The Road to Pemberley (5 page)

“You will enjoy the Meryton bonfire,” Elizabeth said as she snuggled against Darcy's shoulder. They shared a carriage with Bingley and Miss Bennet. Darcy had sent his large coach to London to bring Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley, his sister's companion, to Netherfield. He needed reinforcements. Bingley's youngest sister would descend on his friend's estate on Tuesday, just in time to put a
damper on Darcy's enjoyment of the wedding of his old friend and Miss Jane Bennet. At least, with Georgiana in residence, Darcy could feign seeing to his sister's needs.

“It celebrates the village's founding,” Jane Bennet explained.

Bingley caught his fiancée's hand. “I do not recall a bonfire last year. Did I miss it somehow?”

“The weather right after Michaelmas was so wet. Everything had to be postponed, and then finally it was canceled,” Elizabeth explained.

“Ah. Now I understand.”

“Sometime we will have to join the Bonfire Night in York,” Darcy added. “The best bonfire toffee I have ever eaten.”

“So what shall we see tonight?” Bingley asked good-naturedly.

“Lots of food…and people—” Jane began.

“And dancing,” Elizabeth interrupted.

“Dancing in a village square?” Darcy snarled.

“I swear, Fitzwilliam, must you find everything repugnant?” she blurted.

Resentfully, Darcy said, “I am aware that you enjoy dancing more than I do.”

Elizabeth eased away, realizing that she had stirred his ire. “I spoke out of line, Mr. Darcy,” she said apologetically.

Darcy should have accepted her apology, but he was slow to forgive. This was their second tiff in less than four days, and, unbidden, questions formed in his mind. Would they always snipe at each other? Were their personalities too different?
I hope not,
he told himself.

The evening seemed colder than the temperature. Elizabeth remained by his side, but they showed no affection. It was as he
wished, but it felt wrong. He preferred Elizabeth on his arm, so that he could cup her hand with his free one. “I gave your cloak to Mr. Pinncatch to pass on to a needy soul. I have asked Georgiana to bring you a new one from town.”

Elizabeth glanced down at the plain brown wool that she wore. She had borrowed it, an old one of Charlotte's, from Lady Lucas. “I thank you, sir. It is kind of you, although I do not deserve it.”

“Of course, you deserve it. As my wife, you will order a whole new wardrobe,” he assured her.

Elizabeth blushed, but she managed to say, “I have apologized more in the past few days than I have in the past several years. And I suppose I must offer my sincere regrets again. Although I have experienced Pemberley's grandeur, I had not thought so much of the differences in our styles of life.” Glancing around to assure privacy, she looked up at him. “If you have questions of our suitability, Mr. Darcy, you must not feel compelled to maintain our engagement.”

Darcy caught her elbow and directed Elizabeth away from the milling crowd. He could not believe what she had just said: She did not want to marry him. “First, Miss Elizabeth, a gentleman never breaks an engagement. If I did, you would be ruined socially.”

“Not as much as if I canceled the ceremony,” she asserted.

Darcy frowned. His heart raced uncontrollably. “You have actually considered this?” A cold, sick feeling gripped him.

Elizabeth's eyes dropped, and she clutched her hands before her. “It is not my desire, sir. Yet I cannot help but feel that I am a disappointment to you. That the reality of me—of my life—of my family—is more difficult than you had expected.”

Darcy thought a moment before he spoke. “Elizabeth, I have eight years on you, and where you have known a certain freedom, I have known nothing but duty and responsibility and name. We are
products of our upbringings, but does that mean we should not be together? As a couple, our differences will make us stronger, not weaker. I have no desire to end our engagement. I pray that you feel the same.” He waited impatiently for Elizabeth's response.

“I chose you, Mr. Darcy. Not your wealth. Not your estate. Not your family name or prestige.”

“And I chose you, Miss Elizabeth, above all others,” he said evenly.

As he stared into her eyes, he recognized her apprehension, and Darcy resolved to protect and love her. Only when Bingley came to ask Elizabeth to join the others in the Founders' Day dance did Darcy release her.

When Elizabeth had suggested that they end their engagement, his secret “sensible” response had been to agree, but then his heart screamed,
You cannot let her go!
And for a moment, he could not breathe. A strange spasm had clutched his heart and had shaken him to his core. With her, Darcy had left his sane, rational self behind. When Elizabeth had spoken of terminating their betrothal, Darcy had wanted to drop to his knees to beg her to change her mind.

Elizabeth joined the party revelers, but her mind remained on Darcy. She had gambled with her future when she asked if he wished to call off the engagement. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a complicated man, and Elizabeth was not sure she could be a fit wife for him. He needed so much. At one time, she had thought of him as proud and not much more, but she had erred. Darcy was so much more.

Earlier, she had argued with her mirrored reflection. “Mr. Darcy's wealth has not brought him contentment. Therefore, he
needs me.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “A good man rests beneath that austere exterior, but how do I reach him? I will not allow anyone to hurt him—even myself. I will step away first.”

“Come, Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley's words brought her attention to the roaring fire. The town residents would lock hands and dance around the flames in a cross between a Spanish fandango and a Scottish reel. Using a strathspey traveling step and a slide, the inner circle would move clockwise, and the outer one counterclockwise. Elizabeth caught Bingley's hand on her right and that of Bryson Lucas, Charlotte Collins's oldest brother, on her left. With a laugh, she stepped into the dance.

Darcy watched Elizabeth. Earlier, she had taken his words as an insinuation that he found her clothing unsuitable for his future wife, and, of course, she had taken offense. Yet, as usual, he had not explained himself accurately. In reality, he had only thought of finally having the right to dress her in the finest silks. Elizabeth in satin and lace. Her beautiful face was so expressive.

When he held her, Darcy felt alive in ways that he could not explain, even to himself. He sometimes thought that if he could hold Elizabeth all day and all night, then his world would right itself. He was, he knew, exceptionally privileged. But life brought disappointment, and sometimes grief, and often disillusionment. His life was not simple. And he was rarely carefree; he took matters seriously. From the time of reaching his maturity, Darcy had carried the weight of Pemberley on his shoulders. As a brother, a landlord, and an estate master, so many people's happiness was in his guardianship. So much power. So much responsibility. So much loneliness.

He ought to join her—take Elizabeth's hand and weave a crazy side step around an open fire. But he would not—could not—live
life that freely. He was Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. He had to maintain the pretense. Traces of numbness had descended over him when Elizabeth had said the words aloud, the ones he most feared. The fear that no one could love him—the man, not the pose. He had thought he had found such a woman in Elizabeth Bennet, but how was he to know for sure? Since his early youth, he had never shown anyone, other than Georgiana, the real Fitzwilliam Darcy. Would he forever have to be only the master of Pemberley? Could he not just be Will again? He tried to make eye contact with Elizabeth, but she danced and laughed and made merry with her family and friends. She had left him behind.

As he watched, Elizabeth turned suddenly to Bingley and caught his right hand with hers. Pulling slightly away from each other, they circled around a central axis and stepped through. She half skipped and half danced by Darcy before catching her sister's left hand. She began to make her way down the line of surprised dancers, who laughed and soon followed, copying her spontaneous allemande.

Darcy looked on with amusement as Elizabeth, having made a complete ring of the rest of her group, shrugged her shoulders when she met Bryson Lucas. The boy, possibly sixteen years old, caught both her hands, and they revolved as partners, turning tightly in a close circle. Elizabeth leaned back and laughed, her eyes bright. Darcy wished that he could truly make her happy. He wanted that more than anything.

Hearing the music coming to an end, he turned to retrieve Elizabeth's borrowed cloak from the cloakroom. He picked up the offending item and once again thought of the one he had asked Georgiana to bring with her to Netherfield. He had seen it on display when he escorted his sister along Bond Street. His instant thought was
Elizabeth.
This occurred weeks before he returned to Hertfordshire—when he still thought it hopeless—this love he
felt. Yet, he reflected as he made his way through the Founders' Day crowd, he had known immediately that the cloak was made for Elizabeth Bennet.

Then he heard it. Elizabeth's scream rang out above the noise of the crowd. When he turned, at first, Darcy could not find her among the others, who covered their faces in shock. Then Elizabeth burst through the throng and ran toward the village center. To his horror, fire snaked up the back of her dress.

“No!” he yelled as he accelerated to reach her. “Do not run!” he called, but Elizabeth either did not hear or did not understand. She ran harder, trying to escape the flames.

Darcy ground out each step, lengthening his stride, and as he closed the distance, he prayed that he could reach her in time. “Lizzy!” he bellowed. Thankfully, her steps stuttered, and Darcy dove for her, taking her down with him, covering her with the same brown wool cloak he had disdained earlier. Grateful now to be holding it, he encircled her with his arms and rolled Elizabeth across the ground as he protected her face in his shoulder.