The Road to Pemberley (18 page)

“Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, her voice hoarse. “Poor Jane, I have been neglecting her. If you will excuse me, Miss Bingley?”

“Certainly.”

So Elizabeth fled, her limbs still somewhat uncooperative, but her desire to leave the troublesome memories of the drawing room for the haven of her sister's presence driving her quickly up the stairs.

The following morning, as they all gathered for breakfast, Miss Bingley was prepared. In truth, she had spent the greater part of a sleepless night deciding how to approach the undoubtedly awkward subject that was sure to arise among the party regarding the several hours for which none of them could logically account. She summoned her considerable powers of artifice and waited for the topic to arise. She did not have to wait long.

Mr. Darcy had, from the start of breakfast, been filled with a sense of disquiet, for he felt a nagging familiarity with Miss Bennet that he sensed was very improper. This morning, he had recalled—albeit in no great detail—having been in a lush rose garden that he had found highly pleasurable. He somehow associated the experience with Elizabeth. From out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at her eating her breakfast. She reached out the tip of her tongue to delicately lick a crumb of muffin from the corner of her lips. It was then that he
knew
. As a rational man, he could not explain it. But he knew, without doubt, how her lips and even her tongue felt. And tasted. He ran his tongue over his own lips, and the sensation was unmistakable. As she continued to eat, she smoothed her
gown across her lap. Mr. Darcy glanced down at his own hands and stretched out his long fingers. There could be no mistake. These hands surely had touched, nay, had taken liberties with, Miss Bennet's person, for he knew with certainty the smoothness of her skin, the texture of the gown she had wore the preceding evening, and, scandalously, the curve of her breast and the shape of her thigh. This was intolerable! He must find a moment alone with her and beg her forgiveness for having thus compromised her. If necessary, he would offer to marry her.

Miss Bingley, who had been watching the entire party, but especially Mr. Darcy, with concern, knew it was time for her to speak up. Clearly, Mr. Darcy, whose crimson face betrayed a look of anxiety, was on the verge of doing something rash, and she must stop him.

“What a singular evening we had!” she cried, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. “Have you any idea of what transpired?”

Even Mr. Hurst was all attentiveness. Seeing that the party was eager for an explanation, she continued with great animation,“Why, those mushrooms Cook put into the ragout yesterday—they were tainted! They put you all to sleep. And such a sound sleep it was. My word, I had to tend to all of you as if you were children, for I had not eaten of the mushrooms myself, and could do naught but watch you all snore for three hours. It was three hours, I tell you, before you all recovered from your stupor! I would have been inclined to call the doctor, were it not for the embarrassment it would cause you. What a relief when you woke up!” She laughed a bit too heartily. “Is it not amusing?”

Around the table, there was many a relieved sigh. Mr. Bingley began, “And I had the most extraordinary dream, Caroline! I was—”

Miss Bingley, suspecting that they all had been in the grip of some outlandish delusions, did not desire to know her brother's in particular, nor did she wish the others to begin comparing theirs, for that would only confirm to Miss Eliza and Mr. Darcy that the two of them had shared some significant experience. So she hastened to interrupt him: “As you can imagine, Charles, I have severely reprimanded Cook. I would have fired her on the spot, but we cannot do without her, after all, and where would we find another on such short notice? But she has strict instructions from now on: no mushrooms!” Having gained her object, which was to distract Mr. Bingley from revealing too much, Miss Bingley served herself more breakfast, and smiled in satisfaction.

Satisfied, too, were Mr. Bingley, Louisa, and Mr. Hurst. But Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, in their own ways, remain unconvinced. Their experience had been of a physical nature, and it could not be so easily explained away as a dream. Even if they had been having hallucinations, which to Mr. Darcy now seemed certain, it still did not account for the powerful feelings he retained of intimate contact with Elizabeth. Something had happened—he was sure of it! But the only conscious witness said they had all been sound asleep, a comforting assertion. It would, of course, be better for him—for both of them, actually—to accept Miss Bingley's explanation without question, for that would mean he had
not
compromised Miss Elizabeth, and they would not be forced to marry.

And yet…

Darcy looked at Elizabeth, her head bowed over her plate and her brow furrowed in thought. Suddenly she glanced up, and their gazes locked. She tilted her head, looking at him in confusion. That look alone spoke volumes, for though he could not know of what her hallucination had consisted, he reckoned it might have been similar to his own, and she, too, might have some recollections that
she was having difficulty interpreting. Shifting his gaze to Miss Bingley, Darcy stared hard at her until she turned to face him. He peered at her with narrowed eyes, seeking the truth. In return, she gave him as false a smile as he had ever seen, and immediately turned to Elizabeth to ask after her sister. The subject was now closed.

Once breakfast concluded, the party anticipated a visit from Mrs. Bennet, who had been requested by Elizabeth to ascertain Jane's condition. Darcy seized the opportunity, while the others lingered in conversation amongst themselves, to seek out Elizabeth. He found her in the hallway heading toward Jane's room.

“Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth stopped, her hand on the knob, and raised a brow at him questioningly.

“Before you visit your sister, will you perhaps walk with me a while?”

Reluctantly, Elizabeth released the handle and stepped into place alongside Mr. Darcy.

“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet,” he said in a low voice, “to understand the reason for my requesting a private audience with you.”

“Indeed, sir,” replied Elizabeth, wishing to come straight to the point, “you seek to know my opinion of yesterday evening's events in the drawing room.”

“Precisely. May I be so bold as to presume that you did not believe Miss Bingley when she said we were all asleep?”

“I do not know what to believe,” Elizabeth said in a quiet voice. “I know only that whatever happened appeared far more real to me than any dream.” With that, she colored, recalling the pleasurable sensations that accompanied her experience.

Mr. Darcy's heart pounded against his chest, for her light blush was most becoming. It was, in fact, the exact color of…

Taking a deep breath, Darcy ventured, “I do not suppose you found yourself…in a rose garden?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, it was…a waterfall. I stood beneath a waterfall, and let the water run over me and fill my mouth. It was…most agreeable.”

It was immediately clear to Darcy that
he
had been the waterfall—
his
hands,
his
mouth, and
his
tongue—and was strangely proud that he had caused such
agreeable
sensations in Elizabeth. Stifling the burgeoning emotions in his breast, he questioned her further: “Was there…” He cleared his throat. “Was there anyone with you, I mean, at the waterfall?”

“I do not know, I...” Elizabeth could no longer meet his gaze, and directed her eyes to the floor. “I believe that
you
were there, Mr. Darcy, though I do not recall
seeing
you there, exactly. It is more of a
feeling
than anything else, a feeling of your…presence.”

Mr. Darcy sighed. It was just as he had supposed. They had indeed been intimately involved with each other the preceding evening, though in not so obvious a fashion as to be clear to either of them. It remained only for him to ascertain whether Elizabeth felt offended by his actions.

“Miss Bennet, it would appear that you and I…that I…” Blast! This was going to be difficult. “That I was concerned in some way… in the creation of…your hallucination, if one may call it that. My own…delusion…was of a rose garden, and I have reason to believe that you were…there, as well.”

Elizabeth started, but was silent.

“If, in my altered condition, I did anything to offend you, if you feel I have…compromised you in any way, I pray you will forgive me.” He took a deep breath. “Miss Bennet, I am prepared to—”

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth interrupted him cheerfully—for despite one pleasurable experience, her opinion of Mr. Darcy's disagreeable
manners and arrogance had not changed, and she could tell where the conversation was headed—“I think it is best for all concerned that we acknowledge Miss Bingley's story as truth, and leave it at that. For who among us can say exactly what happened? And now, I must ask you to excuse me, for I must apprise Jane that my mother will soon visit.” She gave him a brief curtsy and turned on her heel, heading back toward Jane's room.

As her demeanor did not indicate any residual distress, Darcy decided to let the matter drop, though he suspected that he would always regard the peculiar events of the previous evening with some fondness, even a degree of wistfulness.

Shortly after Mrs. Bennet's visit, Caroline paid an unusual personal call to the kitchens, and met privately with Cook. The servant had made two promises in order to save her job: to ensure that mushrooms would never again be seen in the household, and to turn over to Miss Bingley the small packet containing the remainder of those dried fungi that had caused such trouble the night before. Cook was eager to be relieved of the mushrooms, assuming her employer would make certain that the pigs would not get into them, and sighed in relief as Miss Bingley quit the kitchens.

Walking straight from the kitchens to her room, Miss Bingley placed the packet of dried mushrooms into a drawer and locked it. Certainly, the mushrooms would not be fodder for the pigs; heavens, no! They were far too dangerous. Caroline would keep them safely stashed away. She would put them to use when the opportunity arose for a private dinner with Mr. Darcy.

An Ink-Stained Year

VALERIE T. JACKSON

June 2

Cousin,

I pick up my pen not three days after I sent my last to you, a testament to my sad plight if ever one could be offered. Did you tell my father of my threat? Yesterday evening, I very nearly made
good on it. It was only the awareness that I would discomfort the servants by my presence that kept me from taking myself down to their dining hall and seating myself at the table between the footman and the scullery maid. But, Cousin, surely you are not so desperate as to go dining with the servants, you think to yourself. Oh, but I am! I am not like you, Darcy; I am not satisfied with my own company. I have not your depth. I lack that self-complacency, that strength of character, that makes a man able to withstand the trial of solitude. Yet I have been condemned to spend my summer in London. Such a time! Such a place! It is punishment, rather than pleasure! The streets are bereft, the exhibitions dull, and the parks a dim reminder of the pleasures of the country. I, an innocent man, sentenced to such a fate! A younger son I am, and it is my lot that I must bend to the will of my father and do his bidding. Do not weep for me, my friend! I shall bear up! I shall persevere!

Have I bored you sufficiently with my theatrics? Do you roll your eyes? Very well. I shall leave melodrama behind. In truth, I do rather well, considering the circumstances. Each morning I wake and, after breakfasting, I wander about the house, waiting for the clock to strike a suitable hour for making calls. When it has done so, I do not tarry in carrying out my father's business, and calling upon those gentlemen by whom he is so eager to be remembered. This being done, I go to my club, drink more than I ought, and—after attempting to socialize and finding the society insufferable—return home. Buxton House has never had a very entertaining library, you know, so you will not accuse me of hyperbole when I tell you that I have read every book in the house that can be read, even those by Mrs. Radcliffe that my father keeps hidden in his apartment. I have joined a circulating library in the hope of becoming a man of letters, or at least slightly less ignorant and ill informed. Most nights, I dine alone and go to bed early.