One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (62 page)

“For my part, it can wait until you are well.” Jane replied. “Mama has already begun planning, and you may be assured that all her practice with entertainments will culminate on the day of my wedding, whether or not I am in the thick of it.”

“Mama does take delight in entertaining—that is undoubtedly true.” Elizabeth withdrew for a moment into her thoughts. “Jane, I am loath to turn to more solemn things, but something occurred here in your absence that must be rectified at once.”

“What is it, Lizzy?” Jane's countenance fell. “What has happened?”

“I wonder—Is Miss Bingley aware of the betrothal?” Elizabeth pondered.

“Why, yes, Charles told her and Mrs. Hurst of our engagement just a moment ago.” Jane looked curiously at her sister. “She was less delighted than my mother, but that could be said of anyone.”

“It was so strange, and I am at a loss to provide an explanation for what transpired. Miss Bingley came to visit me in this room while you were away at Longbourn. I had been asleep, but she would not be turned away, although Colonel Fitzwilliam had instructed Sarah not to open the door to anyone but you. Caroline was incensed at the insubordination of her servant and has discharged Sarah from service for it.” Elizabeth shook her head sadly. “I cannot fault Sarah for what occurred. She should not have lost her employment for my sake. Can nothing be done?”

“I shall explain what happened to Charles—he will know what to do. Do not fret, Lizzy, for at the very least, I am soon to be mistress of this house and can undo what was done myself.” Jane patted Elizabeth's hand. “All shall be well. What else did Miss Bingley have to say?”

“Very little.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Her visit here was very odd. She seemed most intent on making certain we had sufficient elderberry wine, which she insisted on pouring into the decanter herself, although she did not even inquire as to whether we required more lemon balm, which was consumed at a pace far exceeding the wine. She even brought a bottle of the wine with her and seemed rather distraught that there was a new bottle already in the room. It seemed so very out of her character to be attentive to such a thing that I cannot help but say that it raised my suspicions immediately.”

“Perhaps she is feeling remiss as your hostess and wished to make amends,” Jane said thoughtfully.

“I do not believe it, Jane. She said vile things to me that I will not give further voice to through repetition. I have always felt her to be unpleasant. I now believe her beyond mere rudeness. She is possessed of a truly vicious character,” Elizabeth said vehemently.

“She is to be my sister!” Jane cried out, aghast at what Elizabeth was saying. “You are being unkind!”

“I may be unfeeling in so saying, but she will not spare you her wrath when she unleashes it.” Elizabeth frowned. “In fact, I would not put it past her to have meddled with the wine.
 
She stood in the way, Jane, so I could not see her pour it, and she was indeed behaving most surreptitiously when she did it.”

“You mistake her, Lizzy. I shall prove it to you.” Jane removed the stopper from the decanter and poured a cup of the sparkling red liquid into a glass, swirling it slightly as she breathed in the aroma. She shook her head slightly with some surprise and sniffed it again before she dipped her finger into it and touched her tongue to the droplet on her fingertip, skewing her face at the unpleasant taste. “It is laced with laudanum. I thought I could smell it, but the bitterness is undeniable.” Jane set down the glass, blanching with shock. She picked up the phial that Mr. Jones had dispensed the tincture of opium in and discovered it to be empty. She turned, holding the small, flat vessel up for Elizabeth to see. “She has added all that remained in the phial to the wine! It was not even a quarter gone!”

“I did not consider her to be as bad as this!” Elizabeth's astonishment was evident, as she returned to the bed, pale and trembling. “If two drops makes me sleep for hours, what would a larger dose do? Oh Jane, do not leave me tonight. Spend the night here in the room with me. Together we shall be safe.”

“This is serious indeed, Lizzy. I must go and tell Charles about Sarah and about the wine. Such treachery cannot be borne. Indeed, I know that he will not allow such behavior, from his very own sister and in his house—of that I am certain! I shall return Lizzy, after I have related these doings to my intended.”

Picking up the decanter of elderberry wine as she departed, Jane quit the room and went in search of Mr. Bingley.

~*~

Elizabeth found herself in such a state of agitation over their discovery that she knew she would be unable to rest until the matter had been resolved, and she set about tidying up the sitting room. She lit a few candles, as the daylight was rapidly fading, and set the room to order quickly. She noticed, as she came around to the small writing desk in the corner, that there was a folded paper, which had fallen onto the floor beneath it. Picking it up, she discerned from the outside that it was not written upon, but bore instead some sort of design or pattern. She unfolded the paper and discovered a delicate charcoal rubbing in the pattern of her handkerchief, slightly smudged but nonetheless recognizable. This, she realized, must have been taken before Darcy had returned the cloth to her. She could only assume that he had made it as a keepsake.

She left the paper on the table and turned to the bedchamber, doing the same service there that she had performed in the sitting room. With the room lit by candlelight, it was brighter than it had been even during the daytime, with the shades and curtains drawn, and as she looked about the room, she realized that more than a few articles remained from Mr. Darcy's residence in the room. She began to wander, idly picking up any item that appeared to belong to
 
him
, as if some connection to him might be formed merely by holding his belongings. Eventually, she peeked into a drawer and found, to her delight, a perfect pheasant tail-feather within. She replaced it pulled open the drawer beneath it, and found therein, pushed back into the farthest corner, a parcel loosely wrapped in brown paper. She could see well enough that it contained a fine fabric, and as she raised the candle to get a better look, the material shimmered in the flickering glow.

“What is this?” Elizabeth cried softly, as she impulsively pulled the fabric from its wrapper. She held in her hands, the softest cloth she had ever felt. The beautiful, deep wine color was offset, she could see, by threads of gold in the weave. She opened it up and discovered an embroidered shawl of such exquisite workmanship and softness that she could not help but wrap herself in it, just for a moment. Was it another gift for his sister, or some elegant lady of the
 
ton,
 
perhaps? The last thought sobered her, and she carefully folded it and returned it to the wrapper, sorrowing that she had ever seen it.

She pondered on the disparity of the three articles she had discovered in Mr. Darcy's room. The rubbing represented her handkerchief, which, although of high sentimental value to her and, apparently to Mr. Darcy as well, was of no true monetary value. The feather, too, was a common thing—a single fallen plume from a wild bird, easily replaced a thousand times over. The shawl, on the other hand, must have cost Mr. Darcy very dearly and was the sort of item she never had any expectation of possessing. Her two meager contributions to his collection were nothing to what he could acquire in an instant with little thought of the expense.

Never had Elizabeth Bennet felt so poor as she did in that hour. To this feeling, she added the knowledge of the sudden, inexplicable departure of Mr. Darcy and the harsh, cutting words of Miss Bingley, until her mind knew not what to think. Was her reputation already tainted—did others think that she was compromised? She had heard sordid tales of innocent women who had fallen prey to pretty words and romantic gestures, only to be cast aside when they had foolishly surrendered their virtue. Was Mr. Darcy playing a cruel game with her? Indeed, Mr. Darcy had
 
not
 
proposed marriage but had left her nearly as soon as she had acknowledged her feelings for him, and with no witness, no one to vouch for what was spoken between them.

The more she thought upon it, the more firmly she believed that the tender regard she had held for Mr. Darcy was evidence of her own gullibility. This quickly restored her original belief that a man of his station would never lower himself to accept a woman of her societal sphere as a viable prospect for a wife and that she had been skillfully duped by a man well versed in the ways of the world. Then her reason sallied forth.
 
No! This is too ungenerous!
 
Her heart rebelled against her mind in attributing such duplicity to the man. To this was added another thought—that even if his declaration of love was sincere, he must by now regret having uttered it, knowing the degradation it would be to his family if he were to make an alliance with one who brought nothing to the union but her charms and whose own relations were so decidedly below his own.

In these thoughts, Elizabeth was truly grieved, for she doubted not her own conviction of whether she loved Mr. Darcy. She did—utterly and completely. She had succumbed to his kind heart, his unequalled intelligence, his informed mind, his confidence and the passion she sensed simmering beneath the surface of his composed demeanor. What had once seemed arrogance, she now perceived as reserve; what had put her off as pride she had come to appreciate as an inborn, stately dignity. His earnest, steadfast gaze felt as a flame on her flesh, and she had discovered the heady torment of desire blossom within her—along with the realization that she was never as purely happy as she was when in company with Mr. Darcy.

She could not bear the devastating truth in what Caroline Bingley had spoken, but there it was—articulated by a heartless shrew who did not deserve the honor of being correct. But when it came to marriage, Elizabeth well knew that Darcy's head would indeed overrule his heart. He could have anyone he chose, and he would choose well—it was his nature to do so. The woman who took her place at his side would undoubtedly bring a fortune and connections as assets to the match and possess an advanced education and a pedigree of noble birth to parallel Mr. Darcy's. She would certainly be beautiful, but added to these attributes, Elizabeth wished for him a gentle soul—one who would care for him in the same manner as he cared for those he loved. She hoped the future Mrs. Darcy would be a woman of good humor, who would see through his moods and delight him when the weight of his position pressed upon him. She now realized, upon deepest reflection, that it could not be her, regardless of how much she desired it for herself.

What if Mr. Darcy allowed his heart to rule instead?
 
The thought flickered in Elizabeth's mind like the dappling of sunlight through the trees on a breezy day.
 
What if he does propose to me after all?
 
She could not bask in the thought for long, for nearly as soon as she thought it, she was assaulted by the knowledge that such a match would bring him scorn and derision among his equals in society, and she could not allow herself to be the means to so harm him. If he were to ignore all of this and marry her in spite of expectations imposed by his birthright, would even five years pass before he came to resent her? Could she live happily knowing that she had been the means of bringing him so low? Elizabeth, weary in body and disconsolate in mind, lay down on the bed and surrendered herself to slumber in order to escape the sorrow of the reality she had only just come to realize.

~*~

Sir Vincent Parker appeared at the doors of Darcy House promptly at seven in the morning, and he was ushered straightway to the study, where Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam awaited his arrival.

The Bow Street officer did not waste any time with small talk. After a cordial greeting to Mr. Darcy, whom he already knew, and an introduction to Colonel Fitzwilliam whom he knew only by reputation, he bowed respectfully to both men, and made a short apology for the events of the previous evening. He assured them that the officious policeman who had attended the scene had been thoroughly reprimanded for overstepping his bounds and would not be further involved in the investigation.

To this, Darcy generously replied that although the officer had spoken with more authority than he had right to, he had observed a keen mind for investigation in the man, and that he hoped the misstep would not cost the man future opportunity in his career. This statement was unexpected by both the Bow Street man and the colonel, but the point was duly noted by the officer while his cousin merely registered astonishment.

Sir Vincent was a dapper and surprisingly jovial man, who, upon Darcy's methodical recitation of the previous evening's events, informed him that he had never heard a second telling that so accurately matched the first, which he had previously read in the officer's report. That being out of the way, he proceeded to ask for information on various aspects of Wickham's past. It was immediately apparent to both Darcy and Fitzwilliam that George Wickham was not unknown at Bow Street.