Page 8 of Epiphany (A Little Bit More Darcy and Elizabeth #2)

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M rs Philips stayed only a quarter of an hour. Any longer and she would have forfeited the chance of being first to announce Mr Darcy’s return to the rest of her acquaintances. She might have chosen to stay had she known who would call next at Longbourn. As it was, the pleasure of revealing Mr Darcy’s arrival to his cousin fell to Mrs Bennet.

“Darcy has come for me?” Miss de Bourgh replied with an air of ingenuous satisfaction. It was a fleeting look. Her countenance rapidly hardened into a more superior expression. “Of course, he is devoted to me.”

“You were not aware he was coming?” Elizabeth enquired.

“No, I understood he was occupied with his friends in town, but I expect he wishes for me to accompany him there.”

Elizabeth did not doubt it. Mr Darcy seemed intent on whisking everybody he knew away from Hertfordshire.

“Ought I to understand that you will be travelling with him now?” Mr Collins enquired, looking thoroughly miserable.

“Of course! What an absurd question! I do not know why you look so unhappy about it. You have been desirous of returning to Kent for days. Now, you may go.” Miss de Bourgh turned to Mrs Bennet abruptly. “Are you planning to introduce this lady to me?”

Mrs Bennet floundered but was rescued by Jane, who calmly introduced Mrs Gardiner.

“And you are Mr Bennet’s sister, are you?”

“No, madam. My husband is Mrs Bennet’s brother. We are come up from London for Christmas.”

“Whereabouts in London?”

“Gracechurch Street. Near Cheapside.”

“Oh,” Miss de Bourgh replied, managing to imbue the word with the whole of society’s disgust for the middle class. It marked an end to her interest, and after an appraising look and a sniff, she turned away from Mrs Gardiner to address Mr Collins. “You certainly have some unfortunate connexions, sir.”

Mrs Gardiner’s polite smile never faltered, yet Elizabeth could perceive she was offended. It rankled deeply that somebody as intelligent and genteel as her aunt could be considered an unfortunate connexion. Indeed, given Miss de Bourgh’s conduct, she rather thought the fastidious Mr Darcy might consider her just as objectionable a connexion.

“As have we all,” she retorted.

Miss de Bourgh’s eyes snapped to hers. “Oh yes, you are not much better pleased with mine, are you? No matter. You do not have to like Darcy. You are not marrying him. Are you?”

“No, madam. The distinction of that connexion is all yours.”

“Quite so. When one’s own connexions are exceptional, it would be nonsensical to even consider marrying elsewhere.”

Lydia snorted indecorously and murmured to Kitty, “That was not enough to convince Lizzy to marry Mr Collins.”

“Lydia!” hissed her mother, aunt, and eldest sisters in unison.

Elizabeth pitied Mr Collins his obvious embarrassment, yet she had been certain Miss de Bourgh already knew this. Though, if she did, that did not account for the present turn of her countenance, which was narrow-eyed suspicion.

“Pray excuse my sister’s indiscretion, though I must confess, I thought Mr Collins had already informed you of this. Your remark about my not approving of cousins marrying made it seem?—”

“I was obviously referring to myself and Mr Darcy, not you and Mr Collins.”

“I see. But why would I disapprove of you marrying your cousin?”

“Why did you refuse yours ? You told me you had no suitors.”

“And I spoke true. I do not.”

“You must have had one in mind, otherwise why would you ever have refused an offer from the heir to your family home?”

Elizabeth could feel her mother’s eyes on her and prayed she would not speak out to worsen matters. “The answer is very simple. As I said to Mr Collins at the time, I did not believe we could make each other happy.”

“And who was it, exactly, you believed could make you happy?”

“I assure you, I had nobody particular in mind.”

Everybody began to speak at once—Mrs Bennet to lament the sorry truth of Elizabeth’s claim, Jane to try and change the subject, Mary to sermonise about the perils of insincere regard, and Mrs Gardiner to restore them all to calm. Mr Collins made a noise that might have been choking on his own mortification as he attempted to shrink into the crack between the cushions on the sofa.

“I do not believe you,” Miss de Bourgh said angrily over them all. “I have shown you all the condescension you could have wished for, Miss Elizabeth. Now you will do me the honour of being honest. Did you or did you not refuse your cousin because you hoped to receive an offer from?—”

“Mr Darcy, ma’am.”

All eyes turned to the housekeeper, who had entered the parlour at some point during the argument and evidently did not think the announcement could wait any longer.

Behind her, Mr Darcy stood tall, imposing, and motionless. His eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Elizabeth, and an infuriating smile played about his lips as though he were vastly satisfied to have found her and all her family behaving exactly as he had expected.

Elizabeth could have screamed. Of course he would arrive at that precise moment, when her relations were giving their worst performances, and she was arguing heatedly with his enfeebled future wife. She turned fully to face him and curtseyed, refusing to be unsettled by the intensity with which his presence filled the room.

“Thank you, Hill,” said Mrs Bennet, recovering her voice. “Mr Darcy, you are very welcome. Pray, come in. Your cousin is here.”

“He knows that, Mama. That is why he is come,” Elizabeth said crossly.

Miss de Bourgh held out her hand. “Darcy, what a delightful surprise!”

It did not seem as though he meant to acknowledge any of them. Mrs Bennet waited, her hands fussing fretfully with her handkerchief. Miss de Bourgh’s raised arm drooped back into her lap, her complacency shrivelling with it. Jane looked anxiously at Elizabeth, and even Mrs Gardiner seemed uneasy. Indifferent to it all, Mr Darcy maintained his silence.

Elizabeth suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “I shall be terribly disappointed if what you say next does not have all the éclat of a proverb, sir.”

Mr Darcy’s slight smile abruptly broadened in a manner that made Elizabeth feel absurdly flushed and therefore, even more provoked. “Ought I to fetch a pen and paper so it can be written down?”

“I defer to your judgment on the matter, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied in a wholly unperturbed and discomposingly resonant tone. To her mother, he said, “I beg you would excuse my unannounced visit, madam, but it could not wait. My cousin and I shall need to make haste if we are to return to London by nightfall.”

“Come now, there is no need to rush off,” Mrs Bennet replied. “You must stay for dinner.”

Elizabeth stared at her mother, knowing she disliked Mr Darcy as much as she did his cousin. Inviting either to dine with them seemed an entirely avoidable punishment. Mrs Bennet’s reasoning soon became clear, however.

“When Mr Bingley went to town last winter, he promised to take a family dinner with us as soon as he returned, and you would naturally have been included in his party. Therefore, you are as much in our debt as he. I have not forgot, you see, and I assure you I was very much disappointed that he did not come back and keep his engagement.” She paused, but just as Mr Darcy opened his mouth to reply, she added, “Does Mr Bingley have any plans to come back, do you know?”

“None of which I am aware, madam,” replied Mr Darcy, after which he closed his mouth and ventured no more.

A brief glance at Jane revealed her misery. With pain and mortification hewn into every line of her rigid pose and her smile so brittle it looked liable to shatter at any moment, she refused to meet Elizabeth’s gaze and stared instead at a point in the middle of the floor.

“What are your plans for Christmas, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth asked in a wild attempt to direct the conversation away from Mr Bingley. It failed.

“My sister and I planned to spend it with Bingley and his sisters.”

“I hope they will not mind an addition to the party,” Elizabeth replied, indicating his cousin.

He smiled again and shook his head. “I am sure there will be no objection.”

Miss de Bourgh, Elizabeth noticed, was not smiling but glaring at Mr Darcy with undisguised displeasure. Which could most likely be attributed to the fact that he had not said a word to her since he arrived. Elizabeth could not but think that odd. It showed a peculiar want of affection on his part. Perhaps in cases such as these, it was not expected that there should be any affection, though if that were true, she thought it prodigiously sad.

“Bingley rarely objects to anything,” Mr Darcy went on. “He is entirely too good-natured.”

Would that he cease mentioning his friend! Does he not comprehend how it will distress Jane?

“May I introduce my aunt, sir?” Elizabeth asked almost desperately. Consent was given and the introduction made. “Before she was married, Mrs Gardiner spent some considerable time in Lambton, which I understand is near Pemberley,” she explained. Better to mention his home than subject her aunt to any more scorn for hers.

She was foiled again when Miss de Bourgh leant to speak to her companion in a whisper that would likely have been audible in the garden. “She has not mentioned that Mrs Gardiner and her husband live in Cheapside.”

“No wonder,” Mrs Jenkinson replied, equally loudly.

There was a short pause, then Mr Darcy said, “It is rumoured that Defoe stayed at The White Hart in Lambton when he toured Derbyshire.”

“That is right,” Mrs Gardiner agreed happily. “There is a particular window seat?—”

“—that overlooks the Derwent, yes.”

“They say he preferred it to every wonder of the peaks lauded by Hobbes and Cotton. Though I suspect all the owners of The White Hart have embellished that part of the tale over the years.”

“Oh no. Defoe was famously unimpressed with Derbyshire.”

Elizabeth thought he looked offended as he said this, as though he took it as a personal slight that somebody should think ill of his home county. She thought it rather endearing, if a little silly. It compelled her to take his part.

“Oh well! I was unimpressed with Robinson Crusoe . Perhaps Mr Defoe would do better to stick to desert islands.”

Mr Darcy laughed—actually laughed—which ought not to have surprised her, except that she could not recall seeing him do it before.

“Darcy, Mr Collins needs to get all the way back to Hunsford today,” Miss de Bourgh announced abruptly, coming unsteadily to her feet. “It would be unpardonably rude to detain him. Let us be on our way.”

As unpardonable rudeness went, Miss de Bourgh was an expert and, therefore, most qualified to know what would constitute an offence. Nevertheless, her cousin seemed disinclined to comply. Elizabeth was diverted by how obviously Mr Darcy disliked being told what to do, though her amusement waned as his brief show of graciousness was eclipsed by a sudden change of temperament.

His wistful smile disappeared, his forbidding glower returned, and he ceased talking altogether as his party readied themselves to leave. Miss de Bourgh, apparently at the limit of her powers, was bundled into the passenger seat of the gig. Mrs Jenkinson was relegated once more to the parcel shelf. Two servants hoisted Mr Collins, squealing, onto Mr Darcy’s enormous horse and propelled him in the direction of Lucas Lodge.

Mr Darcy himself bowed a wordless goodbye to Mrs Bennet and climbed into the driver’s seat of the gig without so much as a sideways squint at the rest of the family. It would have perfectly substantiated Elizabeth’s impression of him, had he not looked back at her from the end of the drive. It was brief, but their eyes met, and Elizabeth felt it all the way to the very pit of her stomach.

“Thank heavens they have gone! A stranger family I have never come across in my life,” cried Mrs Bennet. “Imagine if you had married Mr Collins, Lizzy? You would have had to put up with both of them as your neighbours whenever they were at Rosings. What a lucky escape!”

The incredulity this remark induced went a long way to dispelling the unsettling sensation still jostling Elizabeth’s insides, and she was able to give a credible smile. “From my cousin’s nonsense and Miss de Bourgh’s incivility, certainly.” She wondered whether she might have better tolerated Mr Darcy’s authoritative efficiency—but only fleetingly, for he was gone, and her musings were immaterial.

* * *

They travelled in silence for a time. Whosoever’s gig they were in was old and ill-balanced, and the horse was uncooperative. Darcy was glad of the distraction of trying to control it, for it helped take his mind off the tendrils of sullenness creeping back into his thoughts, souring his mood.

It was not that ill temper fazed him. He was not naturally disposed to sanguinity and was well acquainted with vexation and impatience. What troubled him was the inescapable fact that for a few sublime minutes at Longbourn, he had been neither ill tempered, nor vexed, nor impatient. For the first time in months, he had felt utterly and completely at peace. So happy that at one point, he had laughed aloud for sheer joy. He had walked into Longbourn resolved to be unaffected, yet there she had been, exactly as he recalled—fierce, defiant, magnificent. He cared not that she had teased him. On the contrary, he had revelled in it, aware only then how acutely he had missed her wit. In those few sweet moments, every layer of bitterness and frustration had sloughed away from him, leaving nothing but pure delight to be once again in Elizabeth’s company. And it had downright terrified him.

Only when it had come time to go had he realised what was happening, and then he had wished to run and run and never look back. What foolhardy conceit had led him to think he would be in no danger once he saw her again? The sooner Anne’s trunks could be loaded onto his carriage and they could set out for London the better. He knew from experience that distance would not banish his feelings, but it might diminish them to a less alarming intensity.

“Are you intending to say anything to me at all, or are we to travel the entire way in silence?”

Darcy looked down at his cousin in surprise. The words were so similar to those Elizabeth had said to him at Bingley’s ball, the very conversation to which she had alluded moments ago, that he half expected to see her sitting next to him instead of Anne.

“Forgive me,” he forced himself to say. “I was distracted, thinking about the journey ahead.”

“To what journey do you refer?”

After a pause, during which Darcy failed to divine her meaning, he replied, “Back to London.”

“You are leaving again so soon?”

“I am in no humour for games, madam. You must know I have come to take you back to town with me.”

“I do not wish to go to town.”

“I cannot take you back to Rosings this side of Christmas. You may travel with Mr Collins if you prefer, but unless he means to travel overnight, he will have to lodge in London this evening anyway. Better to come with me and stay at Number One, surely?”

“You mistake my meaning. I do not wish to go to Rosings, either.”

Darcy reined in the horse and when the gig came to a halt, he turned to glare at his cousin. “What?”

“How kind of you to ask,” Anne replied sardonically. “It is terribly noble of you to come all this way to escort me, but had you troubled yourself to ask what I wished first, you might have saved yourself a trip, for I do not wish to go.”

“Sir William is under the impression that you were planning to leave this afternoon.”

“I have changed my mind. I do not feel well.”

Darcy regarded her for a moment. She looked no more indisposed than usual, though he could not imagine why she should invent such a claim. “I am sorry to hear it, but if that is the case, you would certainly be better coming with me and being seen by my physician.”

“For heaven’s sake, they do have physicians outside of London, you know, Darcy. But that is immaterial. I wish to stay here.”

“You cannot mean to be away from Rosings for Christmas. What has my aunt to say about all this? Has she objected to your being here?”

“It would be difficult, given that she does not know.”

Darcy made a concerted effort to prevent his expression from reflecting his thoughts. “Pray explain how she can possibly be unaware that you are not at home?”

“Because she is not there, either. She has been called away to visit a dying friend.”

“She believes you are still at Rosings? Anne, please tell me you have not obliged the servants to conceal this from her?”

“Do not be ridiculous. She knows I am not there.”

“And?” he pressed, his displeasure escalating. “Where does she think you are?”

“At Number One. With you.”

He turned away sharply so she would not see the oath he mouthed. If there had not been reason enough to get her out of Hertfordshire before, there was no possibility of her remaining now. He had no intention of exposing himself to Lady Catherine’s wrath should any harm befall her daughter whilst ostensibly in his care. This was precisely why he abhorred disguise.

“I have never observed this streak of cunning in you before,” he remarked icily.

“No, well, I am discovering some less than agreeable parts of you that I never noticed before, either.”

Darcy was taken aback as much by the turn of her countenance as the charge she flung at him, yet he would not knowingly cause her distress and thus moderated his tone as he attempted to explain his concern. “There is a man in the vicinity, a Mr Wickham, who?—”

“Yes, I am acquainted with him.”

“So I understand. But he is not the sort of man whose company it would be prudent for you to keep.”

Anne narrowed her eyes. “You have an excessively low opinion of my intelligence.”

“It is not my opinion of you that matters. It is my opinion of him.”

“In that case, you need not concern yourself. It will be no punishment at all for me to stay away from him. Meryton is a large enough town that avoiding him ought to be easy.”

“It would be considerably easier in a different town. Why are you so insistent upon staying here?”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. When she replied, it was not with an answer to his question. “You behaved very strangely just now at Longbourn. Miss Elizabeth was exceedingly rude to you, yet you said nothing. You only smiled at her. It is most unlike you to tolerate such an affront.”

Darcy glanced pointedly at Mrs Jenkinson, whose studied indifference to their conversation was convincing nobody.

Anne ignored him. “I thought I understood you did not care for her,” she continued, “but if you truly do not find her handsome enough to tempt you, then why do you allow her to be so insolent towards you?”

A shard of uneasiness shot through Darcy’s gut. How the devil did Anne know he had said that? “Miss Elizabeth was not insolent. She was merely teasing.”

“Teasing? What are you thinking, allowing her to believe it is acceptable for her to tease you? You cannot continue to raise her expectations in this merciless manner, Darcy. It is cruel.”

“I have given nobody any just cause to believe they may expect attention from me,” he said gravely. He may as well have claimed he did not possess a head.

Anne banged her hand on the side of the gig. “Do not be absurd! Simply by coming back to Longbourn you have led her on. I know not what possessed you!”

Darcy tugged sharply on the reins, and the gig clattered into motion once more, almost erratically enough to eclipse the burst of unease that had spurred him into action. “It is a very good thing that we are returning to London, then.”

Anne did not reply. She only pulled her shawl more tightly around her and turned her face away. Darcy made no attempt to draw her out, content to justify her original complaint by travelling the rest of the way in silence. He had never known his cousin to behave in such a way. It vexed him to such a degree that he left Mrs Jenkinson and a footman to assist her down when they arrived at Lucas Lodge.

He crossed the stables to speak to the driver of his own carriage but had time only to ask whether his cousin’s trunks had yet been loaded before they were interrupted by a pitiful wail and several shouts of alarm. Hastening back to the other side of the gig, the cause was soon discovered to be Anne, who had apparently swooned as she disembarked.

“Good Lord!” cried Sir William, approaching from the house. “Bring her indoors directly. Hodges, quickly, ride out and fetch Mr Jones.”

Darcy ignored him and knelt next to his cousin where she lay with her head in her companion’s lap. The conviction instantly settled upon him of Anne being no more unwell than the servant who had been ordered to scoop her up and carry her indoors. Manners, pride—nay straightforward decorum—made it impossible that she might have feigned a swoon, however, and he was forced to swallow his spleen.

“Forgive me, Anne. I did not comprehend how unwell you were.”

She gave him a wan smile. “I am sure it is nothing a good rest will not cure.”

“I fear she has over-exerted herself,” Mrs Jenkinson said in a nervous whisper. “It is precisely what the physician warned would happen.”

“Stop fussing, Penny,” Anne said, breathless either from asperity or infirmity, Darcy could not tell which.

“I am sure she will be well, madam,” he assured Mrs Jenkinson. Then he stood up and indicated with a curt gesture for the servant to convey Anne indoors as per Sir William’s instructions. With a sinking feeling, he allowed himself to be shown inside and given a cup of tea he did not want as they awaited the apothecary’s appearance. It was another hour before Mr Jones arrived, by which time Darcy had resigned himself to the inevitable verdict: Anne was not to be moved.

He felt all the awkwardness that Elizabeth must have suffered the previous autumn when she arrived at Netherfield to nurse Jane, for Lady Lucas and her daughters made little attempt to conceal their dissatisfaction. Sir William was everything that was gracious, but even he could not muster an entirely persuasive air of approval. Mr Collins appeared on the brink of a nervous collapse, and Darcy was obliged to give his word that he would smooth any difficulties with Lady Catherine that arose as a result of Anne’s misadventure. The man was sent on his way to resume his duties in Hunsford, and Darcy took his leave to return to the inn.

Several hours later, he sat alone before a dwindling fire, staring into a flagon of insipid mead. He ought to be livid. He had every right to be furious with Anne for having drawn him into her preposterous scheme, or the apothecary whose remedy for every ailment was apparently to confine the patient indefinitely to their bed. He would be perfectly justified in blaming Georgiana for inflicting her demonstrably terrible romantic instincts upon him. Any self-respecting gentleman would be disgusted by the unsavouriness of such lodgings. And he had no idea what to do to rectify any of it—a circumstance that would ordinarily have put him in the very worst of humours.

There could be only one explanation for the small grin that repeatedly accosted him, preventing any of his troubles from taking root. And he could not help but wonder, if five minutes in Elizabeth’s company could bring him such contentment, what a lifetime might be like.