Page 57 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“New hiding place?” she asked, aware of how the air stirred around her when Robbie passed and how much emptier the room felt without him inside it.

“It serves its purpose.” Papa smiled. “It is the one place the maid will not disrupt, and your mother will not poke around.” Fair enough. Everyone needed a safe hiding place. Hers was under the loose floorboard at the foot of her bed. It held all the letters she had written to Mr. Darcy besides a few treasured odds and ends she had collected over the years.

Papa held the letter out to her, allowing her to see the sender’s name more clearly. It was Wrayburn & Associates, dated the day prior. “We are still expected at Pemberley for the reading of the will on the twentieth.”

Elizabeth gasped and reached for the page. Mr. Wrayburn wrote nothing about the article in the paper. He simply reminded her father of the importance of their presence at the reading of the will. The household would expect their arrival at Pemberley the day before the awaited event.

What did this mean? Was Fitzwilliam Darcy truly dead? Why would she be summoned for the reading of Mr. Darcy’s will if his son no longer lived? With so many unanswered questions and her freedom hanging in the balance, Elizabeth felt wildly impatient. The reading of the will was scheduled sixteen days hence, and she had the daunting presentiment that they would be the longest sixteen days of her life.

At least Robbie would be here right until the day she was to leave for Pemberley.

CHAPTER 31

Darcy closed the book room door behind him, stopping to take a deep breath. Elizabeth thought she was free. He saw it in her eyes, the hope. He had smiled too brightly at her, but it was impossible to prevent his reaction. Seeing her sitting at the table with a plate of crumbs and a glass of milk gave him an image of what she must have been like as a child. He would have loved to know her then, before her life was burdened by constraints and expectations. She was holding nothing back as she returned his smile, increasing his joy and lightening the guilt and regret he carried… before it clapped around him with a stinging slap.

He had fought to stay because his absence from Longbourn would feed Wickham’s plan. If he schemed what Darcy feared, if he intended to complete his treachery and woo Elizabeth, he would have to attempt it under Darcy’s watchful eye. One step too close to her, one unwanted advance…

He rubbed his hands over his face. What was he doing? How would he endure the next twelve days knowing he had given Elizabeth reason to hope? His smiles, his insistence on staying. Surely, she knew he did it for her.

Therein lay the trouble. Darcy loved her.

He was not thinking clearly. He did not trust himself near her. His instinct was to take her hand in his, to wrap his arms around her, to protect her from those who put their own interests ahead of hers, to kiss her until her senses were as full of him as he was of her. At times, his body trembled with the effort it took to restrain himself from succumbing to his instinctive desire to hold her.

She needed his protection, but he wanted to keep her trust; to do that, he must maintain a respectful distance. He must not allow opportunity for her to compromise her heart before she understood the truth.

Secure that Wickham would not call again that day, Darcy rode into Meryton, where he spent half an hour apprising Mr. Philips of the events since their last meeting and another half an hour convincing him not to act rashly against his least favorite brother-in-law. At his encouragement, Mr. Philips sat down to write a detailed letter to Mr. Gardiner airing his vexation, which was how he left him.

Mr. Bennet had acted precisely as he was wont, assuming that all would end well if he did nothing. But this problem was too big, too final. It laid bare all his faults, leaving his family exposed to ruin. Ignoring it had made it worse. The situation stirred Darcy’s compassion. Mr. Bennet was a weak and selfish man, but he was not malicious or harsh.

The innkeeper greeted Darcy as he entered the tap room. Reaching under the counter, he held up a letter. “I kept this here for you as requested.” It was from Reynolds. Nodding gratefully at the innkeeper for taking the extra trouble to remember not to send his letter on to Longbourn with the rest of his post, Darcy slipped him some coin, asked for a pint of his finest brew, and sat at a quiet corner table to read the latest news from Reynolds.

Evidently, Wickham’s story was as solid as reported in the newspaper. The river police were convinced, as was Lord Matlock. With His Lordship’s support, who would suspect that Fitzwilliam Darcy’s death had been invented? Wickham had as good as buried him, but Reynolds was continuing his investigation until he could prove Wickham’s treachery.

He had a lead—a promising one he did not explain in detail lest his letter be intercepted. Reynolds and Wrayburn were working closely together on the matter with Richard’s invaluable assistance. They expected all would be resolved to Darcy’s satisfaction by the date of the reading of the will. Until then, Reynolds begged Darcy not to do anything that might alert Wickham that they were on to him. More plainly stated: he was to do nothing to suggest the true heir of Pemberley was, in fact, alive and well.

The letter ended with Reynolds’s promise that he would not betray Darcy’s trust. Darcy harrumphed. Trust. It all came down to that, did it not? So difficult to earn; so easily destroyed.

He took a long pull from his tankard. Spruce beer. Sharp, crisp. If he closed his eyes, he was transported to the wilderness behind his father’s residence where he and Richard escaped for their adventures, their courage bolstered and their bodies warmed with the spruce beer they smuggled away in a borrowed flask. The spruce beer at the inn that day neither warmed him nor bolstered his courage.

He departed to return to Longbourn, knowing what he must do, though it pained him. As he had already concluded, the best course was for him to keep his distance from Elizabeth. Thus resolved, he rounded the bend and saw her walking toward him along the path. He raised his eyes heavenward. God help me!

He slowed his horse. Twelve days, he reminded himself. In only another twelve days, all would be revealed. All resolved. Darcy held on to the promise like a lifeline.

Elizabeth smiled at him in that way she had that lit him from the inside out. He cleared his throat and looked away. His horse stopped in front of her, and she reached forward to stroke the snickering animal as she arched her neck upward to address Darcy. “I admit, I had hoped to find you.”

None of the replies that immediately threatened to cross his tongue would do, so he dismounted. Once he stood beside her, he asked, “What is your intent now that you have found me?”

Her smile brightened, if such a thing were possible. “You said you had a confession to make, but you were interrupted before you could unburden yourself.”

Well, he could not tell her that now. “You are curious.”

“I wish to be helpful, to ease your conscience if I may… and I am terribly curious,” she teased. Darcy almost laughed at the irony of his situation and her honesty. What was he able to tell her? He longed to tell her something true. Something real.

They walked in the direction of Longbourn for what felt like an eternity before she spoke again. “If it helps, perhaps I might make a confession of my own.” She peeked up at him, nervous, chewing on her bottom lip. He walked on, marveling at how years of diplomacy and negotiations with difficult parties had done nothing to prepare him for this moment. She tried her best to make it easier for him to confess, which only made it worse.

She sucked in a breath and spoke in a burst. “I admit I was not very sad to learn of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s…” She did not say the word. She was not heartless. “Not to say that I am happy that he is… It is only that…” She resumed chewing on her lip.

Darcy took pity on her. “Nobody would expect you to mourn a man you did not know.”