“And you have never perceived Lady Catherine’s insufferable behaviour? Never watched the earl playing too deep? What of the deeds of your own sister? But perhaps you were protecting the young lady from exposure to a pack of contemptible characters? This Miss Elizabeth certainly ought to avoid nearly every member of our family and shun us as beneath her notice, if proper conduct is now to be the basis of every friendship!”
This callous mention of his sister’s past sins was uncalled for. “Georgiana was but fifteen years old when she was subjected to Wickham’s scheming! She was too young to understand what truly he wanted of her,” he hissed, furious.
“How old are these deplorably behaved Bennet sisters?”
Darcy took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Georgiana would never flirt with a regiment of officers, never overindulge at the punchbowl and never make a fool of herself before two hundred people.”
“No. Only before one.”
He almost struck his cousin in his abject fury, and it took all of his control to stop angry retorts, escalating an argument into a battle. His voice, when he spoke, was cold. “You are naturally entitled to your opinion, although I most vehemently disagree with your every point. My feelings for and about Miss Elizabethare not subject to reinterpretation by anyone in general, and have nothing to do with you in particular.”
The colonel seemed to deflate. They said nothing for some moments, the sound of the pendulum clock the only noise in the room. Neither seemed to know what next to say. But at last, Fitzwilliam sighed.
“I will go now. I did not mean to offend you, Darcy.”
Darcy nodded curtly.
At the door however, the colonel paused. “I think you are wise not to marry her, my friend. It is my worst fear—that I be thought unworthy of my bride. I would not wish that upon anyone, least of all the girl you love. If I were to marry Anne, most everyone—myself included—would say her bargain was a good one. Was not it Shakespeare who said, ‘All that glisters is not gold’?” He tried for a smile, although he failed miserably.
Before Darcy could think how to reply, he shut the door quietly behind him.
CHAPTER FOUR
For some time, Darcy did his best not to think of the morning’s encounters. In the afternoon, he met with his solicitor, one of the appointments his aunt’s foolishness had forced him to cancel. Afterwards, he went to his club—non-participation in life, indeed!—and spent three or four hours at a game of chess, which he lost.
Returning home, he wrote to his sister, all the while remembering the time he had written to Georgiana from Netherfield, whilst Miss Bingley complimented his pen, his writing, the length of his letters, and anything else she could think of to try and ingratiate herself. Whereas Elizabeth had been wholly the opposite—teasing him for his suggested faults. He had known it was George Wickham who filled her mind with the worst possible view of himself, had even wondered if she was trying to gently suggest he ought to make amends with the wastrel. He had quickly disabused her ofthatnotion.
“Implacable resentmentisa shade in a character,” she had said. “But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”
He had thought, in that moment, she had seemed rather sad about it. Sad that he could not be teased? Sad that he washopelessly resentful? Why had he not taken any opportunity to explain at least some of that resentment? Who knew what sort of lies Wickham had shared with her?
And the burning question, that, when he tried to close his eyes that night and sleep, prevented any semblance of rest:
Do I want to be ‘safe’ from her?
It is too late, he reminded himself.She is betrothed to another.
Sleep was a long time coming, however. When it did at last…it was to unrelenting, horrible dreams.
Darcy approached his chambers with keen expectation. His man would be within, and could remove this blasted neckcloth—knotted within an inch of his life in the most elaborate of folds, a true palatial fortress of a cravat, practically choking him. But what had he expected? It was his wedding day, and he must present himself in state for his bride.
Unfortunately, Pennywithers was not to be found—not in his sitting room, dressing room, or bed chamber. He searched everywhere in the vast space, but it was empty. He was alone.
Not for long, however. On the other side of a connecting door that was hidden within the panelling was the mistress’s chambers. Would Elizabeth, even now, be dressing in some translucent, revealing gown, purchased especially for this extraordinary night? Or might she be already awaiting him in her bed?
His excitement, hardly containable, reached new proportions at the very idea. He had imagined, had dreamt, had anticipated this moment, it seemed, for years. It was odd that hecould not remember what his prior objections had been—stupid ones, certainly.
In the absence of his man, he impatiently decided he must undress himself. Divesting himself of his coat was difficult; he heard a stitch or two rip. Well, Pennywithers must repair it, mustn’t he? Blast him for his abandonment! Peeling off his boots took even more doing, and he was in a sweat by the time he got them off. Why had he decided to wear boots instead of slippers to his wedding? What had he been thinking? Why had Pennywithers allowed it? Again, he cursed the missing valet.
Breeches and smallclothes were thrown aside, as was his vest. He stood before the looking glass, clad in only his long fine linen shirt and the dratted cravat. Tugging at it only seemed to knot it more tightly; he clawed at it, pulling at the thing, yet, unable to loosen it. Frantically, he rummaged in his dressing table and bureau for his penknife, thinking he would simply cut it off. The knife was inexplicably absent from its usual spot, and creeping feelings of panic assailed him.
Calm yourself, he ordered his reflection.Do not be stupid. Leave it. Your shirt is long, not as long as a nightshirt, but long enough. Perhaps it is a bit irregular to appear before Elizabeth in it; still, you need merely don your dressing gown and you will look perfectly acceptable, especially to your new bride—who likely would prefer the candles doused shortly after your arrival, regardless.
Unfortunately, a dressing gown was nowhere to be found. He owned at least three of them, and worked up another sweat tearing wardrobes apart in his search. He would be having a stern word with Pennywithers, that was certain, and he yanked the bell-pull, furious. If Pennywithers did not appear, his housekeeper, or one of the many, many servants he paid to wait upon him and see to his every need would find his man or his penknife or his dressing gown, or he would know why!
No one arrived. What was the matter with his entire household? Why, on the most important night of his life, had they all deserted him? It made no sense.
He had only two choices. He could wait here alone, growing ever more enraged, or he could go to his bride.
