Page 13 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

Darcy’s heart froze, as did his feet. Lizzy Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet!

His head buzzed, his eyes fixed on the source of his wonder, the young lady his father had selected to be his bride. The very one whose freedom was denied due to his existence! Oh, this was bad. He turned to leave, but he did not look away soon enough.

She met his gaze, and he found himself staring into the liveliest eyes he had ever encountered. They danced with mirth and warmth. He could not look away, though he was aware enough of himself to know he ought to. This whole plan was doomed to disaster. He had known it, and yet he had allowed himself to be persuaded. Self-loathing burned within him. She tilted her head slightly, studying him. So much for going unnoticed. Blasted fool, he was. He ought to turn away and purchase passage on the same coach that had brought him here, but the look in her eye and the curl of her lips held him captive. And so he stood in front of her like a dunderhead, speechless and staring.

“Lizzy! There you are!” Another young woman called.

Miss Elizabeth’s smile widened and she turned away, breaking the spell. “Charlotte! I was looking for you.”

A cart neared, and it became imperative that Darcy move out of the street. He managed to return to the inn unscathed, though he could not say how. He busied himself at the boot scraper, his back to the street, while he sought composure.

Elizabeth Bennet was nothing like he had imagined. She was clever, considerate, quick-thinking… His mind reeled, and he leaned against the window frame for support. No longer could Darcy berate his father’s judgment after what he had witnessed. Had her character been so strongly defined at the tender age of eight? Darcy could hardly believe it, and yet, already he admired her.

No! He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of these dangerous thoughts. His very presence here was the height of presumption. Who did he think he was, to steal glances at her and satisfy his own curiosity when she would not receive the same opportunity?

Stepping inside the inn, he was dismayed to see a large family with several boys already fighting over who would sit beside the coachman up top and who would sit on the rumble seat in the back. Their mother, her arms full with a crying baby and another clinging to her skirts, looked pleadingly at her husband, who did his best with another squirming infant in his arms. In short, there was no room for Darcy in or on the post coach leaving shortly.

Since he could not secure passage on the next coach going in any direction away from Meryton, he would go to the stables. He would buy a horse and saddle, if necessary. But for that, he would have to wait lest he risk crossing paths with her again. And so Darcy settled at a table where he had a view of the street. He watched, and he waited.

The innkeeper was an amiable, chatty sort, as most innkeepers are. In the time it took him to serve a pint of ale and for Darcy to drink it, Darcy learned a great deal about the inhabitants of Meryton and nearby Longbourn. The Bennets had relatives in the village—one Mr. Philips, Meryton’s solicitor, and his wife, Mrs. Bennet’s sister, who was the village’s most reliable source of news. It was painful not to inquire further about the Bennets, but Darcy had decided upon his course. He would leave directly and hope that Miss Elizabeth did not remember him.

He rubbed his whiskers. Perhaps a shave would help. He had grown accustomed to the whiskers, and because they allowed him to go unnoticed by his family, he had kept them. However, if Miss Elizabeth remembered anything about his appearance, it would be his dark beard. As soon as he got to wherever he was going, he would shave.

Where was he going? Not Pemberley. If memories plagued him in London, then Pemberley would be unbearable. Then where? Rubbing his temples, he asked for another pint so he might have an excuse to linger and plan his next step. Why, oh why, had he returned to England? He did not belong here.

He finally determined he had waited long enough to avoid another encounter with Miss Elizabeth and should see what he might purchase at the stables when the front door opened and a hush fell over the taproom. A tall, stern figure wearing a dark blue jacket and waistcoat over gray trousers blocked the light from the open doorway. Gilt buttons embossed with the Royal Cipher and encircled by the Crown and Garter lined his coat. A King’s Messenger.

Darcy was familiar with them, their chief concerns stemming from his particular area of expertise and their fame for ruination being a favorite topic of conversation as far as the continent. He knew enough to steer clear of them. King’s Messengers never bore good news. Their arrival typically preceded absolute ruin for some wretched family in debt to the Crown. The lucky ones escaped the country. The others ended up disgraced, ruined and wasting away in debtor’s prison.

“I require directions to Longbourn,” the messenger announced in a clipped tone. “The estate of Mr. Thomas Bennet.”

Ice coursed through Darcy’s veins.

The innkeeper frowned. “Might I ask what business you have with Mr. Bennet, sir?”

“Official Crown business,” the messenger replied curtly. “I must dispatch my commission with all efficiency. The directions, if you please.” Summoning a kitchen boy to serve as a guide, the innkeeper sent the messenger away.

A hush continued for some time after they departed, patrons’ whispers gradually spreading until the innkeeper poured himself a drink, tossed it back, and mumbled, “God help the Bennets.” The gentlemen in the taproom drank to that, upon which most of them returned to their cards, newspapers, and conversations.

Crown debt, country estate, King’s Messenger… the Bennets must owe the British government a significant amount. How many thousands, Darcy did not know, nor did it matter. Without intervention, they could lose their home, their reputation, and their dignity within a month.

He would certainly regret involving himself, especially if Mr. Bennet turned out to be a dishonorable man, but Darcy was incapable of refusing to assist them when he possessed the very skills they required. Springing to action, he asked for directions to Mr. Philips’s office. He could help the Bennets. But not as Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Mr. Philips proved to be a pleasant, middle-aged gentleman who took Darcy’s card with polite attention. “Is it employment you seek, Mr.—” He consulted the card. “Robinson?”

“I am recently returned from the continent after several years abroad, and I seek to establish myself in England. I can provide references from the Reinhardt merchant family, whose interests I served in Vienna, and from shipping concerns in Smyrna.”

Mr. Philips rubbed his chin. “Shipping, you say? I may not have to send so far for your references if my brother-in-law Mr. Edward Gardiner has heard of you. Have you done much business with English merchants, Mr. Robinson?”

Darcy did not recognize the name Gardiner, though that was not surprising. The longer the war lasted, the more merchants there were. “I have acted as a liaison many times for British establishments.”

“Very well. Tell me your qualifications, and I will do my best to help you.”

“I have considerable experience in languages and correspondence,” Darcy began. “I am fluent in French, German, Italian, and Greek, with expertise in translating complex legal and commercial documents. I spent nearly ten years managing accounts for prominent Viennese merchant houses, handling international trade agreements and shipping manifests from their various locations.”

Mr. Philips chuckled and held up his hands. “My dear sir, I fear your expertise is lost in a place like Meryton.”

Darcy leaned forward and paused, ensuring he had Mr. Philips’s full attention. “I have extensive experience with estate management, debt restructuring, and creditor negotiations.”