Page 17 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry

At last, in her chamber, Elizabeth walked near the window, observing the street.

Even at that late hour, carriages continued to pass; it seemed that London never surrendered to sleep.

The day had been among the most eventful of her life, though of a nature wholly distinct from the enchantment of Pemberley.

If intelligence in the ton were commonly conveyed in the manner she had witnessed that afternoon, then her mother’s indiscreet disclosure of Jane’s possible engagement to Mr Bingley had been a grave error—one which Mr Darcy had, with justice, amended.

She had never approved of her mother’s practice of spreading news, yet neither could she wholly condemn it, for in their world, it was thus that information passed from house to house.

Assuredly, the discreet mode she had observed was not the sole means by which the ton communicated; still, there was much to admire in so elegant a proceeding, and it might be helpful to adopt such forms. Their lives, in truth, were not so very different from her own, yet there might be customs worth adopting.

She tried to read, but her principal thought—the prospect of Mr Darcy’s arrival—imposed itself continually.

She feared, and at the same time ardently wished, to see him.

Would he be gratified to encounter her beneath his aunt’s roof, or would he consider it an unpardonable intrusion?

With him, any outcome was possible. She felt no guilt in being there, yet could not predict his manner of receiving her.

By her calculation, his arrival was due in a day or two, but nothing could have prepared her to behold him at breakfast on the third morning of her stay at Matlock House.

He rose upon her entrance, and the expression upon his countenance arrested her.

It was one she remembered too well from Hunsford—anger mingled with pain.

In a rush of shock and dread, her heart seemed to ache within her.

The man before her bore little resemblance to the master of Pemberley whom she had met less than a fortnight past. He was furious with her; indeed, she thought he despised her for being there.

Why did I agree to come? her spirit cried within her. She excused herself and hastened from the dining room, resolved to seek her chamber and pack without delay; yet midway up the stairs, she heard Lady Matlock calling her.

“Miss Elizabeth, pray, what has occurred?” her ladyship said, with Mr Darcy beside her.

He still held his napkin, but the displeasure upon his face remained.

As Elizabeth descended once more, she perceived the dark shadows beneath his eyes—signs of profound fatigue—and, despite his apparent ill-humour, she felt a pang of pity.

He must have travelled day and night to arrive in such haste.

She tried to draw breath, but it was as though her lungs had forgotten their purpose; she placed a hand upon the balustrade in a desperate attempt to steady herself.

“What has happened, my dear?” Lady Matlock asked again, with genuine kindness.

“Are you angry that I am here?” Elizabeth asked Mr Darcy, no longer caring for the tears that sprang to her eyes, nor for the shock on her ladyship’s face.

“What are you saying? He is not angry with you, Miss Elizabeth. He has spoken warmly of the care you bestowed upon me and of the assistance your family endeavoured to give us. Fitzwilliam,” she commanded, “do not stand there like a simpleton. Tell her!”

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said at last, advancing towards her, “I cannot thank you enough for all the trouble you took… for us.” She curtseyed to conceal her emotions, but when she looked at him again, he was before her, pressing his lips to her hand.

Is this reality, or a dream? she asked herself again and again as he led her back to the dining room.

Yet she remained uncertain. There was an unease in the air; he seemed to approve of her presence, yet the tension about him could not be mistaken.

Were his concerns directed solely towards the present situation?

If so, why that air of restrained vexation?

The memory of that dreadful day at the Parsonage rose before her like an icy barrier.

Surely he must be feigning civility, merely to avoid embarrassing her before his aunt.

He had resolved never to meet her again, and here she was, thrust upon his family against his will.

Then their eyes met, and the clouds seemed at once to lift. “I am happy to see you,” he murmured, and the Parsonage, with all its misery, was swept into the past.

∞∞∞

He had felt torn in spirit, yet curiously relieved. Her presence brought with it a sense of normality amidst the unrest into which his life had been thrown since receiving her uncle’s letter.

Lady Matlock had welcomed him early that morning—almost at the instant of his arrival—as if she had been waiting in the hall.

“Thank Heaven you have come,” she cried, embracing him in a manner so uncharacteristic that he could not remember its like, unless perhaps in infancy.

If, during his journey, he had harboured hope of finding the business concluded before his arrival, her agitated reception had destroyed it. Richard was in danger.

“I must refresh myself,” he had said; but, perceiving the entreaty in her eyes, had added, “Only half an hour, I promise.” He had observed the depth of her anxiety and the relief brought by his presence as she accompanied him to his rooms. Smiling, he had asked, “Do you wish to supervise the washing of my hands?”

Her pale smile recalled to her mind three unruly boys who had once required such oversight; yet the memory was soon clouded by thoughts of her dear Richard’s peril. She might have lingered outside his chamber, but forced herself instead to the dining-room.

The servants, as they always did in moments of difficulty, seemed to sense their mistress’s distress. Only Stevenson, the butler—the very model of discretion and efficiency—appeared that morning.

It seemed an age since their pleasant journey to Pemberley, and now her nephew, when he joined her, bore on his countenance the stamp of grave concern. In vain he sought to appear composed; anxiety was written plainly there.

“Where is Lord Matlock?” Darcy asked, glancing about the room.

“He has gone to Southampton,” she replied, for the tenth time in the past hours, convinced that his going had been a great mistake.

“For what purpose?”

“To find her parents,” she whispered; then, with sudden agitation, “What are we to do?”

“I must first know precisely what has occurred—every detail. I had thought to call upon Mr Bennet, but then remembered that Mr Gardiner must be in town. We shall go to him this morning.”

Lady Matlock coloured faintly beneath his steady gaze. “I have someone better than Mr Gardiner,” she said. “I invited them to dine, and—”

“And—?”

“And I am ashamed to confess how frightened I was after your uncle’s departure. Alone in this great house, I was near to losing my wits. Mr and Mrs Gardiner were accompanied by two of their nieces.”

“Which nieces?” For the first time, his interest turned from Richard’s danger.

“Miss Elizabeth and Miss Mary, who most graciously came to London to tell me the whole story. A few days past I persuaded them to remain here. The invitation was not made with elegance—I practically obliged them—but with Arthur gone, I was terrified. They are charming young ladies who have helped me bear the time until your arrival.”

Darcy could scarcely believe what he heard. Elizabeth—here, under the same roof!

“Pray, do not be angry with me!”

“Angry? For what reason?”

“They are your friends, and I was selfish—”

“You speak nonsense. It was the best possible course; from Mr Bennet’s letter, I gather that Miss Mary uncovered the greater part of the scheme.”

Despite his disquiet for his cousin, a sudden exhilaration seized him. Elizabeth was upstairs; it was as though Fate itself had intervened. Indeed, during the days and nights of travel, he had thought of little else.

He had decided not to make any plans regarding Richard until he knew all the details. Hence, he diverted his growing worry to the other subject obsessing him: Elizabeth.

From the moment she had left Pemberley, regret had haunted him.

Her presence there had been a season of delight and discovery; he had admired everything about her, from the intelligence in her eyes to her graceful manners.

Against the beauty of his home, she had seemed in perfect harmony.

She delighted in walking, feared not the sun, could converse with equal ease among ladies or gentlemen, and was ever considerate to his servants.

One morning, he found her assisting a maid who had fallen on the stairs.

She was helping her to stand, and as he neared them, he heard Elizabeth say, “Go to your room and rest for the day.” When they saw him, Elizabeth had blushed, and the maid had looked to her master; he had smiled, saying, “Go, Martha, and do as the lady advises.”

What touched him most was the change in Georgiana.

She seemed transformed—more cheerful in her spirits, more intent upon improvement, and, above all, more ready to disclose the hidden anxieties that she had once kept so closely guarded.

Elizabeth’s influence was evident in every look and tone; she had become both an example and a friend, to whom Georgiana, by the natural inclination of affection, turned for guidance.

And then she had been gone, leaving him only the memory of her last glance, full of pain and regret, with no attempt to disguise it, for she must have believed it to be their final parting.

Fool! he had told himself again and again, in anger at his own silence. Then her uncle’s letter had come, and within the hour, he was ready to depart for London, in the hope of finding her there.