It was a familiar sight. That was how Georgiana looked when she thought nobody was watching. Now her brother was locking himself away, just as she had.
What would happen when he emerged?
Elizabeth bit her lip, hard, to stop herself from speaking. She had to resist the urge to apologise. She was not sorry in the slightest, but a voice in her head was screaming at her.
If you apologise, then perhaps he will not… perhaps it will be enough to stop him from…
From what? There were no bottles he could reach for. Elizabeth watched her husband’s fingers clench and tangle in his dark hair.There were no bottles in the house, but she could tell that was the only obstacle that remained.
Now, in this moment, in this room, there was only theneed.
“Darcy…” she tried, not knowing what to do. He glared up, rejecting any sympathy or gentleness she might offer with immediate, scathing fury. Elizabeth trembled, refusing to back down, and at first her voice sounded strong.
“Darcy, if you use this as an excuse to… to fall, then I shall never forgive you.”
He scoffed and buried his head back in his hands. His voice was strong and spiteful.
“Since I am unworthy ofanyforgiveness, by your reckoning, that means nothing to me.”
Elizabeth stepped back, her nerve failing. In a strangled croak she begged, “Don’t make me hate you.”
Darcy did not look up. Elizabeth watched him blurring and softening as her eyes filled with tears. When he vanished into the mist, she turned and fled.
Chapter 52
Fitzwilliam was practiced in masking his feelings behind a jovial smile. The stronger the turmoil, the more cheerful he appeared. This tactic seemed even more vital in a home as rife with intrigue as Pemberley. It seemed that only half of the occupants knew about Georgiana, for a start. Additionally, most of the women had some kind of ongoing argument with at least one of the others. Such a volcano demanded that one tread lightly, and Fitzwilliam was well versed in strategy.
He also needed a distraction. Darcy had not told him half of what Fitzwilliam knew and would not admit to any of the feelings or struggles for which Elizabeth had tried to conscript the colonel’s help. It was hopeless, but again, something that he could not change.
Fitzwilliam had not even met Mrs. Darcy in person yet. She had not happened upon him when he arrived, and Darcy had insisted on speaking to her himself before making any proper introductions. Since then, both Darcy and Elizabeth had been conspicuously absent.
Fitzwilliam came down for dinner that evening to find that the master and mistress of Pemberley were not in attendance. Theyhad both sent word to enjoy the evening without them but made no explanation or excuses.
The other gentleman in the room shared a concerned look with Fitzwilliam as they exchanged bows. Fitzwilliam knew Bingley from several mutual visits to Pemberley and the London townhouse over the years and greeted him with genuine pleasure. The woman to his left, dressed in slippery yellow silk with blood-red garnets splashed about her throat, introduced herself in a low purr as Miss Bingley.
That left four strangers: young ladies, all, with matching bright eyes, coral lips and dimples. These had to be the Bennet sisters.
They were remarkable. Fitzwilliam dazedly thought that all women should gather together in matching sets, like exquisite porcelain teacups. Then he caught sight of the amused sharpness in the smallest one’s smile and found himself thinking of a pride of lionesses instead. He had the distinct impression that the little one saw him as an hors d'oeuvre!
When they went through to eat, he discovered that he had been seated diplomatically in the centre of the pack. Happily, his chair was beside the one woman he recognised: the awkward one who had hidden in a bush. She was wearing a pretty, chalky-blue dress which was clearly new, as she fidgeted a little with the skirt before looking comfortably settled. There were no elaborate jewels on her throat or in her ears, only a simple silver cross and a few pearl pins. The look would have been austere, but there was a nervous energy in the young lady which the understated costume transformed into glowing youth.
The other sisters were also in new gowns, although they seemed to wear theirs with much more confidence. They did not seem like the sort of people to hide behind bushes. Fitzwilliam generally did not favour green-fingered ninnies oversophisticated women who had the sense to stay indoors, but today he could not be satisfied with an ordinary conversation. Mary Bennet was unconventional; that made her perfect.
He sat down in his chair and turned to looked at Mary with a smile, hiding his amusement at the way that the girl on his other side immediately whispered jealously to her opposite sister.
“May I join you?” he asked Mary, raising a teasing eyebrow. She blushed but retorted in kind:
“It seems that you already have, sir. Far be it from me to stop you taking liberties.”
“Ah, such harsh words! You do not truly think so poorly of your new friend.” he replied peacefully.
“Do I not? You speak as though we have a long acquaintance, sir. I have shared more words with the undergrowth than I have with you.”
“Then I suggest we change that. Would you like to speak to me more, Miss Mary, or speak to the shrubs a little less? I would not like to interrupt your social engagements for a small chance of happiness.”
“What happiness do you anticipate, sir?” she asked, her voice suddenly rather squeakier.
Fitzwilliam pushed her water glass closer to her, feigning ignorance of her bashfulness. It was the courteous thing to do, after all. He was well aware of the effect a few teasing words could have on a young lady and prided himself on knowing exactly which words to use. In fact, he would have been offended if Mary hadnotblushed. The ongoing bickering from the jealous sister was also rather flattering, although he was content to let that become a pleasant background him.
