Page 58 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

A sigh of relief escaped her. “Precisely.” Another sigh, then more chewing on her lip. Good God, Darcy wished she would stop that! It was difficult enough not to notice the plumpness of her lips without her incessant nibbling.

“If circumstances were different…” She looked askance at him, shy and vulnerable. She was so alluring. If she only knew how dearly he wished her to say what he hoped she meant to say, he could allay her fears. But it was too soon, and he could not encourage her affection until he could be completely honest with her.

Before she could say anything she might later regret, he spoke. “You are Elizabeth Bennet—an intelligent, capable young woman whose selflessness will be rewarded.”

Her words came out sharply. “From what I have observed, the selfish carry on without a care and without any meaningful consequence to them. For years, I worked and took risks, and for what? It is all gone, taken through no fault of my own. No, that is not true. I am to blame for placing my trust in a father who did too little to earn my confidence.” Darcy felt her disappointment, had felt that same anger eat at him for years until he had no father, no home to return to. He had been too late; it was not too late for Elizabeth.

He took her hand in his, needing her touch to soothe the pain in his own chest. “My last words to my father were bitter and full of rebuke for his failures.” She looked down and sniffed. “I made my disapproval clear, pointed out his errors—which were many, by my estimation—in plain, precise terms. Then I let him deal with the consequences of his behavior. I turned away from him, and I never went back.” His chest tightened. “I worked hard to distinguish myself, to make a name in my profession, and I succeeded.” Her eyes flashed back up to his. “And I was miserable.” When he saw her confusion, he added, “While I certainly took satisfaction in my accomplishments and grew confident in the man I had become—one distinct from my own father—I had no one with whom to share my success.” He rubbed his chest with his free hand, but the ache remained. “By the time I returned to make amends, my father was gone. It was too late.”

“I am sorry.”

He shook his head. “It was my own doing.”

She furrowed her brow. “You miss him?”

“Yes.” His reply sounded like it was torn from his throat, rough and raw. “Not a day goes by that I do not wish I could turn back time. I would do things differently. I could have done so much better. I would try harder to make peace rather than wasting precious years trying to prove myself right.”

Her eyes filled with tears. Darcy could not tell if they were for her or for him, but it did not matter. He stepped forward to fold her inside his arms… and then he remembered himself. Pausing, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. She looked at him boldly, tears trailing down her bare cheeks. She did not try to hide them, nor did she reach for his handkerchief. Gently, he dabbed the finely spun cotton against her skin.

Closing her eyes, she leaned into his touch. His heart screamed at him to hold her, to make promises he could not presently fulfill, to kiss her until she forgot her woes. But while he knew who he was—that it was proper for him to comfort her—she did not. He would leave, and she would be consumed with guilt for what she would consider disloyalty to a man who might yet be alive and to whom she was betrothed.

With one final caress of her cheek, he tucked his handkerchief into his pocket. His hands shook, so he crossed his arms over his chest, tangling them tightly around his body. Twelve days more. Then he would confess everything and pray that she might forgive him. Pray that she might love him as much as he loved her despite this deception. If only she could read his heart, could understand his motive.

“Resentment will steal your peace if you allow it. It will alter your history, casting a shadow over your most cherished memories and twisting the good moments into a bitter version of your past.” Darcy scoffed at his own folly. “I became convinced that my upbringing had been a miserable one when, in fact, there was so much good, so much love.” He shook his head and sighed. The grip around his chest loosened, and he breathed deeply. He did not know why he felt lighter for admitting this. She watched him intently, still listening. “I do not ignore the bad things that happened, the tension that existed between me and my father. Those things were real. They happened. But I can see now how much I allowed my life to be guided by anger, how it ruled me. You would not wish to feel the same regret I do. I have forgiven my father, but I take no solace in it. I shall always wonder if he thought kindly of me before he died.”

She squeezed his hand. “What if I do not want to forgive just yet? What if I wish to be selfish for a little bit?”

Her frankness made him chuckle. “I would urge you to choose the wiser path rather than the path of least resistance.”

She shoved him, retracting her hand. “If your intention in scolding me is to lessen my sadness at your departure in less than a fortnight, you have failed. You forget, I am a female and am therefore adept at feeling multiple emotions at once. I can be angry at you for speaking the truth and, at the same time, anticipate that I shall miss you dearly.”

Had they not been standing in the gravel path leading to Longbourn’s stables, had Johnny not run out to take Darcy’s horse at that moment, Darcy would not have been able to resist the urge to kiss her. Stiffly, he handed the boy the reins, saw Elizabeth inside, and continued up the stairs to his room. Once there, he doused his face with cold water and determined not to be alone with her again.

CHAPTER 32

Over the following ten days, Darcy lamented how often his work kept him indoors. He spent most of his time at the writing desk, which offered a view of the road that led to Longbourn. It was an ideal position; he could attend to correspondence and keep a watchful eye on incoming callers.

This morning, Elizabeth brought him a cup of tea, prepared to his taste. Nodding and mumbling his thanks, he continued writing, the pen scratching against the paper. Elizabeth lingered. His letter was too urgent to interrupt with conversation… or so his uninterrupted action implied. He heard her breathe a deep inhale and exhale of disappointment before she quit the room.

As soon as she had gone, he threw the quill against the page. Ink spilled over the paper, not that it mattered. He had two days more of incessant letter-writing ahead of him. Leaning against the back of his chair, he rubbed a hand over his face. This was unbearable.

Looking about to ensure his departure would go unnoticed, he slipped out of doors to the woodpile, where he might release his pent-up frustration on a recently stocked pile of logs. He brought the ax down with a crack that shook his shoulders, and the log fell in two neat halves. Tossing them onto the pile, he reached for another and soon fell into a comfortable rhythm. The labor required nothing of his mind, leaving his thoughts free to catalog the week's accomplishments: more letters than he could count to his solicitors, to Sir Bradley, to Richard, to Mrs. Reynolds; two consultations with Mr. Bennet in the book room; one excruciating afternoon with Mr. Philips reviewing the legal repercussions of the debt on the Longbourn estate. Despite Mr. Bennet’s optimistic prediction, the debt had not been discharged. Nor did Darcy suspect it would ever be, assuming Wickham was bribing Sir Bradley to prevent it until the wastrel got what he wanted.

However, Mr. Philips had assisted Darcy in understanding enough of the family’s financial situation to make discreet reparations for them without anyone suspecting his involvement. With Reynolds’s assistance, he put an arrangement into place for Elizabeth’s benefit independent of whether she selected him as her husband or not. He chose her willingly, free from expectation or obligation, and he would offer her the same privilege.

Two more days. Then the contract's term would be fulfilled, and they would all travel to Derbyshire. Then he would speak freely and face the consequences. He swung again. The wood split cleanly. The wait was torture. He hated the way Elizabeth’s face fell every time he actively avoided her—that brief flicker of confusion she was too honest to hide very well. He had catalogued each instance with the grim thoroughness of a man counting his debts: the moment she turned from the window when he chose the longer path around the garden; the slight press of her lips when he declined, for the third time in as many days, to join the family at supper; his refusal of a brief conversation over a cup of tea. Hurt simmered under the surface of her puzzlement, and Darcy hated himself for being the cause of it. Two more days.

The sound of boots on gravel made him still. He did not turn. It was unnecessary. He had been expecting this call, had watched for it every day from his post at the window.

“You are still here.” Wickham’s tone was too practiced to reveal anything more than a casual observation. Darcy set another log on the block and lifted the ax. The blade came down. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wickham's jaw tighten. Ten days had passed since that fateful newspaper article, and Darcy still resided at Longbourn despite Wickham’s attempts to dislodge him. The pinch of displeasure behind his adversary’s sneer was almost worth the anguish. Almost.

Darcy reached for another log. He would not ask what brought Wickham to Longbourn that day. He would not give him the satisfaction.

Wickham stepped closer, palm out as though he really thought Darcy might relinquish the ax to him. Darcy looked pointedly at the palm and tightened his grip around the wooden handle. Wickham retracted his hand, pulling back to straighten his coat as though that was what he had intended to do all along and rearranging his expression into something approaching triumph.

Whatever he had come to say, he needed Darcy to react to it. He needed an audience. Darcy leaned against his ax handle and raised his eyebrows. His apathy, he knew, would infuriate Wickham. It did.

“I have the upper hand.” Wickham lifted his chin. Darcy said nothing. Wickham stepped forward. When that produced no response, he shoved his open palm against Darcy's chest, the gesture of a man who had run out of words and remembered, too late, that Darcy had not yet set down his weapon. Darcy did not move.