Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy: The Last Man in the World (7 page)

She
advanced until she stood several feet from his desk and folded her hands in
front of her. His eyes flickered up at her, then looked down again to the
papers in front of him. He dipped his pen in the inkwell, blotted it, and began
to write. "Yes, madam?"

He
had not called her by name, nor even Mrs. Darcy, since their quarrel.

She
moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "It has occurred to me,
sir, that there are often two sides to a story. In the matter of Mr. Wickham, I
have heard only his side."

He
did not look up. "I cannot argue that point."

Clearly
he did not intend to make this easy for her. She told herself it should be no
surprise; he himself had said he was of a resentful temper, and she had without
doubt lost his good opinion. Very well, she thought.

He
will see I am no coward.
She
lifted her chin. "I wondered if perhaps you would care to tell me your
side of the story."

His
pen stilled, and after a moment he replaced it in its stand. Leaning down, he
opened a drawer and sorted through it until he removed a document. He looked at
it for a moment, then held it out to her. "I will not trouble you with
explanations you are unlikely to believe," he said, "but this, I
hope, should be enough to acquit me of cruelty toward Mr. Wickham."

She
took the paper from his hand and examined it. It was a receipt, signed by George
Wickham and dated some five years previously, for three thousand pounds, in
return for which he quitted all claim to the living at Kympton as promised him
in the will of Mr. Darcy. She continued to look at it for some moments after
she had already perused it. Finally, with a dry mouth, she said, "It seems
I believed the wrong man. You have my most sincere apologies, sir."

"You
are not the first woman he has worked his wiles upon, nor, I daresay, the
last," he said brusquely, taking back the document. "Is there
anything else, madam?"

She
was being dismissed. "No, nothing else." She should thank him for
answering her question, but she could not bring herself to say the words.

Instead,
she turned and left the room, not stopping until she reached the front door and
found her way out into the woods of Pemberley. Heedless of her delicate indoor
slippers, she struck off along a path which would take her out of sight of the
house as quickly as possible.

She
had her answer now; she had believed a man for no better reason than that he
had flattered her, and disbelieved the man who had fallen in love with her and
married her; who, whatever his other faults, had never attempted to disguise
the truth. Now she had earned his implacable resentment, and there was nothing
to be done for it. She had never wanted his love, but his hatred was worse,
especially as they were destined to live together regardless of their wishes.

She
could not but blame herself for her gullibility and willingness to believe Mr.
Wickham's lies, as well as for her own anger which had her to fling such
intemperate accusations at her husband. She did not hold him faultless; he
should never have said what he did to her about his cousin, and he continued
his aggravating habit of assuming she would believe whatever he wished her to
believe. However, she could not deny she had hurt--deeply hurt--a man who loved
her enough to marry her over many objections and had never treated her with
anything but kindness--apart from the matter of her family. If she had been
cheated of having a marriage based on love, he had been cheated yet further. But
he had refused her peace offering; all that remained was for her to treat him
as befitted a man who had been kind and generous to her.

It
was near dinnertime, and she set out toward the house again. She had gone only
a short way before realizing she had taken a wrong turning.

Attempts
to retrace her steps proved fruitless, and with a sigh of exasperation, she set
off toward higher ground from which she might be able to see the house and
re-establish her direction.

Her
strategy was successful, although not immediately; she eventually made her way
back to Pemberley House, but it was near dark when she arrived, and she was
somewhat the worse for wear owing to leaving the paths in order to follow a
more direct route. She was greeted at the door by the butler, who exclaimed,
"Mrs. Darcy!"

She
was weary, and she did not feel her appearance warranted such a degree of startlement.
Her voice was a trifle sharp as she said, "If you would be so kind as to
arrange for my supper to be sent up to my room, I would appreciate it."
She went past him into the hallway.

"Madam,
please, I believe the master wishes to see you."

"Please
tell him that I will wait on him as soon as I have taken a moment to refresh
myself." She would prefer not to appear before him in tattered slippers
and a dirty petticoat.

Her
wishes were destined to be thwarted, as Darcy appeared in the hall before she
could quit it. "Elizabeth! Where have you been?"

She
had to rein in irritation at his tone. She stood very still to hide her torn
slippers beneath her skirts. "I was walking in the park and lost my way.
It took me a little time to get my bearings. My apologies if you were
concerned."

"Concerned!"
he exclaimed angrily. "My steward has been organizing men to search for
you!"

"Surely
you knew I would find my way back," she said in an attempt to be reasonable.

"In
the dark, or if you had ... an accident?"

"You
have my apologies, sir. What further would you like?"

"I
would like ... " He paused, apparently struggling for self-control.
"I would like you to be more careful, at least until you know the park better."

She
inclined her head in agreement, thinking it best to say nothing. At least he
had not forbidden her to walk out altogether, even though it had obviously cost
him something not to do so. "If you will excuse me, then?"

"As
you wish," he said. For a moment Elizabeth thought she saw the flicker of
his old look in his eyes, but then it was gone again and replaced by
implacability.

She
thought about that look again as she sat in her bed in her nightdress, her arms
wrapped around her knees. Did it mean that some small morsel of love remained
within him? Perhaps so, but if it did, it seemed he regretted it. She found the
idea oddly painful.

She
could not continue in this manner. She needed to decide her best course of action
regarding her marriage. The simplest answer was to go on as she had been,
polite and compliant, but perhaps now with the addition of avoiding him as much
as possible, since he no longer had any desire for her company. Th
at
would be dutiful, and no one could hold it against her.

The
harder option would be to try to give him what he claimed to want--the
laughing, smiles and teasing she had shown Colonel Fitzwilliam. She did not
know whether it was within her capability, at least when he was as forbidding
as he was now. She had done it before their engagement, though, even though she
disliked him; why should being married to him make it so much more difficult?

The
worst of it was at night, like this, when she lay awake wondering if he
intended to come to her. He had not been to her bedchamber since their quarrel,
but that would change sooner or later, she had no doubt, and she was frightened
of it. It had been difficult enough, accustoming herself to the liberties he
took with her body when he had been kind and gentle. She shuddered to think
what it would be like if he came to her in anger.

Unbeknownst
to Elizabeth, Darcy sat in his study until the rest of the household was abed,
turning a pair of torn slippers flecked with blood in his hands. What had he
done to her? Marriage to a man she disliked. He wondered what she had thought
when he kissed her, when he was in her bed. Was it repulsion, or merely
distaste? He told himself again, as he had many times in the last few days, not
to think on it, but he was as unsuccessful as he had been every other time.

How
could he keep from blaming himself? He had taken the woman he loved as if she
were a toy he wanted, and had killed the spirit in her for which he loved her.
Now he was fated to spend the rest of his life facing a simulacrum of
Elizabeth, remembering what she had been, and the joy he had felt so briefly
when he believed she cared for him. It was a fitting punishment for his selfishness
that he should lose what he valued most. But she did not deserve to suffer.

How
had he, with all the advantages of his birth and intellect, come to the point
where he could think of no better outcome than that he might die young? At
least then Elizabeth might have a chance at happiness. He ran his fingers over
the dark stains on her slippers. Perhaps it was too late even for that.

Chapter 7

At
breakfast Mr. Darcy said, "Have you written to your aunt and uncle yet,
madam?"

Elizabeth
carefully broke her toast in two parts. "No, sir, I have not."

"Why
have you not?"

"I
wished to avoid embarrassment. I believe they plan to visit nearby, in Lambton,
and I will call on them there." Seeing his frown, she added, "You
need not fear; my aunt and uncle are people of the world and understand the
situation. They will not claim a relationship with you." Did he have any
idea how much it cost her to speak of this as if it were of no matter?

She
turned her attention to buttering her toast as if the outcome of the Peninsular
War depended on her thoroughness.

"Elizabeth,
that was not my meaning."

She
did not raise her eyes. "I would not wish to make you uncomfortable in any
way, sir."

"Instead
you insist on making yourself uncomfortable, as if that would be without effect
on me. I was wrong to criticize your family. They are welcome here."

She
was uncertain what to make of this unprecedented admission. His tone spoke more
of irritation than of kindness. "I ... Thank you."

"Have
I ever given you cause to be frightened of me?" he asked brusquely.

His
words had the effect of forcing her to meet his eyes, and what she saw there
was different from the message his voice gave her. "No. You have always
been very kind to me." It was true; her fears were more of what he might
do if he chose than anything he had done. Recalling her resolve, she gave him a
playful look. "Apart from a few moments when you rode that stallion of
yours."

"You
mean Hurricane? He is not as bad as his name suggests. But you never ride, do
you?"

"No;
I have always preferred walking. When I was young I saw a man fall from horseback,
and I never cared to learn after that."

"If
I found you a very gentle mare, would you consider trying it?"

"If
you like, sir," she said, though in truth she would prefer not to.

"No,
if you like," he said sharply. "I am not trying to force it on you.
It is merely that Derbyshire has many sights I believe you would enjoy that are
inaccessible by carriage and too far to walk. I would not like to see you
deprived of them."

She
considered this for a minute. "Could it be a very small mare?" she asked
doubtfully.

He
smiled slightly, as if to himself. "The smallest and gentlest I can find."

"Well,
then, I shall try. I do not promise to continue."

He
raised an eyebrow. "That is all I can ask."

She
had to admit he seemed happier when she challenged him than when she offered
immediate compliance. If he wanted her as she had been in Hertfordshire and at
Rosings, he must like some challenge. At least their discourse ended in a civil
tone this time; surely that must be progress.

Elizabeth
noticed a small box sitting among her toiletries when she sat before her mirror
the next morning to brush out her hair. Puzzled, she opened it to reveal a
delicate gold pendant on a chain. She frowned; there was only one person it
could be from, and she was not expecting gifts from him. He had always given
her presents in person in the past, and she did not deserve anything now. Was
it another gesture of peace? Or perhaps it was something he had bought for her
long since for some future occasion and now wanted to rid himself of--that
would explain the indirect presentation, she supposed. She touched it lightly,
feeling the cold hardness of it beneath her fingers.

She
wore it down to breakfast, only to discover Darcy had already eaten and was out
riding. It bought her a little time, but it made her wonder if he did not want
to discuss it with her. Still, if he was making an attempt to mend the breach
between them, she wanted him to know she appreciated it.

When
he returned to the house she sought him out in his study. As opposed to a few
days earlier, he rose politely when she came in and gestured her to a chair.
She shook her head, but in a friendly manner. "Thank you for the necklace,
sir. It is lovely."

"There
is no need for thanks; the pleasure will be mine in seeing you wear it,"
he said formally.

"Well,
you have my thanks anyway, and you may do with them what you will." On an
impulse, she stepped around his desk and bent to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

He
did not look pleased at her initiative. She backed away hastily, saying,

"I
shall see you at dinner, then, Mr. Darcy."

"I
want no more duty kisses, Elizabeth. Their taste is bitter."

Stung,
she replied, "That was not out of duty, unless you would have it so, but I
will keep your chastisement in mind." She hastened away to her room,
feeling unequal to meeting anyone.

So
a reconciliation was not his desire. She removed the necklace and threw it on
the table, not wanting it against her skin any longer. She should have listened
to her first instinct and said nothing; had he wanted thanks, he would have
given it to her himself.