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Chapter Sixteen

November 15, 1811 Netherfield Park Elizabeth

M ama will be very angry. I should not have taken it. Elizabeth clutched the pendant to her chest. I only wanted to see the secret inside. She pried at the edges and examined her prize closely. How does Mama do it? she wondered. She always opens it so easily. Still, she could not figure out how to make the clasp open so that she could see the detailed miniatures inside.

The clock on the mantle chimed the hour, and she jumped. She must return to the nursery. Harry was already asleep—Nurse Nan had put him to bed an hour ago before leaving for her own house. Papa would come searching for her soon, for it was nearly bedtime. He would rock her and hold her close, telling stories in silly voices until she could no longer contain her yawns. Then he would tuck her into her bed, sing her a song, and kiss her softly.

I must return this to Mama’s jewel box before she discovers I have taken it. Besides, I left the other piece there. Oh! Maybe that was the key! Perhaps she could sneak back into her mama's room, retrieve it, and finally unlock the secret.

Mama had retired early with a headache and took some powders for the pain. She always slept deeply when she took medicine for her head. It was easy to creep into her chambers and take the brooch. She carefully moved from her sitting position to her hands and knees, ready to crawl out from her hiding spot. A door slammed nearby, and voices came closer. She paused, holding her breath in fear of discovery. Had Papa found her already?

Angry voices approached, and she crouched lower in her hiding place beneath Papa’s desk. Fear overtook her as two men argued, one shouting angrily as the other responded with indifference.

She peeked her head out. One of the men saw her, and he held a finger to his lips, urging her to be quiet. The other man, face wreathed in shadows, came up behind the first.

“No!” Elizabeth’s own shout woke her, and she sat up, chest heaving, perspiration clinging to her skin. She quivered in fear, tossing aside her coverlet and rising from the bed. She padded to the washstand, picked up the ewer, and poured some cold water into the basin, splashing it on her face.

What was that? She dreamed often, and the dreams she remembered were vivid and bright. This one felt the opposite. Dark, foreboding, and terrifying. She had no doubt that it was a memory.

She lit a candle and quickly found a pencil and a sheet of paper. Hastily, she scrawled what she could remember. The faces faded, but the feeling of fear and danger persisted. Oh, that I could capture a likeness! I despair of my inability to draw. I might have had answers long ago if I could do it justice.

Unable to return to sleep in her present state, and with dawn yet some time off, she resolved to find a book. Having read the three books she had brought from Longbourn, she needed something new to take her mind off the dream and its possible link to her past. Possible? No, I feel confident that it is a memory. My own mind has locked it away and teases me with it now.

She slipped on her wrapper, drawing the sash tight to preserve her modesty. No one would be awake, and so she did not bother to change into a gown. Elizabeth stepped into her slippers and crept from the room.

Holding the candle aloft to light her path, she made her way down the stairs and walked the short distance to the library. She opened the door and saw that a fire still blazed in the fireplace. Strange.

A figure stirred in the semi-darkness, and she clutched the front of her dressing gown, a sudden, irrational fear stealing her breath. Her long plait fell over one shoulder, and she was keenly aware of the impropriety of being in company in such attire.

“Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy spoke from where he stood near the fire. “Are you well?”

“Mr. Darcy!” She swallowed hard. He had shed his coat and waistcoat and had rolled his sleeves to the elbows. He no longer wore a cravat, exposing his neck. She gazed down at his arms, noticing how strong they appeared, especially in the magical light of the fire. He is remarkably handsome.

“I came for a book,” she whispered. “Pray, excuse me. I should return to my chambers.”

“Miss Elizabeth, you are welcome to search the shelves. Netherfield’s library is sadly lacking, though, and since Bingley is no great reader, he did not bother to bring any volumes of his own.”

“Then it seems my purpose is for naught.” She turned toward the door, disappointed not to have found a book—though she could hardly claim her thoughts were unoccupied now.

“Wait!” Darcy stepped to the table beside the chair he had just vacated and gathered several volumes. He approached, stopping within a foot of her. “These are books from the library at Darcy House— Robinson Crusoe, Pamela, and The Rape of the Lock. Will one suit your needs?”

Elizabeth could scarcely think; her heart pounded as she stared at him. Somehow, his informal attire rendered him even more handsome. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his chin, and his nearly black hair was tousled, as though he had raked a hand through it repeatedly. Never had she seen a gentleman in such dishabille—not even her father removed his cravat or waistcoat in the presence of his daughters. To behold Mr. Darcy thus thrilled her. Her heart beat wildly, and a longing to be more than mere friends surged within her, threatening to consume her.

“Ah,” she said, her voice catching a little. “ Pamela will do well.” She held out her hand to accept the tome.

“Take all three. I have read them twice since coming to Netherfield. Just return them when you are finished, pray.”

His ungloved hands touched hers as she accepted the stack of books. Her fingers tingled pleasantly where they met his. “Yes, of course. Thank you,” she whispered.

They stood thus, each with a hand on the books, eyes locked and unmoving. A sound from elsewhere in the house broke the spell, and his hands fell away.

“Good night, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy murmured, as she turned on her heel and fled the room. Not until she had returned to her chamber and locked the door behind her did she dare breathe once more.

Darcy

He stared at the library door long after Elizabeth rushed from his presence. He could picture her as if she were still standing there: hair in a braid over one shoulder, eyes twinkling in the candlelight, delicate, slippered feet just visible beneath the hem of her nightgown. She wore a dressing gown cinched tightly at the waist, emphasizing her alluring figure.

I am in a spot of trouble, he thought, shaking his head as he returned to his chair before the fire. He had come to the library because he could not sleep. Elizabeth Bennet haunted his dreams, and her presence across the hall—two doors down—did nothing to restore his tranquillity.

She had bewitched him from the beginning of their acquaintance, breaking through his sour mood and disinclination for company. He craved her presence—needed it to breathe. Darcy could no longer imagine his life without her, and he knew for certain that it would take very little for him to cast aside his family’s expectations and fall to his knees, begging her to be his wife.

How does one discern between love and infatuation? He asked himself this at least twice a day, wishing his father were still alive to offer counsel. He had male relations, but none seemed to be the proper person to whom he might turn for guidance. His uncle, the Earl of Matlock, had married Lady Matilda Fitzwilliam in a match arranged by their respective fathers. Theirs was an amiable union, but it lacked both love and passion.

His cousin, Viscount Bramsley, had married a society miss with an impeccable lineage and a dowry to match. They were content with their life and each pursued their own pleasures now that they had an heir and a spare. Darcy’s other cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, remained unmarried, far too absorbed in his military career. He advanced swiftly through the ranks, owing nothing to his father’s influence or that of his well-connected relations.

I need to clear my head . After Bingley’s ball, I shall return to London. I need time to think, and a place to do so where I shall not encounter Elizabeth.

Would he go? Possibly. He had promised Bingley to remain through Christmas. Could he contrive a reason to return to town? He would need to decide soon. Bingley had announced that once Miss Bennet recovered, he would name the day for the ball—he had no desire to delay until December merely to accommodate his sister’s arrival.

He stared into the fire, watching as the flames danced a merry jig about the burning logs. Darcy wondered what his parents would have thought of Miss Elizabeth. Would they have approved? It did not seem likely. He could almost hear his father’s voice even now.

Pemberley is prosperous, but more income never hurts. She is a country miss with only a small dowry! I married the daughter of an earl , surely you could secure at least that. For all his good traits, George Darcy had valued money above love, and security above affection.

Really, Fitzwilliam, his mother would say, I never thought you the sort to let a pretty face turn your head. You are more practical than that. Tell me—what has she done to ensnare you? How did she draw you in?

His mother, of course, would be more understanding than his father, but even she might not approve of his choice. Could he defy what he knew would be their wish for his future?

They are not here to stop you, a wicked little voice in his head reminded him. You have made your own decisions for five years now. Why not marry where you please? Your life will be much happier if you do.

The voice made a fair point. How many unhappy ladies and gentlemen had he encountered in society? More than a few, to be sure. Couples like his aunt and uncle, who had grown genuinely fond of each other, were rare indeed.

Lady Catherine would be furious, he muttered, offering the little voice yet another reason to resist following his inclinations. Can you imagine her barging into Darcy House, waving her cane and shouting to be shown to the study at once? She would be on the warpath the moment she found out about my engagement.

The voice did not care. Why should it matter? it asked smugly. She cannot disinherit you, nor can she take anything you value. She lacks the connections you hold in town. Gossip would do very little harm.

He knew the voice spoke the desires of his heart. It warred against logic—the sensible part of his mind that insisted marrying Miss Elizabeth Bennet would be both reckless and ruinous.

If only those two organs could be brought into accord, life would be far simpler.

Sighing, he crossed to a table where a decanter and two glasses stood. He poured a measure of amber liquid and drank it down in one gulp. The glass landedwith a dull clunk as he set it aside, and he moved to the window. The first vestiges of dawn streaked the horizon with a soft silver light, barely discernible. He stood unmoving, watching as the sky lightened by degrees. The pitch black yielded to vague silhouettes, and at length, color began to tint the horizon.

The fire had died to coals by the time the full sun appeared. Stiff from his vigil by the cold window, Darcy returned to his chair. He took up his banyan and pulled it on, tying the sash firmly at his waist. He wished to reach his chambers before the household stirred. There remained the chance he might encounter a servant, but that was of little consequence.

Once inside his chamber, he rang for his valet. “Good morning, Morris. Have water brought up for a bath this morning, will you?” He always thought more clearly when he could soak. Removing his banyan, he tossed it over the back of a chair.

Morris proved his worth. He had not waited long before buckets of hot water filled the tub. Darcy disrobed and sank into the steaming bath. The water had been scented with something soothing, and he leaned back, eyes closed. Sleep, long denied, overtook him at last.

Morris woke him some time later. The water had cooled to tepid, and he shivered slightly as he stepped out. After drying himself, he donned the robe Morris held out and crossed to the window, his hair still damp.

His heart gave a jolt—Elizabeth was strolling toward the gardens. A brisk breeze pressed her gown against her legs, tracing the shape of her light and pleasing figure until she paused to tug it free.With one hand holding onto her bonnet, she disappeared around a corner

All the calm of his bath vanished, and his inner turmoil returned with force. Elizabeth’s beguiling presence drew him like a moth to a flame, and each day, his will to resist grew weaker.

I shall conquer this indecision, he vowed silently. I shall—I am a Darcy and I can do nothing less. He had arrived at all manner of difficult decisions before; this would be no different. Whether victory included Elizabeth as his wife remained to be seen.