Page 1 of Done for the Best (Engaged to Mr Darcy #5)
CHAPTER ONE
A SNAKE IN THE GRASS
April 1812
T he morning dew made the grass slick beneath his boots as Darcy paced to and fro on the path Elizabeth most often walked. He passed his letter from one hand to the other, then replaced it in his pocket, then took it out again. At least a dozen times, he decided to return to Rosings and forgo this ridiculous idea entirely; a dozen and one, he decided he must adhere to his original plan of giving her a written explanation of his folly.
The sun was higher in the sky than when he usually met her, but she did not appear. Was she avoiding him? He prayed she would not, but certainly, she had every reason to do so.
He ought to have avoided her. After the harsh words they had exchanged in the parsonage last evening, he would have done best to leave her alone forever. But the charges she had laid at his door could not be ignored. The matter of Wickham would be bared before her, not only so she might understand the corruption within that man’s character but also to protect her and her sisters.
Though it had enraged him to hear the hated name drop from her lips, to comprehend her sympathy for the dastard, in retrospect Darcy knew he could not have expected otherwise. Elizabeth Bennet had a sympathetic heart, and it was well within her nature to take up the cause for what she believed to be a pitiable creature. After all, had he not seen her fall to her knees to remove a burr from his own dog’s paw? Heedless of the mud on her skirts, she removed the burr, then kissed Carlo’s head, and Darcy witnessed a look of slavish devotion in Carlo’s brown eyes that had before been reserved for himself alone.
He sighed, deeply. There was no end to her goodness it seemed, and it pained him anew to know what he had lost.
The sound of a horse approaching at a swift pace startled him, and he turned to see Fitzwilliam riding fast, his face set so grimly it appeared as though he was charging on Napoleon’s troops. Darcy smiled faintly, prepared to tease him for it, but his mirth turned quickly to alarm at his cousin’s words.
“Have you seen any sign of Miss Bennet? She has gone missing from the parsonage!”
“Missing?” Darcy demanded. “What do you mean?”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes roamed the woods nearby while he bit out terse sentences. “Last anyone saw her was when the Collinses left to come to Rosings last evening. I daresay that was about four.”
“I saw her at, um, half past five.”
Fitzwilliam cast him a look but said nothing in reply to that news.
“When the Collinses returned, they assumed she had retired. Mrs Collins does not habitually look in on her, and none of the servants had any idea of her having gone out. This morning, Mrs Collins sent her maid in with some powders, in the event Miss Bennet’s headache yet lingered, and found the bedclothes straightened and no sign of the lady.”
Darcy cursed. It was early April, and thankfully it had not rained the night before. Nevertheless, the woods were no place for a gently bred young lady to spend the night—presuming that was, in fact, what she had done. He prayed that her distress over his behaviour had not made her foolhardy, even if all evidence suggested it had.
“I need that,” he said, gesturing to Fitzwilliam’s horse. “Come down.”
Fitzwilliam’s gaze narrowed on his cousin. “I was planning?—”
“I am prepared to yank you right out of that seat,” Darcy nearly shouted. “Let me have your horse!”
Fitzwilliam silently dismounted, and Darcy leapt into the saddle, barely remembering to mutter his thanks before setting off. In the distance, he heard the shouting of men—a search party, apparently. Fitzwilliam must have organised one early that morning.
He met his cousin again in one of the groves about two hours later. At Fitzwilliam’s greeting, he swiped away the cold-sick sweat beaded on his forehead and dismounted. “Anything?” he asked.
Fitzwilliam shook his head. “Any man connected to Rosings or Hunsford is in these woods looking for her. She will be found.”
To Darcy’s ear, his cousin’s voice lacked assurance. Bending down, he picked up a branch, then hurled it towards nothing, shouting her name with the full force of his frustration.
“Easy, old man.”
Darcy rounded on his cousin immediately, demanding, “Where could she be?”
Fitzwilliam shrugged. “They have looked everywhere.”
“Tell them to look everywhere again. A lady does not simply disappear!”
“No,” Fitzwilliam agreed thoughtfully. “I have to imagine she went somewhere…different, I suppose. The trick is imagining where.”
“Ide Hill.” The words escaped Darcy before he could stop them. When his cousin looked at him curiously, he added, “Um, we had, ah, spoken of it lately. I told her it was particularly lovely at this time of year.”
“That it is, but it is also above three miles. Unless you think it possible she rode out?”
Darcy shook his head. “Three miles is nothing to her, and the day is fine.” And she might have wished to go somewhere that she would not meet me.
Fitzwilliam removed his hat, scratching his head. “I cannot see it, Darcy. No lady walks so far on a morning’s stroll.”
“Miss Bennet would.” The more Darcy considered it, the more possible it seemed. “I am positive she would. In the event I am wrong, carry on the search here—I will go to Ide Hill.”
Without a syllable more, he remounted his cousin’s horse and was off, riding as fast as he could while still searching along the way. Nevertheless, he arrived at the best vista without any sight of Elizabeth. His eyes roamed the landscape in front of him, hoping and praying for something, but there was nothing. Frustrated, he removed his hat and ran his hands through his hair. Could she have come another way? Perhaps been lost?
At once the futility of it struck him. There was a great deal of countryside around these parts that might appeal to a young lady who enjoyed nature. Paths branched and forked in all directions, and she might have taken any number of them—or struck off through a field somewhere. He felt a distinct chill come over him as he recognised the possibility that they might never find her.
He was about half of the way back to Rosings when suddenly his horse reared. He managed to remain seated, but the horse would not continue on, having become startled and restive. Dismounting, Darcy led him a short distance away and tied him, then returned to see what was the problem.
An adder lay amid the grasses by the road, sunning itself. No doubt its nest was close by.
He could still remember his father counselling him and Fitzwilliam, as boys, about the dangers of the venomous snake that had nearly killed an unnamed Rosings servant who inadvertently stumbled upon a nest once by the river. Such warnings, given in dire accents, had only stimulated their curiosity, and they had spent a good portion of their time diligently searching for them, heedless of the danger.
But now the understanding of the danger took on a different hue. Could Elizabeth have met one? Could she be, even now, breathing her last, succumbing to the venom?
He began a search of the area nearest the snake, which slithered away lazily in reply to Darcy’s efforts. He knew not whether he more hoped or feared to find her.
No matter his feelings on the subject, he found her. He sucked in his breath at the sight of her, lying pale and still on the ground amid the taller vegetation nearby. He hastened to her side, dropping to the ground beside her and bending to listen if she breathed. It was a small relief to hear her respiration, faint and rough, although the icy coolness of her skin was alarming. “Elizabeth? Do you hear me?”
He saw her eyelids flutter, but they did not open. Putting her modesty aside, he pushed up her skirts to see her calves. He swallowed hard, seeing a telltale bite mark, which had torn through her stockings to, undoubtedly, pierce her skin.
When had it happened? He could not tell but would guess it had been very early this morning.
Removing his greatcoat, he wrapped her with as much gentleness as due haste would allow. She made some small sounds as he did it, which he hoped was an auspicious sign. “You are safe now,” he told her. “I have you. I am going to get you back to the house.”
He lifted her into his arms and pushed through the hedgerow. “I will need to get you on my horse,” he said, thinking aloud, wondering how best to go about that while still preserving her dignity.
It took some doing, but at length he managed to get them both mounted. He had placed her in front of him, reclined against him to minimise the bouncing and jostling she might experience. He clutched her tightly as he pushed his horse as fast as he dared while holding on to her. It was not easy; she was a dead weight, and gravity wished to pull her right back down to the ground. The appearance of the avenue leading to Rosings Park was an enormous relief.
He kept up a steady stream of the most comforting phrases he knew as they went, telling her she was beautiful, that she would be well, that she was, without any doubt, the handsomest, wittiest, most charming lady he had ever known. He continued to speak to her unconscious form as they arrived, seeing a small cluster of men, which included Mr Collins. “We may need to speak of marriage again after all,” he told her with a wry chuckle, hoping no one was such a sapskull as to think there was any impropriety.
“Mr Darcy has someone!” one of the men shouted, and everyone turned to see them approaching. Darcy watched them begin scurrying about as he drew near. Even Lady Catherine deigned to emerge from the house in time to hear him shout out that Elizabeth had been bitten by an adder.
Mrs Collins came at a run to meet them, calling back over her shoulder to someone unseen to send for the apothecary. Lady Catherine was also quick to begin issuing orders, coming to him as quickly as dignity would allow her. “Marlowe,” she said to the manservant behind her. “Have someone get word to Dr Hughes that he is needed at once.” Dr Hughes was Anne’s personal physician and lived in nearby Westerham.
Darcy stood by, seeing Elizabeth being taken off by others, unable to do anything but offer his sincerest prayers and wishes that her health would return.