“Let us hope Tucker can find some more rational men to work for him.”
“That is all you have to say?” Saye demanded. “The labourers are not the problem. Our house is cursed!”
“Certainly feels that way,” Darcy replied before walking past both his cousins and retreating to his bedchamber in miserable defeat.
Elizabeth got almost all the way home from visiting Lydia before she stopped walking and forced herself toturn in the direction of Marine Parade. It was cowardly to avoid a meeting with Mr Hartham, and even thoughhehad evidently not thought it imperative to call on her in a timely manner,sheneeded to set the record straight. Before the misunderstanding could gain any more momentum.
She retraced her steps back to the top of town and wove her way through the pretty lanes that would bring her down to the seafront. Trepidation fluttered uncomfortably in her breast as she drew nearer, for with her own house directly adjacent to Lady Preston’s, there was every chance she would encounter Mr Darcy in the vicinity. Hope fluttered around her heart at the prospect. She was increasingly certain that he must not have called because he had heard about her supposed engagement. Whether he now thought her fast, or capricious, or heartless, she could not guess, but she dearly hoped to see him so that she might correct the misapprehension.
But for a small boy and his dog, the road was quiet, however, and she could see nobody in the windows of her house as she climbed next door’s front steps. If her tenants were at home, they were sitting quietly within, paying no attention to the outside world. She thought briefly of knocking under the pretence of speaking to Mr Tucker but quickly dismissed the idea. Not even she had courage enough for such an obvious ploy. If Mr Darcy wished to see her, he would call. She knocked on Lady Preston’s door instead.
“Good day,” she said to the servant who opened it. “Is Lady Preston at home?”Or her nephew?she did not add, for propriety’s sake.
“I am afraid not. Mr Hartham has taken her to visit her physician in Eastbourne.”
Thus, the question of why he had not called on her was answered.Though it would not have harmed him to send a note!she thought, begrudging the distance she had walked that day without resolving any of her problems. “Thank you, sir. I do not have a card to leave, I am afraid, but if you could tell her that Miss Bennet called, I should be grateful.”
He assured her that he would, and she meandered back towards town. Perhaps she would ask her uncle to send a note, inviting Mr Hartham to come to the house, where he would be forced to speak to her. Or perhaps she would call here again tomorrow. Perhaps he would come later that afternoon, when he had finished doing his aunt’s bidding.Perhaps I shall never see him again and remain engaged to him for the rest of my life!She sighed deeply at the horribleunfinishednessof it all.
There was a large gathering on the Steyne when she reached it, with what looked like hundreds of people milling about watching a game of some sort. She walked around the periphery, avoiding the worst of the crush, but turned when a wave of gasps arose, followed by a spattering of applause. Her heart came to a thudding stop when she saw Mr Darcy, with Miss Larkin all but hanging off his arm, both her hands wrapped around it in an overtly possessive fashion. Elizabeth watched as she rose up to her tiptoes and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, and he looked down at her and smiled fondly.
She whipped her gaze away and quickly resumed walking, her mind a noisy, unintelligible riot. Her chest squeezed painfully, and she began to run. She ran and ran, ignoring the shouted enquiry from a stranger as to her well-being. She ran until her lungs burnt and her feet hurt from pounding on the ground. She ran untilshe had left the town behind and she was almost at the Millhouses’ residence. She stopped before going in, not wishing to see anyone until she no longer looked as though she had been crying. She took several deep breaths, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
The voice that had chased her all the way here and that still echoed around her head was Lydia’s, asking, ‘What harm can a little kiss do?’ She had said it during their conversation about Wickham’s many seductions in Meryton, arguing that his trysts had been meaningless—not worth anyone’s condemnation—too trivial for anyone to attribute any actual intentions to them.
Elizabeth’s worry that Mr Darcy regretted kissing her seemed silly now. As did her fear that he had changed his mind about her after hearing the rumour of her engagement to Mr Hartham. Instead, her heart whispered—nay, screamed—that there was a much simpler reason for why he had not called. Their kiss—the one which had weakened her knees, quickened her pulse, and left her aching for more; the one that had allowed her to believe that he still loved her—had meantnothingto him. Nothing at all. Not if, in the next moment, he could return to warmly welcoming another woman’s open affections, as though what had happened in the secret of Lord Saye’s closet had never occurred.
24
“What is it?” Saye demanded, gesturing to the deconstructed skeleton on the table.
The rabbit bones had, as had been planned, tumbled unannounced out of his chimney breast in a cloud of soot. And, as could not have been planned, they had done so at a most felicitous juncture, while Saye was directly in front of the fire, staring at the green lick of the flames. His resulting fright had almost been enough to cheer Darcy out of his black humour.
Almost.
“A human foot?” Fitzwilliam suggested.
Georgiana gasped with such verisimilitude as vaguely alarmed Darcy. He had not thought her such a convincing actress.
Saye grimaced and peered closer at the bones before shaking his head. “That is not human.”
“A Pomeranian?” Darcy said.
Saye glared at him. “I am glad you find this so amusing, Darcy. Perhaps it will put a smile on your face before your scowl depresses the whole house. A housewhich, in case any of you cares, is presently host to some disturbingly ghostly goings-on.”
“I thought you wanted the house to be haunted?” Fitzwilliam observed.
“I wanted a bit of excitement, not an exorcism,” Saye retorted.
“I know not what you are distressed about,” Darcy said with studied disinterest. “Something obviously just crawled up there and died.”
“That does not explain why my fire is still burning green.”
“Are you sure about that?” Fitzwilliam asked. “Is it not more likely that you drank too much absinthe and imagined it, just as you imagined hearing the violin?”
“He is not imagining it,” Georgiana said with wide eyes and a soft voice. “My fire has been burning green, too.”
Darcy looked askance at her. Truly, when had this aptitude for playacting arisen? He had always thought of her as a poor liar.
