Page 34 of Look on the Heart (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #10)

Chapter Eighteen

Dinner with the earl and countess was pleasant enough.

They did not press him for an explanation, which he appreciated.

His emotions were still raw, and now, suspecting he may have acted in haste, he longed to return to Hertfordshire—and to Elizabeth.

Still, he recognized the need to pacify his relations and reassure Georgiana before he departed. Tomorrow shall suffice , he thought .

His sister had observed him with a peculiar mixture of curiosity and unease.

He could hardly blame her. When last they parted in the autumn, Georgiana had believed he despised her for her poor judgment.

Yet the opposite was true. Darcy struggled to forgive himself for his own failings, for nearly losing her to a scoundrel.

After supper, he sat with her, offered his full attention, and praised her growing skill on the pianoforte.

By the time he left Matlock House, she had appeared more at ease and even cheerful.

It gave him hope that she was at last beginning to recover from her ordeal with Wickham.

The following morning, he instructed Brisby to pack his trunks. As he sorted through his papers in the study, gathering what he would require in Hertfordshire, his butler, Simms, knocked at the door.

“An express has just arrived for you, sir,” he announced, his countenance impassive and posture rigid.

He approached the desk with a silver salver and held it out.

Darcy took the missive and nodded his thanks.

Sims bowed crisply and withdrew. Darcy hastily broke the seal and recognized his steward’s hand.

Dear Sir,

I write to inform you that Mrs. Reynolds has suffered a serious fall late yesterday afternoon. She slipped while descending the back stair and struck her head on the landing. Though the physician was summoned at once she has since developed a high fever and drifts in and out of consciousness.

In her waking moments, sir, she has called for you repeatedly.

While the household remains in good order, I urgently request your immediate return—both for her comfort and to prepare for any decisions should her condition worsen.

With respect,

R. Smith

Darcy’s breath caught. Mrs. Reynolds—so capable, so constant—had been with the family since he was four years old.

She had watched over him in childhood, steadied him after his parents died, and supported him through every stage of his life since.

She never saw the physical imperfections that marked his countenance.

The thought of her suffering, perhaps dying, without his presence, stirred a deep ache in his chest. Darcy folded the letter and put it with the papers on his desk.

There was nothing for it. He would go to Pemberley at once.

He rang for his valet and gave instructions to prepare for his departure before returning to his correspondence.

Before the day ended, he made haste for Pemberley.

The journey would require three to five days, depending upon the weather and the state of the roads—both of which were notoriously unpredictable in winter.

He could only hope that the weather remained fair, Mrs. Reynolds’s health improved, and nothing further delayed his return to Elizabeth.

He was well into his journey when a thought startled him out of his musings.

Blast. I ought to have written to Mr. Bennet, informing him of my wish to call upon his daughter.

Darcy resolved to do so immediately upon his arrival.

Unfortunately, fate conspired against him, and the task was never completed.

March 1812

Darcy wearily climbed down from the carriage in front of Netherfield Park. Though he would need to return to London soon to complete business postponed during his stay in Derbyshire, he could no longer delay. He must see Elizabeth.

He had remained at Pemberley far longer than he had intended.

Mrs. Reynolds’s condition had grown more dire in the days following his arrival.

Her fever had raged, and for a time, it seemed she would not recover.

Darcy scarcely left her side, speaking quietly to her even when she was insensible, pacing when the fever worsened, and refusing all reassurance until the worst had passed.

Only when the physician declared her out of danger did he begin to breathe freely once more.

On the fourth day of her improvement, she was able to sit up and take broth. Her eyes, dulled by illness, regained a glimmer of their former keenness. When Darcy entered her chamber that morning, she studied him.

“You are troubled, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured, her words rasping but steady. “And not only on my account.”

Darcy sank into the chair beside her bed. “You are not mistaken,” he admitted. “Though I thank Heaven you are recovering, my heart is not yet easy.”

She gave him a faint smile. “I have known you since you were a boy. You need not explain, but if it would ease your burden, I am listening.”

He hesitated, then bowed his head. “I believe I am in love, Mrs. Reynolds. Entirely, irrevocably. But I left her. As I was about to make my sentiments known and offer a courtship—or even marriage—I believed she rejected me because of my imperfect appearance.”

Mrs. Reynolds said nothing, only nodded for him to continue.

“I overheard a conversation between Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her friend, Miss Lucas. and I misunderstood what I heard—I believed Elizabeth had spoken against me, had demeaned my appearance. I left Netherfield and fled like a child. But now I believe I erred—her words concerned another. I should never have gone. I ought to have stayed and asked her to clarify what I heard—to have trusted in her character.” He gave a mirthless laugh.

“Instead, I allowed wounded pride and fear to govern me.”

Mrs. Reynolds reached out and laid a weak hand over his. “You have always been your worst judge, Fitzwilliam. You must go to her and explain. If she loves you, she will forgive you.”

He lowered his gaze, her quiet words striking a tender place.

“I had meant to call upon her before I received word of your injury,” he murmured.

“Everything was prepared. And then—” He broke off and shook his head.

“I could not go while you were unwell. You know you have always been more to me than a servant. I could not have borne it if—”

He swallowed, his jaw tightening. “But I have not ceased thinking of her. Not for a moment. I misjudged her. I misjudged everything.” His eyes met Mrs. Reynolds’s knowing look. “I must see her and beg her forgiveness—if I have not already lost the right.”

Her fingers closed gently over his. “Then do not waste another moment. Go to her—before you begin doubting again.”

With every mile that carried him nearer to Hertfordshire, his anxiety grew. Would Elizabeth welcome him, or would she be furious? She had every right to be angry. And yet, he clung to the hope that her generous nature would allow them to make amends.

When the carriage turned into the drive at Netherfield, the sight of the familiar house filled him with nervous anticipation. The butler opened the door, and after a brief look of surprise, regained his stoic mask.

“Mr. Darcy, sir. Mr. Bingley did not expect you.” His eyes flicked to the red mark on Darcy’s face, lingering for just a moment. He had the grace to control his reaction, showing no visible sign of distaste.

“Yes, I know. I meant to go to London but had it in mind to stop at Netherfield first. Might I speak with your master?”

The butler—Griggs, if memory served—stepped aside to admit him. After removing his greatcoat and hat, Darcy followed him to Bingley’s study.

“Mr. Darcy, sir.” Griggs announced.

“Darcy! What a surprise!” Bingley’s delighted welcome went some way toward settling his nerves. He had left with little explanation in the autumn—friends deserved better.

“What brings you to Netherfield Park? You are just in time to wish me joy. Miss Bennet has agreed to be my wife.”

So, they were engaged. “Congratulations, Bingley. I am sure you will be very happy. Darcy cleared his throat. “I came to see you, of course—and others of our mutual acquaintance.” He tugged nervously at his coat sleeves, hoping his eagerness was not too obvious.

Bingley’s brow furrowed. “I am afraid I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” he said slowly. “I am pleased to see you, my friend, but what others draw you here?” There was a shrewdness in his manner, and Darcy wondered just how much he already knew. “You are welcome, to be sure.”

Darcy swallowed hard. “I—that is, I have come to renew my acquaintance with Miss Elizabeth, in hopes of being granted an official courtship.” He shifted nervously, still standing since Bingley had not yet invited him to sit.

At his pronouncement, his friend’s brows lifted, but he did not appear surprised.

“I thought as much. Unfortunately, you will not find my future sister in Hertfordshire—you had best pray she will even speak to you.” He gestured to a chair, and Darcy took it with visible relief.

Bingley seated himself as well, crossed his arms and fixed him with a look that was both knowing and disapproving.

“You left with nary a word—and after raising her expectations. Upon my word, Darcy, I have never known you to be capricious. I suspect I know your reasons, but I cannot approve”

“Where is she?” Each word drove the breath deeper from his chest, and now real fear filled his heart. Have I ruined my one chance at happiness and love? “I must speak with her. Last autumn—”

“Save your explanations for Miss Elizabeth, Darcy. I, perhaps, understand you better than most. I know you well, but even I cannot excuse your behavior. You knew you had raised her expectations. And despite your suspicion and doubt, you should have withdrawn honorably . It was badly done.”