Page 7 of Rumours & Recklessness (Sweet Escapes Collection #1)

Chapter 6

E lizabeth followed Mr Jones into the house then opened the door for him into her father’s library. “Can I help you, sir?”

He frowned uncomfortably. “Miss Elizabeth, I do not mean to intrude where I have no right, but I have just come from Meryton. There is... much talk this morning.” He paused, studying her reaction.

Elizabeth’s face fell. She knew exactly what sort of talk he must have heard, but she had hoped this conversation would have less to do with her and more to do with a treatment plan for her father. “Is there?” she asked nonchalantly, attempting to keep the edge from her voice.

He cleared his throat nervously. “Yes, well, it would seem that… that Mr Collins and Mr Darcy had both taken an interest in you?”

Her faced flushed crimson. That seemed to be her lot today, to find herself perpetually embarrassed and the situation spiralling out of control. “Yes, sir, that is true,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mr Jones patted her shoulder kindly. “Child, I have known you all your life. I have tended your ailments and mended your skinned knees. I knew you were not happy to have Mr Collins’ company at such a time, as he is such a tactless fellow, and you had enough to concern you. I feared Mr Collins would have something of this sort in mind, but I had no idea that you and Mr Darcy.…”

Elizabeth laughed at this. “Neither did I! I assure you, Mr Jones, what he said this morning came as much as a shock to myself as everyone else. What could have brought that man here, I wonder? If he fancied that he was helping me, he could not have been more mistaken. Arrogant, headstrong man! Had we not been in company when Mr Collins spoke, it might all have been forgotten, and I would not now appear to be engaged to Mr Darcy!”

He smiled sheepishly. “I am afraid, Miss Elizabeth, that you have me to thank for the gentlemen’s interference. I spoke with Mr Bingley this morning after I left you, hoping he could simply check in on your family, and of course, Mr Darcy was with him. I wished you and your sisters not to be alone and friendless with Mr Collins making himself comfortable here. I knew he was not entirely welcomed by you, and we feared he might become somewhat overbearing while your father is incapacitated.”

“‘We?’ Tell me, Mr Jones, are there others conspiring to come to my aid? I do hope not, as I really do not think I can bear any more assistance from my neighbours.”

“No, my dear, no,” he chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I spoke with Mr and Mrs Hill. I should not have, I know, and I beg you would not be put out with them on my account, but they shared my concerns for your family’s protection. I am truly sorry, Miss Elizabeth, if my actions have caused you further distress. I did not mean any such result.” His kindly greying face drooped with remorse.

She sighed in resignation. She knew her father’s old friend had spoken the truth and that he had involved Mr Bingley, and by extension Mr Darcy with the very best of intentions. She could not blame him for having done what he could. She was too emotionally exhausted at this point for anger or tears. What she needed most was some time alone to reflect, and of course, for her father to waken. She did not want to talk about Mr Darcy or Mr Collins any more at present. “What are we to do for Papa?”

His expression cleared, replaced by his professional mien. “Yes, well, I will go place the leeches. I also have a compound I would like to try, one I normally administer for headaches, but I hope it will relieve the abundance of swelling to the head. I, uh… yes, if you will excuse me, Miss Elizabeth.” Jones gathered his collection of items and awkwardly stepped around her to the door.

Elizabeth began to follow him up the stairs when the front bell rang. Shrugging apologetically to Mr Jones, she changed direction to the drawing-room to receive their caller.

Mrs Hill came in a moment later with a stout-looking woman, somewhere past middle age, with a perfectly starched work dress and a friendly weather-worn face. She dropped a deferential curtsey, then introduced herself boldly. “My name is Mrs Cooper. My husband is the doctor in Hatfield. He’s away at present, attending courses in London. We’re not expecting him back for a few days yet, but I’m to understand you need an experienced nurse.”

“Uhm…” Elizabeth stammered. “Yes, indeed, perhaps we could use a nurse, but… how did you come to know of it?”

“Oh, the gentleman from Netherfield sent word first thing this morning,” she replied tidily.

“Mr Bingley? That was very thoughtful. He must have sent for you before he even came to us?” Elizabeth was grateful for her neighbour’s consideration, but she was not certain the estate could comfortably pay for the potentially indefinite hire of a nurse. She and her sisters had intended to take on the burden themselves.

“No, Miss, the name on the note was not Bingley. I have it…” the woman’s brow furrowed as she peered into her reticule. “Here it is,” she presented the pressed paper into Elizabeth’s hand.

Elizabeth unfolded the note and read. Her eyebrows rose precipitously. The note was from Mr Darcy. She had never before seen his crisp, precise handwriting, once so admired by Miss Bingley. He had written for the assistance of a doctor as well as a trained nurse, and the note mentioned enclosed payment for their services.

Furthermore, it promised that the writer of the note would guarantee generous remuneration for whatever treatment was necessary until the patient should recover. What could have induced him to take such trouble on himself? She wavered between gratitude for his consideration and resentment for his officiousness.

“I see,” she murmured, handing the note back. For the space of a heartbeat, she considered sending the woman away, then thought better of it. Though she did not like indebting herself to Mr Darcy, it was her father’s health at stake. For him, she would brave anything and anyone. “Follow me, please. The apothecary is here. Perhaps he can help you settle in. May I offer you any refreshment?”

Mrs Cooper shone a motherly smile back at her. “No, thank ye, Miss. I’ll be comfortable enough for now. I brought my own little tidbits.”

Elizabeth started up the stairs with Mrs Cooper in tow when the bell rang again. She groaned in exasperation. Does everyone want to visit today? Becoming testy, she resolutely completed her climb toward her father’s room, intending to let someone else receive the next caller. At the top of the stairs, her mother pressed by her, fluttering back down the stairs behind them.

“Jane! Oh, Jane, dear, he is come back! Oh, where is that girl? Lizzy, find Jane and send her down! Oh, Mr Bingley, how pleased we are to see you again so soon!”

Elizabeth shook her head as her mother’s voice drifted up from the direction of the open drawing-room doors. Her mother must have been lurking by her upstairs window like some powdered vulture in a lace cap.

Showing Mrs Cooper into her father’s room, she made the necessary introductions and asked Jane to come down at her mother’s request. When all was done, she retreated behind her own locked door for some desperately needed time to herself.

B ingley remained with the Bennet family as long as he decently could that day. His dear Jane seemed well pleased with his companionship, as Miss Elizabeth had made herself scarce for the rest of the afternoon. He had hoped to have a chance to speak with the latter, but she studiously avoided any chance at more than the most perfunctory of greetings.

When he finally did take his leave, the early winter sunset was aflame in the sky. He was grateful the weather had remained tolerable for the day, and he absolutely revelled in the beauty of the Hertfordshire countryside as his horse ambled casually homeward. His thoughts were with the sweetest blonde-haired angel he had ever laid eyes upon. His heart and mind were firmly and finally made up. Miss Jane Bennet was the only woman for him.

He handed his horse off to his coachman and stopped apprehensively before his own door. He doffed his hat and ran his fingers nervously through his unruly mop of hair. Caroline would be watching for his return. Dear heavens, what sort of scene awaited him?

He sighed and resigned himself to his fate. Darcy ought to have come back; perhaps she had exhausted her grievances upon him already. In a way, he hoped so—Darcy was a grown man and rightfully should defend his own actions. The way his friend had looked at Longbourn though… Bingley had never seen him appear so fragile.

“Charles! Where have you been? I have waited tea for hours!” Caroline’s harried visage greeted him with his first steps into the house. “Come! Sit down,” she ordered. She led him to the family sitting room, where Louisa and Mr Hurst lounged idly, the latter just beginning to snore.

Caroline virtually pushed him into a chair and, with a stern expression, commanded a frightened maid to serve him his tea. He smiled gratefully, relieving some of the maid’s jitters, but the girl was clearly terrified of Caroline.

“Where is Mr Darcy?” Caroline wondered aloud. “Charles, did you neglect to tell him you were returning? I do hope some harm has not befallen him!”

Bingley frowned. Darcy had not returned? He was his own man, perfectly capable of looking after himself, not to mention a splendid horseman, but Bingley worried. His friend had not been himself when they last spoke. Clearly, his conversation with Miss Elizabeth had shaken him. He would have to ask at the stables if any word had been had.

At the moment, however, Darcy was not his first problem. He sipped his tea silently, waiting for the storm to break. As soon as the servers had vanished, which was as quickly as they possibly could, Caroline drew her seat closer to his. She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “Everyone is spreading the vilest rumours about Mr Darcy! Have you heard? You cannot have! Of course, it is the most scandalous falsehood. Why, they are circulating the report that he has engaged himself to Eliza Bennet, of all people! Charles, you must have these rumours uniformly contradicted!”

He purposely nursed his teacup, snatching for himself a few precious seconds more before he was forced to make a reply. When he had drained the entire contents, he set it down gingerly and slowly composed himself. “Caroline, it is quite true. I was there when Darcy made the announcement.”

Her face drained of all colour. “There must be some mistake! He could not… no! He disdains the Bennet family as much as we all do! Why, if you had only seen his face last night when they all put on such a scene!”

Charles Bingley was by no means done with his sudden decisiveness for the day. He jerked to his feet angrily, throwing his heavy chair backwards several inches. His voice lowered with a brand-new threatening tone he had just discovered. “Caroline Bingley, you will cease your mockery of the Bennet family. I will not tolerate another word from you on the subject! Miss Jane and Miss Elizabeth are enchanting girls. As for the younger girls, they only want time and guidance. Who among your fashionable London friends does not have relatives for whom they must occasionally blush? Their father is a gentleman , Caroline. Do not forget our own father was in trade, and as such, we ought to be grateful for their society! The family is in considerable distress at the moment, and I insist you refrain from attempting to taunt or humiliate them.” He threw his napkin in the chair and made to stalk out of the room.

She leapt from her seat and pressed placating hands on his chest. Biting his lip, he held his temper back. “Charles, you have never spoken to me in that way! Why, I have never seen you so angry! It is this country, the uncouth company we keep here! Please, Charles,” she sobbed, “let us leave at once, at the earliest opportunity tomorrow! Surely Mr Darcy will be only too grateful to join us. He cannot have been thinking clearly! We will all go back to London for Christmas, and all will be forgotten! Truly, you will see how much happier we all will be!”

Louisa chose this moment to speak up. “We all so long to return to London, Charles! Only think of the winter balls we are missing! Mrs Spencer wrote to me just last week to tell us all the news. Her daughter Amelia came out only this last Season. I know you thought her quite a lovely girl. All our friends are in Town now, and I do declare, Charles, we are all quite miserable here!”

His teeth clenched; he faced his sisters as they stood unified against him. “Go, then. Darcy and I must remain here yet a while.” Louisa’s dismayed gasps were lost in Caroline’s devastated sobs as he quit the room.

Bingley bounded up the steps to his private room and began uncomfortably tugging at his cravat. He only managed to make a more tightly snarled knot of it before his valet appeared. The man seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He sighed gratefully. “Thank you, Jenkins. I know it is early, but I intend to retire for the night.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I have a tray brought up?” The short, balding man was a perfect professional, never batting an eye at his young master’s whims.

“Thank you, yes. No, never mind. Wait, has Darcy returned? Would you send down to the stables for any word?”

Jenkins’ face twitched slightly. “Mr Darcy returned several hours ago, sir.”

“Really?” Bingley was relieved. “How can the house not know of it?”

“He used the staff entrance, sir,” was the cryptic reply. “I believe you will find him in his room.”

The staff entrance! Clever dog, I should have thought of that years ago! Bingley thanked his valet and dismissed him. Peering cautiously into the corridor, he determined that it was safe to slip unobserved to his friend’s door.

A knock produced no response. Bingley knocked softly again, afraid to create too much noise in case Caroline had retreated to her own rooms nearby. Still there was no answer.

Concern for his oldest friend outweighed his manners. Bingley slowly pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit, with only a dwindling fire in the hearth. Several burned-out candles littered Darcy’s writing desk, and he could just make out some blotched pages, the penknife, and half a dozen stubs in the shadows. The man had been up working, but where was he now?

Scanning the room, his eyes finally lit on Darcy’s form. He sat forlornly on the floor, his waistcoat and cravat gone, his expensively tailored shirt half open and untucked. He was staring dazedly into the fire, his hand curled around a bottle of Bingley’s best Scotch. Polished and sophisticated Darcy was downing the fine spirits without even the encumbrance of a glass, which shocked Bingley as much as anything else. From the looks of things, he had been sitting there quite some while.

“Darcy! Darcy, are you well?” Bingley came around for a better look. It would seem Darcy’s other hand held a bottle as well… an empty one. “Good heavens, man! Whatever is the matter?” Bingley impatiently threw more wood on the fire, stoking it so he at least would have better light to assess his friend’s condition.

Darcy’s bleary eyes slowly made their way to his face. “Chrlesss? Verry glad you’re ‘turned. Didjou have good sport-t t’day?”

Bingley squinted, trying to make out his friend’s slurred speech. “We had no shooting today, you know that.”

Darcy snorted derisively, his head rolling to the side just a bit to better look at his friend without having to move his aching eyes very much. “You wurr always-s a turrible shot-t.”

“Well, now, if you’re going to insult me, as well as drink all my best Scotch….” Bingley frowned and made as if to go, but Darcy went on as though he had not heard.

“Nevur-r did * hick * any good to c-coach you!” he waved an arm expressively. “‘St-steady pull on the t-trigger,’ I say, ‘Don’t j-j-urrk the m-muzzle,’ I say, but-t therr you go, half-f-f c-cocked ag-again. * hick * Damned w-wayst-t of powdurr! What the devil-l-l makes you so ‘mpulsive, man?” Darcy grunted, lifting the bottle to his lips.

Bingley reached to snatch it from him, but Darcy only jerked away, glowering. He swilled the expensive liquid without even bothering to savour it and dropped the bottle again, heaving out a caustic sigh. Bingley observed him with a raised brow. “It seems to me that I am not the impulsive one today. What is this all about? Miss Elizabeth?”

Darcy huffed. “Therrr, you have hit a f-fine id’y’a. Pur-h-haps she could t-teach you to sh-shoot burrds-s. * hick * Sh-she sh-shoots ev’r’thing else down. *hick* Fearf’lly angrrry though, s-stay well back. She may well sh-shoot you r-rath-urrr than the groussse.”

“Shoot me? What the blazes are you talking about, man?”

“…then therrr is that r-river nearest the house where she throws rocks-s-s. Can you s-s-swim, Charles-s?”

“Swim? Darcy, you’re completely foxed! I don’t understand what you’re going on about.”

He groaned and fell flat backward, the half full bottle of Scotch tipping precariously in his slack hand. Only Bingley’s quick action saved it from being dumped. He spirited it out of his friend’s reach. “‘Liz’beth. I think she wants-s to k-killll me.”

“Oh, Darcy, be reasonable. I am sure Miss Elizabeth could not hurt a fly! She is a perfectly lovely girl.”

Darcy craned his neck, his drunken features suffused with an earnest light. “She is, iz-she not?” he whispered. His head dropped back. “And no, * hick * I know she could most def-definitely hurrrt a fl-fly.” He closed his eyes with a ridiculous half-smile. “She c-can pack quite a wal-wallop when you try to kissss hurrr. Don’t do that,” he admonished, wagging a finger seriously at Bingley.

“You… you did not! Darcy! I never would have imagined you, of all men….”

Darcy’s arm dropped over his face. His muffled voice came from under his elbow. “Don’n wurrry Ch’rlesss, her s—* hick * ssisssturr is surrrre to be much eas-ssiurrr tempered. She lets you dance with hurrr. Sm—* hick *s-smiles too much. Wait, wherrre is my horrrssse? I d’not think she likes dan-dans-sing.”

Bingley shook his head. Darcy’s erratic speech had him entirely lost. He needed to get the man to bed and away from the bottle. He made a grab for Darcy’s arm to help him up, but his intoxicated friend writhed away. “Merciful heavens… Darcy, for your own sake I hope that first bottle was not full when you began! Was it the one we were drinking two nights ago?”

“Mmmmffff… not… No,” his expression turned mournful once again. “It is Fis-william Darcy she doesn’n like. She ssays he-sss...” his eyes fixed on an imaginary Elizabeth Bennet across the room and he waved his arm, extending an accusatory finger in emulation of the non-existent young lady. He stiffened, quoting the image’s words verbatim. “Arrr’gant and self-fisssh and cons-seeted, and…” his face clouded. “What else was it? I was only trying to keep hurrr from mar-marr’ing Caroline… wait… no it was… what is that r’diculous oaf’s name? Bingley,” he brightened suddenly, straining up a little, “maybe you should mar—* hick * m-marry her. She’s-s nice to you.”

“You forget, old friend, you claimed her yourself! I think I had best not get involved!” Bingley could not help chuckling a little. He had never seen Darcy show the least effect from drink since they very first met. Darcy never lost control, never wavered in his solemn propriety. Even as a young fellow at school, the future Master of Pemberley had looked and acted every inch the proper gentleman at all times. Now here he was, dead drunk and raving like a fool after clashing with a mere country miss. The man must be thoroughly besotted! But no, not Darcy—that was impossible.

Darcy grumbled and rolled to his side. Carefully, he put his hands on the floor and tried to push to a sitting position. With a deep groan, he paused to clutch his head, then took a breath and heaved himself up. Immediately he shielded his eyes. “Eg-gad, what happened to my f-fi-urrre!”

“What fire? You had let it die. Now, tell me what all of this is about. Miss Elizabeth is angry with you, I understand?”

Darcy made a scornful noise, then hiccoughed. “Angr-ry? Angry would have been s-something like, ‘Missturrr Dar-Darcy, you were somewhat pres-sumpchuous in the-there. You must promise to w-warn me before pro-pr’posing in public ag-again.’” He mimicked a high falsetto voice, setting off another hiccough and drawing a helpless snicker from Bingley. “Not my Liz-Lizzbeth. She does nothing in half m-measures.”

“What did she say? Exactly.” Bingley spoke slowly so his friend’s muddled brain could keep up.

With haunted eyes, he gazed at his companion dully and repeated with careful enunciation, “That I was the last man in the wurrrllld she would evurrr marry. Did you know sh-she likes to throw rocks? No, I already mentioned that. Did I?” Darcy rubbed his furrowed brow, either trying to clear his thoughts or ease the growing headache.

Bingley covered his mouth, hiding his merciless smirk. He was dying to laugh out loud at how little Miss Elizabeth Bennet had dressed down the great Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, but it would be too cruel to taunt his friend quite so heartlessly. Still, he itched to snicker just a little.

“The last man in the world? Even ranked behind Collins, eh? I say, Darce, that is some achievement! You have finally found a woman who wants nothing to do with you. You ought to be pleased! Why, you will never have to dance again!”

Darcy glowered at him beneath his tousle of dark hair, anger causing him to sober somewhat. “I would get more sympathy from Aunt C-Catherine! * hick * Charles, I am ser-serious, she hates m-me!” Darcy’s heartbroken tone was palpable, so much so that he was beginning to sound almost lucid. Even then, it was difficult to take him seriously when he could not even manage a complete sentence.

Bingley sighed, pity for his friend finally forcing him to put aside his amusement. “I am sorry, Darce. Look, Miss Elizabeth will calm down. The poor girl is just shocked. You did give her quite the surprise, declaring you were engaged in front of everyone like that. Whatever made you do it?”

Darcy stilled, gazing vacantly into the fire. He sighed, his breath escaping softly, and on it the words, “I love hurrr, Charles.”

Bingley sobered. Of all the men he had known, Fitzwilliam Darcy had seemed the least vulnerable, the least disposed to romantic folly. Had not this same man, on more than one occasion, even pulled him back from unfortunate entanglements of his own? Was it possible that the impervious Darcy had a chink in his armour after all?

He drew closer to his friend, resting a comradely hand on his shoulder. “See here, Darce, we will call tomorrow… when you are fit to be about,” he eyed his friend’s face sceptically, “and we will have a chat with the ladies. If you think it will help, I will talk to Miss Elizabeth myself. You are in too deep now, old chap. We have to find a way to work this out. She is an intelligent woman, and you are… well, you are normally a very agreeable fellow,” he paused as Darcy interjected another hiccough, followed by a loud belch. “We will get this all straightened out.”

Darcy shook his head emphatically, earning a pounding between his eyes and a wave of dizziness as a result. “She hates me. She said she didn’n like me before, and then sh-she got an earf-ful from W-Wickham. He-’s the pride of the r-reg’ment, you know. Has all the town fawning over him. Blast, where did the man g—* hick * get all his ch’rm? I’m j’st ‘s’ ch’rming, right, Charles?”

“It would be better if I do not answer that just now. Come on, Fitz.” Bingley had not called him such since their days at Cambridge. “Up with you, you need sleep, old friend. Let’s get you into your nice, comfortable bed.”

“S-staying right here.” Darcy pouted, childishly shoving his hand away and flopping back onto the floor. “Do not feel like r-riding to Long— *hick* Longbourn.”

“Darcy, your bed is precisely eight feet away. It is not at Longbourn.”

“Eh? Oh.” Chagrined, Darcy let Bingley help him to his feet. “Ch’rles-s?” he asked uncertainly, turning his face close to his friend’s.

Bingley coughed and gasped. “Have a care, Darcy! Do face that way! Yes, what is it?”

“‘Liz’beth is a gr-great reader.”

“Mmm-hmm. Here you go,” he hefted the taller man’s frame haphazardly into his elegant bed.

Darcy rolled awkwardly onto the mattress, holding his head but turning to look back up at his friend. “You are wr-rong, you know. She is much lov-loveliurr than her sis-sisturr.”

Bingley stiffened his neck, helplessly compelled to defend his lady despite his companion’s unreasonable state. “I cannot agree with you there, man. Jane Bennet does not have her equal, but I will allow that her sister is far from plain.”

Darcy lay back on his pillow and waved his hand dismissively. His words—coherent, for a change—came out as a soft breath. “You have not seen her with the wind in her hair and a flush on her cheeks. Ch’rles-s?” Darcy craned his neck again toward Bingley. “Think she w-would like Pemburrrley? Sh-she likes to walk in the m-mud.” Puzzled, he turned back to Bingley, who ducked quickly out of range. “Does Pemburrrley have mud in the libr’y? Hope she will read my letturrr.”

Bingley shook his head. There was no making sense of the man’s ramblings. “Good night, Darcy. I will send Wilson in to look after you.” He threw the counterpane over his old friend, still fully dressed, and took himself to bed.