Page 21 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY
A fter the unfortunately revealing conversation with Mr Wickham, Elizabeth had yet another reason for speaking to Mr Darcy. Since he knew of Mr Wickham’s presence in Meryton, he would, undoubtedly, keep Miss Darcy well away; she expected she would hear, any moment, that he had departed with his sister. She fretted about her inability to reveal either Miss Darcy’s confidences or Mr Wickham’s betrayals if he did not come; hence, first thing the next morning, she went to the bridge and waited for as long as she dared to be absent from her mother’s beck and call.
Her wait was for nothing. He did not appear. She began to wonder whether he held such distaste for her that he had disregarded her hint utterly.
From the drawing room window that afternoon, she spotted the Bingleys’ carriage coming up the drive. Elizabeth watched until she saw who exited; it was Mr Bingley with his two sisters. Disappointment swelled; again, Mr Darcy had not come.
Suddenly, however, a single thought speared her:
If all of the Bingleys are away from Netherfield, this means that Mr Darcy has an excellent opportunity to escape the house without company . If he was not at the bridge now, well, she would know that he never meant to go.
She turned away from the window. “Jane, I am going for a walk, and will return in an hour or so.” It was vital that she be gone before their callers were announced.
Jane set aside the handkerchief that she had been stitching. “Oh, would you like company?”
“I think I shall take a longer ramble than you would care for, perhaps even as far as Oakham Mount.”
“Very well. However, it is colder out than it has been the last couple of days. You must wear your warmest pelisse—” but Elizabeth was out the door before Jane could finish her sentence, and down the servants’ stair and out onto the back terrace before the Bingleys could be welcomed into the house.
A chill breeze was blowing and she was not dressed for the weather, but at least she was wearing her half-boots instead of slippers. She kept her stride a brisk one, creating her own warmth, and instead of fixing upon her discomfort, she attempted a rehearsal of what she might say if he appeared. I shall be cool, unaffected; I shall reveal his sister’s troubles and Mr Wickham’s untruths, and then I shall depart, my conscience clear of these revelations, at least.
Despite her self-lectures and practised words, Elizabeth found herself completely unprepared for the sight of him. Her feelings upon seeing Mr Darcy pacing across the bridge’s length, hatless, the overlong hair at his nape ruffling in the breeze—the way her ungovernable heart lifted at the sight of him—were nearly unbearable. When she reached him, his expression was unreadable, even forbidding, sending her planned speech spinning out of reach.
“I was here earlier,” she said, rather stupidly.
He nodded. “It was impossible for me to guess when you might be able to visit this place. I have come a few times, without meeting you.”
He joined her on the path, walking beside her as she continued towards Oakham—not a popular path at this time of year, and thus where privacy might be maintained.
It was difficult to decide how to broach the many things to be said—some of them of a mortifyingly intimate nature—and Elizabeth sympathised with Miss Darcy to a greater degree than ever she had before. She started with the easiest of the subjects.
“Mr Wickham is telling profound falsehoods regarding you, to any who will listen,” she began.
“It surprises me not at all.”
He did not defend himself, nor ask the substance of the lies, she noticed. “He says you have cheated him out of the living your father left him in his will.”
“Ah. That falsehood.”
He said nothing more, and Elizabeth felt her frustration grow. “You do not mean to allow him to demean your character to the entire neighbourhood without rebuke, do you?”
“People will believe what they will believe. I know the truth, and need not stoop to argument with him.”
“Excellent. And what of all who will build trust with him, perhaps even extending him credit because they know no better, and be the poorer because of it?”
He glanced her way before returning his eyes to the path. “Perhaps they will learn a hard lesson, the way the rest of us have.”
She stopped walking. “There is a difference. You could afford to learn the lesson. Not everyone can.”
His lips thinned. “How do you know I learnt anything? Why are you so certain he is lying?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Because he would not have tried to elope with your young sister, were he anything except for a deceiving, disgusting pig!”
She would never forget the look on his face—one of horror, of dread, of alarm. Abruptly, he turned on the trail, retracing their steps and stalking away from her. She hurried after him. “Where are you going?”
“I would say nothing on his lies. But for this truth, I will kill him,” he said simply, not stopping, requiring her almost to run to keep up.
“ He was not the one who told me,” she huffed, aggravated.
Mr Darcy slowed at last, turning to look at her. “Who?” he bit out.
His aspect was most fearsome, and had she trusted him less, she might have been afraid. Instead, his blustering only angered her. “Miss Darcy, of course. And if you think I am as disgusting as Mr Wickham, accuse me now of ever speaking anything of the entire matter to anyone in the world, except you—or even being tempted to!”
For a long heartbeat, they stood staring at each other; he was the first to look away. “I know I can trust your discretion,” he said at last. “I did not realise my sister had been so…loquacious.”
“I think you must take Miss Darcy away from here.” The stump of a massive oak was not far off the path, surrounded by boulders providing a welcome respite from the wind; she seated herself upon it. He followed, still plainly angry.
“Thank you for your wise advice,” he said sarcastically, but then he scrubbed his hands through his hair, becoming instead the picture of worry. “I know, I know. But she will not go,” he said, and sat beside her with a defeated air, shoulders slumping.
Elizabeth frowned at him. “Surely you can make her go.”
“Of course I can. What I cannot do is make her stay wherever I put her. For reasons which are as unclear to me as they are incredible, she is bound and determined to remain at Netherfield, even though she has been informed of Wickham’s presence. She will not leave the property, she promises, but refuses any thought of departure.”
“I suppose locking her in a tower somewhere is out of the question.”
He smiled thinly.
“She would run away, even, from Pemberley?”
He shrugged. “I do not know if any of her threats are real. She sobs, she is hysterical, and then she promises ridiculous consequences. I fear…I fear that Wickham has broken her mind.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I find that doubtful. Will Mrs Darcy return as her companion? Miss Darcy did not believe she would.”
He gave her a look, as if assessing her ability to pass accurate judgment upon his sister’s mental state, raising a brow—but he answered her. “Mrs Abigail Darcy has refused to have anything further to do with her young charge. I knew she was not an ideal companion. She is stern and impatient and she did not like leaving the judge—my elderly uncle—in the first place. But she was trustworthy, at least. Did Georgiana tell you of Mrs Younge?”
“She mentioned her, telling me enough of the woman to know she never should have been trusted.” After the words were out, Elizabeth wished she could recall them—she had not meant to accuse him of negligence. But he only nodded.
“We were much deceived in her character.”
The next bit was harder to say aloud, but Elizabeth made herself soldier on. “There was an art master in Ramsgate. Mrs Younge did not…she did not protect Miss Darcy from him.”
The colour drained from his face. “The devil you say.”
“It did not…I do not think he…” she trailed off, at a loss for expression, and had to force herself to continue. “He did not, um, touch her, but he…he said things she should never have been forced to hear, and he drew pictures of her she should never have had to see. She was worried and anxious of the man and what next he might do. When Mr Wickham began calling, he seemed, in comparison, to be her rescuer. Thankfully, you came in time to prevent his nefarious plans. But the dancing master Mrs Darcy hired in London reminds her of the drawing master in Ramsgate. He has not…he did not touch her, she said, and neither said nor did anything specific of which he could be accused, but she hated the way he looked at her. She could not bring herself to confide in Mrs Darcy, and even though she was certainly never left alone with the man, she felt as though fleeing was her best option.”
Mr Darcy stared at her in shock and revulsion. Whether he was repelled by her as well as her words, Elizabeth could not tell, but she knew she had to speak them all.
“She has been the victim of three awful men, to one degree or another. She is scared and confused, and I believe she is terrified to be left alone with only a companion’s protection. She is likewise frightened of who her next companion will be, and whether she will be able to trust her. She does not trust anyone in the world, really, except you.”
“She did not trust me enough to confide in me.” His words emerged in a choked whisper.
Elizabeth wished, more than anything, she could do or say something to ease his tortured expression. “These are confidences difficult to reveal to a brother, or any male,” she said gently. “She may be angry with me for telling you—but if you decide to share our exchange, please tell her I have had only her best interests in my mind and heart, and assure her that her secrets are safe with me.”
They sat together in silence for long moments. The exercise which had warmed her faded, and she began to notice her lack of coat. Glancing over at her companion, and deciding it might be some time before he could come to grips with these depressing revelations, she stood. He rose when she did, but numbly, as if he only acted out of habit.
“I am afraid you have long been desiring my absence. I have probably said too much, but if I have erred, it was out of real concern for both you and your sister,” she told him, still determined she must yet address in some way those shameful, extraordinary kisses. “I will only add, I am sorry if my behaviour upon our last private meeting led you to believe that I am in any way untrustworthy. I must have been…confused. Good day, Mr Darcy.” She gave a small curtsey; he only nodded, as if not truly understanding her words.
She had progressed several yards when he called her name.
“Miss Elizabeth!”
She turned, and he hurried to her; upon reaching her, he took both her hands in his, squeezing tightly her cold, ungloved fingers. “Nothing that happened between us was your fault,” he said, his voice deep and sincere. “I meant to apologise the moment I saw you again, and failed to find the words. You are owed many apologies, and I trust you as I ever have. I am fortunate indeed that you do not hate me, and that you would trust me with Georgiana’s confidences.”
Something within her opened at his look, at the warmth in his dark eyes, at the seldom-seen smile upon his lips. He wanted to kiss her again. She knew and understood it. At the same time, he had himself under the strictest regulation; he would not, and neither would she. Never again. It had been a moment of madness, kisses meant for other people, not for them. Yet, he clung to her hands for another moment or two before letting them go.
“Thank you, for all you have done for my sister. My debt to you is considerable.” he said again.
Elizabeth shook her head, her turn to be at a loss for words. “There is no debt,” she whispered finally, and forced herself to leave quickly, no longer chilled in the slightest.