Chapter 1
ONE
Everything—his head, his entire body—hurt.
His eyes felt grainy; his eyelids were stuck shut and crusted over.
When he finally succeeded in opening one, the bright sunlight made him quickly close it again.
Calling upon all his strength and force of will, Darcy heaved himself up and sat on the edge of his bed.
A wave of dizziness sent him reeling, and he briefly put his head in his hands.
But he had to rise. She might already be walking in the grove.
At least he had managed an hour or two of sleep.
Painfully and stiffly, he stood and surveyed the bedchamber.
Scraps of torn and crumpled paper were scattered on the floor, two pens with broken nibs and spilled ink were on the desk.
Beside them was an empty carafe that had contained brandy, and a glass tumbler laying on its side.
Writing the letter had been agonising, and there was the evidence of his ordeal. He rang for his valet.
Talbot was there within minutes, a kettle of hot water in one hand and a large glass filled with a greyish-brownish foaming substance in the other. His impassive gaze deliberately avoided the disorder; he simply handed the glass to his master without a word.
Darcy dropped into a chair and began choking the vile brew down slowly, in tiny sips, bit by disgusting bit.
His man had not had to prepare this particular tincture for several years, not since his Cambridge days.
When he emptied the glass and turned back to the room, Talbot was stirring the fire.
The heaps of crumpled paper had been gathered and were already aflame, the desk had been put back in order, the carafe and tumbler rinsed and back on the silver tray atop the cabinet.
Clean clothes were laid out, and the wash basin was full of steaming water.
He rose and went to wash his face. Surely that would help his headache.
With nary a word spoken between them, Darcy was clean, dressed and ready to face her. He picked up the sealed letter on the desk and before leaving the room said, “Inform Colonel Fitzwilliam that we will be leaving in one hour.”
Talbot blinked, but he replied, “As you wish, sir.”
Elizabeth’s morning walk had not soothed her in the least. She was just as agitated as she had been the night before.
She had feigned slumber when Charlotte looked in on her after their return from Rosings.
Her pretence of sleep continued through the dinner hour, but in reality she had been too rattled and emotional to sleep in more than fits and starts.
Thoughts of Darcy’s insults, Jane’s sorrow, Wickham’s misfortunes, and Bingley’s tractability whirled in her head.
She was still angry. How dare he interfere?
What gives him the right to govern the lives of others?
She found herself moving towards the grove where they had often met—quite by accident, she had believed at the time.
She had meant to keep him away when she had told him where she walked, only to find that not only had he made it a point to meet her there, the ridiculous, infuriating man had been labouring under the delusion that they were courting.
She caught herself looking about, as if she were still half expecting him to join her. She hated herself for that. She would certainly never see him again. It would be a relief.
But she rounded an ancient sycamore and there he was, pacing back and forth in the clearing. She stopped short, hoped he had not seen her and turned away, but he called out to her. Reluctantly, she walked towards him.
Within seconds, Darcy was walking away briskly and Elizabeth was staring at a letter in her hand.
Hours later, Elizabeth slowly followed the path from the grove, skirting the parish church and burial grounds, to the back garden of the parsonage.
Her heart was heavy, and her eyes burned with tears.
She had no idea what time it was. The sun was halfway to its zenith, so breakfast would have been cleared away.
It would have been impossible for her to eat in any event.
She was distressed, stuck in a whirl of colliding and overwhelming feelings.
Anger towards Wickham, her sisters, her parents, at Mr Darcy, at Mr Bingley, but mostly towards herself.
Shame at both her family’s behaviour and her own conceit and foolishness.
Sadness for Miss Darcy, but most especially grief for Jane, who, in the midst of all these intrigues, lies, misconceptions and bad behaviour, was the one person who had conducted herself with perfect grace.
Most of all, Elizabeth felt stupid. Perhaps that was the worst. She did not and never would have Jane’s beauty and goodness, but she had believed herself to be intelligent and perceptive.
She had flattered herself that her superior discernment kept her from error.
It was humbling to realise that she had her own improper pride and vanity that caused her to make mistakes in judgement. Terrible mistakes.
She had been a fool, a wilfully gullible fool.
She had fallen into Wickham’s trap quickly and completely.
Had he planned that? But why her? Why had he chosen her as the person to repeat his lies about Mr Darcy?
She had no fortune and little to recommend her.
While she was often mortified by her family’s antics, she had never felt ashamed of herself before.
Now she burned with shame; felt nauseous with it.
Mr Darcy was a cold, arrogant man who held her world and everyone she loved in contempt, but he cared deeply for his young sister and for those dependent on him.
She understood for the first time that she had been mistaken about Mr Darcy since the night of the assembly.
Not about his behaviour, which was ill-mannered at best, or his attitude, which was insufferable, but wrong about him; his life, his feelings, and his motives.
He was not a bad man. He was hardworking and responsible.
He had cares and concerns beyond what important invitations to accept, or what silk waistcoat and bejewelled stickpin to wear.
He was, unfortunately, human. Humans made mistakes, as did she.
And humans deserved forgiveness. She needed to forgive him but doubted that he would ever forgive her.
My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.
The evening of their first meeting, months ago, Elizabeth had told herself that his initial insult had been amusing, but it had in truth been a barbed arrow straight to her heart, reinforcing her mother’s oft-repeated words.
‘Lizzy is nothing to Jane.’ A handsome stranger, a man of the world, had taken one brief glance at her and pronounced her not pretty enough for even one dance.
Pushing aside the hurt that had consumed her, she had laughed and avenged herself in the best way she knew how, by making of him a caricature for all her neighbours to laugh at.
Deep in thought, she came through the garden into view of the house and stopped short.
From her vantage point, she could see the front half of a magnificent black carriage, its polished brass gleaming in the sun, awaiting its owner in front of the parsonage, the Darcy insignia affixed to the doors.
Two men in livery were walking the horses.
Elizabeth backed away, her hands flying up to her flaming cheeks.
Merciful heavens! He was here? Why would he be at the parsonage?
Had he come to inform the Collinses of their quarrel? To complain about her bad temper and sharp tongue? No, that would be ridiculous. A man like Mr Darcy would not complain openly about a woman of lower station refusing him and behaving like a fishwife in the process.
He would be observing the social niceties here in Hunsford, as he had not in Meryton.
Mr Collins was his aunt’s rector. Darcy would therefore pay the parsonage a farewell visit.
Mr Collins would not be there to receive him, as he was to spend the morning at the church writing his sermon, and then go directly to Rosings to meet with Lady Catherine as she rewrote the entire thing, but Charlotte and Maria would be pleased.
Elizabeth could not face him in her shame.
She was so tired. She could not bear it, especially in front of Charlotte, who would have questions and would not settle for anything less than the truth.
Exhausted and out of sorts, she began to panic.
The parlour where they received visitors looked out over the garden.
What if he glanced out the window and saw her?
She looked around. Where could she hide?
Unfortunately, she had already walked past the hedge and the garden fence where she might have more easily hidden herself.
She was completely out in the open, visible from the parlour window.
Her eyes alighted on a little building at the side of the vegetable plot.
It was the garden shed, where Mr Collins kept his tools and gardening supplies.
It was old and rather dilapidated, but it would have to do.
She hurried over, pulled the stout peg that slipped into the wooden slot, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Why do I not leave? I should not be here.
I do not want to be here. I must go immediately.
Darcy sat silently, answering with single syllables when called upon, letting his cousin and Mrs Collins carry the conversation, which had already become awkward and was rapidly reaching strange.
His carriage was packed and waiting; his servants’ coach, which had gone ahead, would be halfway to Bromley by now.
His coachmen had been walking the horses for far too long.
Fitzwilliam was subtly sending him questioning looks, trying to catch his eye.
He had already seen Elizabeth that day. They should take their leave.
But he could not. He had spent all night writing the wretched letter, which he should not have written in the first place.
He had excused himself from any impropriety because he thought the exercise of writing it and giving it to her would absolve and soothe him.
The letter marked a definite end to their acquaintance, a final goodbye.
So why had he not departed? Why was he not halfway to London?
Because now he needed to know if she had read it and what she thought of it.
Would she believe his account of Wickham’s treachery and licentiousness? That was the true source of his agitation. He could not bear the idea that she still had tender feelings for that villain.
Darcy, you are pathetic.
Mrs Collins was doggedly carrying on the conversation. Miss Maria Lucas had taken one look at him when he came through the door and had excused herself with a little squeak and an awkward curtsey.
His hostess was saying, “It is not like Eliza to tarry this long, even on a fine morning. She is never gone past breakfast.” Lost in his misery, Darcy again let the chatter fade into the background. He turned his gaze towards the window and saw her at last.
She was walking up the path from the grove to Mr Collins’s garden. She moved slowly, her shoulders slumped. And there, clutched tightly in her hand, looked to be his letter. Ah, so she had read it! Darcy peered at her face. He could not see her well, but he imagined she looked pale and subdued.
Good! Darcy felt a swell of angry satisfaction. Justice would prevail. Foolish, insufferable woman! She had been humbled! He had shown her to be wrong, and now she would suffer as he did.
His eyes continued to follow her when she stopped short, her hands flying to her cheeks, the picture of agitation.
For a few moments, she frantically looked about her; at the house, at the garden, at the path she had just come from, back towards the house, and at the garden again.
Then she hurried to a small shed that stood at the corner of the garden and stepped inside.
But why had she gone in there of all places?
Unless… perhaps she had spotted his carriage.
Well, she could stay in that shed for the entire day for all he cared.
Or for a week! It would serve her right.
But before he could even savour his vindictive triumph, his revenge felt hollow, replaced by regret.
He had hurt her again and could take no joy in that.
Damn it all, he still loved her, stubborn, exasperating, maddening little thing that she was.
Darcy suddenly needed desperately to comfort her.
Or confront her; he did not know which. He just had to be near her, was compelled to be with her.
Immediately, without a word, without even a look, he stood and exited the cosy parlour, leaving his cousin and his hostess staring after him, then gaping at each other.