14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Elizabeth sat in the parlour of Lucas Lodge, her body trembling slightly. Everything that had happened today seemed blurred and far away, as if she were looking at it through a thick glass window. She tried to think clearly, but her mind remained stubbornly blank, and all she could do was sit and stare at the fire, feeling the warmth on her face but knowing it was doing nothing for the coldness that seemed to grip her heart. But then, the warm, firm grip of Mr. Darcy's hand around hers...

"I will always come for you."

She had not known what to say in response to that. She was too tired to analyse her feelings, but one thing she knew: she believed him absolutely. He would always come for her, if she called for him.

It was strange, but she felt comforted, as she had not all day. She thought of her mother, her sisters – oh, Jane! Oh, Mary and Kitty and little Lydia! But at least they would all be safe at Netherfield; she had absolute trust in Mr. Bingley for that.

The firelight flickered across the room, casting shadows and warmth. With a start, Elizabeth realised that Mr. Darcy had not let go of her hand, and that she did not want him to.

For a long time, she did not know how long, Elizabeth sat in the quiet parlour, her hand held in Mr. Darcy's. She was too exhausted to think, to analyse her feelings, even to speak. Eventually, the carriage was seen returning from Netherfield, and Mary came to the parlour door to summon her: she, Lady Lucas and Charlotte all discreetly ignored the fact that Mr. Darcy was still holding Elizabeth's hand.

It was not until Mr. Darcy handed her up into the carriage that Elizabeth realised that she was still clinging to his hand, and the realisation shocked her. She snatched her hand away, blushing, but was disconcerted when Mr. Darcy took it again and held it firmly in his as he sat down beside her, Mary in the seat opposite diligently ignoring the breach of propriety.

The sensation of his warm, steady grip was in stark contrast to the numbness that had gripped her all day. The carriage rocked gently as it started moving, the wheels rumbling over the cobblestones, and Elizabeth found herself feeling, for the first time, that she was truly awake. Elizabeth could not even remember if she had ever sat so close to a man, and even though he was quite correctly gloved, it was a shocking liberty for Darcy to be holding her hand in this way .

Yet she found his touch strangely comforting. Her mind had been a blank all day, locked in the horror of the morning's events, and she had been unable to think clearly. Now her thoughts were coming alive, sparked by the warmth of his hand. She should not let him hold her this way, but... she did not want him to let her go.

And then it was too late, they were slowing, and she could see Netherfield in the distance.

The carriage had not even drawn to a halt in front of Netherfield when the front door opened, and a maid came flying down the steps. Elizabeth recognised her as the maid she had sent from Longbourn to get help, and she jumped from the carriage to embrace the girl.

"Martha! Oh, Martha, bless you for getting here so quickly!"

"I ran, Miss Lizzy," Martha said breathlessly, "I ran all the way."

"Miss Elizabeth." Mr. Darcy stepped forward, his expression determined. "Martha, I believe it is? Well done, Martha." His tone was firm. "Your loyalty will surely be rewarded. I insist, Miss Elizabeth, that Martha remain with you as your personal maid."

Elizabeth blinked and looked at him, startled. Martha, her personal maid? She was not sure who was supposed to pay for such a boon, but she said nothing. No doubt such matters could be sorted out later, but she was quite certain that Mr. Bingley would marry Jane as soon as it could be arranged, and then surely Netherfield would be their home and matters such as the salaries of a few servants would be inconsequential to Mr. Bingley, who had five thousand a year.

Elizabeth let Darcy assist her up the steps and into Netherfield's grand entrance hall, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. This, at last, was a safe place.

The housekeeper, Mrs Aberdeen, was waiting to greet them. Elizabeth had met the woman several times when Jane was ill at Netherfield. A tall, thin woman with greying hair and a kind smile, Mrs Aberdeen was a stickler for detail, but she was also compassionate and caring.

"Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary." Mrs Aberdeen came forward, a look of sympathy in her eyes. "I have taken the liberty of preparing the best guest chambers for your family. I hope you will find them comfortable."

"Thank you, Mrs Aberdeen," Elizabeth said, grateful beyond measure to the woman who had evidently taken much care over everything. "We are all very grateful for your thoughtfulness."

"It is my pleasure to serve Mr. Bingley and his guests, Miss Elizabeth," Mrs Aberdeen said with quiet dignity, and then she turned to Darcy. "Sir."

"Mrs Aberdeen," Darcy acknowledged her, his hand still resting at Elizabeth's back.

"Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary, if you would come with me, I will show you to your rooms." Mrs Aberdeen led them up the stairs and along the corridor to the guest wing. Elizabeth felt a pang of sadness. Only a few days ago she had walked this same hallway to call upon Jane, and now...

But she had no time to dwell on it. Mrs Aberdeen was throwing open the door to one of Netherfield's finest guest chambers, and for a moment Elizabeth simply stood and stared.

The room was luxurious, with a great carved four-poster bed hung with curtains of deep green velvet. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and Elizabeth could feel the warmth spreading into the room. The windows were hung with heavy velvet drapes in matching green, a large and beautifully upholstered armchair sat near the fire, and there was a screen at one end of the room to conceal a dressing area. She could see a copper warming pan on the bed, the handle poking out from under the covers, and she smiled in spite of herself. Mrs Aberdeen had certainly taken no chances on their comfort tonight!

"This is lovely, Mrs Aberdeen," she said, turning to the housekeeper. "I am sure I shall be most comfortable."

"I'll send a maid up to you shortly, Miss Elizabeth," Mrs Aberdeen said, and Elizabeth turned as Martha came into the room. She had not realised Darcy had followed her up the stairs, but he was behind Martha, and Elizabeth could not help but notice the look he exchanged with Mrs Aberdeen.

"I..." she started to speak, but Mrs Aberdeen was already in motion.

"Martha, you are here to help Miss Elizabeth?" At Martha's nod, Mrs Aberdeen turned to the door. "Very well, Miss Elizabeth, I shall leave you to your rest. Should you require anything, just ring the bell. Miss Mary, come with me, if you please; your room is just next door."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said again, and then Darcy spoke.

"Miss Elizabeth, if you will excuse me, I must go to Bingley."

"Of course." Elizabeth curtsied, and Darcy bowed, and then he was gone.

Elizabeth turned to survey the room. It was dimly lit, but the fire cast a warm glow over the walls and the great green curtains. It was a warm, comforting room, yet Elizabeth felt little comfort. Her mind was in complete turmoil, and she sat limply while Martha bustled around her, unbuttoning her gown and helping her change into a nightgown and wrapper.

"Martha, would you mind terribly helping me with my hair? I am so tired."

"Of course, Miss," Martha said, taking up the brush. She was deft but gentle with the tangles, and Elizabeth found herself almost dozing in the chair when another knock at the door heralded the arrival of the promised tray. Martha hurried to open the door, admitting a maid who brought the tray to the table by the fire.

"Thank you, Miss," the maid said, bobbing a curtsey and hurrying out. Elizabeth rose, looking at the tray. It had been thoughtfully provisioned, a small tureen of soup, a teapot and cup and saucer, a bread roll and pat of butter, some cheese and a pear. A small meal, but enough for one tired young woman.

"Miss, let me help you," Martha said, hastening forward to pour the tea.

"Thank you, Martha." Elizabeth sat at the table and served herself some soup. She found herself almost in a trance, mechanically spooning soup into her mouth. She was so very tired, and the soup was warm and comforting. She was almost asleep, she thought, when Martha's voice broke into her reverie.

"Miss Lizzy, you should go to bed."

"I..." Elizabeth blinked, and was surprised at how heavy her eyelids felt. She put her spoon down reluctantly. "I suppose I should." She was not sure she could have managed to stand by herself, but Martha was quick to help her, a steady hand beneath her elbow guiding Elizabeth as she stood up.

"Thank you, Martha," Elizabeth said again as she climbed into bed. "Good night."

"Good night, Miss Lizzy," Martha said softly, and Elizabeth was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.

The dining room at Netherfield was quiet, dimly lit, and silent save for the occasional clink of cutlery against china as Darcy and Bingley sat at dinner together. Darcy was lost in his own thoughts, his mind occupied first and foremost with Elizabeth. He could not imagine how she must be feeling, her home lost to her through Mr. Collins' selfish cruelty.

The candles flickered on the table, casting shadows on the walls, and Darcy stared at his plate for a long moment before he realised that he had not taken a single bite. He glanced across at Bingley, who was picking at his food in a similar manner, his face drawn and pale. Darcy realised that he had been preoccupied with Elizabeth, and had hardly spared a thought for the other Bennet sisters.

"I suppose," he said aloud, and Bingley looked up from his contemplation of his plate. "I suppose the ladies do not have much with them. Only what they could carry from Longbourn."

Bingley's face darkened, his cheeks flushing with anger. "I do not wish Jane to go near that house while Mr. Collins is in residence," he said tersely.

Darcy could not blame him for the sentiment; the mere thought of Elizabeth having to face Mr. Collins again made him feel ill. "And nor should she, nor any of them. It would be better, I think, if I were to go. I will take Martha and Mrs Hill and they will know what to pack."

Bingley looked relieved. "I appreciate it, old chap. I will start making arrangements for us to go to London, but I think it will take a day or two to make sure we can accommodate everyone."

Darcy nodded. "I will go early in the morning, then." He took a bite of the food on his plate, but it was tasteless in his mouth and he could not swallow it, pushing the plate away from him. "I will retire, Bingley. It has been a long day."

"Of course. Good night, Darcy. "

"Good night." Darcy climbed the stairs to his room, gratified to see that Mrs Aberdeen had made sure a fire was burning brightly and the room was warm and welcoming. He changed into his nightshirt and climbed into bed, lying awake for some time thinking of Elizabeth, of the way she had leaned into him, the way her slim hand had clutched at his, the way she had allowed him to offer her comfort.

It was to no avail, however, for the terrible events of the day preyed on his mind, and it was a weary Darcy who rose early the next morning. He dressed swiftly and went downstairs, to find Mrs Hill already waiting for him in the hall.

"Good morning, Mrs Hill," he greeted her politely.

"Good morning, sir," she bobbed a quick curtsey. "I understand you intend to go to Longbourn this morning."

"Yes, and I intend to take you and Martha with me to pack the ladies' belongings, if that will be agreeable?"

"Of course, sir." The housekeeper's face was pale, but she seemed composed. "Will you breakfast before we go?"

"Thank you, but no. I think we should leave as soon as possible."

Mrs Hill nodded. "I will go and fetch Martha."

Darcy sent for the carriage, and by the time it pulled up in front of Netherfield the two servants were ready to accompany him.

"Shall we?" Darcy gestured for the women to precede him out of the house, and climbed into the carriage after them.

Darcy's thoughts were full of Elizabeth as the carriage approached Longbourn. He hoped earnestly that she had been able to sleep, that her sisters had been able to comfort her, that she would soon smile again. It was only as they drew closer that his attention was caught by the house itself. There was no smoke rising from any of the chimneys, and the whole place had an air of abandonment about it. No servants came out to greet them as the carriage pulled up before the front door .

He descended from the carriage and strode up to the front door, rapping smartly on the knocker. There was no reply, and he turned back to the carriage, gesturing that Mrs Hill and Martha should join him. "No one seems to be at home," he said.

He was met with silence, until Mrs Hill said, "I think I know what has happened here, sir."

Darcy looked at the housekeeper. "What is it?"

"The servants," she said. "All of the servants walked away with the Bennets yesterday, sir. And I don't think any of them had second thoughts and came back, not after you promised you'd see them all set."

"Good God," Darcy muttered, shaking his head. Such loyalty! He turned back to the door, reaching for the handle, but before he could touch it, the door opened and Mr. Collins stood before him.

"Mr. Darcy," he said pompously. "I don't believe you have been invited to visit Longbourn." He glanced past Darcy. "Mrs Hill, Martha, it is good that you have returned. We must all turn to and get this house back in order. I will not have it said that I cannot manage my own servants."

Darcy stepped forward, physically blocking the smaller man. "They are here for no such thing," he said coldly. "Mrs Hill and Martha are here only to pack the Bennet ladies' belongings."

Mr. Collins' face turned an unbecoming shade of red. "I say, Mr. Darcy!" he spluttered indignantly, his voice rising in a self-righteous tirade. "I say, sir, I will not allow it! I am the master of this house now, and everything within its walls belongs to me!" He clutched the doorframe and puffed out his chest, his self-importance almost comical.

Darcy drew himself up to his full height, towering over the smaller man. "Mr. Collins, your actions are petty and beneath you," he said with cold disdain. He would not tolerate Collins' behaviour for a moment longer. "Now, if you will please stand aside."

Collins flushed an even deeper red. "I will not, sir!" he thundered back, his voice loud in the empty, cold house. "I will not!" He looked around, as if expecting support from the servants... but there were none to be found, Mrs Hill and Martha staring at him in shocked disgust. "I will not," he said again, more quietly, his red face twisting into a sneer. "I will not, Mr. Darcy. I have had enough of the Bennets' airs and graces. You may be sure that Lady Catherine will hear of this, Mr. Darcy! She will be most shocked to learn that you have been carrying on with Miss Elizabeth Bennet!"

Darcy's eyes blazed with sudden fury, but he held onto his temper. "Mrs Hill, Martha, please return to the carriage," he said.

Mrs Hill and Martha were only too glad to obey, but Darcy had not missed the housekeeper's expression of quiet dismay and the maid's look of sheer terror.

For a long moment Darcy simply stared at Mr. Collins, stunned into immobility. He had never before heard such a disgusting mix of lies, misapprehensions and distorted truths. I will not have it said that I could not manage my own servants. .. that comment, Darcy thought, was the closest Collins would ever come to admitting that he was in over his head, that his entire household had rebelled and walked away, and that for it to be known would be damaging to his pride. At least there, he and Collins were in agreement. He would be only too glad for Elizabeth's sake that it should never be known. But the rest! He had had quite enough of the Bennets' airs and graces, had he? How dare he speak in such a way of the woman he had proposed marriage to? And how dare he accuse Darcy of carrying on with Elizabeth?

How dare he ?

Darcy's fists clenched. How dare Collins speak of Elizabeth in such a way? His Lizzy, who had given so much, who would always give so much, who would fight for the people she loved with everything she had? And Collins dared to besmirch her reputation, dared to speak of her in such a disparaging fashion. He was no more than a worm. How dare he?

For a moment, Darcy seriously considered lunging at the man and punching him in his smug, self-satisfied face. It would be so very satisfying to see that sneer wiped from his face, to see him bloodied and beaten and cowering. But he could not. He could not allow himself to be dragged down to Collins' level. His fists slowly unclenched. Collins was not worth dirtying his hands, no matter how satisfying it might be. He forced himself to relax, to stand tall and proud, while Collins stood before him, red-faced and puffed up like a bantam rooster.

The house was cold, Darcy realised, cold and quiet. No fire had been lit, no servants were present, and the only sound was Mr. Collins' heavy breathing as he glared at Darcy. For a moment longer, he was tempted to make Collins pay in blood for his words. But he had another weapon at his disposal, one far more effective than mere physical violence. He had his words.

"Mr. Collins," he said with calm disdain, "I have never seen anyone behave in a less gentlemanlike manner." He allowed a moment for that to sink in, to see Collins' face twist in shock and dismay.

Mr. Collins flushed even redder, his face contorted with indignation and frustration. Without another word he turned and retreated into the house, leaving the door wide open. Darcy heard his footsteps, echoing in the cold, empty hallways, and then there was silence.

The silence stretched on. Darcy glanced at the carriage, at the two women huddled together in the seat. Mrs Hill was pale but composed, her lips moving in what was likely a silent prayer. Martha was openly weeping, her shoulders shaking, and Darcy's heart went out to the girl. She was little more than a child herself, and she had displayed great bravery and loyalty to the Bennet family. He would make sure she was well rewarded.

The silence stretched on. Darcy folded his arms over his chest, a frown creasing his brow. What could Mr. Collins be doing? Surely he had not gone to write a letter to Lady Catherine? Surely there was not pen and ink in the world sufficient to the task of explaining away his behaviour to the grieving ladies he should have been protecting with every resource at his disposal?

And then Collins reappeared.

Darcy's eyes widened.

The clergyman reappeared in the doorway, holding a shotgun in both hands. His hands were shaking, the barrel of the gun bobbing up and down, but his posture was aggressive. "Mr. Darcy," he said, his voice trembling, "you are trespassing on my property, and I must ask you to leave immediately."

Darcy was silent for a moment, staring at the gun in Mr. Collins' hands. It was an old-fashioned weapon, likely one which had been handed down from Bennet father to Bennet son for generations, and it had absolutely no place in the hands of Mr. William Collins.

Darcy looked down at the shorter man with cold disdain. He could see Collins' hands trembling as he held the shotgun, the barrel shaking up and down, and he longed for a moment to knock that gun from the other man's hands and beat him into the ground, beat him as he deserved to be beaten, the slimy, cringing, self-important little toad. Instead he stood firm, drawing on a lifetime of pride and reserve. He was Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley and he would not stoop to violence, but Collins would bow before him. He would make sure of that .

"Mr. Collins," he said calmly, "you are not holding that weapon properly. If it were to discharge it would take off your own foot. I suggest you put it down."

For a moment it seemed Collins would comply, his hands lowering slightly, but then he raised the gun again. "I said get off my property," he almost shrieked. The gun bobbed and weaved. "I mean it, Darcy, I will shoot."

Darcy looked at the gun in Collins' hands, at the trembling of his fingers and the sweat trickling down his face. There was no reasoning with Mr. Collins, he realised in that moment. A moment too late, perhaps. He was standing there, facing down a madman armed with a gun.

The man was long past reason. And there was not even any point in trying. Darcy was grieved not for himself, but for Elizabeth and her sisters, for Jane, Mary, Kitty and Lydia. They had done nothing to deserve their fates, and now here was this man, this idiot, to rule over them and ruin their lives. Thank God Elizabeth had refused to marry Mr. Collins! He could not contemplate such an idea. He could not contemplate her beautiful, intelligent, lively self, tied to this horrible little man.

"Mr. Collins," he said finally, "I quite look forward to writing to Lady Catherine and apprising her of your behaviour."

Collins' face went white, but he did not lower the gun. "You may do as you please, Mr. Darcy, but I will not permit you to remove anything from this property. Everything within these walls belongs to me and I will not permit you to take anything away."

Darcy stared at him for a moment longer. Collins' fingers were trembling on the stock of the gun. His hands were shaking. His eyes were wild. Darcy did not think he was in any danger from this man, but he was disgusted. Disgusted, and disappointed. He had so hoped to be able to do something for Elizabeth, and he had failed, because of this petty little man's vindictive selfishness. Darcy took a deep breath.

"Martha, Mrs Hill," he said finally, "I believe we should return to Netherfield." He turned on his heel and walked back to the carriage, his head high, refusing to give Collins the satisfaction of looking back.

The two women scrambled out of the carriage to meet him, Martha openly weeping, Mrs Hill wide-eyed. "It's all right," Darcy said quickly, his voice steady but urgent. "Back into the carriage, come on now, we will go back to Netherfield." He opened the door for them and held it while they climbed back in, the carriage door creaking open as they hurriedly climbed in. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly, as he joined them and closed the door. He rapped on the roof of the carriage. "Driver, back to Netherfield, if you please."

The carriage pulled away, and Darcy did not look back at the cold, empty house, the house he had come to love because it was Elizabeth's home. It was nothing to her now, and so Darcy must excise it from his heart as well, must make for Elizabeth a new home, far better, so that she need never regret anything she had lost.