Darcy’s valet met him at the door. “My master is preparing for bed.”
“Inform your master that he is to come down at once to the library,” the colonel commanded in a tone that would admit no refusal.
He poured himself a glass of cognac and set another for Darcy—generous, for he believed it would be needed.
Darcy descended, his shirt open at the collar and the cuffs unfastened, alarmed—as always—by any late visit, for Georgiana’s absence was the one thing that truly disturbed him.
“What is it?” he asked before the door was shut.
The colonel pointed to the glass; seeing no calamity upon his cousin’s face, Darcy sat and turned the tumbler in his hand.
“Drink,” the colonel bade him, and Darcy, smiling faintly, obeyed.
“There is no easier way to tell you the truth than directly. I love Elizabeth—and she loves me.”
Darcy stared, and then the colonel added, “Lady Elizabeth.”
Still, no composure settled on Darcy’s features.
“In love? How do you mean?”
The worst was past; the colonel was himself again. After such a confession, nothing could continue as it had been.
“What a foolish question, my dear cousin. As a man loves a woman. I have loved her since the winter she stayed with us; foolishly, I had delayed admitting it—to accept that what I felt was love. And then, more foolish still, I told you nothing.”
“You mean that you loved her when I—”
“Yes,” he interrupted. “Or rather, I admired her then. I was near love and rejoiced in that lively state which heralds it, though we seldom recognise it for what it is. For we speak only of weather and the distance between towns.”
Darcy laughed, though he did not yet grasp the full import of the revelation.
“Fitzwilliam, you must understand—I have come to tell you that your engagement to Lady Elizabeth will be broken the moment you meet. I am the bearer of that message… and you may believe it to be so.”
Only then did Darcy perceive the consequence. He was free—yet in that instant, he could not conceive what freedom meant, for in those months, he had never permitted himself to imagine the engagement might be dissolved. The prohibition still held its power. He drained his glass to the bottom, less for thirst than to buy a moment. The truth stood before him—Fitzwilliam was in love, and determined to marry… his betrothed.
He drew a deep breath to quiet the tumult within.
“Fitzwilliam, do you understand?”
“I understand,” said Darcy at last, with a laugh. “You are taking my fiancée.”
The colonel breathed freely, for Darcy’s tone was jesting. Yet, he could scarcely forbear a look of suspicion, for Darcy seemed not wholly to comprehend.
“What now? Why do you look at me so?” asked Darcy in the same tone, for a few moments, he had begun to feel free and to perceive the immense burden he had borne—that of a marriage to a woman he did not love. Lady Elizabeth was admirable, yet he would have wished time to forget the other Elizabeth, to free himself from his pain, and only afterwards to consider the future. The madness of that day in Kent had placed him in a predicament that seemed without issue.
Yet, looking at the colonel, the truth began to creep into his heart and release him.
He breathed, and it seemed that he had not drawn a full breath for months.
He looked about his house, and it appeared he had not seen it for some time, as if until then he had lived in a dream, a vapour. With slow gesture, he rose to pour another glass of cognac; it seemed as if he rose from a grievous sickness.
“It is true!” he exclaimed, and an immense relief spread across his countenance.
“Hold!” ordered the colonel. “I am not ready—”
“What else could there be?” Darcy smiled almost foolishly, and that look displeased the colonel, for he feared that, once freed from the burden of that engagement, the love for Miss Elizabeth might be delayed by the shock…only there was no time.
“Tomorrow at eight, Miss Elizabeth is to be married to Mr Clinton.”
