Miss Darcy's Companion: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (15 page)

The strangest sort of light-headed trance settled over Darcy. He could see Fenton leering in his chair, and at the same time picture the leer turning into a bloodied mass of flesh under his fist. The quick dispatch through a bullet to the heart was too easy, too honourable, too gentlemanly an exit for Fenton, with his scurrilous words and the depth of his depravity. A slow, methodical pounding into hell seemed the better choice by far.

He did not trust himself to either move or speak, lest the choice be made for him already. The savage urge to give Fenton his dues was still far from subdued when the door suddenly opened and Fitzwilliam rushed in, alert and anxious. The tension in his shoulders eased somewhat to see that the study was not the scene of violent conflict, and eventually Darcy found it in him to feel a measure of relief as well. Fenton’s permanent disfigurement would have caused rumours harder to dispel.

The only words Darcy said to the latter were, “I will not dignify that with a response. And those were not empty threats. Remember that.” Then he turned to his cousin. “Patch him up and send him on his way.”

A grim nod was Fitzwilliam’s reply.

* * * *

Mrs Reynolds emerged from Elizabeth’s bedchamber to find her young master by the window at the end of the corridor and tell him that Miss Bennet was now settled for the night. In her wisdom, the elderly housekeeper did not impart that she had found her shaking like a leaf, nor that she had held her tightly as she wept. Mrs Reynolds had made no attempt to still the sobs, nor asked any questions – not that Elizabeth would have told her that she grieved for her foolish dreams and their horrible conclusion. The little that Mrs Reynolds knew was kept to herself and she only mentioned that with some persuasion Miss Bennet had accepted a cup of tea, although not the Laudanum, and was now tranquil under the bedcovers.

Tranquillity was a notion alien to Darcy as the remainder of the night passed in a blur.

Not very long after his stormy exit from his study, Fitzwilliam found him in the darkened garden to tell him that Fenton had just left and the supper dance had been announced, so supper would follow shortly.

“Damn the supper dance,” was Darcy’s curt reply, and his cousin gestured in agreement.

“Nevertheless, ‘tis time for you to show your face. You have been gone for well over an hour and you must be there for supper.”

There was wisdom in that and Darcy obeyed, much as he knew that every second would grate on his temper. Thankfully, Fitzwilliam remained at his side. Not conspicuously, but he was always there. To deflect questions about Darcy’s long absence by taking full responsibility for keeping him away with ill-timed disclosures about the last campaign. To mask his inattention to general conversation and even to remarks addressed to him. To constantly refill his glass of wine, until Darcy had to press his hand and urge him to desist with a shake of his head. Tonight of all nights was not one for inebriation.

Mercifully, the supper came to an end and, after four more dances, so did the ball itself, and the large number of exhausted but delighted guests began to disperse and make their way above stairs to their chambers.

Darcy did not even consider going up to his and, since it was far too cold to return to the garden, he walked into his study, much as he loathed any reminder of Fenton.

It was little wonder that his cousin followed. For the entire night he had watched over him like a mother-hen over its only chick, Darcy thought with a ghost of a smile and a fresh surge of gratitude.

And it was only then that it occurred to him how Fitzwilliam had shown a remarkable lack of surprise at every word he said and every sign of violent distemper.

This time he took the glass he was offered and let himself drop on the chair behind his desk. He looked up to meet his cousin’s stare.

“You knew,” he said.

“Of course,” the other shrugged.

* * * *

Darcy’s next question came a fair while later, when he had spent so long with his eyes closed and his head leaning against the back of his chair that his cousin might have thought he had fallen asleep.

“Since when?”

“Our first day here,” Fitzwilliam acknowledged. “You kept watching over her as intently as over Georgiana, if not more so. Discreetly of course, but not for me. I knew you could not pay her any particular attention without making your concerns vexingly public, so I took it upon myself to do what you could not – see to her comfort and deflect my dear sister-in-law’s barbs. By the bye, I trust you will find it in your heart to forgive me for taunting you,” he added with a chuckle.

“Taunting me?”

“Oh, you know. Implying that I might consider courting her myself. The… hm! The morning when the kissing bough was hung up,” he mentioned the latter with understandable reluctance, given recent events. “It was rather cruel of me, I grant you, to prod you so when I knew how you felt. But I was merely seeking to make you admit it.”

“To myself?”

“To me,” Fitzwilliam retorted, and then stopped short as he grasped what it was that his cousin was saying. Then he burst out. “Good Lord, Darcy! What are you, fourteen – or going on eight-and-twenty? Are you telling me it was a surprise to you?”

“It was,” Darcy owned, very quietly.

“And, pray tell, when did you have this overdue epiphany?”

“Tonight.”

“Gracious! You poor devil. This was not a good night for you, was it?”

Darcy ignored the pointless question. Nor did he have an answer to his cousin’s next:

“So what now?”

“What are you asking?” he parried with another pointless question.

He knew precisely what Fitzwilliam’s meaning was, just as well as his cousin knew that he was stalling. But he was indulged nevertheless and the other elaborated:

“Will you marry her?”

Darcy sighed.

“I have not had a chance to put two thoughts together. This is all… very sudden. And there is much to consider, Georgiana’s prospects high up on that list. How would it look on her coming out if her former companion had become her sister? Several years ago Sir Henry Harpur of Calke married his mother’s lady’s maid, and still no one receives them. Harpur could not care less, but then he had always been somewhat of a recluse and kept his distance from society, fashionable or otherwise. I do not have that luxury. Still, having said that, there is a world of difference between a lady’s maid and a lady’s companion.”

The sigh was echoed from the other side of the large desk.

“Not to some. And, needless to say, my relations would be of no assistance. Pater would be as mad as snakes and my brother’s sweet wife would be spitting feathers,” Fitzwilliam chortled ruefully.

“As would Lady Catherine, but that is no surprise. Even your mother, for all her understanding kindness, would say that I could have chosen a vast deal better.”

“And so you could. There is no doubting that.”

A long silence fell, and it remained unbroken until Fitzwilliam asked:

“Do you suppose she knows?”

“Who?”

“Miss Bennet, you unmitigated blockhead!”

Darcy sat up straighter.

“Knows my feelings? How can she, when until today I never knew them myself?”

“Women, bless them and the ground they tread on, have a way of knowing these things before men do. And you have been exceedingly backward lately. More so than most.”

“Thank you,” Darcy replied with quiet sarcasm, then grew solemn. “I hope not, but I cannot say. For a fair while now, there has been a deep reserve about her, a restraint that was not there before. I wish…”

“What?”

Darcy shrugged and kept his peace. It was his cousin who finally spoke up.

“Well, as they say, I am not in your shoes. A nuisance at times, but more often a blessing. So I will only tell you this: have a care, Cousin, and do not give rise to hopes unless you are prepared to fulfil them. It would be the ultimate unkindness, and she deserves better.”

Darcy nodded, with an involuntary gesture of impatience. This, he had no need to be told.

* * * *

Dawn found him walking through the frozen gardens. Fitzwilliam had left over an hour earlier, but despite the sheer exhaustion the previous night had brought, Darcy felt that some two or three short hours of sleep would hardly answer, and there was little point in retiring at all.

The conversation with his cousin had given him no answers, not that he had imagined it would. It was his place, and not Fitzwilliam’s, to settle his own future, and Pemberley’s. His place to reconcile his head with his newly-discovered heart.

He would not even attempt it at this point in time. A decision as far-reaching as that could not be the work of a moment, and certainly not to be taken when he could scarce think. So he sought to empty himself of all thought and emotion as he walked, crisp snow scrunching underfoot – but it was a fruitless endeavour, and he eventually stopped trying. Driven in by the bitter cold, he returned indoors to find that the household had begun to stir. Not his guests. Most of them would be abed till noon, when they would breakfast and start making arrangements for departure. Some would leave that very day, others on the morrow, and by the week’s end all would be gone. Not a day too soon, Darcy thought, weary of entertaining, weary of the entire business. Weary to the bone.

Those who had left their beds at the ungodly hour were his servants. A fair number of worn-looking maids and footmen had arisen to potter quietly through the public rooms and remove every trace of the night’s revelries. Darcy nodded in greeting to the ones he came across, to receive curtsies and bows as well as discreet glances of surprise at finding him up and about, and pondered retiring to his quarters to refresh himself. A long soak in a hot bath would be most welcome, but he decided against burdening his people with the task of drawing it for now. They had more than enough to do. So he turned towards his study, but this time revulsion held him back. If nothing else, the chair marked with Fenton’s blood would have to be relegated to the attics before he could spend another peaceful moment there.

He walked to the library instead. He was not of a mind to sit and read, but hopefully the pleasant room would afford a modicum of comfort. His hand reached for the handle – only to find it slipping from underneath his fingertips, and the door opened without further warning to bring him face to face with Elizabeth.

They both gasped in surprise, and Darcy followed it with needlessly observing:

“Oh. You are up.”

“Good morning, Sir. I am. I could not s–… I came down for another book,” she amended, and Darcy’s features tightened at her near-admission that she had not slept.

“You should have taken the Laudanum,” he said without thinking, and she shook her head.

“No. Not insensible oblivion,” she replied swiftly with a fleeting wince, making his heart lurch at the unbearable comprehension that she could not choose to be helpless under the influence of Laudanum, just as she had been in Fenton’s grasp.

He took a deep breath to subdue the violent surge of anger and, still without thinking, he reached for her hand. It was small and very cold, and Darcy ached to bring it to his lips, just as he ached to hold her and tell her he would keep her safe forevermore. Yet he could do none of the above, so he merely said:

“I cannot tell you how distraught I am…”

She withdrew her hand and shook her head again, clearly unwilling to let him speak of it, but Darcy persisted, very firmly.

“I want you to know that he was sent away and forbidden to return. He will not be allowed to set foot in this house for a very long time, if ever.”

“I thank you, Sir, but this is not sound,” she interjected calmly. “I should not wish you to put a strain on your connection with your neighbours– ”

“I will not choose his worthless acquaintance over your peace of mind,” Darcy shot back forcefully, only to note that the brave show of forced composure in her countenance softened into a smile.

“You are very kind,” she whispered. “Forgive me, I must leave you now.”

And, with a hurried curtsy and her eyes lowered, she crossed her hands over the second leather-bound volume she had selected in preference to the numbing effects of Laudanum and clasped it to her chest as she waited for Darcy to regain his senses and step back from the doorway to let her pass. Eventually he did so, and remained motionless to watch her walk briskly along the ill-lit corridor until she vanished round the corner, leaving him torn between the deepest need to follow and the fear he had already said too much.

CHAPTER 12

The guests had left, even Fitzwilliam, and Pemberley returned to its quiet ways, but none of its tranquillity. At least not for Darcy. There was no hope for the old tranquillity, now that everything had changed.

His cousin had kindly offered to remain behind for a short while at least, but he had declined. What purpose could that possibly have served? Forthright discussions late into the night, over brandy, might have offered temporary palliation and the relief of speaking the unvarnished truth, but Darcy fully expected them to turn into repetitive vexation before long. Harping on like a pair of old women was not the answer, and truth be told he could not have borne his cousin’s probing, much as he appreciated his affection and concern. Nor his discreet scrutiny either, as he struggled to decide on his course of action and weigh the unsettling stirrings of his heart against everything he had been taught to value since he was old enough for reason.

Even without a knowing presence in the room, it was the greatest effort to watch himself over every word, look or gesture, now that nothing about his interactions with Elizabeth could be natural any more. Elizabeth. Not Miss Bennet any longer, but Elizabeth.

He could not even address her without a sudden flash of panic that he had lapsed and called her by her Christian name. And it would have been little wonder if he had. The formal ‘Miss Bennet’ was alien to every feeling. She was ‘Elizabeth’ to him now in every waking thought.

And the thoughts circled, burning as they went. Circled endlessly. No respite.

Had he utterly lost his senses to even consider marrying his sister’s companion – a girl in his employ? What would this do to his good name, his standing in society? To Georgiana’s prospects? To all that was Pemberley?

His lineage deserved better. A vast deal better. As did the estate entrusted into his temporary custody. It should be passed to offspring of good stock. His children should–

His children should be loved – and she would love them. Her gentle warmth for Hetty and Margaret, for Georgiana even, who was a child no longer and yet had flourished in her tender care. Those perfect months at the beginning of the autumn. The companionship. The cheerful repartee. The laughter. Try as he might, he could not remember having felt as happy in all his adult years, at Pemberley or elsewhere, and as thoroughly at peace than in those fleeting months of blissful harmony.

He grimaced. A fool’s paradise. He should have sensed the lurking dangers and seen it could not last. And it had not. The peace had slipped away, long before this time of turmoil. The ease and joy had slowly ebbed a little more each day, as her damnable reserve had grown, leaving him baffled. Leaving him yearning, he could see it now, for the return of those happy days that had vanished without reason. Without warning.

He scoffed. What sort of insanity made him think they would return? What sort of a fool was he to even think of casting aside every given precept for the sake of an illusion? He knew so little of her. It was mostly conjecture. A handful of details confused by desire.

That he desired her was beyond question. The choking jealous rage on the night of the ball told its own story, as did the many sleepless nights that followed. As did every encounter in the now silent house. He gravitated towards her without meaning to and often without notice, relishing the sharp response she stirred in him – and fearing it in equal measure.

It simply would not do to be thus swayed. To be rendered so utterly defenceless by treacherous emotion. By her mere scent lingering in a room she had just quitted. By the sound of her voice, to which his ear had grown so attuned that he could pick it out from yards away. By the graceful turn of her creamy neck as she sat playing the pianoforte; the pale flicker of light fingers on the keys; the swell of her breast as she drew breath to fill the music room with song.

It would not do to stare unseeing at the brocade folds adorning the top of his four-poster bed and picture her in her bedchamber, readying for the night – or worse still, picture her there, with him. Warm. Shapely. Perfect. Giving herself to him unreservedly and completely.

It would not do to leave his chambers in the early hours, more exhausted than the night before, only to find himself all too aware of a fleeting smile over the breakfast table. Of how her full lips curled and her cheek dimpled if the smile grew wider. Of how sunlight shimmered in her hair when she read by the window. Of how musical her laughter, when she and Georgiana chatted freely in another chamber. How light and pleasing her slender form, when he caught sight of her walking through the grounds, not with fashionably languid steps but her own vibrant energy. Of the way she sometimes broke into a run, when she walked alone down some tree-lined avenue and thought no one was watching. Or, when she thought herself similarly unobserved, how she sometimes let her eyes drift from her employment – be it her embroidery or her book – to stare into the distance and bite the corner of her lip in the most bewitching fashion.

He longed to ask her what put that distant look of sadness in her eyes, so dreadfully incongruous with her mobile features, made for lightness and laughter. He longed to ask her if she would ever feel at peace in his world, or forever be as ill-disposed to be amongst his peers as she had been at Christmas. He longed to ask her if she understood what was expected of him. What he owed his name and lineage. What he owed Pemberley.

But of course he could not ask her any of that. The truth was unavoidable: if he offered marriage, they would be shunned, and blameless Georgiana with them. Even if she left to live with Mrs Bingley for a while and he offered for her later, it would still be remembered she had once been in his employ. And it would
be said he could have done a vast deal better than marrying his friend’s impecunious new sister.

Reason demanded in no uncertain terms that he see sense, sever the ties of an unsuitable attraction, return her to Hertfordshire to a gentlewoman’s life in Bingley’s home and begin the search for a fitting match in earnest.

Yet even as he thought it, a deep sense of loss gripped his heart, staggering in its intensity. It did not bear thinking that she could ever leave his house and make a life elsewhere. Not even in the safety of Netherfield. As for the wrenching thought of her marrying another–

Blood-red emotion battling with solemn thoughts, and neither winning. Yet still they battled, until he could not bear it any more.

* * * *

A night towards the end of January broke the wretched pattern.

It was very late. The clock on the mantelpiece quietly struck the eleventh hour and Darcy glanced up to check he had not miscounted. He had not, and he rolled his shoulders back to ease the tension in his muscles, then set the pen down and flicked the inkwell closed. He pushed the letter from him. It was not finished yet, but it would have to be. Soon. For too long he had neglected it, along with many of his duties. Nevertheless, they would all have to wait until the morrow at the very least. He had neither the time nor the energy to address them now.

He stood, put out the candles and left his study.

The sound reached him as he was crossing the great hall, so quiet that for a moment he thought he was mistaken. But then it could be heard again. Harp strings plucked ever so lightly, to give the merest hint of a hauntingly soft tune.

He did not recognise it, but the mastery of his sister’s hand was unmistakable. She had no further need to practise, and certainly not at this hour of the night, when she should have long retired.

Darcy slid the door open to affectionately observe as much – and remained stock-still, the brotherly advice unspoken, because the slender figure poised over the harp was not Georgiana. He swallowed hard as the unbearably sweet harmonies and the lithe form, almost ethereal in the pale glimmer of a single candle, wreaked havoc through his senses. He strained to hear the whispered words she joined to the silvery sounds dripping from the instrument, and he could not.

The whispers ceased. She must have reached the end of the aria, for her fingers trailed over the strings, then dropped listlessly in her lap. The final notes lingered in the air and in the still vibrating chords of the harp – of his heart – urging him forward.

With the greatest effort he resisted, but it was all for naught. His swift motion to withdraw must have somehow caught her notice and she suddenly glanced up to see him standing in the doorway.

Her visible shock demanded a prompt, if faltering, apology.

“Pray forgive me for startling you. I– ”

It was her turn to falter.

“Think nothing of it. My fault, I thought everyone was abed. Have you… been here long?”

Darcy forced a smile as he walked in.

“Not long enough. I have only caught the closing bars of that beautiful aria. Would you mind…? Would you be so kind to play it again?” he asked with heedless daring, unable to resist this time, only to see consciousness replacing the odd look of relief that had crossed her features on being told he had not heard her play.

“It would disappoint,” she quietly demurred. “I require more practice.”

“Not from what I heard,” Darcy contradicted, but she stood from the instrument with a forced smile of her own.

“Misleading evidence, Sir. While I have fully mastered the closing bars, I cannot say the same of the rest. Another time perhaps, and at a more sociable hour. I should retire now,” she finished, collecting her candle from the adjoining table.

In the face of her steadfast refusal, all that was left for him to do was to civilly offer:

“Pray allow me.”

Yet this time civility did not serve him well. His fingers brushed against the back of hers when he reached for the candle, and their eyes locked over the flickering light. They were his undoing – the brief, electrifying touch, the shimmer in those dark brown eyes, the trembling lips. The sharp need to crush them under his was overpowering; to snatch the blasted candle, drop it back on the table and take her in his arms. Taste the sweetness of her mouth, let his lips explore every soft inch of exposed skin, and his hands roam over her tantalising form.

What forced him back from the edge of the abyss was instant revulsion. No better than Fenton! His features twisted into nothing short of agony at the sickening notion of Elizabeth struggling to free herself from him, as she had from that rogue’s advances. Elizabeth thinking him a rake – the sort of abominable master who saw his household as his rightful harem.

He shuddered at the repulsive notion and took a deep, steadying breath. There was another answer. He could declare himself. Now. Here. Beg her to relieve his suffering and consent to be his wife.

Was that what he wanted?

Oh, he wanted
her!
With a passion nothing short of terrifying. So much so that, were he to offer marriage and she to accept, it would be the severest trial not to anticipate his vows.

But what of the rest of the world that lay beyond the four walls around them? What of his duties to his heritage, and to himself?

The burden of expectations pushed him further back. He withdrew his hand from the candlestick, slowly and with caution, so that she would grow aware of his intention and not let go of it as well, for the candle to drop and set the rug ablaze. He was in no fit state to put out another fire, Darcy mercilessly mocked his tenuous self-control, then coaxed his taut muscles into a bow.

“Forgive me, I have just remembered some urgent business,” he offered crisply. “I must return to my study. I bid you good night.”

He bowed again, lower this time, deliberately honouring her – yet still left her to find her own way above stairs, not trusting himself to escort her up and risk another bout of sheer insanity.

Besides, the excuse was not entirely a falsehood. There
was
urgent business to attend to. A lengthy absence demanded preparation, and that his affairs be left in order.

He would leave on the morrow. For how long, he knew not. As long as it was necessary to come to a decision. Calmly. Not dispassionately – that was no longer possible – but at least not ruled by unbridled passion.

He had to think. He would. And would return to offer for her – or forsake her. But, until he settled one way or the other, it would be torture and nothing short of madness to remain under the same roof as her at Pemberley.