Fitzwilliam Darcy
He let out a deep breath.
Then Darcy sealed the paper with dripping red wax and his ring.
He addressed it to Elizabeth Darcy.
And then he stared at the name again for a long time. Odd, to see his own name after hers.
That piercing pain again started to overwhelm him.
Darcy quickly penned another note that was to be seen by everyone in the house in which he wrote that unavoidable business required him to go to London.
That was also quickly closed and sealed and addressed to Elizabeth as well.
Then a note to Mrs. Reynolds specifying a few matters and telling her to view Mrs. Darcy as fully empowered to make any decision touching on the household. He wondered why he added that.
But it had been Mrs. Reynolds telling him about theportrait that precipitated the events of the day, and she might have learned somehow that they had quarreled afterwards.
That time seemed strangely distant. A long time ago.
Terribly, terribly long ago.
Another note to his steward, this one took substantially longer to write, as there were important matters of business that he was neglecting for the sake of his wholly fictitious business in London — or rather his very real business of not being tormented by the daily sight of Elizabeth, when she did not want him to touch her.
Darcy leaned his head against the chair. His hand ached from too much writing.
It was almost dark now, and his body ached.
He’d ridden out without his carriage.
One more quick note to the stables telling them to send it up to the next post station south of the inn he currently sat in, with the coachman and postillions. It would be there for him the next morning when he woke, and he’d take rooms there for the night.
Darcy stood up and shook himself out.
He rang for the servant, gave the letters over, paid for the work, and then returned to his horse, and set off slowly south down the road.
Chapter Fifteen
As the evening progressed, Elizabeth began to feel anxious for her husband’s continued absence. Odd thoughts ran through her mind about what he might have possibly decided to do with himself, intermixed with the image of him lying in a ditch muddy and soaked with a broken neck, while the grotesquely oversized horse that he insisted was perfectly docile, docilely chewed the grass nearby, wholly unconcerned by the fate of his master.
Of course, more likely by far he had decided to not return — the only question was for how long would he remain absent. The other question, since no question ever lives alone, was what would she tell Georgiana. And also, how would she live, and how would she manage herself, if Mr. Darcy never returned to Pemberley, never again.
Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he will return to Pemberley, he loves the estate.
At present, Elizabeth could not keep herself from being ridiculous.
Just before she had determined to become truly alarmed, the letters that Mr. Darcy had thrown out into the world by messenger presented themselves to the inhabitants of his estate.
The first, fully public note, announced that he had sudden and unavoidable business in London, and that he would immediately travel south to attend to it. He gave the directions of the inn where his valet, his clothes, and the light traveling carriage were to meet him.
Very like Mr. Darcy, to be willing to bother everyone in such a way.
It also irked Elizabeth that Mrs. Reynolds efficientlymanaged the whole task without having even the slightest call to ask Elizabeth for aid in arranging the detailed logistics of her husband's escape from her presence.
He was running away.
That, she supposed, was the power of the husband —hewas free to go where he wished, to do as he pleased, andshecould not tell him nay.
