Miss Bingley looked nonplussed at Darcy’s unexpected characterization of Bingley.
“Yes, but—”
“We will discuss this later. I have an urgent letter to write.”
It was a dishonest statement. That was how these things began, with a single precarious moment when the distinction between truth and deceit was hanging in the balance.
Taking the stairs two at time, Darcy retreated strategically to his bedchamber. From the bottom of the stairs, he heard Miss Bingley’s voice calling his name, but he ignored it. In this grim mood, he was not completely in control. He might say something cutting to her. Or even worse, he might reveal the whole sorry business.Thatwould give her a weapon to use, and he had no doubt Miss Bingley would brandish it to convince Bingley to depart at once. Darcy had not yet decided what to say to Bingley, and he did not want his sisters using Elizabeth’s confession for their own purposes.
He rang loudly and repeatedly for Evans, who arrived breathless and in record time.
“You rang for me, sir?”
No, I did not. You imagined it.Darcy bit down on the sarcastic reply. It was not his habit to take out his anger on the servants.
“We will be departing at dawn,” he said. The words had a finality to them that threw him into despondency. “Do what should be done to make us ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
Evans disappeared briefly and returned with two footmen carrying Darcy’s portmanteau and bags, and set about quietly going about his business.
Meanwhile, to avoid sliding down the slippery slope of duplicity—and to distract himself from the whirlwind of emotions battering at him—he forced himself to write a letter to his sister Georgiana. It was indeed urgent, so he had not lied to Miss Bingley. Distracted by his conundrum with Elizabeth Bennet, he had neglected poor Georgiana terribly.
It was impossible to concentrate, however, with all the activity going on in the room. Instead, he stared through the window across the open fields in the direction of Longbourn. Three miles away, Elizabeth Bennet was going about her everyday activities. He wondered if she was thinking about his departure, or if she was recounting their conversation, laughing at him with her sisters.
He gave a loud groan.
“Mr. Darcy. Are you in pain?”
How could he explain the groan?
“A wrong move. I jolted my shoulder,” he said, and was annoyed at himself again for resorting to subterfuge.
“I will ask the housekeeper for something to ease the pain.”
“No need,” said Darcy. “I would prefer you to finish your packing.”
He continued to stare out of the window, trying his best not to think of the hurt on Elizabeth’s face before she walked away, until Evans completed his arrangements in the bedchamber, and the footmen carried down Darcy’s baggage.
“I will fetch you some laudanum, shall I, sir?”
Darcy considered the possibility. Laudanum would give him the bliss of sleep and oblivion. It was tempting, but he preferred not to follow that path. Better to be consumed by desire for Elizabeth than to be consumed with desire for the tincture.
“Thank you, Evans. That will be all.”
When his valet was gone, Darcy set aside his torment, throwing all his energy into writing the letter. It was a battle, and he struggled to keep his lines even. He had to redo the letter after the ink dripped from the quill onto the page when his mind drifted to the events of the last few hours. As he copied the whole page over, his hand felt heavy, and his handwriting was labored, slanting backwards then forwards in tangled mess. He laughed ironically. Miss Bingley would not compliment him on his penmanship if she saw this letter. He remembered Elizabeth Bennet’s amusement at Miss Bingley’s fawning praise and his throat tightened painfully.
He would never see that laughter on Elizabeth’s face again.
He imagined her leaning over his shoulder to survey the letter, as she and Miss Bingley had done on that day in the library. His breath quickened and his spine tingled at the idea of her standing close to him. He imagined her putting her arms around him and leaning against him as he sat in the chair. She would whisper in his ear, her warm breath caressing his skin and setting it on fire.
Enough! He refused to think of her.
Then he sealed the letter resolutely, satisfied that he had proved himself not to be a liar. If he sent this, Georgiana would probably discern his state of mind and set out at once to see him, but most likely, he would arrive before the letter.
Now he had one last task to accomplish – he needed to tell Bingley what had happened.
