These Three Remain (15 page)

“I am that sorry, Fitz! It clean escaped my mind.” Fitzwilliam pulled a penitent face at Darcy’s annoyance that he had spent an hour in Elizabeth’s company and still failed to offer her his greeting. “But we did speak of you, which is very like, is it not?” he offered in apology as they made their way to the stairs.

“Idiotish wretch! It is nothing ‘like’ in the least!” Darcy replied.

“Better a whisker than an outright Canterbury tale.” Richard grinned at him. “Oh, come round, Fitz!
La Bennet
will be here soon, and you can do all your wishing in person. Take warning, though; it will absolutely require you to open your mouth.” Darcy gave his cousin a withering look and proceeded down the stairs, his pace quickening as he went. She had spoken of him? He fairly burned with curiosity about what she could have said to Richard, but he dared not ask, not at this juncture. If Richard caught the least hint of what he intended this evening, he would have an audience for his every move.

It had been sufficiently unnerving under Fletcher’s anxious eye as his valet dressed him for the evening. Neither of them had spoken, an unusual enough state of affairs, but then every piece of clothing had been tugged and buttoned against his body with the utmost precision. His dark gray trousers fit smoothly tight, as did his subdued but elegant pearl-colored waistcoat. He had firmly refused another appearance of the Roquet, but the knot Fletcher had devised in its place seemed no less uncomfortable a work of art. The valet had then presented him his frock coat, easing it up his arms and over his shoulders with the utmost care to prevent a crease in the fine, jet-black fabric. Then down it had been drawn and the double breast buttoned snugly against his chest until he could barely breathe! Fletcher had passed him his watch and fobs, observing his every positioning of those accoutrements, and followed them with not one but two handkerchiefs.

“Two, Fletcher?” he had asked, breaking the unearthly silence.

“Yes, sir,” the man had replied diffidently. “One for you, sir, and one for the lady, should she require it.” Darcy had taken the holland squares without another word and quickly stuffed them into his breast pocket, wondering as he did so how on earth Fletcher knew of such things. When he was ready at last, his valet had escorted him to the door, and opening it, he had bowed him out with “My very best wishes this evening, Mr. Darcy, sir!”

“Thank you, Fletcher,” he had replied solemnly, and only then had the valet looked him briefly in the eye. “Your servant, sir,” Fletcher returned softly and, at Darcy’s grave nod, had closed the door.

Darcy reached the bottom of the stairs two steps ahead of his cousin and turned smartly to the right into the hall and then the drawing room. It was nearly time! Lady Catherine was already present, seated in her great chair at the end of the room, as were Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson on the settee nearby.

“Darcy,” called his aunt as soon as she saw him, “you must hear this, though you will hardly credit it, I am sure!”

“Your Ladyship?” He made his courtesy but did not take the seat to which she had waved him.

“One of the cottagers — Fitzwilliam, you must hear this as well — one of my cottagers has taken it into his head to apply to the parish! It is already common knowledge in Hunsford, evidently, that he has done so!”

“The poor man must be destitute!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed, only to receive a freezing glare from Her Ladyship.

“He cannot be destitute!” Lady Catherine passed judgment. “He is one of my cottagers, and therefore, it is impossible that he be in want. I told him as much last quarter, when my steward presented me the man’s petition to be forgiven his rents. ‘It is want of industry, not charity,’ I told him, ‘that finds you in this predicament. If I forgive you this quarter’s rents, I have no doubt I shall receive a petition for the next.’ ”

“I saw no petition, nor did your steward inform me that any had been presented,” Darcy interposed, his voice tight with displeasure. If such things were kept from his oversight, he could hardly move to relieve them before the situation of his aunt’s more precarious tenants became desperate.

“Of course you did not! Shall I suffer such a blot upon the name of de Bourgh for one man’s laziness? I shall not!” Lady Catherine pronounced heatedly.

“But it has now become unavoidable, Your Ladyship,” Darcy returned in tones of strong disapproval. “The man has been forced to apply to the parish, and it is, as you say, ‘common knowledge.’ Who is the man?”

For a full thirty seconds, as Richard was to inform him later, Darcy silently held Her Ladyship’s eye in a demand of the answer that was broken only by a cry from Mrs. Jenkinson that Miss Anne “not distress yourself and lie back a moment, miss.” At her words, Lady Catherine broke from the contest and looked to her daughter, saying tersely as she passed him, “Broadbelt, Rosings Hill,” before demanding an account from her daughter’s companion.

Concern for Anne drew Darcy over to the settee; but as he bent to inquire if he could be of any service, his cousin looked full up into his face and, to his astonishment, cast him a quick wink. Momentarily startled, he quickly covered his reaction with an air of sobriety and nodded his understanding. Evidently there was even more to his cousin than she had yet disclosed during this extraordinary visit to Kent.

“More ‘matters’ for you, I fear.” Fitzwilliam joined him at a goodly distance from the anxious group at the settee.

“Without question,” he returned. “I suspected of whom she spoke. The poor man has the worst land on the estate and, to complicate matters, a large family and equally large ambitions for them. He is trying to send to school as many of his sons as show promise, which makes for tired scholars and weary laborers.”

“And less income.” Fitzwilliam shook his head. “He shall have to keep them home.”

“He does, Richard. They school only out of season, but he keeps them to it on their own at night. It is his parcel. The land is truly wretched.”

“What is to be done?”

Darcy sighed. “I shall speak to the steward tomorrow.” The Sunday tenant visits Georgiana had wheedled him into this winter came to mind. He could not help but smile at the thought of the turn her more feminine Darcy sense of outrage would take at such a state of affairs. From observation of her ministrations at Pemberley, he could fairly guess what she would deem appropriate succor. He would see to it tomorrow.

The sound of the drawing room door opening behind him brought Darcy up straight, a mixture of excitement and panic jolting up his spine. Elizabeth! The knot of his neckcloth became suddenly unbearably tight, and he reached up to pull at it as he swung around to greet the arrivals. The old footman announced Her Ladyship’s guests in the overloud voice of one who was losing his hearing.

“The Reverend Mister Collins and Mrs. Collins, Your Ladyship.” The Collinses made their bows to the room, but Darcy only nodded perfunctorily, his eyes searching the darkened entrance for Elizabeth.

“Miss Lucas, Your Ladyship.” Little Miss Lucas, hesitant as always, made her brief curtsy and moved aside. The door closed behind her.

Where was Elizabeth! Darcy looked at the closed door in disbelief. She had not come? How — why could she not have come? For a moment he could not move but only stare at the offending portal.

“Fitz?” Richard’s questioning voice broke his trance. Ignoring his cousin, Darcy strode over to the knot of visitors and hosts with every intention of pulling Collins aside to charge him with an explanation when Lady Catherine unknowingly anticipated him.

“Mr. Collins,” she demanded stridently, “where is Miss Elizabeth Bennet!”

“Your pardon, Your Ladyship, Miss Bennet is quite distraught to be denied the honor of accepting your most gracious invitation this evening. It was with the greatest disappointment that —”

“Why, Mr. Collins, why is she not here!” Lady Catherine cut him off.

“Miss Bennet suffers a sick headache, Your Ladyship.” Mrs. Collins curtsied her interruption into the conversation. “She begs you will excuse her this evening.”

“A sick headache!” The rest of Lady Catherine’s opinion on sick headaches was lost to Darcy as he turned away in confusion. She was ill! This was an exigency for which he had not accounted. Ill? Richard had said nothing about her appearing ill this afternoon.

“Damned unlucky turn of events.” His cousin joined him at the window. “Instead of enjoying
la Bennet
we must suffer
le Collins
! Odd, though…she did not seem ill this afternoon.”

“How did she seem?” Darcy could not stop himself from asking the question.

“Thoughtful, a bit pensive perhaps,” he replied. Then he laughed. “We did speak of you, after all.”

Richard’s attempt at humor brought Darcy’s thoughts to a focus. She had spoken of him! She also knew there lacked but one day before he was to depart Kent. Could she have become uneasy in his delay? Or could she, in feigning illness, be offering him an opportunity? The idea was not an improbable one. It could very well be. On the other hand, she might truly be ill. He thought of her alone, waiting in expectation or resignation, and his course was determined. In either case, it was impossible for him not to go to her…and immediately!

Without a word, he wheeled abruptly about and strode away from the window. Intent upon the door, he ignored Fitzwilliam, who finally stepped in front of him and then took him by the arm. “Fitz! Where are you going?” he hissed at him. “You cannot just walk out!”

“Stand away,” Darcy shot back, his voice low-pitched but commanding. He would brook no further delay or debate.

“Fitz! Think what you are doing!”

“I have! I know what I am doing!” He shook off Richard’s detaining hand. “Make my apologies to Her Ladyship and the Collinses — or do as you wish! I am past caring what she thinks of my manners!” Darcy challenged his cousin, his eyes mirroring the implacable set of his jaw.

Fitzwilliam’s hand dropped from his arm, his face a study in apprehension. “Do as you desire then, and Heaven help you, Cousin!”

Responding only with a clipped nod, Darcy walked past Fitzwilliam, opened the door, and with hurried strides passed through the hall. He took the stairs in twos and threes, hitting the corridor that led to his rooms at nearly a run. Fletcher must have heard him coming, for the door to his chambers was unceremoniously yanked open a second before his arrival.

“Mr. Darcy!” the valet exclaimed, his eyes wide at his master’s almost wild appearance.

“Fletcher, my coat and hat — immediately, man!”

Fletcher said not a word as he hurried back to the dressing room to gather the demanded items, leaving Darcy to the quiet orderliness of his rooms. She had not come! He strode the length of the room and back. The more he considered that singular fact, the more plain its meaning grew. She had prevented him from making the mistake of declaring himself in an unseemly setting, and then what had he done but withhold himself from her, incommunicado, for an entire day! She probably had been expecting him, and his absence instead had confused her — or decided her. It would be just like Elizabeth to act to bring matters between them to culmination. Their sparring at Netherfield and, lately, at Rosings should, of all things, have taught him that!

Fletcher’s footsteps brought Darcy around. “Sir.” His gray coat was held out for his arms. Catching his sleeves, he plunged his arms into the sleeves and pulled the garment up over his shoulders before the valet could assist him. “Your gloves, sir.” Darcy pulled them on and reached for his hat, plucking it from Fletcher’s grasp and tucking it under an arm as he made for the door.

“Fletcher.” He stopped short at the portal and turned to his valet. “If anyone should inquire…”

“You were urgently needed elsewhere, sir,” Fletcher supplied smoothly. “And you will not be back —?”

Darcy nodded appreciatively at his valet’s astuteness. “An hour.” He considered the possibilities. “Several hours,” he amended as he smoothed his gloves. “Perhaps longer.”

“Very good, sir,” he replied, his confident, professional air a steadying calm upon Darcy’s churning thoughts. His long stride ate up the length of the hall, but at the top of the stairs Darcy halted. If he used the main staircase and doors, he risked being waylaid by Richard or spied by one of Her Ladyship’s servants sent to inquire after him. Turning on his heel, he retraced his steps to come to a stand before the door to the servants’ halls. Not since he was a boy had he traversed the small, dark corridors used by the staff in their unobtrusive service to the household, but surely he could remember the way!

“Darcy?” Fitzwilliam’s voice echoed up the stairs. He had no choice. In a moment he was on the other side of the door and making his way to the servants’ stairs and down, dodging several maids overburdened with armloads of sheets and toweling on their way up to the bedchambers. The servants’ hall was deserted, and Darcy stepped down into the long, low room, searching for a door to the outside. Finding none, he crossed the room to discover a short hallway, a step up on the other side, and the desired exit.

After putting some distance between himself and Rosings, he stopped and looked back at the manor house he had left in so precipitous a manner. Richard must be questioning his sanity! His cousin had guessed where he was going and had been alarmed at first. But he had wished him Heaven’s blessings then, had he not? When the time came, when he brought Elizabeth back on his arm his affianced wife, Richard would support him. Her Ladyship, now…Her Ladyship presented an immediate and highly volatile hurdle, her absurd notion of his being pledged to Anne only the first volley she would fire at him. The outrage she would marshal against his choice would be voluminous and well fueled by the bitter disappointment of her long-held designs. He thought better of his desire to bring Elizabeth back to Rosings this evening. It would be best not to expose her to his aunt’s wrath until Lady Catherine could be brought to silence on his choice of wife. His wife! The hard edge of urgency that had impelled him from Rosings softened at the joy that thought bestowed. Darcy turned and set his face toward Hunsford. There lay his future, his well-being, the comfort of all who were Pemberley. It was time to secure it!