Chapter 23
Darcy scowled out of the window. He had been standing here since Richard had left — how long ago, he no longer knew. Why the deuce had he agreed to dine with her?
He half imagined them sitting at opposite ends of the table in icy silence. It would be a performance, with the only audience being the staff. Perhaps he ought to say she should sit beside him when dining without guests; it could be more informal.
But that would mean they had to speak. He shuddered and drew a deep breath. A sudden stab of pain in his ribs reminded him of his weakness. She must despise him. She had seen him felled by the attack, seen him afterwards, known what a failure of a man he was.
And Richard had reminded him that she had not married him willingly, but to save her sisters.
Darcy’s mouth twisted; he had not married her willingly, either. He had to save his sister, and the Darcy name.
He groaned. Why had Richard come; taunting him for his failures — failure to protect himself, to protect his sister from the risk of scandal, and now, with this visit?
His failures as a husband. He had not ensured Mrs Darcy could bring a familiar person with her, a maid from Longbourn, perhaps.
He had not ensured she hired a companion.
He frowned slightly, Richard had said she was still wearing a Longbourn gown. Why was she doing that? She had a generous settlement and pin money.
Then he remembered; she had come to his study when he was really not himself to ask about pin money and he had exploded with rage and refused to discuss it. He screwed his eyes shut as he recalled his words. “I had not thought you mercenary.”
It was no wonder she was wearing gowns from Longbourn. It would be to punish him, to make him feel guilty. He clenched his jaw. He would not be drawn into her machinations!
He pushed himself away from the window and crossed to the decanter. He needed a whisky. As he stood, relishing the fiery taste with each sip, he decided he would not be drawn into his cousin’s devious pressure, either.
He would begin dining with Mrs Darcy; he had agreed to that, after all. But he would not go further, arrange a companion or speak to her of more pin money. She had a new maid from here, she had companionship. And Mrs Reynolds would be friendly enough.
Before he could change his mind, he crossed to the mantel and rang the bell.
He regarded the butler when the man entered. He looked cautious, almost wary. Darcy almost snorted with disdain.
“Mr Payne, did my cousin leave after he left this room, or did he go wandering around the house and speak to Mrs Darcy?”
The butler blinked. “No, sir. He came straight from this room to the door and was gone as soon as his horse was saddled.”
The relief warmed Darcy. “Yes, well. Please inform the staff that while I will continue to breakfast above stairs and lunch in here, I will take dinner in the dining room tonight and in future.”
He nodded at the man and turned away, seeing the untidiness of papers strewn across his desk. What must Richard have thought?
He rubbed the back of his head, where the scar was still a raised line, though gradually improving, and his ribs jabbed at him enough to remind him of his injuries.
He sat behind the desk. Breakfasting in his chambers. A short ride, hopefully soon to be at a better pace than now. Getting involved in his estate business once more, then lunching in here with a good book.
And now, dining formally with Mrs Darcy was added to the routine. It would be good to have his days ordered and the same, would it not? Soon he could be more confident about his life and his temper would cease to flare.
All he had to be careful of was not to become involved with her life and worries, and not lose his temper. I can do that. I hope.
Upstairs, Darcy dressed for dinner.
He glowered at himself in the mirror. His jacket no longer fitted him snugly.
Rather, it hung loosely from his shoulders, and his cravat, tied in a complicated knot, was strangely foreign to him, making him stand straighter than was entirely comfortable.
Heavens! It had only been a little over two months.
Was he so altered? And was he really ready for this?
Mr Maunder was behind him, clearing away the shaving paraphernalia.
She was just a woman. Hardly something to be feared. So why did his chest tighten? A memory intruded — Miss Elizabeth staying at Netherfield to nurse her sister. Her dancing eyes, arch sweetness, and her mischievous skewering of his pride and opinions.
No, no! He must not think of it! Those thoughts; heaven help him if he had to listen to her impertinent teasing. No, he would not allow it. He spun round. It was time to go down. To face her.
He descended the great staircase carefully, slowly, determined to retain his dignity. He had timed it carefully, so he could enter the dining room immediately; he was not yet prepared for pre-dinner drinks in her company.
The table was set perfectly for a formal dinner as always, the silverware sparkling in the candlelight and the tablecloth crisply white and pressed.
He moved to his place at the head of the table.
He was master of Pemberley, and he felt a flicker of pride at the thought, followed immediately by apprehension.
He must recover soon and resume his business.
It needed him; and he would control his anger; he must.
As he sat and drew the chair in, he glanced at the foot of the table. Mrs Darcy might be waiting outside until he was seated. He supposed it was thoughtful of her. It took him a further moment to see what was wrong. There was no place setting for Mrs Darcy.
He forced himself to think for a moment as he unfolded the napkin and placed it on his lap. When he felt able to control his voice better, he spoke to the first footman.
“Is Mrs Darcy not dining in here tonight?” He tried not to sound accusing. “Call Mrs Reynolds!” His lips tightened; it seemed his wife did not wish to dine with him.
He sat back as the footmen cautiously began to work, attempting not to glance at him. Perhaps he was scowling. A bowl of soup — rich veal, thickened with cream, and for the first time, he felt a stirring of appetite.
It was only a few minutes later that Mrs Reynolds hurried in, her expression desperately anxious, her hands wringing.
“How may I be of assistance, Mr Darcy?” She glanced behind her, and Darcy could see her deputy standing in the doorway. But he must not be distracted. The old woman seemed rather distressed and he tried to gentle his voice a little.
“Why is Mrs Darcy not dining down here tonight, Mrs Reynolds?” He was discomfited when her face fell and her mouth opened soundlessly a few times.
“Mrs Darcy has been dining upstairs in her chambers, Mr Darcy.” Mrs Kerr had come forward to answer, her hand supporting the older woman’s arm.
There was something wrong there, but Darcy could not spare it a thought.
His temper was rising — would not be held in check.
He had prepared himself for this meal together, mortified himself, been properly shaved and dressed.
But he could not think of that at the moment.
He called on all the control he could. But it was not enough.
“Please inform Mrs Darcy that I expect her to be dining downstairs in all but the most exceptional of circumstances!”
He pushed away the dish; his brief spurt of temper — in front of the servants, no less! — had drained his appetite. Dismayed, he saw that he had been too abrupt and soup spilled over the pristine starched tablecloth. A footman stepped forward with a cloth, then hesitated.
Darcy muttered an inaudible word of apology and escaped to his chambers as swiftly as he could.
Darcy paced across and back, again and again; his private rooms not really large enough to prevent him having to turn often, his ribs paining him every time he twisted, reminding him of the terrible turn his life had taken.
He would be better in the drawing room, or better still, the gallery. But he dared not leave his chambers. She might have heard, might approach him. The servants, too. His outburst would have spread through the house, his mortification complete.
He could blame Richard. It was he who had pushed him to this too soon. Much too soon.
Darcy crossed to the window and pushed the curtain aside, staring out into the darkness of Pemberley. He was ashamed. Ashamed that he could not control the sudden spurts of temper, no matter the effort of trying.
He must stay away from Mrs Darcy; he must not frighten her any more than he had already.
Why did she dine upstairs? He leaned forward slowly, touching his forehead against the cold glass. Of course, she had not been accustomed to such a large estate, or so many servants.
If he preferred to dine in his study, then he could not blame her for dining upstairs.
Did she read, as he did? It might mitigate her loneliness. He knew she was a reader; their time in the Netherfield library, silent for half-an-hour together, was seared in his mind.
He turned away and resumed pacing, his back aching. No. It was necessary to stay away. Silence was best, the effort not worth the risk. He wondered if he would ever recover his stoic calm. If he did not, then his life would be forever altered; away from his sister, family …
He shuddered. It would hardly be worth it.