Page 9 of Epiphany (A Little Bit More Darcy and Elizabeth #2)

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D arcy had never met a person who would not, eventually, construe his complete silence as a cue to cease talking—until that day. He had been seated on Sir William’s intolerably hard sofa for the best part of an hour while the man himself spoke without pause, undeterred by the want of any response. He had listened as attentively as he was able, but with horsehair and springs jabbing him in the thighs and a succession of hysterical demands emanating from his cousin’s part of the house, he had been too distracted to summon much enthusiasm for discourse.

What Anne was about he could not suppose. One moment she was screeching for somebody to rub her calves, the next, she was protesting at being manhandled. She called for salts, then she complained they made her bilious. She begged for a drink, then declared it tasted foul.

Bring back Jane Bennet, was all he could think, as each of Anne’s laments put the former’s convalescence at Netherfield in a better light and further compounded his mortification.

“Pray, excuse me,” said a footman, silencing Sir William at last. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is here, sir. I was unsure whether you meant to receive any more guests today.”

Darcy lurched to his feet, then cursed himself for it. Was he a green boy to be leaping about idiotically at the mention of a woman’s name? He clasped his hands behind his back and clenched his jaw shut, refusing to betray any discomposure. Even when Sir William exclaimed effusively that, of course, all callers were welcome, for it was Christmas and the more the merrier.

Elizabeth was shown in and received by Sir William with preposterous ebullience. She took it in her stride, returning his greeting with equal cheer if not equal fervour. She had evidently come on foot, for the walk had made her eyes gleam in a way Darcy recognised well. He could not decide how he liked them best, brightened by exercise or flashing with challenge. Her complexion was flushed, and one or two strands of her hair had been plastered to her cheeks by the damp winter air. The tip of one was caught in the crease at the corner of her mouth until she unconsciously looped a finger under it and tugged it free.

“Mr Darcy, you are still here!” Her exclamation startled him, though his heart was already thundering at such a pace that it scarcely signified.

He gave her a quick bow. “My cousin is unwell. The apothecary deemed her too ill to travel yesterday. We were due to leave this morning, but?—”

Anne helpfully chose that moment to groan loudly, and Darcy let it stand in lieu of finishing his explanation.

“I am very sorry to hear that,” Elizabeth replied, though she said it to Sir William, which Darcy suspected was deliberate. He wished he were not diverted, but he did so enjoy it when she was sly.

“Will she be well enough to travel today?” she asked.

“It is not certain.” The strained reply came from the lady of the house, who had appeared in another doorway. She did not come into the room but remained where she was, looking extremely weary. “Good day, Eliza. Husband, might I have a word?”

Sir William’s cheerfulness faltered as he excused himself to leave with his wife. When they were gone, Darcy let out a quiet sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a knuckle. Blast Anne and her cosseted ways! He needed to return to Georgiana!

“You must be very worried about her.”

He dropped his hand. Elizabeth was regarding him with a searching look that made her remark seem to contain more question than concern. Part of him wished to confess his suspicion that there was nothing the matter with Anne other than contrariness, for there were few people who would enjoy such nonsense more than Elizabeth. He constrained himself to grimacing very slightly and inclining his head, leaving her to construe it as she chose.

“I am particularly worried about my sister, to whom I gave my word that I would return to London no later than today.”

“Oh dear! Can you not go to her and allow Mr Collins to take Miss de Bourgh back to Rosings when she is recovered?”

“Your cousin was obliged to return to Kent yesterday. He could stay away no longer this close to Christmas.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

She had a faint line between her brows that deepened when she frowned. Darcy had first noticed it when she nursed her sister in the autumn and ofttimes since. It appeared whenever she was concerned, a signifier of her compassion that augmented her beauty in a way handsome features alone never could. He was not able to enjoy it for long. It was snatched away from him when her attention went to the footman, who was ushering in another visitor. The servant faltered when he discovered his employer gone from the room, but at Elizabeth’s encouragement, he continued with the announcement.

“Mr Wickham, for Miss de Bourgh.”

Darcy could not contain the incredulous huff of air that escaped him. He would never cease to be amazed by the sheer audacity of the man he had once called a brother. It took him a moment to recognise his vague sense of nausea for what it was: a vast aversion to witnessing Elizabeth’s partiality for the reprobate. He clenched his teeth against the feeling.

Wickham waltzed in, every bit the cocksure dandy, and searched the room for his quarry. He seemed only vaguely surprised to see Elizabeth. He was significantly more perturbed to espy Darcy. The leer he had laid out for the former vanished, replaced by a nervous gulp and a countenance gone ashen.

“Darcy, what are you doing here?”

“Continuing to outmanoeuvre you.”

After a bit of awkward bluster and a brief glance at Elizabeth, Wickham affected a swagger he evidently did not feel. “Come now, that is no way to greet your father’s favourite.”

A muscle twitched in Darcy’s temple, but he held himself still. Evoking his father’s memory was reprehensible, yet he was acutely aware of the intensity with which Elizabeth was watching their exchange. Watching him . Never had he been confined with two people who provoked in him so intense a desire for physical action, though of wholly opposing kinds.

Wickham smirked at his silence. “Let us set our differences aside for today. ’Tis Christmas, after all, and Miss Bennet does not wish to see any unpleasantness.”

“There will be no unpleasantness, Wickham. You ought to know I shall make sure of that.”

“Upon my life, I forgot how peevish you can be. I came only to express my best wishes to Miss de Bourgh before she leaves Hertfordshire.”

To Wickham’s left, where he could not have seen her, but where Darcy clearly could, Elizabeth raised one eyebrow in a supremely disbelieving look. He hoped to God that meant she had Wickham’s measure.

“My cousin is not receiving callers,” he said flatly. “You have had a wasted trip.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Wickham conceded, in as much as he licked his lips and took a step backwards. Still, he parried on the retreat.

“I think not, Darcy.” Turning to Elizabeth, he said, “It seems the Lucases are all otherwise engaged, and Lord knows there is nothing else to entertain you here. May I have the honour of escorting you home?”

Darcy willed her to refuse, but before she could answer, they were joined by Miss Lucas and, to Darcy’s relief, Anne. His cousin was leaning heavily on her companion’s arm, her complexion the same pallid hue as usual, giving no indication as to the true state of her health.

“Miss de Bourgh, what a pleasure to see you looking so well,” said Wickham, moving towards her.

Whether he still believed he had a chance at Anne’s fortune or his design was purely to vex him , Darcy had no patience for it. He stepped in front of him, quelling his schemes with a quick, dark look before turning to address his cousin.

“Has whatever was the matter ceased troubling you?”

“Hardly,” she replied.

“Good day, Mr Darcy, Mr Wickham, Eliza,” said Miss Lucas. “Mama said you were come, Eliza. I am very pleased you have. Miss de Bourgh has expressed a wish to speak to you.”

Apprehension splintered Darcy’s gut.

“Me?” Elizabeth enquired.

“Yes, I should like a word in private. Let us take a turn about the garden,” Anne said in a tone that could only have been learnt from her mother.

Everybody objected in unison, though Darcy’s protests were loudest of all. “Anne, I shall not have you do anything to prevent us leaving. That includes making yourself ill again with unnecessary midwinter rambles out of doors.”

“I should go,” Elizabeth said quietly.

“No, you should stay,” Anne replied, “for I have said I would speak to you. If you will not walk in the garden, perhaps you would do me the honour of coming upstairs with me.”

It seemed Miss Lucas shared Darcy’s reservations. She winced and stumbled over her words as she searched for a way to rescue her friend.

“You found it difficult to come down the stairs just now, Miss de Bourgh. Perhaps it would be best if you spoke to Eliza here.”

“Perhaps it would be best if you struck up a correspondence and wrote everything you wish to say in a nice long letter once we reach London ,” Darcy interjected, his patience exhausted.

It discomposed him completely when Elizabeth tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. He knew not whether she was laughing at him or with him, but the sound of it gave him a thrill that turned very rapidly to panic and then to anger.

“Anne, you are up and dressed. Let us go now before we lose the light.”

“I am not going anywhere until I have spoken to Miss Bennet.”

Though he suspected, Darcy could not be sure what she wished to say, but he would not risk her divulging his inclination, not when he was this close to evading the peril Elizabeth presented.

“Cousin, it is Christmas Eve,” he said tersely. “I insist we leave now. I must get home.”

Anne gave him an impatient, dismissive look. “If you are worried about your sister, she will be perfectly well where she is.”

Darcy’s every sinew tensed. He dared not look at Wickham, but his mind raced as he attempted to think of a way to evade further mention of Georgiana in his presence.

“Anne, this is not?—”

“She has Mr Bingley at her disposal, does she not?” she continued, heedless of the gravity in his glare. “Miss Bingley is there to direct their attachment. You would only be in the way of that. If you are as keen as she is for them to come to an understanding, you had much better stay away.”

A small gasp from Elizabeth drew Darcy’s notice. She had changed colour, and her lips were pressed tightly together.

“My, my, Darcy. Have you been separating more young lovers? This is becoming quite the habit.”

He rounded on Wickham, who he could only presume had been emboldened by the presence of so many people whose ignorance must be maintained. The blackguard leant nonchalantly against the fireplace, his mouth an ugly, lilting curve that made Darcy’s blood boil.

“Do not dare, Wickham.”

But he had dared, and it was already too late.

“What is your meaning, sir?” Elizabeth asked, but Wickham only affected an air of helplessness, and with an expressive glance in Darcy’s direction, he shrugged.

“What did he mean?” she demanded of Darcy instead. “Did you persuade Mr Bingley to leave so you could encourage a match with your sister instead?”

Darcy hesitated. He had not expected her to ask about Bingley.

“Who could blame him if he had?” Anne interjected. “You really must overcome this foolish conviction that anyone in your family could marry so far above themselves.”

Elizabeth’s astonishment was clear as was her displeasure. “Excuse me, madam, but Jane is a gentleman’s daughter. Pray tell me, in what respect is she not good enough for Mr Bingley?”

Wickham chimed in. “And how is it that a tradesman’s son is suddenly good enough for your sister, Darcy? ’Tis a notable change of heart.”

“It may be difficult for you to comprehend,” Darcy snarled, “but a good match rests as much on excellent character as sufficient fortune.”

Elizabeth emitted a wordless cry of indignation. “You thought Jane’s character wanting?”

Darcy spun back to her. “What—no! What did—” He paused, distracted by Wickham’s broadening smirk and the disagreeable feeling of the conversation slipping away from him in a direction he could not grasp.

“You mistake Mr Darcy’s meaning, I am sure,” said Miss Lucas, laying a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “I have said before that Jane was very guarded in her affections. Perhaps it was not clear she was in love.”

“Well, it has certainly been clear since Mr Bingley left ,” Elizabeth retorted. “She has been utterly miserable.”

Darcy barely had time to frown over this before his attention was pulled to the other side of the room where Anne had dropped noisily into a chair.

“Do dispose of your airs, Miss Bennet. If my cousin has separated his friend from your sister, then he has done him a very great service. Only consider the situation of your mother’s family.”

“Anne!” Darcy admonished. No matter that it was true, there could be no justification for saying it to Elizabeth.

“Nay, I am serious, Darcy. The want of connexion could not be so great an evil to Mr Bingley as to you, but it is hardly to be overlooked.”

He stared at her, appalled. He might have thought it all—indeed, these were the very reasons he had not put an end to his torment and offered for Elizabeth months ago—but aloud, it sounded as vain as it did insolent.

“Madam, you are unjustly severe. We both made the acquaintance of Miss Bennet’s relations yesterday, and they were evidently people of fashion and good manners .” Darcy emphasised the last part, wishing rather than believing his cousin would take his meaning. He could scarcely credit it when Anne, so far from perceiving his warning, persisted instead with more censure.

“A fashionable wardrobe does not a fine connexion make. What of Mrs Bennet? Will you tell me her behaviour would not be a cause of repugnance to any potential suitor? She betrays a total want of propriety as do most of Miss Bennet’s sisters.”

“Younger sisters, eh? Troublesome lot,” said Wickham, drawing upon himself the full force of the displeasure that Darcy was prevented by good breeding from directing at his cousin.

“You have said quite enough.” Controlled fury made his voice harsher than usual, and he noticed with grim satisfaction its effect on Wickham. “Leave this place before I am minded to act upon the particulars laid out in my last letter to you.”

Wickham blanched, and when Darcy said nothing more and only glowered at him with seething hatred, he hastily left. Only once he had gone did Darcy realise that so had Elizabeth. He ought to have been pleased, but what he felt was an iron band tighten about his chest that prevented him from catching his breath.

“As for that one—Miss Elizabeth Bennet, ” Anne went on, pointing at the spot where Elizabeth had been. “ She seems to think that the inferiority of her connexions, her condition in life—so decidedly beneath our own—can be made up for by impertinence and flirtation. She?—”

“Anne, that is enough! I do not wish to hear you speak another word against any of the Bennet family. You are in no position to disparage anybody. Your shocking behaviour these past few days has surpassed anything I have witnessed from Elizabeth’s relations. Would that you displayed half her sense and disposition rather than exaggerating your ill health and taking to your bed like a spoilt child. What on earth were you hoping to achieve?”

Anne paled further still, if such a thing were possible. “You… You love ?—”

“Is anything amiss?” asked Lady Lucas. She crept into her own room as though entering a bear pit, wringing her hands together and almost cringing as she awaited an answer.

Darcy closed his eyes briefly in mortification. He prided himself on his impeccable manners and reviled such weaknesses as a quick temper and uncivil tongue. Never would he have believed himself liable to raise his voice in another person’s house, scaring away their guests and reducing them to cowering pleas of conciliation.

“I beg your pardon for the disturbance, madam,” he said solemnly.

“I thank you, Lady Lucas,” Anne interrupted. “I am glad you are able to see how I suffer, even if not everybody is so perceptive. I do not feel at all well. I wonder if you could help me back to my chamber. I need to rest else I fear I may swoon again.”

* * *

Darcy could scarcely remember the order of events that followed. All he knew was that for the second day in a row, dusk found him seated before a dying fire, nursing his manifold indignities over a tankard of disgusting mead at the George and Crown. The warmth that had enveloped him the previous evening as he reflected on Elizabeth’s teasing had, this evening, been replaced with dismay as he recalled the abhorrence with which she had regarded him at Lucas Lodge. Where she had gone afterwards, he knew not. He was doing his damnedest not to think about it, without much success.

Wickham, at least, was on his way to another regiment. Darcy cared neither where nor how much it had cost him to bring it about. All that concerned him was that the man was away from him and anyone connected to him. Darcy wished he had seen to it the last time he was in Meryton, though he had no reason to suspect then that he would be back so soon.

Anne remained abed at Lucas Lodge. He was certain she was not any more unwell than she had been these past seven-and-twenty years. Whatever had ailed her that long had not killed her yet, and he sincerely doubted thirty miles of good road would have finished her off. He could not, for the life of him, fathom her purpose in feigning illness.

Neither could he reconcile himself to her selfishness. Quite apart from her indifference to the fact she had made him look an absolute fool, rendering all Elizabeth’s relations decorous and refined by comparison, her performance had put paid to all his hopes of returning home in time for Christmas.

He had been sorely tempted to leave without her, yet he had been required to deal with Wickham first, and daylight had waned long before Anne’s histrionics. Thus, after Georgiana’s terrible year and despite all his promises to her, his sister must now pass the holiday without him. He sipped his drink, grimacing as he swallowed it.

He had offered his manservant the chance to return home, though Carruthers had refused, excellent man that he was. He regretted he had not persuaded Anne to offer Mrs Jenkinson the same opportunity. All that remained for him to do was send expresses to Georgiana and Bingley, informing them of his delay. This he was attempting to do in the George and Crown’s public saloon, for there was no table in his room and only one candle by which to admire the want of it.

He picked up his pen to add a line or two to what he had written already. Rereading his own words recalled him to Miss Lucas’s earlier that afternoon. ‘Perhaps it was not clear she was in love.’ He twirled his pen back and forth between his finger and thumb.

In the tumult of the moment, when his mind had been wholly engaged in attempting to keep Georgiana’s name out of the conversation and away from Wickham’s notice, this allusion to Jane Bennet’s affections had confused him greatly. But, of course, nobody here knew about Georgiana and Wickham. They had all understood him to be speaking of Miss Bennet and Bingley.

“Ah, there you are, Mr Darcy. May I interrupt you for a moment?”

Darcy looked up and was astonished to see Mr Bennet standing before him. “You may, sir.” He folded away his letter and gestured for him to sit. “What can I do for you?”

Mr Bennet sidled into the opposing bench and fixed him with a smile that he disliked partly because he knew not what diverted the man and partly because it reminded him of Elizabeth.

“It is more what I can do for you,” Mr Bennet answered. His gaze wondered about the dingy parlour. “It has come to our attention that for reasons outside of your command, you are facing the prospect of spending Christmas Day on your own in this delightful establishment.”

Darcy was unsure how to answer. He certainly would not be going home, but as to where else he might pass the day, he had not considered. Lady Lucas had not issued an invitation for him to join her.

“So it would seem,” he replied at length.

“Well, in Mrs Bennet’s esteemed opinion, that will never do.”

“I beg you would tell Mrs Bennet that it is not in my power to do anything about it.”

“Fortunately for you—or unfortunately, depending on your perspective—my wife has a strong aversion to any matter in which she cannot be involved. She, therefore, very often thrusts herself, with a zeal I am quite unable to contain, into matters the rest of us might be forgiven for thinking have absolutely nothing to do with her. Which is why I am come, at her insistence, to invite you to dine with us tomorrow at Longbourn.”

Darcy stared at him. The memory of Elizabeth’s final look, rife with pain and anger, had haunted him all afternoon. Now, it seemed that would not be their last encounter, for apparently, he was to spend Christmas Day with her. His life was growing more ridiculous by the moment.

“That is an exceedingly generous offer.”

“I thought so, too. But then, as well as suffering from a vast number of nervous complaints and being staggeringly silly, Mrs Bennet is an exceedingly generous-hearted woman.”

“Even so, I hope you will not be offended if I observe that she has not always seemed to care overmuch for my company.”

“No, but slight one of her girls and you will rarely be treated to her gentlest side.”

“I beg your pardon,” Darcy said tightly, affronted by the insinuation, “but never have I and never would I slight one of your daughters.”

Mr Bennet displayed that disquieting smile again. “Perhaps I misunderstood, then. But to business! Can I engage you for attendance? Mrs Bennet will be offended beyond repair if I return with the report that Mr Darcy of Pemberley would rather dine at the George and Crown than at her table.”

Darcy knew not why he was prevaricating. Because it would be an imposition? Because most of Elizabeth’s relations were ghastly? Because being in Elizabeth’s presence made him ache for her in a way he did not think he could bear? He sighed discreetly. It was for all those reasons, but he had not the resolve to stay away from her.

“I should be delighted to join you, though I have one small problem in the form of my cousin. I am unsure whether she will be expected to dine at Lucas Lodge tomorrow.”

“I doubt it, from what Lady Lucas was saying about her in my parlour not two hours ago.”

For the love of God! If he ever escaped Hertfordshire, Darcy swore to himself he would never return for as long as he lived. “Then I am afraid, if you have me, you will be obliged to have her and her companion as well.”

“Excellent! If I am to spend Christmas Day with a house full of my own silly women, the least you can do is bring a few of your own.”

Darcy could not accustom himself to the man’s irreverence, and the comparison of Anne to any one of Elizabeth’s younger sisters was sobering, thus he did not smile as they stood to shake hands. “Before you go, might I ask you something about your eldest daughter?”

Mr Bennet pulled a face that made clear his curiosity. “You may.”

“Was she particularly disappointed when my friend Bingley left the country?”

Mr Bennet’s countenance relaxed into one of comprehension. “More so than her mother, do you mean? Aye, Jane does appear to have been in low spirits since, but do not all girls like to be crossed in love at some point, Mr Darcy? But Jane is usually less apt than her sisters to make a fuss of things, and Lizzy seems to think her melancholy is genuine. And Lizzy, you understand, is the most sensible of all my girls. If anyone is likely to have the right of it, ’tis her.”

Darcy thanked him, and they parted ways. When he was gone, Darcy threw his letter to Bingley on the fire and wrote it out anew. He sent a boy out with it and a bag of coin heavy enough to ensure it would find its way to London despite it being almost Christmas. Then he retired for the night to fight a losing battle against the pangs of agitation that assailed him every time he thought of seeing Elizabeth on the morrow.