Chapter 3
THREE
Elizabeth fell asleep with wholly disconcerting thoughts of Mr Darcy in her mind, and she woke with the same.
She fully believed, as he did, that to place any stock in the black arts went against the grain of any good Christian person.
She had heard the tales of the Pendle witches, and thought them no more than that—fantastical tales, told to bring a pleasantly horrified shiver and a thankfulness to have been born two centuries later.
Nevertheless, it will not hurt to find the lady, or the well, and…just see.
For one could not deny that Mr Darcy had had quite a run of bad fortune.
She wandered around, doing all she could to find the well, the lady, or both. Alas, after a ramble that was nearly twice that of her custom, she had discovered neither.
Well, what else could happen, she thought as she came to the parsonage gate. Surely some good will soon come. Mr Darcy has a blessed life, and the natural order will soon reassert itself.
She was crossing the garden when she heard through the open window of the parlour a sound that stopped her where she stood.
It was a low, broken exhalation—not quite a groan, not quite a word—the kind of sound a man makes when he believes himself entirely alone and can no longer hold the full weight of his composure.
Every principle of delicacy urged her to walk on and to pretend she had heard nothing, but she hesitated.
He would not wish me to hear this, she told herself, and I ought to grant him the privacy he clearly believes he has.
But something stronger than delicacy—something she was not yet prepared to name—carried her into the house and down the back hall to Charlotte’s parlour.
She paused a moment outside the door, and listened to the unmistakable and undeniable terrible sound of a great man in despair.
Miss Darcy, she thought, feeling the anguish of such a notion. Pray God, do not let it be his sister.
She cleared her throat, loudly and then opened the door.
Mr Darcy was sitting upright on his daybed, a letter crumpled in his hand.
His face was turned away from her, towards the window, and in the thin morning light, she could see the rigid line of his jaw, the uneven rise and fall of his breathing, the knuckles gone white where they gripped the paper.
He turned, and for one unguarded instant she saw the whole of it—the grief, the exhaustion, the accumulated weight of days of frustration and sorrow borne in proud, stubborn silence.
She ran to him, propriety be damned, wrapped him in her arms, and hugged him close. “What is it?” she whispered fearfully. “Is it your sister?”
For one very brief moment, he sank into her embrace.
She felt him inhale deeply, likely composing himself, and then he pulled away.
She took a seat next to him on the sofa, settling herself very gently so as not to jostle his leg, and extended her handkerchief towards him. He accepted it and thanked her.
“Not my sister, no. But I thank you for reminding me it could be far worse. As far as I know, my sister’s condition is unchanged.
” He looked at the letter that he held in the hand opposite the one with her handkerchief in it.
“My horse, Atlas. He is a bay hunter that was given to me by my father shortly before he died. He was being exercised in the park at Pemberley and came upon a concealed rabbit hole amid the brush. He fell and broke his leg.”
Elizabeth waited, though she already suspected what must follow.
“They could not save him.” Mr Darcy’s voice was very quiet, his eyes fixed on his leg. “I have had that horse nearly seven years. He was the finest animal I ever owned, and the most loyal. He carried me without fault across every field and hill in Derbyshire, and I was not there when?—”
He stopped. He pressed her handkerchief, and the heel of the hand that held it, against his eyes.
“I am sorry,” she said, her own voice thick with compassion. “So very sorry for another in this series of calamities?—”
“At least it was not Friday,” he told her, dropping his hand. “So you must not imagine that a horse dying nearly two hundred miles from here is to your blame.”
She only smiled faintly, wishing she could be so certain. I must find her, she thought. Somehow, I must reverse this curse before the next tragedy strikes.
Elizabeth walked out every day over the next few days, diligently seeking the well, the lady, or both.
She thought she had found the well itself, a very ordinary looking well, ringed in stone, properly maintained, and not at all magical.
She peered over the edge, unsurprised that she did not see Mr Darcy’s letter floating on the top of the water.
Nevertheless, after clearing her throat, she cried out hallo several times.
When that yielded nothing, she said, “Um, I would just like to say that I would not like any more bad fortune to be visited upon Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. He is not deserving of it. In fact, he is an excellent gentleman, very honourable, and I…I was a fool never to see it.”
She stood for a moment, hoping for a rushing wind or bolt of lightning…
Even a whispering sound from the nearby oaks!
Something to suggest that a curse had been lifted.
Alas, there was nothing, and she returned to the parsonage to find Mr Darcy in his usual spot in the parlour, bearing the unhappy news that his favourite book had been lost. It was all she could do to stop herself bursting into tears at such news.
“Why should that affect you so?” he enquired mildly. “It is only a book.”
“A book, a sister, a fortune, a horse…your own leg! I just cannot imagine…where it will all end.” She found herself wringing her hands again, and forced herself to stop. “These terrible things keep happening.”
“Perhaps,” he said with a little twinkle in his eye, “we must find your lady and insist that she reverse the curse.”
“Mr Darcy!” she cried out, shocked. “Do you tease me?”
“One thing you have taught me is that there is great pleasure to be found in bringing levity into a situation,” he said. “Unpractised I may be, but yes, I do mean to tease you, and perhaps make you smile at me.”
She did smile, albeit ruefully, and shook her head. “You ought to despise me.”
“You ought to despise me.”
“If I ever did despise you, it was because I did not understand you,” she said.
His face grew serious. “Do you understand me a little better now?”
“Much better,” she said. “And I am glad for it.”
“Then it is all worthwhile,” he said. “I would have suffered ten broken legs for that. Otherwise, what might have happened?”
“You would have returned to London,” she told him. “And we likely would not have met again.”
“Save for your sister’s wedding to my friend,” he said. “There would be that.”
“We might have been awkward then,” she said. “Avoiding even speaking to one another.”
He nodded. “As it was when first I was here. You could scarcely come into the room with me.”
“Did you want me in the room?” she asked. “I would have imagined you to be very angry with me.”
“I wanted you in the room,” he said very softly. “I want nothing more than to be, always, where you are.”
“Mr Darcy, would you like—Oh!” Charlotte had pushed open the door. “Eliza. Forgive me I did not know you were returned.”
Elizabeth turned to her friend, willing her flaming hot countenance to subside. “Only just. Do you need me for anything?”
“No, no. I merely wished to ask Mr Darcy if he needed anything before I went into the village.”
“I am very well, Mrs Collins,” he said. “I do not require anything.”
“Would you like me to attend you into the village?” Elizabeth asked.
“Maria means to go along,” said Charlotte with a smile. “More hands do make for lighter work, and I have an unusually large quantity of baskets to take.”
“Then three pairs of hands with make it even lighter,” Elizabeth said. Excusing herself from Mr Darcy, she followed her friend from the room.