Page 28

A WRETCHED REVELATION

T he carriage rattled along at quite a pace towards Berkeley Square.

Elizabeth would not have objected to a few delays, for she was still woefully unprepared for whatever awaited her there.

She had no idea what Mr Darcy wished to say to her, no idea how he felt about her, and even less of an idea how she felt about him.

She had been sorely disappointed with his behaviour at dinner, which had convinced her that his disdain was as implacable as his resentment.

It was Jane who, after hearing Elizabeth’s faithful retelling of the whole evening, had questioned the likelihood that Mr Darcy had come only to look down his nose at them.

“And he did come, Lizzy,” she had said, “into the place where you said he would never stir. In fact, he came here twice, for though he never made it into the house, he did intend to call here on Saturday as well.”

“Trust you to take the part of someone who has treated you so abominably!” Elizabeth had declared unhappily. “How am I to hate a man my dearest sister is intent on championing?”

“I never wanted you to hate him. I only wanted to avoid the obligation of having a conversation with him.”

Elizabeth had scoffed. “You would not have had to do that even if you had dined with us, for he barely spoke all evening.”

“That is very much in keeping with how he was in Hertfordshire. Remember what Miss Bingley said to me—that he never speaks much unless among his intimate acquaintance?”

Elizabeth had thrown a pillow at her sister at that point, marking the end of their discussion about Mr Darcy, but that had not stopped her lying awake most of the night thinking about him.

She had begun to regret having been so restrained; had she said more, so might he have done.

He had not been openly insulting to her aunt and uncle, after all, and they had expressed no displeasure in the visit.

Now, here she was, arriving at his enormous house, under the pretence of visiting his sister, with the spectre of whatever he would say about her mother hanging over her head—and she could very easily have instructed Benjamin to turn them around and take her home again directly.

She tried to pinch some colour into her cheeks before stepping down from the carriage.

Jane had assured her repeatedly that she looked well, but after so little sleep, Elizabeth was sure she must look a fright.

A serious but not unfriendly-looking servant answered the door and escorted her to a beautiful room, flooded with light.

Well-tended gardens could be seen from the large windows, and the furnishings looked fresh out of Ackermann’s Repository.

She knew not whether she was more disappointed or relieved that Mr Darcy was not there, only Miss Darcy and her companion.

“Miss Bennet, I am so glad you could come,” Miss Darcy said.

“Thank you for inviting me.” Elizabeth had crossed the room to where the ladies were sitting and now stood, somewhat awkwardly, awaiting an introduction to the older of the two before she seated herself.

After a pause and several significant looks from her companion, Miss Darcy remembered the introduction that was owing, which she made with flaming cheeks and a voice made timorous by embarrassment. “Miss Bennet, this is Mrs Annesley.”

“A pleasure to meet you, madam.” Elizabeth curtseyed to them both and sat down.

This early misstep appeared to steal what little courage Miss Darcy had begun the interview with, and she reverted to the shyness she had betrayed in Hyde Park.

Mrs Annesley broke the silence with genteel observation, and thereafter, she and Elizabeth carried on a steady discourse, which Miss Darcy gradually summoned the nerve to join in.

The door was opened three times during the visit, each time sending Elizabeth’s heart vaulting into her throat with the anticipation of seeing Mr Darcy enter.

Each time, she felt the same clash of relief and disappointment, as first tea, then a variety of cake and fruits, then even a change of footman was paraded in, but Mr Darcy did not appear.

She began to question her recollection of his plea the night before, wondering whether, in fact, he had not wished to speak to her and did not mean to obtrude on her visit with his sister.

Either way, she could not politely wait around to find out.

She had been there for over half an hour; to stay any longer would be ill-mannered.

Reluctantly, she announced her intention to go, and when Miss Darcy made no attempt to delay her departure, only thanking her for coming and asking the footman to show her out, Elizabeth supposed she had her answer.

She had gone only a dozen or so steps away from that room when she heard Mr Darcy say her name behind her.

She whipped around and sucked in her breath at the sight of him.

He looked dreadful. Not that he was attired with any less than his usual impeccable attention to detail, but he had none of his usual poise; his shoulders seemed to sag, and his eyes were hollow.

She evidently need not have worried about her own want of sleep, for it looked as though Mr Darcy had not had any.

None of this detracted from her overriding feeling of being profoundly pleased to see him, which answered another of her questions.

“Mr Darcy.”

“Might I have a few minutes of your time before you leave?”

A private audience seemed far more inappropriate now the moment was upon her, but since it was the whole purpose of her visit, she agreed.

He dismissed the footman, who melted away into the shadows of a nearby passage. “If you would follow me?”

She did, wondering all the while what ailed him. His flat voice only added to the impression of him being vastly out of sorts. She grew nervous about what he meant to say that had made him so grave.

He showed her into a room quite unlike the other—more masculine, with no less natural light but darker hues and older furniture.

It was lined on every wall with shelves of books and ornaments, and the chairs by the hearth looked for all the world as though there were invisible guests already sitting in them, the cushions moulded around their forms. She had the sense of it being a very private space and could not shake the feeling of being an unwelcome intruder.

“Please, have a seat,” Mr Darcy said. “Would you like some tea?”

She lowered herself into the nearest chair, now excessively aware of the impropriety of her being there. “No, thank you.”

He nodded in an absent way that made her think he had not listened to her answer. His agitation was excessively unnerving.

“I ought not to stay too long.”

He made a sound that she might have taken for laughter had it not been imbued with so much contempt.

“Yes, I imagine you are keen to be gone. I shall not detain you any longer than is necessary.” In contradiction to this promise, he then walked to the window and stood in silence, looking out over his garden.

Elizabeth was about to say something encouraging, when he turned his head slightly, not looking at her but speaking over his shoulder in her general direction with startling bitterness. “I apologise for imposing on you in this manner, but you will thank me for the privacy. It is a delicate matter.”

“Well, if I was not before, I am now wholly at ease. Pray, do not hasten your explanation on my account.”

Mr Darcy made no reply. Elizabeth gave up watching him and settled back into her chair with her arms crossed. After another minute or so of silence, he sighed heavily and began speaking from where he stood, his back still to her.

“You are angry that I told your sister an alliance with Bingley was impossible, but I had good reason. He is involved with another woman.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth was instantly sorry for Jane but no less confounded by Mr Darcy’s behaviour. She sat forwards, frowning at his back. “Why did you not simply tell us that?”

“It would only have been half the story. The rest of it, I am sorry to say, will be significantly more painful to hear.” He looked at her briefly, seeming pained himself, then returned quickly to looking out of the window.

“After our dance at Netherfield, I left the ball and went to the library—only to find it already occupied. Bingley was there. With your mother.”

“My mother?”

Mr Darcy nodded, once, and something about the brusqueness of it made Elizabeth’s pulse hasten.

Whatever he was implying, he obviously thought it too grievous to look at her while he said it.

To her mind, there was only one possible conclusion to be drawn—except that one thing was entirely im possible.

Although…heat seared her cheeks as she recalled her mother’s strange expression—so easily recognisable in retrospect as guilt—when she insisted that she had ‘not helped Jane’s search for a husband’ .

“There is no polite way of saying this,” Mr Darcy continued. “They were together as only a man and his wife ought to be.”

Elizabeth stared disbelievingly at the floor. Her poor, poor sister—and her father, waiting unwittingly at home for news. But consideration of their agony was soon lost beneath the crushing disgrace of what her mother had done—and who had discovered them.