place?
While he had burned the first few, he regretted it too much to do the same.
With an inward oath, he hurled his coffee cup into the fire.
It shattered with a satisfying noise and flying shards of china scattered across the hearth.
He sprang to his feet and gathered all her unopened letters together — those from today and all the previous ones still sitting accusingly on his desk, and seized a sheet of notepaper.
DESIST!!
He scrawled furiously across the sheet and folded it around the letters which he hastily tied into a packet of brown paper, writing Bennet’s name and direction on the outside.
Before he could change his mind, he rang the bell violently and when the butler hurried in, Darcy handed the packet to him. “Have this sent by express at once, Mr Payne. Make sure the fee is paid in advance.”
He scowled when he saw the man’s eyes slide to the fireplace where the broken china was in evidence, and then shifted uneasily. “I am going above stairs for a while. When you have seen to the express letter, ask Mrs Reynolds to arrange to have this room put right.”
“Yes, Mr Darcy.”
Darcy ran up the stairs as if his wife and father-in-law were in close pursuit, and was exceedingly relieved when he could turn into his chamber and close the door behind him.
All the rest of the day he paced his rooms, torn between guilt for his own conduct and a growing fury that letters continued to arrive to haunt him.
A day later, he walked in the grounds, choosing the less cultivated gardens and hoping to goodness he would not meet her. But it had been a difficult walk. His ribs ached with the unevenness of the path, and walking within the shadowed woodland was deeply depressing.
It was all her fault he was reduced to this, skulking around in the least satisfying part of the park and anger bubbled to the surface once again.
He could ride, could he not? Then he would be far past the paths she might frequent.
He turned towards the stables. Perhaps he could not ride today, but he could greet his horses, and allow their presence to calm him.
He nodded brusquely at Rogers, the head groom and stable master, and attempted his usual striding pace to the loose box where Regulus watched him arrive.
The animal nuzzled Darcy’s shoulder and enjoyed the pats. “Sorry, old man, I didn’t plan to come here, so I have no carrot for you.” Darcy murmured to the stallion.
He sensed Rogers was standing close by. “He looks well. I am wondering if I can try a short ride tomorrow. Might you send him out earlier and give him a good gallop first, so he is more settled to walk? It might be a while until I am back to usual with him.”
“I had not thought you to be ready for another month, sir.” The man looked disturbed, but seemed to understand that his master would brook no argument. “I will have him well-exercised, sir, but will you allow me to send a groom to be with you?”
It took a heroic effort not to snap at him. He turned back to his horse, who swung his head confidingly to talk to him and Darcy gained comfort from the warm, familiar smell of him. Finally, he felt master enough of himself to turn back to the man.
“If it will make you feel easier, Rogers, then by all means have someone follow me. I doubt it will be a long ride.”
Indeed, he wasn’t even sure he could get into the saddle without his ribs chastising him with a return of the flaming pain he could just remember from those early days of recovery.
But he must make the attempt. If he could return to a more familiar routine, then surely that would help him to return to the man he used to be? A man who could hold his temper, could ensure his estate was well-managed and his people cared for.
As he walked back to the house, he pondered on the fact that he was avoiding thoughts of his wife, and once again, his mind shied away from it. No, he could not think of her as yet. Perhaps, once he was back to his old self, he could attempt to improve matters.
The next day, just before lunch, when Rogers had reported that Regulus had been heavily exercised, Darcy walked down to the stables.
He managed to bite his tongue at the indignity of having to use the mounting block, but even that caused a sharp twinge in his ribs, and he nodded curtly at the groom before walking out to the path which ran along the lower side of the woods.
Around him, the woods, only a gentle rustling of the remaining leaves, but otherwise silent.
It calmed him, helping him to feel a connection with his land, his past, and the permanence of the place, and his stewardship of the land for his family.
Heirs. He must produce an heir, or be the last Darcy to hold Pemberley. His sister’s husband would have a different name, and the old line would be lost.
An heir. Regulus shied slightly and jerked his head up as Darcy reflexively tightened his grip on rising rage and the horse must have also sensed Darcy’s sudden surge of anger.
It would not do. The animal ought not to have to suffer his temper for too long, and he turned back towards the stables, his lips tightening.
It might be weeks before he was able to increase the pace beyond a walk — already his chest was pained, and he knew holding his own posture so stiffly was the cause.
But he could do this for half an hour each day. It would improve. It must.