Pamela Aidan - These Three Remain

The laughter Elizabeth had struggled to contain behind those invitingly pursed lips burst forth in sweet cascades of delight, and Darcy’s heart faltered at the sound. That was the Elizabeth of the Meryton assembly, with the enigmatic smile and whispered laughter, the Elizabeth of the Netherfield ball, with her impudent curls and wistful gaze, the Elizabeth of Pemberley and Erewile House, whose imagined eyes spoke to him as he wandered the halls not quite alone. With growing irritation he watched Fitzwilliam bend to whisper something near her ear; and before Darcy could look away, she tilted her head, glancing over at him. Their eyes met, and he could no more pull away from their fascination than he could will his heart to stop beating. The answers to a thousand questions lay in the depths of those enchanting orbs, and he ached to ask them all. But even as the first one formed on his lips, her aspect sobered, the laughter fading to a curiously speculative regard of him before turning back to her companion.

What was she thinking? Why had she looked at him thus? Oh, this was intolerable! A faint voice as from a great distance protested that Fitzwilliam’s behavior should be nothing to him, that his heart was in great danger should he engage with her, and that he had sworn only a half hour before to show her no attention or favor. Without thought and certainly beyond reason, he rose from the chair and in only a few swift strides was upon them. Both Elizabeth and his cousin looked at him with a surprise that was no less than his own at finding himself, in truth, across the room. Speak! his heart prompted.

“Your family, Miss Elizabeth, I trust they are well?” The question tripped more smoothly off his tongue than he had dared to hope, but Richard still appeared to wonder at his sudden intrusion. Little did Darcy care what his cousin thought of his manners, for at last her eyes were fully upon him. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety. The Bard’s consummate description of Egypt’s legendary queen was Elizabeth to perfection. The pleasure of her was incalculable.

“I left them all in health, sir, and have since received assurances that they remain so. You are very kind to inquire.” Her words were measured, polite, but her gaze withdrew from him almost before the end of her reply. Was that to be all? But, no! They flashed up at him again, exciting his anticipation. “My eldest sister has been in town these three months, Mr. Darcy. Have you never happened to see her there?”

A more unlooked-for dart she could not have loosed at him! How could he have forgotten? No, he had not seen her sister, but he had known of her, conspired against her. His conscience played havoc with him as she waited for his reply, her eyes strangely unreadable. Richard, too, looked at him curiously. He was a fool, a thousand times a fool, to have succumbed!

“No, Miss Elizabeth.” He bowed in apology. “I regret to say that I was never so fortunate to meet your sister in London.” She seemed to accept his word, but Darcy’s conscience smote him so that he could not continue comfortably at her side. Without another word, he withdrew to the window and stared out into Mrs. Collins’s garden. Let them think he was caught up in admiration of the blasted weeds! Anything other than the truth that he had nearly shown himself a fool in the teeth of his own convictions. Curse his weakness! It will not, shall not happen again, he vowed to himself.

The noises that seeped out from under the dressing room door were unmistakable. Turning over heavily, Darcy burrowed into the pillows in one more futile attempt to find a comfortable position in the great bed before Fletcher —

“Good morning, sir!”

Too late! Darcy groaned into his pillow and then, with his customary resolve, slid his hands flat against the sheets and shoved against the bedding. In one fluid movement, he rolled off the instrument of his nightly torture and was on his feet.

“It is a lovely, bright Sunday morning, sir. Just as it should be for Easter.” Fletcher reached up and twitched back the heavy damask curtains, which had, until that moment, held off the morning. He turned to his master, a smile pulling at the corners of his eyes. “Her Ladyship desires me to remind you that the barouche will leave at ten precisely and that breakfast will be served en famille at nine in the morning room.”

“As they have been every Easter since I was four years old at least,” Darcy groused under his breath while he stretched out the aching muscles of his back. A yawn overtook him as he ambled to the window to judge the accuracy of Fletcher’s assessment of the coming day. Squinting fiercely, he peered out into the sun-drenched park. Yes, it would be a glorious day. The only clouds that troubled the expanse of blue sky were fleecy white and thoroughly benign in temperament. A slight breeze teased the leaves of the grove that separated Rosings Park from Hunsford village, their beckon causing him to wish that he had had his horse Nelson brought down and could meet the promise of such a day as it deserved.

“It is seven o’clock, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher’s voice interrupted his vision of grassy hills and tree-lined lanes taken at a full gallop. “Shall I prepare…”

A hearty knock at the chamber door drowned out the valet’s question, causing both men to look over in surprise as the door cracked open and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s head appeared. “Oh, excellent, Fitz! You’re up! But, Fletcher…” Fitzwilliam stepped into the room and closed the door behind him softly. “You have not got him shaved yet! It is seven, you know.”

“Yes, sir, I was just about —”

“Well, go to it, man! Time marcheth on.” He grinned at the valet, who bowed his acknowledgment of the orders of a superior officer and smartly took himself off to prepare the barbering gear. Richard turned back to his cousin. “Did I say ‘marcheth’?” he asked wryly, then feigned a sigh. “Too long a soldier, I suppose. Soon I will not be at all fit for good company!”

Darcy snorted and turned back to his view of the park. “No fear of that! You seem to be doing quite well.”

“Yes, actually, I am!” Fitzwilliam beamed. “And that is why I am here. I wish to hurry things along this morning so that I may perhaps have some pleasure of the parsonage females before services begin.” He paused for his cousin’s comment, but receiving none he pressed on. “I daresay, the delights of la Bennet will be more than adequate compensation for the irritation of Mr. Collins’s sermonizing.”

“Had a surfeit of him at last, have you? You have called at least twice this week,” Darcy murmured, his gaze traveling the distance of the path through the grove. He could just see a corner of the church tower above the sway of leaves in the distance. The parsonage would lie just to the right, would it not?

“A surfeit and more, to be sure! But I would have braved his tiresome prattle more often than twice if it had been proper…if you had thrown over the accounts and accompanied me, Fitz, and kept old Collins occupied as a devoted cousin should! Dashed if la Bennet couldn’t easily keep my attention for quite a — What?”

Darcy suddenly rounded on his cousin. “Is it possible that we might have a conversation without the subject of Miss Elizabeth Bennet continually figuring in it?”

Fitzwilliam regarded him wonderingly. “I imagine so, Cuz; but I never knew you to be averse to discussing a fine-looking young woman before. If that is what you wish —”

“I do so wish,” Darcy interrupted emphatically and started for the dressing room. Surely Fletcher was ready for him by now, and if his shave would discourage Richard’s line, so much the better.

Fitzwilliam shrugged his shoulders in compliance and crossed his arms, assuming an apologetic stance. “Very well, but then it comes about that I bear you ill tidings.”

Darcy stopped at the doorway, his forehead creased in mounting annoyance. “What do you mean, Richard?”

“After you pled fatigue and left us last night, I suggested to our aunt that she invite the parsonage to tea this evening.” He stopped, considering with amusement the curious look upon his cousin’s face, then continued with an impish grin. “So not only will you be forced once more to bear Miss Elizabeth Bennet figuring in the conversation, you will have to bear Miss Elizabeth’s figure —”

Darcy closed the dressing room door sharply upon his cousin and then leaned heavily against it, only to hear Fitzwilliam’s laughter on the other side as he left the bedchamber. He glanced over his shoulder. The dressing room lay empty, and he was blessedly alone. Dropping his forehead lightly against the door, Darcy closed his eyes. The last five days had been some of the most afflicting in his experience, and the discomfort of his aunt’s great guest bed only incidental to the troubled passage of the nights. Shaking his head at the vagaries of Providence that had brought Elizabeth once more into his circle, he pushed away from the door and dropped into the barbering chair. Leaning back, he cocked his head up and began a minute examination of the ceiling.

After the disastrous exchange with Elizabeth concerning her sister, Richard had seen that his cousin wished to be away from Hunsford and smoothly facilitated their departure. But the moment they were out of earshot of the parsonage and the occasional stray villager, he began to tease his cousin about his odd behavior. “Leave off, Richard!” Darcy warned curtly. Recognizing his tone, his cousin did his bidding. But if Richard was alive to the letter of the law, he was blithely indifferent to the spirit of it and had instead taken the tack of enumerating Elizabeth’s manifold charms, calling upon Darcy for his agreement at every point until he had been ready to do his cousin an injury.

“Yes, she is all very well,” Darcy agreed tersely from between clenched teeth, “but do you have a care, Richard. Her situation is open to me, and I warn you that she has very little in the way of expectation and exceedingly poor connections. You, my dear cousin, are much too expensive for her.” He had stopped then in his long strides toward Rosings and turned a fierce scowl upon his cousin. “And she is a gentleman’s daughter!”

Fitzwilliam had held up his hands in protest. “Of course, Fitz! Good Lord, you don’t think I’d trifle with a woman right under the parson’s roof, do you?” Darcy offered him only a piercing stare in reply and turned back to the path. “Well, you can have no objection to visiting!” his cousin declared, catching up with him. “Rosings is so deadly dull. It has been the same every year since we were boys. Now, finally, on its very doorstep, is a diversion charming and witty enough to make this interminable obligation pass more quickly.”

“I cannot spare the time to make calls, Richard. There are accounts to overlook, the estate manager to interview, and the farms to inspect. I could use your help!” Darcy said.

“And you shall have it, Fitz,” his cousin earnestly assured him, “but you won’t need me all the time. I’m a damned nuisance when I’ve nothing to do, which you well know! So, in the interest of avoiding coming to blows, I’ll toddle off and call at Hunsford when I’m not needed. Oh, I shall be careful!” he exclaimed at Darcy’s narrowed regard. “The model of discretion and decorum!”

And so, while Darcy had buried himself in his aunt’s affairs for the last four days in a determined effort to keep himself so busy that thoughts of Hunsford’s guest did not intrude, Richard had been enjoying her company — twice! Both times he had come by Rosings’s book room, which Darcy habitually commandeered for his yearly task, to ask if Darcy would care to accompany him to the parsonage. And both times Darcy had managed to look extremely busy and wave him off, only to watch jealously from the window as his cousin strode out of sight down the path leading to Hunsford…to Elizabeth. Then Darcy had returned to the table and the ledgers spread about on it and marked each minute until Richard returned. The blackguard cheerily hailed him from the doorway and informed him of the delightful time he had spent with “la Bennet,” as he had christened her. How Darcy resented that appellation! Even though she had long been “Elizabeth” in his private thoughts, she ought to be “Miss Elizabeth Bennet” in public discourse; but if he should raise an objection, Richard would be upon him like a hawk.

Even so, his intense curiosity about all things that concerned her almost caused him to betray himself. It was maddening to hear Richard’s bits and pieces dropped in conversations and not be free to pluck them up for closer examination. Just the previous evening, during their after-dinner brandy, his cousin had made reference to a book he had procured for her from their aunt’s library. “Indeed!” Darcy replied, his eager interest apparent enough to cause Richard to stop in his discourse. He burned to ask the title, how his cousin came to know she desired it, how she received it; but instead he turned back to his brandy and silently cursed his tongue. He knew she read, she embroidered, she wrote, she walked; he’d known all that since Hertfordshire. What he wanted to know was what she read. Had she resumed Milton? What did she think about it? What pleasures did she find in her needlework and her rambles? What concerns were on her heart that set her applying pen to paper? He wanted to hear her voice and enjoy her smile and lose himself in her eyes…