Page 13 of A Letter in the Wind (Mayhem and Scandal Collection #1)

Darcy awoke with a start.

He had been in Hunsford village again, searching Aunt Silly’s house. In the dream, it was Elizabeth that was missing. When he found her, she was surrounded by raging flames. He managed to leap through mostly unscathed. He had almost reached her just as the floor collapsed, and she fell in a cataclysmic terror of flame and smoke.

When consciousness came to him, he still had his hand outstretched. His heart pounded, and his breath was sharp and jagged, as though he had run a long distance. Reaching for a glass of water, he noted the tremble in his hand and the perspiration on his forehead. He could swear he even smelled the unmistakable odour of smoke.

After taking a deep breath, he swung his legs out of the bed. He should start the day. He could never fall back to sleep after such a nightmare. It was early, even by Darcy’s standards. The sun’s first rays lent the barest of light to the grey sky of London.

He dressed and then went to his office. The familiar surroundings should help soothe him, but it felt more suffocating this morning than anything. Here were all the trappings of his alleged life of pomp and ease. Here was the setting for the greatest tragedy of his life. Sitting down behind the desk gave him an other-worldly feeling. It was as though he could observe the intrusive memory from a distance.

Darcy winced at the harsh words shouted by his mother and father. The way George Darcy stood tall and erect as Lady Anne pounced around the room. One minute, she was throwing herself into her husband’s arms, but when he remained stiff and proudly aloof, she slapped his face. She stomped around the room, throwing objects, followed immediately by sobs that wracked her swollen belly. His baby sister was only a few days old.

Neither one of them noticed him as he hid behind the settee.

Then, there was the sound of a knock on the front door. Darcy heard it bang into the wall from the force of whoever entered. Lady Anne began shrieking again.

“George, no!”

Heavy and quick footsteps pounded down the stairs and hallway.

“I have told you what I would do if it ever happened again,” he said calmly.

“You cannot do this!” She screamed as large men entered the room. She turned to her husband as one man took each arm. “You never loved me! You don’t know what love is!”

The men hauled her out of the room. She screamed through the house but ceased upon reaching the street. For a long moment, George Darcy stood motionless with his head ducked. Then, he took a deep breath and walked behind his desk. He sat and took out a stack of letters, returning to work.

Darcy sat silently, tears streaming down his face. His parents’ arguments were frequent and loud. They had been increasing in the last few months. He had thought things would settle after the baby was born. Instead, everything got worse. Years ago, he learned to be quiet and stay out of the way.

He wiped his eyes and nose with his handkerchief. His father would have no patience if he were visibly crying. Darcy slowly stood and straightened his clothes. He smoothed back his hair. On silent feet, he approached his father’s desk.

“Where is Mother? When will she return?”

George Darcy did not even look up from his desk. “Your mother frequently leaves home at all hours. She will not return this time. I will have no more of it.”

“Father?” For a moment, Darcy thought his heart stopped beating.

“You will not see the woman again. Now, go finish packing. You leave tomorrow.”

Darcy stumbled backwards for a moment. He was to be sent away, too?

“Pull yourself together,” his father said. “Leave me.”

As panic welled inside him, he remembered that he was to leave for school on the morrow. Surely, that is all his father meant. He was not being expelled from the house forever. Dejected and heartbroken, he obeyed. He left his father alone, seemingly in the peace he so desperately craved.

In the present once more, Darcy stood and tugged his waistcoat. He ran a hand nervously through his hair, then approached the mirror above the fireplace, ensuring everything was in place. His mother’s eyes stared back at him. He took a deep breath.

“You are not your mother,” he said to himself.

He closed his eyes and willed for the statement to be true. In his heart, he felt like a fraud. Emotions rose in his breast and nearly spilt out so frequently now that the effort to rein them in exhausted him.

The other day, he had awoken outside of Silly’s cottage in a wagon. When the physician was satisfied that Darcy could breathe and was alert, he was hauled back to Rosings. A letter was thrust at him as soon as he was in his chamber. Georgiana demanded that he return to her. He should not give in to her childish fit. Nevertheless, he was too weak. She would pout and cry, and then he was helpless. Removed from her manipulation, he recognised that it had spoilt her. Her misguided folly with George Wickham was directly because of Darcy’s overindulgence. However, how could he do it differently? She had little enough affection for the first ten years of her life.

“Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana called quietly from the doorframe. When he did not immediately answer, she entered without hesitance.

Darcy noted that she had no terrible memories associated with the room. His sister sailed in; a lovely mix of their mother’s light features with their father’s tall figure.

“Will you take me to the opera this evening?”

Darcy whirled around to face her. He raised a brow. “Is this why you wanted me home? Only to escort you places? Next, you will ask me to take you shopping.”

Georgiana folded her arms across her chest and affected a pout. “How could you think that of me?”

“Do not feign innocence,” he said in an even voice. “You wound me.”

“Oh, dear. How shall I make it up to you?” She tapped a finger against her right cheek. “I know! I will host a dinner for you.”

Darcy had been play-acting but did not need to pretend his reaction to such a spectre. “If you wish to torment your poor brother, that would be the best route. On the other hand, if you want to bribe me into something, you ought to think differently.”

“Oh, I give up.” Georgiana threw her hands in the air. “It is too much work to be crafty and clever. Can we go to the opera?” She approached closer and looked up at him with pleading in her eyes. “Please?”

“Very well,” he replied. “It can be our last entertainment before Easter and returning to Pemberley.”

“Must we go back there?” Georgiana asked.

“You cannot avoid home forever just because it has unpleasant memories, my dear.” He ought to know. He locked himself away in this room nearly every day.

“There is nothing to do there.” She threw herself on the settee. “I am bored out of my mind in the country.” She sat up, a look of understanding on her face. “The Season is just beginning. Is that why you wish to leave? To avoid our aunt’s matchmaking? Just marry Anne and be done with it.”

Darcy uncontrollably shivered at the thought. How could he ever marry Anne or anyone else when Elizabeth— He forced his mind to cease the thought. Elizabeth should not be a part of his consideration.

“Well? What are you waiting for? You do not believe in love, and I am grown now. Think of all the freedom you would have to enjoy life without a barrage of single ladies thrown at you every time you leave the house.”

Darcy chuckled. “Thankfully, it is not quite as bad as that.” He sat beside his sister, who tucked her legs to make space for him. “Marriage is not to be taken lightly. So many regret a union for the rest of their lives. I am young—”

“Not as young as you used to be,” Georgiana said with a mischievous smile.

“I am still younger than most bridegrooms. Leave me be.” He stared down at his sister. “Unless you want the same treatment in a few years.”

“I will never marry,” Georgiana declared. “I can never trust anyone again.”

“We have talked about this, dearest. Wickham was a practised charmer. With age comes wisdom. He preyed on your young mind. Additionally, you will not be left to your own devices to find a husband.”

“What about you, then? Are you left on your own to find a wife? Perhaps if Father was alive…” She sniffed and let out a sigh. “Well, if we go to the opera tonight, I must inform Mrs Annesley and talk with my maid about what to wear.” She sat up and kissed his cheek. “I will return in a few minutes.”

Darcy resumed his work. His mind wandered again to his dream of the previous evening. Fortunately, he knew that Elizabeth was safe. She had never been in any danger during the fire. His imagination did not need to play such tricks on him. She did not require him as a rescuer. The memories of her leaning on his arm, smiling at him, tending to the minor wound on his knee enticed him. He had an indistinct vision of looking up at Elizabeth’s beautiful face as he struggled to breathe, her eyes full of fear and tenderness as she cradled his head. To receive her unabashed care and regard was the stuff of his fantasies.

He shook his head. It was nothing more than a daydream. He had awoken at a villager’s wagon with Elizabeth nowhere in sight. Perhaps that passionate, foolish longing for her affection made him recklessly leave for London as planned the following day. The physician and even his aunt advised against it. Georgiana’s request was merely a convenient excuse.

Elizabeth had every reason to hate him, and he regretted that. For the first time in his life, he desperately wanted another’s approval. If he was breathless in the midst of the fire, it was nothing compared to the suffocating feeling he had at the thoughts whirling in him now. How much had his father and mother relied on the other to complete their happiness? He knew it was madness to give another such power over him.

He had never realised how powerless he was to stop loving Elizabeth. It was not a conscious decision any more than loving Georgiana had been. It came as naturally to him as breathing. It was by instinct alone. More than anything else, this was why he needed to return to Pemberley. He was uncertain when Elizabeth would return to London on her way to Hertfordshire, but he was decidedly too close.

He needed more distance and miles between them lest he do something foolish and ridiculous such as join Bingley at Netherfield and court Elizabeth. If he did so, her parents would do everything possible to secure the union. They would gossip and crow about their catch. His honour would be engaged before his mind could be made up.

No, that was not entirely true. He already knew that he wished she were his wife. He was unsure if the joy of their marriage would last. How could he know that before he could even court her?

Georgiana returned, interrupting his thoughts. He escorted her to the breakfast room. Mrs Annesley already awaited them. They ate, sometimes in silence, sometimes with small talk passing. Georgiana again campaigned for a visit to the opera that evening. Darcy looked to the governess before answering. Her husband had been their rector, so Darcy trusted her understanding of the strictures of religion. She admonished them to attend the Maundy Thursday service first, reminding them of the customary foot washing. Notwithstanding, she said there was no prohibition against entertainment on the day.

After the meal, they moved to the drawing room, where Darcy usually led them in morning prayers.

“Must we read and then go to services, too?” Georgiana complained as they sat down.

“Do you not think such honour is due our Saviour?”

“Honour, of course.” Georgiana sighed. “Is there not more to faith than ritual and memorising words?”

Darcy looked sharply at his sister. “I fear that you tread near irreverence. We do not hold to mindless pomp and ceremony. Even the preface of our book of Common Prayer says that we are worshipping as the early Christians did.”

Georgiana looked askance. “I have no quarrel with reading the Bible, even despite going to church later. I lament that they are the exact same words we will hear in a few hours. Would the time not be better spent reading other passages?” She looked at her hands before continuing. “Additionally, can the apostles truly have worshipped the way we do when they were hunted by the authorities and martyred?”

“Would you rather pray in a cave, my dear?” Darcy asked, trying to keep sarcasm and disbelief out of his voice.

“Of course not. I only ask about the reality that Anglican worship is restored as the early Christian church had it. Surely, they do not mean the first Christians. They must reference events hundreds of years later. In which case, why did they begin worship in such a way? Where is it described in the Bible that we must follow these rules? Did the apostles Peter and Paul worship incorrectly?”

Darcy looked helplessly at his sister’s governess. She held her hand up to keep him from speaking.

“There is no harm or sin in questioning,” Mrs Annesley said reassuringly. “It shows that she is paying attention and is curious.”

“I would not presume to know better than our great theologians,” Darcy answered. “I fear I do not have the answers you seek.” He opened the Bible to the required reading but hesitated. “I do not loathe tradition as you do. I find great solace and comfort in routine.”

“I do not despise custom,” Georgiana asked. “But is your heart truly in the readings? I often feel imprisoned by them.”

Darcy had no ready answer or idea of what to read instead. Therefore, he read from Hosea 13 and John 17 precisely as he had every year on the Thursday before Easter his whole life. Did he feel closer to God? Did he understand the crucifixion and resurrection any better? Decidedly, no. He did not understand what it had to do with the event. Now that Georgiana had aired questions, the floodgates of his mind were opened.

Growing up, he was taught to support the Church and follow its edicts. He was told that his family had a long, proud lineage. They were among the first converts to the Church of England and were heavily persecuted during the reign of Mary I.

Like so many other things in his life, an adult—usually his father—insisted on doing things the time-honoured way. Traditionally, families would gather to read if they did not attend service twice daily. Now, few churches even offered services so regularly. Indeed, Darcy knew that other families rarely sat together. If he were truthful, he had condemned the other families. He had found fault with their piety. But was his rigidity based on true devotion? If it were not, then why did he continue it?

If his father’s faith—or expression of it—was wrong, how many other parts were affected by this flawed understanding? The implications terrified him. For a moment, he envied the freedom Georgiana felt. He brushed the thoughts off. This season, of all seasons, was not the correct time to question the Church.