The Road to Pemberley (54 page)

After assisting him into his most impressive evening coat, brushing the lint from it, and giving a final adjustment to his neckcloth, Preston was startled to hear Mr. Darcy's low, “And so, into the fray, eh, Preston?”

“Yes, sir,” the valet replied, not knowing what else to say.

“This, then,” Darcy continued, “is the price we pay for love. I only hope it does not destroy me in the process.”

“No, sir.”

With that, Mr. Darcy descended to the already arriving guests, leaving a circumspect Preston to await his return.

At two o'clock in the morning, the valet was dozing in a chair, still fully clothed, as his duties were far from over. He was awakened by his master's door closing rather deliberately in the next room.

Instantly, he was with him, but that gentleman did not wait for his assistance. Almost savagely, the neckcloth was torn off, with the coat, waistcoat, and shirt swiftly following. In this state of semiundress, Mr. Darcy strode to the window and glared out into the darkness.

Under his breath he was muttering, “Mr. Wickham! Go on and accept Mr. Wickham's attentions, Miss Bennet, and see where it leads you. You shall make a worthy pair indeed. After witnessing the appalling behavior of your family tonight, I believe he might deserve a Bennet woman.” Then his anger seemed to leave him, and laying his forehead against the window sash, he emitted a sort of moan. “God help me, I must leave this place. I can bear it no longer.…”

Hardly daring to breathe, Preston stood silently, waiting for some order to follow. Finally, lifting his head only enough to be heard clearly, Mr. Darcy spoke again, “Preston, we are leaving tomorrow. We shall be escorting Mr. Bingley back to London.”

“Yes, sir.”

They did leave the following morning, and remained at the London house throughout the winter months. This was unusual, but Preston assumed it had something to do with Mr. Bingley or Miss Georgiana or possibly both. During that time, Mr. Darcy attended concerts and plays, yet entertained very little. His mood, while never exactly cheerful, had taken on a sort of stoic defensiveness. At this time, the only words said to his valet were perfunctory orders issued in a voice of disinterest.

In March, Mr. Darcy, along with his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, traveled to Kent, where Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mr. Darcy's aunt, resided with her only daughter. No sooner had the
trunks been brought up to Mr. Darcy's apartment than he appeared himself, a new resolve apparent on his countenance.

“Preston, I require my blue coat,” he declared. With his voice lowered, he went on pensively, “She is here. What chance is this, I wonder? Has she altered? What will she say?”

He left thereafter with undisguised haste, and such was the way it continued to be for several weeks. Mr. Darcy would appear, dress or change his clothes accordingly, and disappear, always with that same odd expression on his face. There were times, even, when he almost seemed sanguine. At least, he did not scowl or frown as he had while in town. If Mr. Darcy were a man to hum, Preston believed he would have.

One day, however, this pleasant interval ended abruptly. Mr. Darcy had left unexpectedly during the late afternoon, and arrived back less than an hour later in a mood as black as his coat. Preston, having seen these tempers often enough to wish to avoid them, did not disturb his master, but remained near enough so that if he were needed, there should be no delay. From time to time, he peered around the door frame to make certain that all was well, and, despite his training, would find himself quite taken aback by the devastation he witnessed therein.

Mr. Darcy, seated at his desk, was either writing furiously, staring vacantly out the window, or cradling his head in his hands. None of these things alone would have been cause for alarm, but when interspersed with several muffled groans and a desperate posture, they did seem to communicate a certain type of personal torment for which there could be no consolation.

They returned to London the following day. Other than the order to pack his trunks, Mr. Darcy spoke not at all, and did not refer to his behavior the previous evening. But then his valet did not expect him to.

The remainder of that spring was spent in town with only an occasional excursion to Pemberley. These were always on matters of business, and if they promised to be of a brief duration, he would go alone, without his personal attendant.

Come summer, this changed once more. Mr. Darcy began to speak of returning to Pemberley with the intent of remaining there for some time. Tiring of London society—in fact, tiring of many things—he displayed a restlessness that only a change of scene could appease. Therefore, in July, they proceeded to Derbyshire.

From there, Mr. Darcy traveled back and forth between Pemberley and London, making the arrangements for Miss Georgiana and several guests to arrive at a later time. This constant movement seemed to suit him, and though still not a man at ease with himself, he did relax somewhat.

One warm afternoon, he appeared in his room, his face ashen and his demeanor shocked. “My God, Preston. She is here at Pemberley. What am I to do? What am I to say?”

At that particular moment, however, the expression on the valet's countenance easily rivaled that of his master. For the gentleman had entered with not only his shirttail draped outside his breeches, his coat hanging in odd fashion over his arm, and his hair damp and disheveled, but the demeanor of a man in complete and utter confusion.

“Sir, have you suffered an accident?”

“Never mind that now. Help me here, will you?” replied his master.

No sooner was Mr. Darcy set to rights than, standing before the looking glass, he straightened his shoulders and, with his eyes sparkling with an unfamiliar exhilaration, stated aloud, “This is my chance. If only I might…” But with that, he turned and left as abruptly as he had entered.

In the days following, he was as good-humored as he had ever been.

Once, without intending to do so, Preston actually glimpsed the object of Mr. Darcy's desire. As he went down to dinner in the servant's galley, he happened to pass Miss Georgiana and another young lady as they stood together discussing a portrait hanging in a downstairs hallway.

Miss Georgiana, in fact, called out to him, asking, “Preston, do you know when this likeness of my parents was painted? Miss Bennet was inquiring, but I must confess I cannot recollect.”

After bowing, he replied as best he could, estimating the time to be twenty-five years earlier. With a smile, Miss Georgiana thanked him, and as he bowed again, he glanced at the aforementioned Miss Bennet. Discreetly, he appraised her.

His first impression was that she was quite pretty. Yet she did not resemble the ladies of town, who prided themselves on their slender and almost boyish figures, their feather-laden hairstyles, and the latest in fashionable dress. Although her countenance promised an unusual liveliness, she stood sedately while Miss Georgiana went on to explain the other portraits along that same wall.

He was murmuring “Excuse me” when the two ladies were joined by Mr. Darcy. Even as Preston left them, he sensed the increase of a certain repressed exhilaration within the small group. Mr. Darcy's expression might have been described as deeply enthralled or quietly rapturous.

Either way, there was no doubt that this young lady was the cause of his unrest throughout the past several months.

At dinner, Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, prattled on about the lady in question; how she had appeared a few days earlier to tour the house with her friends, how it had come as a great surprise
to Mrs. Reynolds when she claimed (albeit reluctantly) that she was acquainted with Mr. Darcy, and how she had stood near his portrait for quite a long time, studying it as though she were sorting through a puzzle.

“But,” Mrs. Reynolds had added as she finally ran out of words, “I must say she seems a genteel, ladylike sort of person. You saw her abovestairs, Preston. What thought you of her?”

Although reluctant to give his opinion, he concurred with Mrs. Reynolds. Yes, she appeared to be both genteel and ladylike, but he would not say if he believed her to return Mr. Darcy's regard.

By now, of course, most of the servants knew of their master's current infatuation. Despite their well-practiced facade of impassivity while serving the family, they took a keen interest in all of their affairs, but especially those of the heart. After all, if either of the Darcys became betrothed, the future of the entire household could be affected. It stood to reason, then, that any hint of such an outcome brought forth much speculation and comparison of theory.

Despite all of their gossip, however, not one of them had a clue as to who this Miss Bennet was. Where was she born? Had she family? Was she wealthy in her own right, or destitute and therefore hoping to secure an advantageous match? She was attractive enough, but was she respectable, accomplished, and all that she ought to be?

When Preston attended to his master that evening, he thought that he had never witnessed such a smile of gratification upon that gentleman's countenance. As he helped him prepare for bed, Mr. Darcy murmured several times, “Who could have foreseen such a turn of events?” and, “Do I dare entertain hope?”

The following morning, he left with the very same expectant expression, his impatience to be gone causing him to quit his room before his boots were even properly shined. After all of this, Preston was somewhat astonished when he returned but an hour later,
his manner no longer displaying the optimism it had earlier. Yet this was not simply the onset of one of his darker moods. No, there was more to it than that.

Sharply, he ordered his trunk packed and the coach readied to return to town at once. Then he began to pace. His face, while he did so, was a study of varying emotions: frustration, distaste, irritation, and, above all, deep and overwhelming concern. He said little, but upon their arrival at the London house, he adopted the habit of vanishing to places unknown, not returning until far into the night.

On one of these occasions, when Preston dutifully inquired if Mr. Darcy should need anything further, that gentleman shocked him when he replied shortly, “Yes. Sit down, Preston.”

Uneasily, the valet sat in a chair as near the door as he could manage. Mr. Darcy was not having it. “No,” he commanded. “Over here by the fire. That's it.”

With great reluctance, Preston did so, seating himself rigidly in a chair opposite his master. Then, falling silent, he waited for whatever was to come. “Preston,” began Mr. Darcy after a long moment of staring into the fire, “have you ever been in love?”

Stunned by both the question and that Mr. Darcy should ask something so very personal, he stammered, “I could not say, sir.”

Smiling wryly at his servant, Mr. Darcy answered for him: “In other words, you have, but it is not for me to trouble myself with.”

“Something like that, sir.” Although his face had taken on a reddish hue, Preston kept his eyes focused upon the wall opposite him.

“Well, Preston. I know that you have been singularly loyal to me for ten years. I know, as well, that whatever we speak of here and now shall not leave this room.”

“Yes, sir.” Shifting awkwardly, the valet glanced toward the door, as though seeking escape.

“I am, as you have probably guessed, most hopelessly, and—God help me—irreversibly in love.”

“I have suspected as much, sir.”

“Have you?” Appearing to be more amused than offended, he paused; then he asked, “And do you know with whom?”

“It is not my place to say, sir.” Again, he shifted.

“Just the same, you do know.” Mr. Darcy leaned forward, urging his valet: “Say it, Preston.”

“Miss Bennet, sir?” Preston ventured unwillingly.

“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy repeated, an expression of longing overtaking his features. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, whose heart I would do anything to secure.” Rising suddenly, he began to pace, muttering, “Is there nothing so torturous as unsettled love, I wonder? And now, when I have it within my power to grant her every happiness, I am bested by that wastrel, Wickham. Sometimes I believe that I shall never be rid of him.” He turned to Preston and asked abruptly, “Do you recollect a companion retained last year for my sister? A Mrs. Younge?”

“I…Yes, I think so, sir.”

“I would give every crown I own to find her. You do not, by any chance, have knowledge of her whereabouts?”

Preston swallowed uncomfortably. “I suspect I might, sir.”

A new hope surfaced on his master's face. Reseating himself, he leaned forward expectantly and said, “Tell me where, man, and you shall have anything you desire.”

“It is…” Preston cleared his throat, loath to proceed. “It is in a most disreputable part of town, sir. I would not recommend your going there. At least, not alone.”

“If you can but direct me, I promise you I shall not go alone.”

“It is on a street very near the docks,” Preston said reluctantly. “It is called Leadhall. Her house is there.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Yes,” came the cheerless affirmation. “Quite certain, sir.”

“Excellent.” For the first time in more than a week, his careworn expression abated somewhat. Standing, he offered his hand to his valet. “I was not speaking idly, Preston. Tell me what it is you desire and, if at all possible, I shall grant it.”

Preston, rising as well, accepted the proffered hand with discomfiture. After all, Mr. Darcy, although a gentleman of faultless refinement and manner, was at risk of crossing a line considered to be a constant. He, Samuel Preston, was a servant, not an equal—and never should that fact be disregarded.