Chapter Thirteen The Flight of the Bumblebee
FITZWILLIAM DARCY WAS not a man prone to mathematical exaggeration, but as thing stood, he calculated that the hours between Sunday evening and Wednesday morning numbered precisely zero.
It was Monday morning, and Darcy was once again intimately acquainted with the lowest, most nausea-inducing dip of his internal tumult.
The triumphant, dizzying high of the last days—the shared smiles, the red rose, the truce forged over the ashes of his disastrous letter—had been obliterated by Sir William Lucas’s announcement regarding the post-chaise.
Wednesday.
Darcy stood in the breakfast room of Rosings Park, gripping the edge of the sideboard tightly.
He had two days to solidify a fragile new understanding before she was swept away to London, a city teeming with officers, peers, and men who did not accidentally hand her written manifestos of their emotional ruin.
“Fitzwilliam, if you grip that sideboard any harder, it will splinter, and Aunt Catherine will deduct it from your inheritance,” Viscount Keathley observed.
Robert was seated at the table, casually buttering a piece of toast, appearing too rested for a man who had orchestrated a flawless stratagem the night before.
“She leaves on Wednesday, Robert,” Darcy ground out.
“I have no excuse to call upon the parsonage today. If we arrive again en masse, Collins will suffer a fatal apoplexy from the weight of the condescension. And I cannot appear at their door alone and demand to see her! Lady Catherine would know before my boots hit the gravel.”
“He is right,” Richard noted, not looking up from a day-old copy of the Times. “A lone assault is tactical suicide. You need a diversion. Perhaps I could set fire to the stables?”
“No arson, Richard,” Darcy snapped. “We established this with Anne.”
“Steady on, Cousin. I am just trying to be helpful,” the colonel mumbled.
“Sir,” Dawson interjected, appearing silently at Darcy’s side with a fresh cup of coffee.
“If I may suggest? The human body requires vigorous exercise to expel the humours of despair. Perhaps a solitary, brisk walk about the estate would clear your mind. It is possible, statistically speaking, that Miss Elizabeth may also be seeking the restorative properties of the Kentish air.”
Darcy stared at his valet. Dawson’s face was a mask of impenetrable servitude, but his left eyebrow twitched a fraction of an inch towards the windows facing the parkland.
“Dawson,” Darcy said slowly. “Are you suggesting I wander the grounds aimlessly in the desperate hope of stumbling upon her?”
“I am suggesting nothing, sir. I am advocating for the benefits of exercise.”
It was a pathetic, grasping strategy, relying solely on the whims of fate. Darcy set his coffee down.
“I am going for a walk,” he announced.
“Do not fall into a ditch!” Robert called after him as Darcy moved to the door. “And if you find her, remember your training! Gaze, do not glare! And for the love of God, do not mention drainage and crop rotation!”
The air was crisp and the sky a brilliant, mocking blue. Darcy strode through the lawns of Rosings Park with the punishing pace of a man trying to outrun his own anxiety.
His mind churned as he left the immediate vicinity of the great house and headed to the wooded parkland that bordered the parsonage.
He reviewed the events of the past weeks like a barrister examining a complex case.
They had reached a truce. He had handed her a red rose, and she had accepted it.
She had practically commanded him to act as her friend.
Friend. The word was insufficient, a small container for the ocean of his affection, but it was a start, a foothold on the cliff face. And now, the cliff was moving to London.
He rounded a dense copse of sprawling oak trees, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, when he saw her.
He halted, his breath catching painfully in his throat.
She was sitting on a rustic wooden bench nestled beneath the branches of an oak, shielded from the view of the parsonage windows.
The dappled sunlight filtered through the new spring leaves, catching the copper streaks in her dark curls.
She was reading a book, her head bowed, one gloved finger tracing the edge of the page.
She looked serene and beautiful. She looked like the absolute centre of gravity in his universe.
Darcy took a deep breath, mentally reviewing Robert’s curriculum. Shoulders back. Approach with amiable intent. Smile.
He stepped off the gravel and onto the soft grass, closing the distance.
“I hope I am not interrupting a thrilling chapter, Miss Elizabeth.” He strove to give a natural, not strangled tone to his voice.
Miss Elizabeth gasped, her head snapping up. Her hand instinctively lifted the book, pressing it against her chest, but the moment she recognised him, the startlement vanished. Her eyes lit up, the corners crinkling in that way that made Darcy’s knees dangerously weak.
“Mr Darcy!” she exclaimed. “You have a terrible habit of appearing in these woods like an apparition. Are you searching for intruders, or have you taken up the persecution of unsuspecting readers as a morning occupation?”
“I am off-duty, I assure you.” Darcy stopped a few feet from her bench, offering a small, self-deprecating bow. “I was following my valet’s advice on the benefits of morning exercise, and fate, it seems, has been kind to me this morning.”
She tilted her head, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Your valet prescribes your schedule? How very progressive.”
“Dawson is a man of many hidden talents.” Darcy gestured to the empty space on the wooden bench. “May I?”
“You may.” Miss Elizabeth shifted her skirts to make room.
Darcy sat down, the proximity to her intoxicating.
“I was dismayed to hear Sir William’s announcement last night,” he began, deciding to abandon the requisite small talk of the weather and plunge straight into the heart of the matter. “Wednesday is a cruel deadline.”
Miss Elizabeth stared at her book, her gloved fingers tracing the leather binding.
“It is sudden, I admit, but these were our plans, anyway. We were always supposed to spend Easter with the Collinses and then remove to London. But I also received a letter from my sister Jane yesterday. She... she is in need of my company.”
A sharp twinge of guilt came over him, a ghost of his previous interference. “Is she unwell?”
“No.” Miss Elizabeth shook her head. “She is merely in need of a sister.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Darcy said earnestly. “She deserves every happiness.”
“She does.” Miss Elizabeth met his gaze.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy shifted on the bench, turning his body fully towards her.
The anxiety of the morning had settled into an unwavering resolve.
“I promised myself that I would not be hasty and that I would endeavour to earn your good opinion. But your departure hastens my purpose significantly.”
Her eyes widened slightly, her breath hitching. “Mr Darcy—”
“I am not asking you a question today,” Darcy interrupted gently, raising a hand. “Please, do not reach for a fire poker. I have learned my lesson regarding disastrous ambushes.”
A startling laugh escaped her. “I do not have a fire poker hidden in my pelisse, sir.”
“Thank God for small mercies.” Darcy smiled, trying to appear earnest, unfrightening, and not unhinged. “Miss Elizabeth, I must speak plainly. You must know that my feelings for you have not altered, save to grow more profound with every moment you allow me to remain in your company.”
She stared at him, and the teasing spark had melted into something quite tender.
“Therefore,” he continued, his voice rough with emotion, “I am asking for your permission for a formal courtship. I wish to call upon you in London. I wish to write to you—proper, legible letters, I promise, no ink blots and prison metaphors. I wish for the opportunity to prove to you that the man who insulted you in Hertfordshire is dead, and the man sitting before you is yours.”
He paused, a flicker of his cousin’s tutelage catching in his mind. He offered a small, wry smirk. “Besides, a peer of the realm spent six hours teaching me how to smile without looking like a gargoyle. It would be a tragic waste of pedagogical effort not to use it.”
Miss Elizabeth let out a delighted, ringing peal of laughter. She covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking with mirth.
“A tragedy indeed,” she agreed, her eyes shining.
“Is that a yes?” Darcy asked, leaning in a fraction of an inch closer.
She lowered her hand and looked at him, her heart bare in her gaze. “Yes, Mr Darcy. I would like that very much.”
Darcy had just achieved the ability to fly. The relief and the joy hit him so hard he actually felt dizzy.
“However,” she added, a teasing lilt returning to her voice, “I must remind you that I am leaving for London in two days. The distance between Rosings Park and Gracechurch Street is considerable.”
“I will follow you everywhere, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy declared fiercely, without a second of hesitation. “I will follow you to Gracechurch Street, to Hertfordshire, to the ends of the earth if necessary, and I will spend every day trying to make amends for my mistakes.”
It was a perfect, sweeping romantic moment. The dappled sunlight, the quiet grove, the beautiful woman looking at him with affection. It was a scene straight out of one of Robert’s Gothic novels, minus the haunted abbey.
And then, nature intervened.
A loud, aggressive buzzing sound broke the silence.
A bumblebee, massive, fuzzy, and disoriented by the blooming spring flowers, plummeted from the oak canopy directly to Darcy’s face.
Darcy ceased all movement.
The bee hovered for a second, and then, with the precision of a trained assassin, it landed squarely on the tip of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s aristocratic nose.
Darcy went cross-eyed, staring at the yellow and black fuzz occupying his field of vision. He did not move a muscle. He did not breathe. The master of Pemberley was held hostage by an insect.