Page 19 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)

Chapter 19

I n the three weeks after Mr Darcy went away, Elizabeth and Jane seemed more occupied than ever. Mr Bingley had come, and then he had remained—on the excuse of needing to return to Manchester again within the week, but he spent enough idle time with Jane for everyone to see where his real intentions lay.

As Mr Darcy predicted, they were often invited to Matlock. Elizabeth and Jane dined with the earl and countess twice, and Elizabeth had even taken tea several times with the dowager. Then there was Michaelmas, a delightfully new celebration to the émigrés that did much to ground and invite them into this new-old world they had made their home. Billy’s elation knew no bounds, for each time Elizabeth and Jane crossed Matlock’s ancient threshold, he was ready with yet another fascinating bit of trivia he had uncovered. Elizabeth had begun to wonder when he actually tutored the earl’s son.

Anne de Bourgh was always present, and always an object of grudging fascination for Elizabeth. Miss de Bourgh was not a warm woman, nor was she particularly lively or interesting, or anything at all that might bridge the chasm between two such disparate natures. She was startlingly blunt, frequently biting, but she possessed about her air the innocence of a woman who genuinely thought her expositions welcome and well-intentioned. It was as if every word she had ever spoken had always been met with agreement and praise, and now it could never occur to her that someone might think otherwise.

Nevertheless, Elizabeth found the means to become friendly with her. After all, Mr Darcy was her friend… was he not? It was the most accurate word she could find, at least, and it would be depressing indeed if she could not be on good terms with the future Mrs Darcy. They might have had little to say to one another, but neither did there seem to be ill feeling between them, which gave Elizabeth reason to hope for better.

Georgiana Darcy, however, she had nearly given up on. The girl insisted on drilling Elizabeth on the piano each afternoon—lessons Elizabeth had never requested, although she was fairly certain she knew who had. The sessions apparently gave no pleasure either to master or pupil. Miss Darcy was a talented musician, and more importantly, she possessed the knack for instructing others. However, Elizabeth was not blessed with the same accuracy of ear or dexterity of fingers, and Georgiana seemed to find her a lacklustre pupil.

“Miss Darcy—” Elizabeth interrupted the lesson one day—“I understand this must not be your preferred means of passing the time. I daresay I will never make a proper pianist. If it would please you better, I would not object if you gave me up for a lost cause.”

Georgiana ruffled the sheet music and placed another piece before her, nearly creasing the page with the force of her grip. “I am not allowed to give up. Play this one.”

“Then it is as I suspected, and Mr Darcy has put you up to the task of trying to make me more presentable. Between you and me, we could do this each day for six months, and I would still play as poorly as I do today. I will gladly tell him you were everything a patient and dedicated teacher ought to be, but the failure was on the part of the student.”

Georgiana clenched her teeth and nearly growled, “You do not know my brother. He will still find a way to believe me at fault.”

“You truly think so meanly of him?”

“I know him,” Georgiana answered sharply. “Just as I know he would disapprove of everything else I wish. Play, Mrs Fitzwilliam. Key of G—even you should be able to manage it.”

Elizabeth ignored the instruction and gazed at the girl in curiosity. “Is there something you wish? What do you desire that your brother has forbidden? If you told me, perhaps I could be of some help.”

Miss Darcy turned a flat stare on Elizabeth. “If I thought you could possibly comprehend, I might.”

Stung, but not yet willing to surrender, Elizabeth affected a bit of cheer. “Though you think so little of my abilities, I am not entirely uninformed. Perhaps you are right, and I can do nothing to help you, but would it not be a relief to speak of your hopes? I always find a good story entertaining.”

Georgiana snatched the sheet music and clapped it back into the case from which she had taken it. She shot up from the bench and turned a scathing glare on Elizabeth. “I do not exist for your entertainment, Mrs Fitzwilliam.”

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open, and she watched the girl go, but just before Miss Darcy reached the door of the music room, some impulse bolted her to her feet. “Unwelcome or not,” she snapped, “I am a guest in your home, Miss Darcy. As such, I do not expect special privileges or intimacies, but I believe it is fair to expect basic courtesy!”

Georgiana stopped and stared. “I do not know why my brother keeps shielding you or why everyone makes excuses for you. I do not know why you feel you have the right to speak correction to me. If my brother were not so soft and the Countess not so silly, you would have learned your place sooner.”

Elizabeth was panting, fury pounding in her throat and drumming in her ears, but she checked herself—for Mr Darcy’s sake, if not for his sister’s. “I am afraid I have no place—except possibly to be your friend, if you will allow it.”

“I do not need friends! Particularly not ignorant Americans with delusions of grandeur and absolutely no idea what they have got into!”

Elizabeth nodded, and her voice cracked. “I see. Then, I will not trouble you to spend your afternoon teaching me. If Mr Darcy insists that I learn to play an instrument, I will ask the countess for her advice.”

Georgiana’s only response was a sullen glare before she left the room.

Cape Town, South Africa October 1900

D arcy leaned over the railing of the steamer as it drew into port, taking in each sight and smell as if already conducting reconnaissance. The photographs printed in the Daily Mail had failed to prepare him for the grandness of it all. He had anticipated little more than a rough outpost, but two and three-level houses lined wide streets, train whistles pierced the air, and telegraph wires sliced the clear skyline. To be sure, it was no London—there was a raw simplicity to everything he could see, but it was far better established than his mind had persuaded him to expect. But, then, what else could it be? The greatest empire in the world had enjoyed a presence here for some eighty years, and the Dutch long before that.

A young man named Jabu offered to carry Darcy’s bag—for a gratuity—and then agreed to show him to General Kitchener’s headquarters. The “headquarters” title was all for show, because the General and his entourage were probably in Johannesburg. Even if he were in Cape Town, a figure like Kitchener would never condescend to meet with a mere country squire audacious enough to beg an audience. No, Darcy’s best hope was a local commander of some sort—or better yet, a lowly field officer who had been and seen and would not mind saying as much.

Darcy left his card with an aide at the headquarters, along with the name of a hotel his guide recommended. The aide examined his name, asked his business, and recorded it all in his book with the promise that Darcy would hear something “soon.”

Pemberley

E lizabeth stormed up to her bed-chamber, her thoughts black and her face flashing red in her mirror. She could not remember being more irate… at least, not since she had come to England. It was not merely Miss Darcy’s insolence, although that was most vexing. The most provoking thing was the girl’s perfect contrast to her more amiable relatives. All the others had seemed forbidding at first, yet each in their way had softened, even in some cases proved welcoming, and none more so than Georgiana’s brother. Fitzwilliam Darcy…

And that was the real crux of it. For the first week of his absence, she denied it. For the second, she had shrugged off her more rambling notions as merely the result of yet another change in her circumstances, another episode in a life spinning wildly out of control. But now, she had come to confess the truth, and that was… she missed him.

What a strange thing was this! She had perhaps been in his physical company no more than three weeks together, but his influence had been felt almost since her arrival in England. Arrangements made for her that others should have undertaken; letters sent from London to share what little news he had, and to ask after her welfare; little comforts ordered by him to bring charm to her days. Where others had held her at bay, he had protected—out of duty, to begin with, it was true, but that first chess match in the quiet of his study had flung wide the window and allowed a ray of sun to shine in. After that, he had been different—had seen her somehow, and discovered corners of her being that even Jane was unaware of.

She stopped her fretful pacing by the bedside table and plunged her nose into the dried spray of lavender he had sent up nearly a month before. He had been right about that, too. That simple gesture, that humble offering had secretly spread its tender essence until both the flower and the man who had given it both twined together in her heart, and nothing less than a sense of home anchored her spirit to this place. Perhaps it was merely that he tried to understand her—he, the last man in the world she would have thought capable of such a gentle sentiment! But others had done similarly, and her feelings were not equally affected by them.

Was it possible, she wondered, that the heart was a villainous, rebellious thing from its conception? That it yearned for what it should never dare to claim, content only when it was causing torment and not pleased to nurture its own? She knew it was wrong—wickedly and deceitfully wrong—but it was not some other voice that soothed her now in her more fitful dreams. It was William’s.

Why could it not be Richard she saw and heard and felt? Why not her father or mother or any of her sisters? She could have none of them, either—just as Mr Darcy, they were as far out of her reach as the moon in the heavens. She wept over them by turns each night, but the moment she closed her eyes, the one who drew near was the one she had no right to dream of.

There was nothing for it. Regardless of what was learned of Richard, or how near or far his family desired to keep her, one day she would have to leave Pemberley. No matter how friendly the master was with her, no matter how cordially the future mistress might address her, she would be doing everyone a disservice, and not least of all herself, by remaining.

She leaned her head against the windowpane, her fingers idly teasing the lavender spray beside her. More than all other things, another worry loomed. There was much she had not told her friend—things that would be sure to make him misunderstand everything, to doubt her and even to turn from her, as others had done. He deserved the truth, all of it, regardless of what other circumstances arose. He might cast her out, but she owed him this courtesy, at least.

So resolved, she straightened and walked to Jane’s room to knock on the door. “Jane, may I speak to you?”

“Oh!” Jane cried when she opened the door. “There you are, Lizzy! I thought you were out taking some exercise. I was just rushing out myself to walk with Mr Bingley.”

Elizabeth smothered a proud grin and wriggled her eyebrows. “Do you need a chaperone?”

Jane blushed hotly. “Oh! I hardly think… I’m sure he does not intend…”

“No,” Elizabeth answered for her, “you do not wish for a chaperone. Never mind, I will ask my question later. I suppose I needn’t remind you to stay in sight of the house,” she said with a sly wink.

“Lizzy!” Jane whispered in horror. “Mr Bingley is not that sort of man!”

“They are all ‘that sort of man,’ but some are more honourable than others. Enjoy your outing.” She kissed her sister on the cheek and watched with almost maternal fondness as her sister giggled, blushed again, and gathered her things to meet the man who struck her fancy.

After Jane left, Elizabeth sat by her hearth for half an hour. What price would Jane pay for Elizabeth’s past? What of Billy? And what of Richard, if he still lived? She argued with herself, making one excuse after another about why she had to stay, why she had to go, trying to order her thoughts and rehearse what she must say to William when he returned; and, more importantly to the moment, trying to sort out precisely how she was going to face Miss Darcy at dinner. Then, an inspiration struck. What had William recommended to clear her head?

“Margaret?” she called into the sitting room. “Will you please send word to the stables and ask them to saddle a horse for me?”