These Three Remain (2 page)

Georgiana, the dear girl, had refrained from pressing him for the details of his time at Lord Sayre’s. She had made it her purpose to ensure his comfort at home and, with Brougham’s connivance, to reinsert him into his usual social rounds. Within a fortnight of his return, Darcy was squiring her to concerts, recitals, and art exhibitions, while Dy dragged him to Jackson’s Parlour, his fencing master’s establishment, several assemblies, and a few nights before, a highly illegal prizefight. Between Dy’s satirical humor and his unerring nose for the intriguing, and Georgiana’s quietly expressed love, Darcy began to feel more himself. Occasional, dark prickings of his conscience did trouble him. The revelation of the true depths of his hatred for George Wickham, who had so nearly ruined his sister and poisoned Elizabeth against him was nearly as shocking to his understanding as was how close he had come to surrendering to Lady Sylvanie Sayre’s passionately offered temptations. But as Richard had predicted, much of it seemed now only a bad dream, and he was finding it easier to excuse or ignore those uncomfortable memories.

Alas, that did not mean all was well. On the contrary, one of the problems he had hoped to have done with reared its head again almost upon his return to London; for he had not been in Town two days before his friend Charles Bingley ran him to ground. Bingley’s joy at his return was so sincere, and his simple, unaffected nature such a wonderful contrast to those with whom Darcy had dealt the previous week, that an invitation to spend an evening dining
en famille
was accepted with alacrity. But Darcy and Georgiana had barely been relieved of their wraps and coats before Charles’s sister Miss Caroline Bingley had swooped upon him to whisper in agonized tones that she could decently avoid a visit from Miss Jane Bennet no longer; and having committed to a visit on Saturday, she urgently requested any advice he might have for her in this distasteful matter.

Glancing a moment into her disingenuous eyes, he had replied that he could not imagine her requiring any direction of his and assured her of his confidence in her ability to depress the pretensions of so unsophisticated a young woman as Miss Bennet. Her love for Bingley he might doubt, but of Miss Bennet’s understanding he was certain. Treated to an appearance of the imperious Caroline, she would know the acquaintance severed. But the damage had been done. He had spent the rest of the evening in frank discomfort, trying vainly to exorcise the bright and pleasing shade of Elizabeth Bennet that Miss Bingley’s plea had conjured from his mind’s eye and from among the company in which he had so often observed her.

And now Darcy and Fitzwilliam were on their way to Aunt Catherine’s. The ritual visit had begun when Darcy was a child in the company of his parents and Richard, whose fractious nature mysteriously underwent an incomplete but notable transformation when he was in Mr. Darcy’s company. Then it had been his father and Richard. Now, of course, he and his cousin had stepped into his father’s role as adviser to Lady Catherine. It required both of them; and even then, Darcy was not confident that their suggestions were taken as seriously as his father’s had been. No, his aunt’s welcome had little to do with the maintenance or profitability of Rosings and more, much more, to do with her expectations of him in regard to her daughter, Anne. He very sincerely pitied his cousin Anne and wished her well in health and situation, but he did not so pity her that he was in any way willing to provide her a means of escape through an offer of marriage. Aunt Catherine might smile and hint until Doomsday, but —

“Darcy, what
is
that bit that you keep stroking at?”

“What!” Darcy brought his wandering mind back within the confines of the coach.

Fitzwilliam had laid aside the newspaper and now motioned toward his hand. “In your waistcoat pocket. And do not tell me it is nothing! I have noticed you fingering it lo, these several months, and it is driving me to distraction.”

“This?” Darcy could feel the heat of the flush upon his face as he drew out the embroidery threads, now ragged and fragile from his repeated fondling. Blast Richard! How was he to explain them?

“You’ve taken up sewing?” Fitzwilliam teased upon seeing the coil. Darcy pulled a face at him and tucked them back into his waistcoat. “Come, come, Darcy! It is a lady’s token, surely; and you must now tell me the particulars.” He rubbed his hands together vigorously. “For Father Inquisitor will not rest until all is confessed. Shall I call for the thumbscrews?”

“Rogue!”

“Father Inquisitor Rogue to you.” Fitzwilliam laughed but would not be dissuaded. Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he said, “From the beginning now.”

Darcy leveled a look at his cousin calculated to freeze the blood in his veins. Inured to the familiar tactic, Richard quickly arranged his features, seeing his look and then raising it by the addition of a crooked eyebrow. “From the beginning,” Richard intoned again and in a terrible voice reminiscent of his redoubtable father. “Quickly now, or I shall begin to think it is something serious!”

The color in Darcy’s face heightened, and for a moment he felt something akin to sheer panic.
Serious?
A vision of those enticing curls caught up with ribbon rosettes and the remembered pleasure of her gloved hand in his coalesced in an instant, causing him to all but squirm in his seat. The irony was that he’d not been thinking of Elizabeth as he’d stroked the threads, but Richard’s curiosity at them had taken him by surprise, animating thoughts and sensations that, he was near to confessing, had gained within him a life of their own.
Good Lord, not now!
he reprimanded himself as they washed over him, heedless of his consent.
Have some dignity, for pity’s sake!
He glanced back at his cousin to find him gleefully watching his every shift.

“A complete triumph!” Fitzwilliam crowed, falling back into the seat. “I have finally discomposed you into blushing silence! Who
is
this singular lady?” Richard’s all too accurate deduction lured Darcy toward the mortifying waters of Heated Denial, but his premature crow both stung Darcy out of his confusion and provided him with subject for a ruse.

“You are far off the mark if you think them a sign of a lady’s favor.” Darcy infused as much disinterest into his voice as he could command. That much, at least, was true; and its expression steadied him. The exercise of even that modicum of control began to sweep back the beguiling phantoms. “If I blush, it is with embarrassment at the recollection of an indiscretion on the part of a friend whose imprudence necessitated my involvement in a delicate matter — a rescue or intervention, if you will — before he committed a grave error of judgment.”

The expression on Fitzwilliam’s face declared he was not to be satisfied with so small a bone. “An error of judgment? But,” he insisted, “there
was
a lady involved, was there not?”

“Yes, there was a lady involved.” Darcy sighed. Richard would not be dissuaded if he scented a female at the bottom of a coil. He would have to give his cousin more. “My friend very nearly put himself in the position of being required to offer for a young woman of exceedingly unfortunate situation and family.”

“Oh,” Fitzwilliam responded thoughtfully, “that is trouble indeed.” He paused and looked out the window as the coach shuddered over a rill in the road, then turned back to Darcy with a gleam in his eye. “But come, old man, was she beautiful?”

Darcy looked askance at his cousin. “Beautiful! Richard, can you think of aught else save if she was beautiful?” Fitzwilliam threw him a devilish grin and shrugged his shoulders. “Yes,” Darcy said, exasperation evident in his tone, “if you must have it, she was a well-favored creature and sweet tempered, withal; but I swear she does not love him — leastways not near as much as his prospects.” He tugged at his gloves, smoothing each in turn before delivering the coup de grâce. “Be that as it may, it was her family, not to mention a lack of fortune, to which every objection was raised.”

“A man could suffer the family from a distance, surely, if the lady were otherwise desirable and fortune no impediment.”

“Perhaps it could be overlooked,” Darcy agreed hesitantly, “if it were proved that the lady was devoted to the gentleman. Such is not the case. I assure you, much more proof than was apparent would be required to negate the inconveniences attendant upon forging a connection with such a family as I observed.”

“You make them sound a horror!” Fitzwilliam laughed.

“A family of reduced circumstances with any number of unmarried daughters allowed unbridled freedom to roam the countryside, impertinent as you please.” He ticked off the points in a litany with which he had become quite familiar. “A father who will not be troubled to rule his family and a mother who looks on any new pair of breeches in the neighborhood as the property of one or other of her offspring.”

“And did not you as well as your friend become her quarry?”

“I did not suit.” Darcy looked down his nose at his cousin.

“I can well imagine.” Fitzwilliam laughed at his ironic expression and then shook his head. “Your friend must have been besotted. Fallen ‘violently in love,’ then, was he?”

“In a word.” Darcy seconded the description but then turned his attention to the passing scenery. Fitzwilliam was all too perceptive. It would not do to have him surmise too much. “But I believe he is now in a fair way to relinquishing that delusion.”

“With your help, of course?”

“Yes,” he responded brusquely and looked his inquisitor squarely in the eye. “With my help. I congratulate myself upon achieving it. It would have been a disastrous match. The bride’s family would have made him the laughingstock of Polite Society.”

Fitzwilliam breathed out a sobered sigh. “A laughingstock, eh? I hope your friend appreciates the service you have done him. He owes you his life or, at the least, his sanity. Well done, Fitz,” he finished sincerely and reached for the
Post
.

Well done?
Was it truly? Darcy frowned, his thoughts and emotions caught in a web of contention. His words to Fitzwilliam had not been hollow. Miss Bennet, he was still prepared to swear, did not suffer that most tender of emotions in regard to Bingley. Had he not observed her closely to discover just that? But neither, it was equally true, did she present the appearance of a fortune huntress. No, he would swear to that as well. Miss Bennet, quite frankly, was an enigma. An enigma that Bingley had pierced and he had not? Bingley had been adamant that she loved him! Darcy crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the coach window at the rolling hillocks and fields just come into their spring green. No, that chain of thought was unprofitable; the last link in the affair had been forged. He clenched his jaw as consternation seized him. That last link had been the one that bound him to Miss Bingley in a distasteful conspiracy of silence against his own friend. How he hated such disguise! How he despised the whispered fears of discovery Caroline Bingley never ceased to pour into his ear until Miss Bennet was safely gone from Town. However he might bow to its necessity or congratulate himself on Bingley’s escape from the perils of such a family, the odium of the measures he had employed would remain a blot upon Darcy’s conscience.

His conscience! Darcy closed his eyes against the cheery March sunlight slanting across the coach’s seats. That staid organ of guidance and reproof had been of no comfort to him for quite some time. In his solitary moments, it churned up the dark anger he’d been forced to acknowledge at Norwycke, and it delivered him a sharp pang every time he surprised that expression on Bingley’s face. Bingley was still pluck to the bone and ready with a smile, but behind it lay a shadow that Darcy had been confident would fade upon their return to Town and its many diversions. It had not, and Darcy knew his friend to be struggling to regain his former state by that private, reflective look of his, which spoke of the presence in his body of only half a heart. Bingley maintained his social life with determination but only a portion of his former eagerness. No lady’s name had been associated with his own, although more than a few had been the recipient’s of some small attention. Bingley read more and spoke less, exhibiting the reserve Darcy had formerly accused him of lacking, in the hope, Bingley once told him, of setting himself to rights again. It was likely a lost cause, for how did one regain innocence of heart or forget the sweetness of love? Darcy had been wrong about him. Miss Bennet’s heart may not have been touched, but Bingley’s truly had, and he would ever carry the wound. What other course had been open to him? None — and still act the part of a true friend and mentor.
But,
Darcy’s conscience pressed him,
was it well done?

Then there was Elizabeth. Had he done well with her? His characterization of her family had been unmercifully accurate, save for her and her elder sister. In that, he had done them a discourtesy in his recital to his cousin. Heaven forfend that she should ever hear of his words or that they should ever be associated with her. It was true that the unsuitable circumstances and temper of the Bennet family were impediments for Bingley. It was doubly so for himself. Although lack of fortune was not of paramount concern to Darcy, the insurmountable difficulty lay in the degradation of such a connection and the unending embarrassment the behavior of its members would invariably visit upon him and his family. “…surely, if the lady were otherwise desirable,” Richard had opined, blithely multiplying the beneficial effects of distance. Although the lady was more than desirable, the moon was not distance enough to belie the difficulties! Yet did he not continue to rack himself with thoughts of her, dreams of her, and these blasted, entangling strands of silk that corded him up and bound him to her?

Darcy’s fingers went unerringly to his waistcoat pocket, but a rustle of newspaper gave him pause. Looking up from under his brows, he watched his cousin, waiting for assurance that he was well engrossed in his reading. A disdainful snort and a “Well, I should hope so! Idiot!” proved Richard’s attention to be engaged. Darcy slowly drew them out, the threads that had both served and tormented him. “Perhaps…if it were proved that the lady was devoted to the gentleman…” He had said that, traitorously holding out the exception to himself, knowing it impossible. She was in Hertfordshire; he was in Kent, or London, or Derbyshire — it did not matter where. They would never meet again unless he proposed it, nor should they. More than mere miles were involved. To attempt to engage her affection would be the act of a libertine, for nothing honorable could come of it. She would always be her mother’s daughter; he would always be the son of his father — Darcy of Pemberley.