Chapter 36
WHERE THE STORM WILL COME BEFORE THE CALM…OR RATHER THE WEDDING.
Elizabeth wrapped her hands around Darcy’s arm as they made their way along Piccadilly Street in St James’s.
They had separated from the rest of their party, which consisted of the Bingleys, the Hursts, and Mrs Lawrence.
The weather was chilly, but they moved at a leisurely pace towards a local book shop Darcy frequented without fail whenever he was in London.
The exterior of the shop was unassuming but tasteful, while the interior was expansive, open, and inviting.
What must easily have been tens of thousands of books filled every available square inch of shelf space from the floor to the ceiling.
Except for London’s circulating library, Elizabeth had never seen so many books in one place.
The sight of their smooth, leather bindings and lovely gilded spines pleased her beyond measure.
They passed more than an hour browsing the shelves.
Darcy stayed close to Elizabeth as she wandered the aisles, listening with an indulgent turn of his mouth as she reminisced about countless rainy days spent in her father’s library devouring works by Homer, Chaucer, and Shakespeare.
While she skimmed her fingertips along a seemingly endless collection of poetry, noting each title and author as she went, he caught her hand and pulled a book of sonnets from one of the higher shelves.
The collection happened to be a favourite of hers, and Elizabeth could not refrain from voicing her pleasure that Darcy had chosen it.
He guided her to a quiet, secluded corner at the back of the shop, where he settled her in a comfortable chair, opened the book, and proceeded to read aloud to her.
As she listened to him recite such poignant words of love and longing, of affection lost and later found, Elizabeth felt an undeniable sense of warmth and an overwhelming gratitude.
The soft timbre of Darcy’s voice, the pleasant curve of his mouth, the devotion in his eyes, all served to endear him to her even more.
Impulsively, she reached for his hand and pressed a lingering, heartfelt kiss to his knuckles.
Darcy’s voice faltered. Without taking his eyes from her, he closed the book and placed it on a nearby shelf. “Are you well, Elizabeth?” he enquired gently.
She nodded and rose from her chair to stand before him. “I am happy,” she told him. “You make me so happy, Fitzwilliam.”
It was early yet, and there was no one else in that section of the shop; they were quite alone.
Darcy urged her closer, bowed his head, and caressed her cheek with the briefest brush of his fingertips.
They remained thus until the sound of voices at the front, beyond the maze of aisles and countless rows of books, reminded them that they were in public and their behaviour was far from appropriate.
Darcy withdrew his hand, but before he could step away Elizabeth reclaimed it and bestowed one last kiss.
“Thank you,” she said.
With unexampled affection, Darcy asked, “For what are you thanking me?”
“For knowing me so well. For understanding what I enjoy—what brings me pleasure.”
“We marry in five days. I look forward to a lifetime of being able to bring you pleasure.”
Elizabeth felt a flush of heat at the double entendre of his words.
A slow smile spread across Darcy’s countenance, and Elizabeth laughed.
The sound of a throat being cleared interrupted their clandestine moment.
Startled, Elizabeth shifted her gaze to a tall, imposing gentleman who looked to be about sixty years standing a dozen or so feet away. His resemblance to her future husband was so uncanny she could not prevent herself from openly staring at him.
“Lord Carlisle,” Darcy said with the barest modicum of civility as he squeezed Elizabeth’s hand, then released it. “To what do I owe this honour?”
The earl’s voice was gruff, but his penetrating gaze was not levelled at Darcy; it was focused on Elizabeth. “I suppose this is the girl you intend to wed in—what did you say, Nephew—five days?”
“This is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, my betrothed. Miss Bennet, my uncle, Lord Carlisle.”
Elizabeth curtseyed. “My lord.” She was surprised when the earl acknowledged her with a slight bow. It was very slight, but it was far more than she had expected after hearing such disagreeable accounts of him from Darcy and Lady Carlisle.
“Miss Bennet,” he muttered brusquely as he scrutinised her appearance from her bonnet to her half-boots with a brazenness that disconcerted her. “Very handsome, but then again, I expected nothing less from you in that quarter, Darcy. You always did have a discerning eye when it came to women.”
Elizabeth stiffened. That Darcy’s uncle had just appraised her in much the same manner that a farmer might appraise a horse did nothing to improve her opinion of him, but she positively bristled at his implication about Darcy.
She was mortified by this man’s crassness, but soon recalled he spent most of his time with his mistresses instead of his wife.
Rather than take him to task for his vulgarity, Elizabeth bit her tongue in the figurative sense.
She had no desire to make an unpleasant situation worse.
Darcy appeared to have no such compunction.
“Unacceptable,” he said tersely. Turning his back to his uncle, he snatched the book of sonnets from the shelf and pressed it into Elizabeth’s hands, then closed the distance between himself and the earl in three long strides.
“I have warned you,” he said in a low, furious voice.
“I will not tolerate your disrespect, nor your insinuations, nor your insults. Miss Bennet does not deserve them, and neither do I. Apologise to my future wife, or from this day forward I shall not know you.”
“Come, Darcy,” said the earl with a flippant wave of his hand. “Do not be ludicrous! All this damned nonsense over a woman. We are men. We are family—”
“Miss Bennet will become my wife in five days. She will be the mistress of Pemberley—the mother of my children. She will be my family.”
The sound of coquettish giggling was heard and a woman’s voice calling, “Henry? Wherever are you hiding yourself among all these awful books?” A moment later Lady Harrow appeared wearing a catlike grin and a gown better suited to an evening at the opera than a morning in a book shop.
Her smile was wiped from her face when she saw Darcy standing toe to toe with Lord Carlisle.
Without speaking so much as one word, she averted her eyes and disappeared the way she had come.
Darcy fixed his uncle with a look of loathing so intense his lordship took a step backwards. “You dare to appear in public with that woman!”
“Listen here, Darcy—”
“You dare to insult your wife,” he whispered harshly, “to injure your wife—in so complete and reprehensible a fashion as to flaunt your affair with a woman whose proclivities are so debase and immoral that countless respectable gentlemen refuse to admit her to their homes?”
“Hold your tongue, Nephew,” Lord Carlisle warned. “We are friends, Lady Harrow and I—of course, we may be seen together. It means nothing! You can prove nothing!”
“She called you by your Christian name! Last week I watched you collect her in Park Street at an hour far too early for a respectable call! Do you comprehend the damage you have done—the injury you have inflicted upon my aunt? The irreparable harm you have done to your marriage?”
Lord Carlisle’s eyes darted around the shop.
His mouth was set in a grim line. His colour was heightened.
By all appearances, he was incensed. “This is no place to conduct such a conversation. We will send the ladies on their way and reconvene at Carlisle House in half an hour. I would speak to you of your aunt.”
“No,” said Darcy coldly. “Until you apologise, and until Miss Bennet accepts your apology, you will not find me at leisure to discuss any such topic. I am no longer at your disposal. I am not one of your dogs. I shall not come when you call.”
Turning his back to his irate uncle, he extended his hand to Elizabeth. “I apologise, Miss Bennet, for losing my temper.”
Elizabeth silently accepted it, lifting her chin as Darcy placed her hand upon his arm and ushered her past Lord Carlisle without so much as a glance.
At the front of the shop, Darcy paid for the book of sonnets and they left.
His mien was serious and his anger at his uncle was barely contained, but Elizabeth was at a loss as to what, if anything, she ought to do or say.
He pulled her along the crowded street in silence for some time.
His long strides made it difficult for her to keep pace with him.
It was cold and she was feeling tense as well as tired.
When she spied a coffee house looming ahead with a crowd of fashionably attired couples spilling from its entrance, she tugged on his arm.
“Come inside, sir. Let us warm ourselves with some chocolate. This pace you are keeping is too brisk, even for me.”
After softening his demeanour and uttering an apology, he acquiesced and allowed her to lead him inside the coffee house to a secluded corner of the room, where they claimed a cosy table draped with a crisp, white cloth.
There, they would have some privacy, if not necessarily peace.
Among the constant buzz of the other patrons, they ordered chocolate and marzipan and cake.
“I am sorry,” said Darcy, reaching for her hand beneath the table and giving it a gentle squeeze.
“I should never have spoken so candidly to my uncle. I should never have lost my temper. He manages to infuriate me more each time I see him. Today I could barely look at him without my stomach turning. As my uncle, he is owed the lion’s share of deference and respect, but I find it increasingly difficult to grant.
Despite his position in society, he had no right to say what he did, any of it. ”
“So, you do not agree with his opinion that I am handsome, then?” she replied, attempting to tease him out of his black mood.
She lifted her chocolate to her lips and took a long, satisfying sip as she regarded him over the rim of her cup.
It was rich and thick and tasted heavenly. Elizabeth licked her lips.
Darcy smirked at her. “If you are yet unaware of the fact that I consider you to be very beautiful, there is either something greatly remiss with my lovemaking, or I have been sadly misled and you are in actuality a simpleton and not the intelligent, discerning woman I believed you to be.”
Elizabeth arched her brow. She had not expected him to tease her, not in such a crowded venue, and certainly not at that moment. “A simpleton, sir?” she repeated indignantly, then laughed, unable to help herself.
Darcy laughed as well. “Forgive me. I could not resist. As handsome as you are, there is far more to you than your physical beauty. While I appreciate that you are so lovely on the outside, it is your inner beauty—your spirit, your compassion, and the intelligent turn of your mind—that made me fall in love with you.” He shook his head and frowned.
“To my uncle, those qualities are of little significance. What he implied was simply…He is vulgar and crass and void of any sort of gentlemanly principles. I was perfectly serious when I said I will not speak to him unless he delivers an apology to you—one that you see fit to accept. Perhaps not even then.”
“That, sir, is entirely up to you,” she said gently.
“In the meantime, we should speak of pleasanter things than the earl. We were having a delightful time before we met with him and I would like to continue doing so. It is our last day in London. I refuse to give such a wretched, disappointed man the power to ruin it, especially when we have been granted this rare time to spend alone together.”
“Pray, forgive me,” he said again, reaching for his cup of chocolate. “Of course, I would rather speak to you of pleasanter things. Since we are not in a ballroom, Miss Bennet, I believe we may speak of books. How did you find Mr Hatchard’s shop?”
Turning her attention to her plate, Elizabeth smiled. “Very well indeed. Thank you for purchasing the collection of poems. It is a beautiful volume. I could not have asked for a more perfect gift.”
“I am gratified to be the one to have purchased it for you, then. Giving you something you desire is a pleasure I plan on repeating many times over the course of our life together.”
For the next hour they sipped chocolate and spoke of books. They would eventually have to re-join the Bingleys, the Hursts, and Mrs Lawrence, but for now they were content to pass their last afternoon in London quite pleasantly, if not quite alone.