Page 30 of Done for the Best (Engaged to Mr Darcy #5)

CHAPTER THIRTY

UNEXAMPLED KINDNESS

I t was not until Darcy saw the men and their prisoner disappearing round the bend that his fear began to seep away from him. Turning to Elizabeth, he enquired, again, “You are not injured?”

“No, I am not.”

Darcy looked about him. He was not familiar with the area, having only been to Brighton once before, many years previous. Nevertheless, the road they travelled seemed like it might lead to a larger, more travelled one, and on that one, he believed they might find what they needed. The sky was cloudy, but there was no rain for which he was thankful.

“I believe we might find a posting inn not much farther down that road over there,” he said. “It cannot be more than a mile. Let me assist you onto the horse, and I will walk him.”

Elizabeth glanced over at the horse, and Darcy understood her immediately. He was a large beast, one Darcy had chosen for his speed, not his suitability for a lady frightened of horses.

“I could always wait here,” she suggested. “Then you could ride him to find the inn. It would be faster.”

He shook his head. “We can both walk, if you feel you are equal to it?”

“Yes, I think I am.”

“You did not injure yourself when you leapt from the carriage?”

“Nothing of consequence,” she said, offering a smile.

They began to walk, and Darcy allowed them to gain a short distance before enquiring, “And how is it that you found yourself alone in a carriage with George Wickham?”

Elizabeth flushed and cleared her throat, suddenly very interested in her shoes. “I-it was very foolish of me.”

Darcy waited for more.

With her eyes lowered, and her face thus hidden by her bonnet, she said, “Mr Wickham told me that Lydia was going off on some excursion to see a man flogged in East Blatchington. He said they were very wild down there and that he was concerned for her whereabouts and urged me to come with him to retrieve her.”

Darcy scoffed. “A likely tale. And did you verify your sister’s whereabouts? When I came into town, I saw her at the Forsters’ house, and she certainly seemed as though she had been there all day.”

“You went to the Forsters’ house?”

“Did you think it a coincidence that I came upon you?”

Elizabeth looked over, seeming like she had more questions, but he forged ahead. “The Forsters believed you were off to see some woods, then, but you believed you were off in rescue of your sister?”

“Yes, um, I thought…” She paused. “Mr Wickham showed great concern when we met in Hertfordshire…rather, when I met him, for he remembered me from…from before, obviously. He was concerned for Lydia. Said she was far too young. I believed we were of like mind in our understanding of what a young lady ought to be allowed to do. Clearly it was a mistake to believe him, else I never should have found myself in the predicament I was in.”

Like mind? Rage, held in check all this time, began to overcome Darcy. “So, without question, you entered a closed carriage with a blackguard?”

His tone made her stop and stare briefly, eyes wide. “I?—”

“The first time you believed George Wickham’s lies,” he said tightly, “I could understand it. You had been flattered by him and insulted by me, so naturally you accepted his appearance of goodness for truth. You heard and believed his lies readily. But now? How could you so endanger yourself knowing what you knew, what I told you about Georgiana?”

She turned to face him; the expression in her eyes nearly did him in.

“You are angry with me,” she said softly. “And I cannot blame you. I am angry with myself for being so stupid. Forgive me for having put you to so much trouble.”

“Put me to trouble!” His anger made him sputter out the words. “Elizabeth! Are you mad? Has nothing I have ever said to you sunk in? I love you. Of course I want to trouble myself to see to your well-being and yet you…you… You put yourself into that blackguard’s power!”

“I did not intend to?—”

“I must wonder, did you think all I told you about Georgiana was untrue? Do you think me such a liar, that I would contrive such a tale about my sister?”

“Of course not!” she cried. “But Mr Wickham, he said…he told me that…the whole of the matter between him and Georgiana was a misunderstanding. He said that he was too friendly, too brotherly, and that she had misinterpreted it as a romance.”

“Misinterpreted?” He spat the word.

“He said he had never had any wrong intentions, but it was Georgiana who?—”

“She was seduced,” Darcy said, biting off each word. “You do comprehend me, I hope? She told my aunt that she was not forced, but I am unsure whether a girl of fifteen is capable of consenting to any such thing with a man of twenty-six. I daresay he had her alone and did what he could to carry things along without her truly knowing what he was about until it was too late.”

Elizabeth’s blush was now a deep red. “Oh.”

“He then tried to extort more money from me by implying that he had got her with child. Thankfully that much was untrue, but I assure you, Miss Bennet , his interests were very far from brotherly .”

His use of a formal moniker stung her; he could see it in the way she flashed a hurt glance at him before lowering her eyes again.

He fumbled in his coat for the letter he had received from Wickham, the letter that had brought him to Brighton with the greatest expedience possible. “It seems in this case, his interests were very much the same.”

Handing it to her, he watched her gasp and grow mortified. When she next looked up at him, he saw every bit of the fear and shame that was flooding her.

“I hardly know what to say. I am stupid, and George Wickham is evil. Pray forgive me for having involved you in my foolishness. I-I am thankful to you for your assistance.”

It was the last two sentences which angered him most of all. Who but he should be her rescuer? Why did she continue to thank him, as if he had no interest in the matter, no stake in her welfare?

Because you do not.

Fury moved him forwards with lengthy strides, and very shortly thereafter, they arrived at the Royal Boar. Elizabeth sat quietly on a bench while he made the necessary arrangements, and before long she was in a carriage which he rode beside, returning to Brighton and the Forsters.

He was angry with her, very angry, but it was the rage of a wounded lover. How can you trust Wickham and yet doubt me? was the question he wished to shout at her. He had been injured by her mistrust, by her betrayal, and yes, by her gratitude .

He and Elizabeth had scarcely spoken on the return, and when Elizabeth invited him in, he declined, knowing he sounded terse. “I must be for London.”

“At this hour?” she exclaimed. Then her face fell, understanding, no doubt, that he only wished to be away. Far, far away. From her.

And yes, it was true. His sense of injustice would not allow him to view her with equanimity at the moment. His temper burned too hot at present. But there was one thing he needed to know.

“How was it that he came to be so bloodied?”

“Mr Wickham?”

He nodded.

“I fought back. As best I could,” she said. “I knew not what he meant to do to me, but I knew I wanted no part of it. My cousin has taught me how to defend myself, a little.”

“Then my thanks to your cousin,” he said.

“My thanks to you ,” she said earnestly. “It is you who I owe much. I could not have extricated myself, had he decided to overpower me. You own my gratitude, sir.”

Little could she have known that such words were like twisting the knife in his chest. Owe me? Own her gratitude? He would rather be burnt alive than have her imagine she owed him anything. “I want nothing from you,” he said curtly, then turned on his heel and went to find his way back to London.

The horror of what she had done, what had nearly been done to her, struck Elizabeth as soon as she entered the Forsters’ house.

“Elizabeth?” Mrs Forster had heard the door and come into the vestibule. “What is it?”

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Lydia added, following her friend. “And your hair! I never saw it so! It looks like squirrels tried to make a nest in it.” She laughed, and Mrs Forster laughed with her.

“Then I had better go and tend to myself.” Elizabeth forced a smile. “If you will excuse?—”

“Is that blood on your glove?”

“Oh! Um…” Elizabeth looked down. “No, I was, um, painting earlier and must have got it on there.”

Lydia looked at her dubiously. “Painting with your gloves on? At Stammer House?”

“Stammer House? What do you speak of? No, I mean to say I was watching someone paint by the sea,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. “The gloves were haplessly nearby.”

“Did you not just say you were painting?” Lydia asked. “I thought you went to?—”

“I misspoke. Pray excuse me, I must go and refresh myself.” She hurried off, saying nothing more. Thankfully, Lydia was the sort of person who had limited interest in things not directly pertaining to herself, and Elizabeth had no doubt that her strange appearance would be forgot before she was next in the drawing room.

She was thankful to the maid-of-all-work who tended the Forsters’ house, for a fresh ewer of water awaited her. Glancing up into the mirror, she was horrified by what she saw; wild eyes, pallor, and yes, hair that looked like a squirrel had nested in it. Her bonnet had gone missing at some point. “In the carriage, mayhap,” she mused aloud.

This would be Darcy’s last look at her. ‘I want nothing from you’. Could she blame him? His words were hard and exquisitely painful, but she did not doubt the truth of them.

She dipped a cloth in the cool water and passed it over her face, feeling a sting in the areas where the wind off the sea had chapped her skin.

One thing had become painfully certain to her, on her seeing Darcy again: she wished to be with him. Forever. With no thought for any nonsense before them, any misunderstandings, any deceit. She cared nothing for any of it. She wanted only him.

Alas, this escapade of hers must have done the precise opposite for him, for he left her with nary a look behind. ‘I want nothing from you’ —those parting words rang again through her mind, again cutting like a knife, and she knew they were due to be repeated often in her memory in the coming days.

Her power over him was sunk, perhaps gone, under the weight of her stupidity. To believe Mr Wickham! After all she knew! She had willingly put herself in the power of Darcy’s sworn enemy, trusting in a wicked man who wanted to lie and cheat and steal from the family who had nearly raised him.

But it was the pain she had caused Darcy that brought a wave of agony over her. She had seen the wounded rage in his eyes when he tasked her for believing Mr Wickham. The rage she could countenance; the wounds she could not, particularly knowing, as she did, that she could not provide consolation. Never had she so deeply felt that she wished to marry him, as now, when all hope must be vain.

Will I ever even see him again? There were faint hopes that his friend might invite him down in the autumn…but likely not, for Mr Bingley would be newly married. He would wish to be alone with his wife. Then again, Mr Bingley did enjoy a party above all things…so maybe something would be planned for later in the autumn. And if so, he would invite Darcy.

Who might not come. Who surely would not come.

Elizabeth swallowed and ran the cloth over her face again. Tears formed a hard knot in her throat but would not fall, not while she washed her face and not while she changed her gown. While she brushed her hair, she attacked her head viciously, mercilessly yanking the brush through wild tangles in a manner that made her eyes sting. Nevertheless, the relief of a good cry eluded her.

Darcy considered, strongly, the notion of riding through the night, but the possible danger of it dissuaded him. Instead, he rode only enough to remove him from Brighton and its environs and find a suitable-looking inn where he ordered a simple meal and went to bed early.

He awoke early, too, the sun shining directly into his rooms, but laid abed for a short while thinking of Elizabeth. She had been left in no doubt of his anger, and part of him thought that perhaps he ought to return to Brighton and mend fences. He had deceived her, and she had betrayed him. Was it enough? Could they put their missteps aside for one another at long last? Or was it all hopeless?

What is this dance we do , he mused. One hurts the other, misunderstandings arise and flourish. Can we never just be happy? Except that yes, he knew they could and would—had not the time in Kent taught him that much?

But he would not take her love if it was given for any cause but…well, but love. Not for gratitude, not for obligation, not for prudence. It would be too bitter to even think of it. Nothing but love would do.

And it seemed he could not have that, so instead he would ask for nothing.

Go back to London, fool , he told himself and then removed from the bed to do just that.