Page 54 of Master of Himself

Saturday 23 November

After waiting another full day and performing the same nightly ritual in the rain and mud, Darcy was at his wits’ end. With all the indignities he had suffered over the past ten days, he had fully expected the hooded man to finally make an appearance and spout another cryptic speech, but he remained elusive.

“Show yourself, old man,” he shouted, as the rain pelted his face. “What do you want from me? Why won’t you reverse the spell?”

“Out, damned spot. Out, I say!”

Darcy shook his head in disbelief at Hurst’s nonsensical use of the Macbeth line. “What are you going on about? This isn’t a murder reversal.”

Hurst shrugged, then handed over Darcy’s umbrella. “Well, I’m no scholar, but it seemed like an appropriate speech for the occasion. The spell is like a stain.”

Although startled by this interpretation, Darcy couldn’t disagree. “You might be a scholar, after all, Henry.”

Charles accepted his umbrella, and they slogged through the mud to the paved driveway. “To be Charles, or not to be Charles; that is the question.”

As Hurst laughed merrily at his brother-in-law’s joke, Darcy joined the game. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

“That’s a good one,” Hurst said. “You’re playing Charles and he’s playing you.”

Darcy recited another Shakespearian line. “The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.”

Hurst howled with laughter. “He’s got you there, Charles. Oh, I’ve got one from Shelley – Sometimes, the devil is a gentleman.”

“Am I the devil, Henry?” Darcy inquired, daring Hurst to accuse him.

“Could be, or maybe he’s the old hooded fellow,” Henry said, then spread his arms wide. “What if it’s me?” He cackled as though possessed of a demon.

Darcy thought there was a distinct possibility that all three of them had devolved into lunacy.

Upon entering the mudroom, the men found a stack of fresh linen towels, which had undoubtedly been placed there in anticipation of another muddy night. Darcy removed his boots and left his soiled clothes in a basin, apparently also provided for this purpose, then carried the lantern up the stairs.

“I fear Hobbs is ready to bolt,” Charles said as they entered the great hall.

Darcy had the same fears. “I dread Henderson’s disappointment. He’s likely to give notice if this continues much longer.”

“Don’t lose heart, lads. We’ll come about,” Hurst said. He had also been soaked through, but with the exception of his boots, he’d managed to avoid the mud.

As expected, Henderson entered Darcy’s chamber with sad puppy eyes, his sunny disposition and ready humour understandably absent. “I’ve brought warm bathing water, and you shall presently be more comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mr Henderson,” Darcy said, knowing he was undeserving of such kindness. Although the valet was amply compensated for his expert services, Darcy was fully conscious of the extra work he had imposed on the man this past sennight.

“Your greatcoat is all over mud, sir,” Henderson said as he filled the wash basin.

“Yes, sorry about that. Do what you can with it.”

Henderson sighed. “Your boots, too.”

Darcy scrubbed his face “It was quite unavoidable, I’m afraid.” Although the valet might disagree with this response, Darcy had spoken the undeniable truth. The mud had been an absolute necessity.

Heaving a great sigh, Henderson hung a clean towel on the wash stand. “I’ll get your nightshirt and banyan,” he said in a dejected tone and retreated into the dressing room.

Darcy felt like the greatest beast in nature for diminishing the man’s joyful outlook, but what else could be done? Continuing as Charles Bingley was entirely unfathomable. If he didn’t find a way to reverse the spell, the life he once knew would be lost. He must find the path back to his true self.

Despite his exhaustion, Darcy paced over the carpet. Not only had the rain failed to resolve his present situation, but it had also separated him from Elizabeth. He had become accustomed to seeing her every day, but two days had passed since his call at Longbourn, and he felt her absence most acutely. Never would he have suspected that he could feel quite so empty without her.

How singular that of all the women he had met, and there had been scores of them, his mind was constantly filled with images and memories of her. She had a deplorable family, relations in trade, imperfect pianoforte skills, no connections, and no fortune. Yet, his mind was singularly focused on her.

He sat at Charles’s writing table and withdrew a sheaf of paper. Despite the conflicting emotions whirling through his mind, he attempted to put his thoughts into some semblance of order.