Page 57 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE LONG GOODBYE
Darcy rose early on the morning of his departure.
It had been several days since his last conversation with Elizabeth.
Even though she was reticent in her manner, her sister, Mary, provided the background he needed—about Hertfordshire, about Wickham’s dealings in Meryton, and mostly, about Elizabeth’s position within her family.
He rubbed his hands against the cold November chill. A heavy leaden dread weighed upon his heart concerning his disastrous proposal. He could not even claim that Elizabeth had misunderstood him. He could attribute his arrogant benevolence to nothing but his own presumptuous nature.
He groaned as he recalled how incensed he had been, believing that Mr. Collins, that pompous and self-righteous clergyman, had fathered William.
How precipitously he had leapt to the conclusion.
As for his insinuations about officers of the militia?
Nay, Darcy would never believe that of Elizabeth, although she tarred him with the same brush.
He moved from the window and stared at his trunks. They were packed and ready by the door. The house remained wrapped in the hushed stillness of early morning, though he could hear Graham’s voice in the courtyard directing the final preparations for their departure.
Four days had passed since Elizabeth’s devastating revelation in the library—four days during which she had maintained a distance so complete that they might have been strangers sharing the same roof rather than husband and wife bound by sacred vows.
She appeared at meals with perfect punctuality, spoke when addressed with flawless courtesy, and treated him with precisely the sort of polite indifference one might accord a houseguest whose welcome had expired but whose departure had not yet been arranged.
The exquisite torture of her proximity combined with her absolute emotional absence had taught Darcy more about the nature of hell than any sermon ever could.
London. The word itself carried a weight that extended beyond its mere syllables. London, where answers might be found. London, where Wickham had last been seen. And then to the Red Lion Inn. Barnet, where the crime had been committed. Where his memory had been stripped.
Where he’d encountered Elizabeth.
He closed his eyes, struggling to recapture even the faintest remnant of recollection.
A hint of lavender perhaps? The rustle of skirts against rain-dampened fabric?
Try as he might, his conscious mind refused to yield the memories he sought, offering instead fragmented sensations that tormented rather than satisfied.
In dreams, however, his body remembered what his mind could not.
The softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.
The weight of her head against his shoulder.
The sound of her breath, quickened with emotion or exertion.
He woke each morning damp with perspiration, ashamed of the intimacy his unconscious mind conjured with such vivid detail.
These were not the idle fantasies of a besotted man, but memories—actual memories—of their wedding night, returning in the most mortifying fashion.
That his physical self should recall what his rational mind could not seemed the cruelest of ironies. To know that he had once held her, once claimed her as his wife in every sense, yet be unable to summon the complete recollection of those precious hours—it was enough to drive a man to madness.
And he was mad.
Darcy stood at the window, watching as the eastern sky lightened from black to deep indigo. The household would awaken soon. Graham Pullen would bring the carriage around. And he would have to face the prospect of leaving William—his son—without knowing when he might return.
Elizabeth was another matter entirely. He doubted she would deign to bid him farewell. The memory of her coldness stung, though he could not dispute its justice.
What could he possibly say to her? What words could begin to address the chasm that stretched between them—a gulf of his own making, widened by pride and reinforced by misunderstanding?
A soft knock at the door interrupted his brooding.
“Enter,” he called, turning from the window.
Graham Pullen stood on the threshold, already dressed for travel in a sturdy greatcoat and riding boots. “Good morning, sir. The carriage will be ready within the hour. I’ve had breakfast prepared in the small dining room.”
“Thank you, Pullen. Your efficiency is most appreciated.” Darcy gestured toward the trunks. “These can be taken down whenever convenient.”
“At once, sir.” Graham hesitated, an unusual reticence in his normally forthright demeanor. “Sir, if I may inquire… have you spoken with Mrs. Darcy regarding our departure?”
The title—Mrs. Darcy—still sent a jolt through Darcy’s system, a reminder of the truth that had been before him all along. “Not at all. I thought it best to give her space to process matters.”
Graham nodded, his expression carefully neutral. “Very good, sir. Though you should know that the candles are already lit in the nursery wing. The household is stirring earlier than usual today. ”
The information should not have affected him so strongly, yet Darcy found his pulse quickening at the thought of Elizabeth moving through the pre-dawn house, attending to her son.
Their son. The words still carried an element of unreality, as if he might wake at any moment to discover this entire chapter had been merely an elaborate dream.
“I shall speak with her before we depart,” Darcy promised, though the prospect filled him with trepidation. Would she even permit him to see William? After his insulting proposal, she might well decide to shield the boy from further disappointment.
“Very good, sir. I’ll see to the trunks.”
Left alone once more, Darcy completed his morning ablutions with mechanical precision, his mind elsewhere.
Should he seek Elizabeth out in the nursery?
Would such an intrusion be welcomed or resented?
The uncertainty gnawed at him, a new and uncomfortable sensation for a man accustomed to confident action.
The breakfast laid out in the small dining room went largely untouched. Darcy managed a cup of tea and a slice of toast, more from obligation than appetite. His thoughts continually drifted to the nursery wing, where William would be beginning his day, unaware that his father would soon depart.
The door opened to admit Aunt Eleanor, elegant as always, even at this early hour. Her shrewd eyes took in his state with a single glance.
“You look as if you’re facing execution rather than a journey to London,” she observed dryly, taking the seat opposite him.
“The journey holds no terror,” Darcy replied, setting aside his barely-touched plate. “It is the departure that precedes it.”
“Ah.” Lady Eleanor nodded with understanding. “You fear Elizabeth’s reaction.”
“I fear she may not permit me to say goodbye to William,” he admitted, the vulnerability of the confession making his voice rougher than intended. “After my misunderstanding, she would be well within her rights to shield him from further confusion. ”
Lady Eleanor’s expression softened slightly. “Elizabeth would never deny William the chance to see his father, regardless of her personal feelings. Whatever her current anger toward you—justified though it may be—her first consideration has always been William’s welfare.”
“Even so, I hesitate to intrude upon the nursery uninvited,” Darcy said, staring into his cooling tea as if it might provide answers. “My presence may not be welcomed.”
“Oh ye of little faith.” Aunt Eleanor spread jam on a piece of toast. “Elizabeth may be many things, but she is not cruel, even in her anger. She will want to bid you farewell.”
Before Darcy could respond, the door opened once more to admit Georgiana. His sister’s complexion was paler than usual, her eyes betraying signs of a restless night.
“You truly mean to go, then,” she said without preamble, her gaze falling on his traveling clothes. “I had hoped you might reconsider.”
“Some matters require immediate attention,” Darcy replied gently, touched by her evident distress. “William’s future security depends upon recovering those documents.”
“And what of Elizabeth?” Georgiana pressed, taking the seat Lady Eleanor had vacated. “What of repairing the damage your proposal has caused?”
The directness of the question, coming from his usually reticent sister, caught Darcy off guard. “I… that is a more complex undertaking, one that requires time and patience.”
“Neither of which can be properly exercised from London,” Georgiana pointed out with unexpected sharpness. “Fitzwilliam, I fear you may be using this mission as an escape from the more difficult work of reconciliation.”
“I assure you, that is not my intention,” Darcy replied, though a small, uncomfortable voice in his consciousness wondered if perhaps there wasn’t some truth to her assessment.
“The legal complications regarding William’s inheritance cannot wait.
Without proof of our marriage preceding his birth, his position remains vulnerable. ”
“I understand that,” Georgiana conceded. “But I also know my brother. When faced with emotional complexity, you have always preferred action over conversation, practical solutions over personal confrontation.”
The observation, delivered with sisterly insight rather than accusation, struck uncomfortably close to home. “You have become remarkably perceptive in my absence,” Darcy noted, attempting to mask his discomfort with dry humor.
“I have had excellent teachers in Elizabeth and Lady Eleanor,” Georgiana replied with a ghost of a smile. “They do not permit one to hide behind politeness when honest speech is required.”