“And who is to say he will fail next time?”
Everything had changed since leaving Farley House on Saturday evening. He had gone to bed that night plagued by fears that Bingley would attempt to steal Elizabeth away and awakened on Sunday morning to have all those fears transformed into fact when Fitzwilliam arrived bearing a letter that had been awaiting him at his barracks.
Pemberley
11thMarch
Thirson,
Mrs Darcy has just received a communication from her husband informing her that despite his aunt being dead at last, he does not mean to arrive home until sometime in the middle of next week. I amat a loss as to why this should be. After his lunatic friend’s escapades, he ought to be hastening home to ensure his wife’s wellbeing, not dallying by her ladyship’s graveside lamenting her long-overdue passing.
You will, of course, have heard from him what has happened, for I know Mrs Darcy has written to inform him. You will agree this Bingley creature is unhinged. What madness convinced him to impose upon her I know not—and in her present condition!
Somebody ought to see to it that he is actually gone, lest he make another attempt to get her onboard a boat. By which I mean I have seen men less set upon a purpose resort sooner to more forceful means to achieve it. I would put nothing past a man capable of such preposterous aspirations.
Pray tell your cousin to leave off weeping over Lady Catherine’s corpse and get himself back to Pemberley forthwith.
I shall have someone write this out again and send a copy to Knightsbridge lest this one arrives at Rosings after you have left.
Yours in perplexity,
T. Sinclair
They had been in a headlong sprint to Pemberley ever since, all objections to travelling overnight set aside. He and Fitzwilliam were exhausted, his own horses had long been replaced with post, and his desperation to reach Elizabeth increased with every second that ticked by.
What manner of imposition she had suffered at Bingley’s hands was not revealed in the letter, only that he had not succeeded, and Elizabeth was evidently well enough to be writing to him about it. There was small mercy in knowing she had indeed sent at least one letter, though the mystery of why he had not received it, or any subsequent ones, gave him an entirely new reason to be alarmed.
One-and-twenty hours’ travel with nothing to do but agonise overthings he did not know had left Darcy sick to his stomach with worry and angrier than it was sensible to be in such a confined space. Sleep brought him no relief. It only tortured him with the same picture of Elizabeth in Bingley’s arms over and over again. He feared he would go out of his mind if they did not begin to make better time.
“He cannot succeed,” Fitzwilliam said, “for they are forewarned this time. He will not be able to get within fifty miles of her. Besides, we cannot be sure he will make another attempt.”
Darcy did not respond. This was a topic they had abandoned more than once, for it offered nothing in the way of hope. Mrs Sinclair’s letter was dated 11thMarch. Having received no response from Ashby to the express sent on Saturday evening, they had no option but to treat his remarks in Kent as fact—and he, based on information received well after the first attempt to abduct Elizabeth, had averredin the future tensethat Bingley meant to take her to Nova Scotia. No matter which way they looked at it, this only seemed to confirm Mrs Sinclair’s concerns that he meant to attempt it again.
Darcy let his head drop back onto the cushions. He stared into the pitch-black interior of the carriage, wishing for the thousandth time that he had never sent Bingley back to Hertfordshire. Brooding over how soon the cur’s feelings must have changed after he got there proved an endeavour of pure torment.
“Hurst is right. He has always admired her,” he said into the darkness.
Fitzwilliam did not reply. Darcy was not entirely sure he was still awake, but he did not wish to sleep or dream himself, thus he continued. “I reread all the letters he sent me from Hertfordshire. They were all about Elizabeth. They hardly mentioned Jane at all but to say she was reserved.”
The carriage rolled on. “And I knew he thought her handsome. I have often heard him compliment her. It was he who first recommended her to me.”
The horses clattered through the lightless countryside, but he saw nothing of their inexorable progress. He knew only smouldering resentment. “He even kept a crayon sketch of her on his desk that one of the Gardiner’s children drew. I can still remember Jane’s expression when I discovered it. I could not understand why it vexed her so.” He closed his eyes. He thought he might as well, for the image of Elizabethin Bingley’s arms now haunted him whether or not they were open. “How could I have been so blind?”
“We all were.”
Not asleep then.
“If he hurts her?—”
“Stop torturing yourself, Darcy. All will be well.”
He pressed a fist to his mouth lest the dread constricting his throat escape. He knew not what he would do if it were not.
Pemberley’s driveway had never seemed so tortuous. They wove in and out of woods, around crags, over streams, and for the first time in his life, Darcy found himself envying Rosings’ contrived and formal avenue.
He could feel Fitzwilliam’s eyes on him. He let him watch and continued staring from the window. They crested a rise and the roof reared into sight. Pemberley still stood at least. He pulled the window down and leant out to call to the driver. “Not the stables! Go directly to the front!”
He returned to his seat but kept his hand on the edge of the lowered window, drumming his fingers on the frame. As though in a dream, they scarcely seemed to advance despite the cracking of the whip and thundering of hooves. There was nobody to be seen. The windows were empty and dark. The gardens were devoid of workers, the lawn devoid of visitors. There were not even any cursed ducks on the lake. Nobody opened the front door as they rolled through the gates and began to slow.
