Chapter XV
London had done nothing to improve Darcy’s spirits.
Indeed, the longer he remained there without intelligence from Hertfordshire, the more oppressive every day became.
No answer had arrived from Mr. Bennet. No second communication followed the abrupt departure from Lambton.
He attempted patience; afterwards, reason; finally, deliberate occupation. None succeeded for long.
Something serious had happened. He could no longer persuade himself otherwise.
Not knowing became increasingly difficult to endure.
Several times, indeed, he came very near abandoning all restraint entirely and riding to Longbourn himself.
The impulse would seize him – most often late at night after hours spent unsuccessfully attempting occupation, or in the early mornings when another unanswered day lay before him.
He imagined arriving without ceremony, enquiring directly after the Bennets, seeing with his own eyes whether Elizabeth was safe, whether her distress had lessened or increased, whether the abruptness of her departure from Lambton had arisen from grief, illness, or some calamity still unknown to him.
More than once, he nearly yielded to the impulse. Yet reason always returned before action. What right had he to present himself there? None.
Their renewed understanding at Lambton, however precious it had become to him, afforded no claim upon her family.
He was not her relation, nor even properly her friend.
To arrive uninvited at Longbourn under present circumstances would expose both Elizabeth and himself to observation and conjecture he could not justify.
For against it stood the recollection of her countenance at Lambton – her openness at parting, the sincerity with which she had met his attentions, the visible agitation of her departure. No, something had happened. Something sufficiently serious to interrupt every other consideration.
Pride restrained him sometimes; delicacy more often.
There were hours when he believed his appearance at Longbourn would only deepen Elizabeth’s embarrassment, forcing her to endure compassion she might prefer spared her.
At others, he feared something still more painful: that his presence would be received merely with civility – tolerated, perhaps even welcomed politely, but no longer wished for personally.
That fear alone kept him in London.
***
Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived in London towards the end of September with all his usual spirits and very little patience for melancholy.
“You look infernally ill, Darcy,” were among the first words with which he greeted his cousin after dinner. “If this continues much longer, Georgiana will have you prescribed broth and scripture.”
Darcy, who had hardly touched either wine or food despite Richard’s encouragement, merely replied that the London air disagreed with him.
“Nonsense. It is solitude that disagrees with you.”
Darcy made no answer.
The colonel leant back in his chair and regarded him more attentively. “You think too much.”
“That fault is hardly a recent one.”
“No, but formerly you contrived to do it without appearing condemned to execution.”
Darcy gave the faintest indication of impatience. “I assure you I am perfectly well.”
“Yes,” returned Richard dryly. “And I am a bishop.”
Beyond the windows of Darcy’s lodgings, London murmured ceaselessly through the evening darkness – wheels over stone, distant voices, the restless movement of a city which never seemed entirely to sleep.
Richard filled his glass again. “Are you going to tell me?”
Darcy’s expression altered slightly, though he did not immediately answer.
His silence was answer enough.
The colonel sighed. “God help me, then you are serious indeed.”
Darcy rose and crossed towards the fireplace. “It no longer signifies.”
“That,” said Richard, “is precisely how a man speaks when it signifies too much.”
Darcy made no reply. He rose and moved towards the window.
The streets below lay dim beneath early-autumn mist, restless with the ceaseless movement peculiar to London: wheels upon stone, distant voices, lamps glimmering through the damp evening air.
Ordinarily, he found the city useful precisely because it demanded nothing personal from him. One might disappear into it completely.
Now even that indifference oppressed him.
The colonel watched him another moment before speaking more lightly. “Come with me tonight.”
“I have no inclination for society.”
“Excellent. Then society will be delighted to see you miserable amongst them.”
“No.”
Richard shook his head. “Georgiana herself told me that although you had been wonderful with her, she knows you struggle, but she would not tell me why. If I leave you alone much longer, I fully expect to find you married to despair and living permanently in your library.”
“I had not realised my condition was so entertaining.”
“It is not entertaining at all,” said the colonel more quietly. “It is uncomfortable to witness.”
Something in the sincerity of the remark prevented Darcy from dismissing him entirely.
An hour later, against his better judgement and without quite knowing why he yielded, he found himself accompanying Richard through streets increasingly distant from the respectable quarter in which his own lodgings stood.
The house looked respectable enough from the outside, and even within, little appeared improper at first glance.
Music could be heard somewhere beyond the next room.
The smell of wine, warm wax, and too much perfume hung beneath it.
A servant crossed quietly with wine. Several ladies, dressed almost too finely for the place, reclined upon sofas near the fire, laughing a little too readily at whatever was said to them.
Everything was comfortable, fashionable, and carefully arranged – yet the absence of restraint soon became visible even to those who preferred not to see it too clearly.
Darcy disliked it immediately.
Everything within it appeared artificial – the smiles too ready, the laughter too loud, the flirtation so habitual that it scarcely resembled genuine feeling.
Richard, meanwhile, accepted a glass from someone and disappeared into conversation with all the ease of a man perfectly accustomed to such scenes.
Within minutes, he had established himself upon a sofa between two ladies who appeared delighted by his attention.
However, Darcy strongly suspected the colonel would have maintained precisely the same conversation with equal cheerfulness had the ladies been twice their age and wholly without beauty.
Darcy remained near the fireplace, already regretting his presence there. Several women approached him in succession. He dismissed each with restrained civility, though in a manner sufficiently cold that none attempted to remain long.
Richard, by contrast, appeared determined to enjoy himself on behalf of them both. Darcy observed him laughing at something whispered by a dark-haired woman near the card tables, looking perfectly at ease beneath attentions which Darcy himself found merely exhausting.
After some time, Richard found him again near the fireplace, standing apart from the general company with an expression which suggested he regretted every moment of his presence there.
“You look positively affronted by pleasure,” said the colonel, amused.
“I am merely wondering how soon I may leave without appearing intolerably rude.”
“That consideration alone proves you have spent too much time in respectable society.”
Darcy glanced coldly around the room. “If this is your remedy for melancholy, I find it singularly ineffective.”
Richard accepted another glass from a passing servant before lowering his voice slightly.
“My dear Darcy, the object is not refinement. The object is to stop thinking.”
“I am perfectly capable of doing that elsewhere.”
“No,” said Richard quietly. “You are not.”
Darcy’s expression altered faintly.
“For one evening, lose yourself a little. Forget the outside world exists. Forget consequences, disappointments, all of it.” His eyes moved meaningfully towards the women gathered farther across the room. “There are gentler distractions available than solitary suffering.”
Darcy followed the direction of his glance almost unwillingly.
The women laughed beneath candlelight while music drifted through the room.
They looked pretty at first glance, though the effect faded the longer one looked at them.
Yet to Darcy, the scene appeared curiously joyless beneath its ornament.
Every smile seemed practised; every gesture rehearsed too often to retain sincerity.
“I do not think,” said he quietly, “that oblivion is to be found here.”
Richard gave a half laugh. “No, perhaps not. But temporary forgetfulness may be.”
Darcy said nothing further.
It was then, while his eyes wandered restlessly over the room once more, that they settled upon the young woman standing apart from the others.
She seemed out of place.
Her gown, though fashionable in intention, sat awkwardly upon her slight figure; the excessive paint upon her face only emphasised how young she truly was beneath it.
While the others laughed naturally enough, she laughed too quickly, too loudly, glancing continually towards the older woman beside her as though uncertain whether she performed her role correctly.
The sight unsettled him immediately.
The mistress of the house approached with smooth assurance.
“A pretty creature, sir. Very lively.”
Darcy’s gaze did not leave the girl. “She appears too young to be here.”
The woman laughed lightly. “Gentlemen often prefer innocence.”
Disgust rose sharply within him. “That paint is absurd,” he said curtly. “And the gown makes her look ridiculous.”
The woman blinked, plainly uncertain how to respond.
“If you intend to send her to me,” Darcy continued with visible impatience, “have her washed properly and dressed respectably first.”
“Respectably, sir?”
“Yes. Decent. Please show me to your best room.”