It was true. Darcydidspeak highly of Miss Elizabeth. He wondered that such an endorsement had not occurred to him sooner. Unsure why he did so and deliberately giving it as little thought as possible, Bingley slipped the piece of folded paper she had dropped into his inside coat pocket and went to re-join the cricket.
The same day, London
Though he had intended to call at a more acceptable hour, a brawl at the barracks had waylaid all his plans. It was, therefore, gone seven in the evening before Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived at Darcy House. A frequent visitor and one of very few with the privilege of doing so, he declined any attendant and made his way to the study alone. He found his cousin in a chair before a banked fire, coat and cravat discarded, elbows on his knees, staring into the glass he held in his hands.
“Fitzwilliam.”
It was a cursory greeting and Darcy did not look up as he gave it, though it provided a fair idea of how the interview was to go. If Fitzwilliam was to treat with him in that state, he thought he ought at least to be on a level footing. He went first to the sideboard, filled his glass, drained it, refilled it and only then claimed the other fireside seat.
“Must I beg?” he enquired after a full ten minutes of silence.
For the first time, Darcy raised his head. He looked awful. Apart from the obvious gash and bruising to his cheek, his pallor was ashen, his expression grim, and it would seem he had not slept for days. He uttered not a word, only sipped his drink and returned to staring at it.
“Who did that?” Fitzwilliam enquired, gesturing to Darcy’s cheek with his glass.
“No idea. I was not taking note of their names.”
“You were not taking note of much yesterday, it seems. You completely overlooked Georgiana’s distress.”
Darcy winced but held his tongue.
“How many did you fight?”
“Not enough.”
“And whatever it is that troubles you, has it been put to rights by the addition of a bloody great gash to your face?”
Darcy almost spoke several times before throwing back the remainder of his drink and clamping his lips shut. It was deeply unsettling. Fitzwilliam was not sure he had ever before seen Darcy as discomposed as this. He stood to retrieve the decanter from the sideboard, refilled both their glasses and set it down within arm’s reach of his chair. “You know I will assist in any way I can.”
Darcy’s eyes slid closed, and he grimaced as though pained. “You cannot.”
Silence reigned, the daylight ebbed and the fire dwindled.
“Come, man, you are disconcerting me. This is not at all like you.”
Darcy’s lip curled. “Thank God for that.”
“Bloody hell! Darcy, what has got into you?”
Silence.
“Tell me.”
“Go away, Fitzwilliam.”
He leant forwards. “Tell me.”
Darcy snapped his head up, his eyes savage. “What exactly wouldyou have me tell you?”
“Look at you! I would have you tell me what has you sitting in a chair with your face cut up and pissing self-pity into your boots!”
Darcy held his gaze for a moment but then, in a move destined to disturb Fitzwilliam far more than a raised voice or hint of aggression, merely looked away, tilted his head forward and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Fitzwilliam waited. He watched Darcy’s jaw working as he clenched and unclenched it, and still he waited. The fire went out, and still he waited.
When Darcy finally spoke, his voice was almost inaudible. “I love her.”
Awomanwas the cause of all this? Of all the possible scenarios Fitzwilliam had imagined, Darcy fancying himself inlovehad definitely not been one. If not that the man looked so damned wretched, he might have thought him in jest. “Who?”
