B00CO8L910 EBOK (27 page)

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Darcy had hardly slept a wink. He was rehearsing all he wished to say to Elizabeth that morning. After so many months — so much heartache, personal assessment, and humility — Darcy was ready to place his heart before Elizabeth and hope she would receive it. What had she not done for him? During the course of the months after her sister’s death, Elizabeth had taught him more about himself through her judgments of him than he had ever known before — hard lessons at first, but necessary to learn what it took to please a woman worthy of being pleased.

He did not want to consider what a disaster it would have been to propose to her in Kent. He was positive now that she would have refused him. The relief that filled his breast was immeasurable. Darcy swept away the troubling thought. It was irrelevant now.

Unable to stay indoors any longer, he decided to ride that morning to relieve some of his nervous energy. When he slipped out to the stables, narrowly missing Miss Bingley on his way, he asked the groom for directions to Oakham Mount. He had never visited it when he was in town last autumn, though it was always acclaimed as possessing an excellent view.

After receiving directions, Darcy mounted his horse and kicked him into a steady gallop. The breeze was in his face, and he felt the sting of the cool morning air in his lungs. When he was near the summit, he stopped his horse and dismounted. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon. He tied his horse loosely to a nearby tree, so it could graze as he began his final ascent up the hill.

Upon reaching the top, his breath was taken away by the picturesque view — not the surrounding vista of hills and lush green farmland and not the rainbow of colors painted across the sky as the sun rose higher but that of his sweet Elizabeth. She was sitting on a small boulder, her back to him, reading. He marveled at how delicate and feminine she looked, her back arched in a curve over the book.

Recovering from his surprise and with a smile on his face, Darcy quietly approached her. When he was but a few feet away, he called her name softly, not wishing to startle her. When she did not respond, he stepped closer. His smile broadened at her distracted state. “Elizabeth . . . ”

His brows knit together when she did not react again to his call.
Must be a very good book
. He quickly crossed the last of the distance between where she sat and where he stood, kneeling in front of her to finally catch her attention.

What he saw on her face caused him to fall back on his heels. Her eyes were red and her face covered in tears. Her face was painted in an anguish he had only seen once before: when he had discovered Georgiana with Wickham before the intended elopement. He recovered himself then and instinctively reached for her shoulders to bring her to his embrace.

“Elizabeth! What is the matter, my dear? Please, what is wrong?” He felt a rush of panic when she resisted his embrace and pushed against his chest for him to release her. He immediately complied.

Elizabeth could not speak; she could hardly think. He was pleading with her; she could hear his voice, but she could not communicate what she felt. It was as if she were drowning. She silently handed him the book, covering her face with her hands to weep.

Mr. Darcy took the book from her with questioning eyes. He reached into his coat and pulled out his handkerchief for her. Carefully, he pulled at one of her hands, to uncover her face again. “Elizabeth,” was all he could manage. Her sorrow affected him too powerfully for him to voice anything more. His throat closed, and he patted her cheek tenderly with the soft linen. She took it from him to wipe her face as she indicated again towards the book.

“It is Lydia’s,” she finally replied in a throaty whisper.

Darcy sighed; he understood then. He was saddened that her tender heart was still so grieved by her sister’s death, but it was something he loved about her: her full, compassionate heart. He patted her back and took the seat next to her. “I know it is difficult, Elizabeth. You need never hide your feelings from me.”

Elizabeth shook her head; she needed him to understand. What she knew now was not just in the past between two individuals. It affected her life too. It affected Darcy’s, and he deserved to know. Her heart was breaking, anticipating the moment when he would learn of her shame and no longer want her.

With a voice barely above a whisper, she pushed the book back to him again and said, “Read it.”

Darcy frowned. He looked down at the worn binding and opened the book to the first page. It was filled with an embellished, feminine handwriting he did not recognize. The first words, “Dear Diary,” stopped his examination and he closed the book again.

“Elizabeth, I cannot. These are your sister’s private thoughts. It is perfectly acceptable that you read them, but it would not be appropriate for me.”

Elizabeth took the book from him and opened to the last entry. She looked up at him with such painful eyes that his heart turned to ice at the sight. She mouthed, “Read it.”

He would rather not but for those eyes. They pleaded with him. He would do anything to make her happy again, and if Elizabeth wished that he read her sister’s diary, it was an easy request to fulfill.

Nodding, Darcy looked down and began reading.

Dear Diary,

La! What a perfect day for a walk. I shall laugh when I see the faces of my family when I return with Mr. Wickham and announce our engagement.

Engagement?
Darcy’s heart sank to his feet, but he read on.

To think we have been secretly engaged for two months and not a soul knows about it. Not even Kitty! My dear George said we must keep it a secret until his sister marries and he inherits the money he was to have been given from the settlements or some such detail. La! We shall be rich as lords — for I just heard from Mrs. Forster that Wickham has requested leave for his sister’s wedding. So it is done! I shall insist we announce today when he comes to call on me. He would want to tell his family at the wedding about his own intended, I am sure. Besides, I cannot wait much longer. My dresses are already getting tighter. Oh, how happy George shall be to know that he will be a father before long! Oh, but he is here; I can hear him being announced below. When next I write, I shall sign ‘Mrs. Wickham.’ Oh, how droll that sounds! For now, the future Mrs. George Wickham!

He was frozen; he could not move, react or think.
No, no, no!
Elizabeth was looking at him with a steady, piercing gaze.
How could she not blame me?
He thought. It was his fault for not revealing Mr. Wickham’s true character to the good people of Meryton last autumn. He, who could have prevented Elizabeth’s family from the licentious designs of such a man. He knew Wickham would never have married the girl! Now he was beginning to accept that Wickham was likely guilty when it came to Lydia’s accident — an accident that was looking to be nothing of the sort.

What words could he say to atone for such devilry? Her own sister ruined, and at the hands of a man from whom Darcy should have protected society.
If only I had been more open with my neighbors.
He felt as if his own future were crumbling around him.

What words could she say to atone for such devilry? Her own sister ruined, and at the hands of his enemy.
Who could possibly wish to connect themselves with the family of a fallen woman?
Even with Lydia’s death and the secret of the loss of her maidenhood — a secret Elizabeth would never allow anyone to know — she knew Darcy could not wish to have such connections. And to think there was a baby. The loss she felt for her sister and her foolishness was only compounded by the defeat Elizabeth was now feeling for herself. She felt as if her own future was crumbling around her.

Darcy found his voice. “I cannot say . . . cannot find words to express how sorry I am.”

Elizabeth’s eyes dried, and she lifted her chin. She could not show him the affect his words were causing her. Of course he was sorry — sorry he could no longer honor his intentions towards her. “I am sorry too, though I understand your feelings.”

She did?
He could not think so; it was his fault after all. Of course, she was sorry about what this meant for their own future. It was too painful to think about.

She wished she had not felt honor-bound to show him the diary. But she would die if the shame became generally known. Her parents!
Lord, they would be brokenhearted.
No, she had to have his word. Elizabeth could not meet his eyes when she asked, “You will not tell, will you?”

“Of course not, Elizabeth.”

Darcy was already transferring the searing pain in his heart into justified anger toward the man who caused all the torture in Elizabeth’s eyes — anger toward the man who once again intruded on his life, this time dashing Darcy’s chances for happiness. He had to go to London at once to speak with Wickham. He had to rid himself of the man for good. It would not change the situation with Elizabeth, but at least he could bring Lydia some justice, even if no one knew it but himself.

“I can see you have long desired my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay but real, though unavailing, concern. Would that I could do something . . . ” S
omething to make you love me still.

Elizabeth nodded. Her heart was numb, and the hole in her chest was expanding. “This I fear will prevent you and your sister from visiting Longbourn this afternoon.”

He made no response. Mr. Darcy seemed scarcely to hear her. He was now pacing in front of her in earnest meditation, his brow contracted and his air gloomy. He seemed to come to himself after several long minutes and was distracted as he said, “Ah, yes. Please make my excuses. I must be off to London as soon as I can.”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth’s dejected voice brought Darcy’s mind back from where it was in London, already planning what he would do to Wickham. He was grateful that his cousin was still watching the villain. He kneeled in front of Elizabeth then and took up her hands in his. They were so slight, so fragile. He turned them over in his hands. He thought about confessing his love to her right then. Surely, she must know even though he had not said the words.

He almost did, but he could not put her through the agony of hearing it when she could not possibly want him now. Instead, he carefully took off her gloves and turned her palms up. Holding her hands in his, he allowed his face to fall into her hands. Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears again as she looked down at her lap, at Darcy’s dark curls, his face hidden in her hands. She could feel his breath on her fingers. A tear escaped the confines of her eyes, rolled down her cheek and fell into his hair. She watched it glisten in the morning sun. For a brief moment, Elizabeth allowed herself to lean down and rest her cheek against the feathery curls. If that moment were all she could have from him, she would take it.

A moment later, she felt him kiss each of her palms tenderly, whisper a good-bye and stand to leave. He could not meet her eyes, and she watched him walk away, every step taking him farther from her and breaking her heart into more pieces. She looked down at her hands when she could no longer see his form. They were wet with his tears.

Chapter 17

With every pound against the saddle and every hoofbeat on the hard road, Darcy closed his heart further. He could not think about his own pain; he had a nightmarish task ahead of him. It would be the last gift he could ever give Elizabeth — the gift of justice for her sister. The fact that Elizabeth would never know was no consequence. The least he could do was secure that Wickham never caused pain elsewhere, for him or anyone else. He had to do this for himself and for Elizabeth. Darcy kicked his stallion’s flank and rode harder.

He had left a note with his sister, informing her of his departure and instructing her to have her trunks packed and to return to London in the coach. His valet was instructed to accompany her and her maid. He could not wait until their trunks were packed; he had to be on the road, his need for a distraction from his pain driving him forward. Harder, he pressed his horse. The sooner he could reach London, the sooner he could find his cousin and close the books on George Wickham.

He was tired, physically and mentally spent from the ride by the time he reached Grosvenor Square and the mews behind his London home. The horse was panting, lathered from its exertion. He threw the reins to the waiting groom and took the stairs into Darcy House two at a time.

Bellowing for Mr. Carroll, Darcy headed to his bedchamber at the same pace, pulling at his road dust-covered clothing. He was already half dressed in the dull black clothes he used to meet Perkins when his butler arrived at the door.

“Send a footman to Matlock House for Colonel Fitzwilliam immediately. Send one to his clubs, too, in case he is not at home.”

“Yes, sir. At once!” Mr. Carroll bowed and made a hasty exit. To see his master home so early and with such blue devils was more than a surprise for the loyal retainer. His was the best of masters, and Mr. Carroll knew that some dire circumstance had occurred to pull Mr. Darcy away from Hertfordshire and a certain lady there. He hurriedly issued the orders to the footmen and sent them on their way. Within thirty minutes, he was escorting an equally concerned and surprised Colonel Fitzwilliam into his master’s study.