One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (16 page)

“No.” Elizabeth shook her head with a slight grimace, mentally re-living the quarter hour spent in the parlor with Mr. Collins after the ladies had left. “I know only that it abuts a great estate with grand chimneys and expensive glazing. Rose… something I believe.”

“Hmmm.” Darcy pretended to ponder on it, slightly ashamed at what was rapidly becoming a deception. “That could be the Rosings Park estate near Hunsford.”

“That may be it.” Elizabeth nodded.

“Do you remember the lady's name?” Darcy asked.

“I shall never forget it.” Elizabeth smiled warmly followed by a tinkling laugh. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” She said it the way Collins said it, as though it should impress merely by hearing the name.

“Oh yes.” Darcy nodded knowingly. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Was her daughter, Anne, with her?”

“Yes, yes, she was poor creature.” Elizabeth sighed.

“She was not well?” Darcy probed.

“Not at all.” Elizabeth shook her head slowly as she pictured the girl in her mind. “Perhaps she was just tired from the journey, but I sensed that she is not happy. She is, I think, proof that great estates with grand chimneys and the finest windows in the kingdom are nothing without loving hearts to fill them.” Elizabeth looked up to see Mr. Darcy, looking at her with fierce intensity, and she realized that she might have inadvertently offended him, for she knew him to be the owner of such an estate himself. “Oh, I am sorry, Mr. Darcy. My mouth has run away with me.”

Mr. Darcy held up his hand to signal that no apology was necessary. “Was there any talk of why it was necessary to travel to London while Miss de Bourgh was in ill health?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth replied with a nod, thinking it appropriate to share what she knew since he seemed to be acquainted with the family. “It had something to do with intervening on behalf of her nephew, who was in some trouble, I think. She did not speak of the particulars.”

An uncomfortable look crossed Darcy's handsome face before it turned to the stony mask that she had seen him wear at the Assembly Ball the night they had first met. He chatted with Elizabeth for a few more minutes about the weather, the roads and the upcoming Netherfield Ball, and then the gentlemen departed, not saying exactly when or if they would return.

Chapter Seventeen

Unraveled

I
n the carriage ride back to Netherfield, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were in entirely different moods, although neither man paid heed to the state of the other. They were each looking out a window into the night, deep in the world of their own thoughts.

The only way Mr. Bingley's day could have gone any better would have been if the Miss Bennets had not returned to Longbourn at all. The loss of the sisters from Netherfield did not truly distress Charles Bingley, for he had joyfully observed that something about Jane's demeanor had materially changed for the better upon her recovery from the fall. The biggest difference he noted was that she no longer bashfully glanced away when he searched her face, but instead, those cornflower blue eyes locked onto his and held them as if she could communicate her feelings directly to his mind. Her serenity was disturbed to be certain, and once, in their hushed conversations, she had addressed him very tenderly as “Charles.” She had not even seemed to realize that she had crossed into familiarity, but for Charles Bingley, the sound could not have been more beautiful if a chorus of songbirds had sung his name. In his heart and mind, he allowed himself to be in love with his angel, Miss Jane Bennet, and he knew in the depths of his being that she felt much the same as he.

Mr. Darcy's day had been a disordered mess from start to finish, mostly because, unlike his friend, his heart and mind were in violent conflict with each other. His heart had succumbed days ago to Elizabeth Bennet as the most bewitching creature he had ever encountered, but his mind simply would not allow it to reach beyond that boundary. That word which had never even encroached on his thoughts before was popping into his head with increasing—and alarming—frequency. He vigorously attempted to repress this word with substitutions—
like, admire, respect, regard, esteem
 
and so on until he was weary of the exercise.
 
Only when he had exhausted himself with the struggle did the word
 
love
 
settle itself and find its place among the rest. There was a certain peace in that, but he still could not reconcile his love for her with even a remote possibility of a life with her, and he despaired over the injustice of his dilemma.

Darcy forced his mind to turn to other thoughts. His Aunt Catherine had travelled from Kent to deliver her parson to Longbourn—an obscure country estate in a county she did not like. That was strange enough, but the worst part was that she had now gone to London to meddle with his affairs—again. He was not her only nephew, but he was the only one she ever interfered with. A dark cloud of familiar remorse settled over Darcy, regretting once again that he had gone along with her scheme a decade ago. It had seemed harmless at the time, almost a lark, but his willingness to protect his cousin from a scoundrel in pursuit of a rich heiress had led to the fateful rumors aggressively circulated by his aunt of an
 
impending engagement
 
between himself and Anne, rumors that had never ceased even to this day.

His aunt had twisted the fabrication into an expectation and then an obligation that Darcy had spent years and countless hours attempting to amend. He had learned a bitter lesson and sworn from that time forward that the absolute truth would be his standard. His aunt, however, was relentless in her pursuit of the outcome to which she now felt entitled and had gone so far in the past as to confront and intimidate women if she perceived any attachment on his part.

Darcy, who had always prized his privacy, had been forced by his aunt's dogged pursuit of the match to extreme caution as he moved within the society of the
 
ton
. The added counsel from his father to carefully guard himself from the predatory females within those circles had also proven itself countless times, and Darcy, although he liked the company of women well enough, had developed a barrier of aloofness that effectively insulated him from the feminine wiles and charms that were intended to entrap him.

Aunt Catherine had proven difficult to elude, for although she was rarely seen in London, she exhibited an uncanny ability to detect his movements. That she had left Longbourn a scant half-hour before he arrived was good fortune, indeed, for she could not know of his presence in Hertfordshire, or she would not have quit the county so easily. No doubt, her journey to London was intended to discover his whereabouts, although she could only have one reason to do so.

He was forced to consider what had triggered his aunt's latest round of interference. The only circumstance he could imagine that would impel his aunt to London for the winter was a report of his own serious attentions toward a marriageable woman. Whom, he wondered, only half amused, was the lucky lady? He smiled grimly to himself as he speculated that the object of the gossip was likely Caroline Bingley. The thought of his aunt confronting Bingley's haughty sister was both mortifying and diverting. Lady Catherine de Bourgh had so intimidated and traumatized her other targets that they had literally collapsed into near hysterics at her accusations, insults and threats.

Who was his aunt's informer? Darcy thought it must be someone in his sister's close circle, for she was the only person in recent weeks he had corresponded with on personal matters, and with Georgiana, he was entirely open. He smirked inwardly at the realization that due to Caroline's own insistent prodding, he had repeatedly mentioned Miss Bingley in his letters. That he was staying in her brother's household and had attended balls and assemblies with the same woman must have been sufficient cause to suspect his attachment. His aunt was slipping, he thought, if her paranoia had come to such a conclusion with so little credible information.

Darcy then recalled his last letter to his sister and was stricken with an epiphany. Although he had not specifically named her, he had written in glowing terms of Elizabeth Bennet to his sister, describing a vivacious and beautiful lady in the neighborhood—a young woman of charm and grace, with an intelligence and wit that he had found most refreshing and unusual for a country maiden. Could that reference have been enough to alarm his aunt? A surge of protectiveness for Elizabeth raced through his veins at the thought that he may have inadvertently called his aunt's wrath down upon the woman he loved.
 
He mentally repeated the phrase, silently indulging in that feeling he had never before known—
the woman he loved
.

His heart pounded, his blood boiled, and a painful flood of realizations rained mercilessly on him. Another man would claim Elizabeth Bennet as his wife. Someone else would hold her in his arms, kiss her, take her into his bed and wake to see the sun on her sleep-drenched face. Another man would father her children, make a life with her, daily gaze into the eternal depths of her exquisite eyes. His previous despair was replaced with crushing desperation at his plight. He considered leaping from the carriage and returning to her, declaring himself to her, but he knew that such fantasy could not be.

He looked up at Bingley, who was sheepishly grinning as he dreamily looked out upon a passing landscape he did not really see. He finally understood what his friend must have been feeling as he sat next to Jane Bennet, soaking in her glances, her whispers and her smiles. Darcy grimaced at the realization that he envied Charles Bingley.

Forcing a change in his thoughts again, he turned to memories of his sweet cousin, Anne. He recalled the bright and delightful girl she was as a child. Almost like a faery she had been, her tinkling laughter at his teasing still rang in his ears. It took so little effort to please her then, for she delighted in everything, and although she had always seemed a bit fragile, she had also been lively and energetic, and he had entertained her with stories as they had walked the grounds of Pemberley and Rosings together. As she matured, she had attracted many suitors, and the year Anne came out in society had been particularly trying for him as he considered himself as an elder brother to her. His agreement to the grand deception had stemmed from that protectiveness. He had expected, of course, that a worthy match would be found for his darling cousin in a short time.

What none of them had expected was that she would be stricken with a fever a fortnight later, a fever that nearly killed her. Although her life was spared, the illness had drained all of her liveliness away, and she had remained weak and sickly, rarely going into society again. Darcy gritted his teeth. How cruel of his aunt to subject her to such a journey!

At this moment, some paranoia took root. Perhaps Aunt Catherine did know where he was after all. Had she delivered her parson to Hertfordshire to spy on him? Had she come to the Bennet household by design? It was no matter, he knew what he must do, and he would do it tonight.

Chapter Eighteen

Meeting Mr. Wickham

E
lizabeth discerned that Jane acutely felt the loss of Mr. Bingley nearly as soon as the carriage pulled away from Longbourn. She trailed Jane to her room, pressing the door shut behind them to assure their privacy, and simply asked, “Well?”

Jane blushed and smiled weakly at her sister, unable to conceal the depth of her feelings for Mr. Bingley. “Well. what, Lizzy?”

“You may pretend with everyone else, Jane, but with me, you must disclose all! How went your day after I quit Netherfield Park? I know that you were not subjected to Mr. Darcy’s rattling about the house, for, in truth, I encountered him myself on the road to Meryton. Jane, my imagination has run absolutely wild for you and Mr. Bingley all day, and seeing his manner with you upon your return has done nothing but feed my speculation! I am about to go mad for it!”

“Lizzy!” Jane laughed at her sister's dramatics. “It was indeed a very pleasant day, but nothing wild, I assure you.”

“He is besotted, Jane.” Elizabeth teased. “Admit it—he loves you. A blind man would see it.”