Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

T he house bespoke money, old money—the kind of wealth that meant a royal lineage commingled with blue blood going back generations. It was especially manifest in this luxury residence on Grosvenor Square, where even the breezes did not dare waft air tainted by the usual London pollutions.

Elizabeth stared for a moment at the entrance—a canted bay rising through the first and second storeys, supported by two massive, marbled columns—wishing desperately that Jane had not had to return home to Longbourn, and could be beside her to lend her confidence.

It was not merely the obvious affluence; it was the hushed atmosphere, bestowing some sort of structural reverence upon the entire square. Her uncle’s home was grand, but this one required more than money to exist. It required power and privilege to maintain a home in this particular neighbourhood—and this home was not Mr Darcy’s finest one .

“We do not have to do this,” her uncle reminded. “I can have the carriage returned to Gracechurch Street, and us in it.”

She smiled at her concerned relations. “Oh, no. He will at least explain himself to me. I am owed it.”

This was a truth no one could deny, but there was a part of her that did not wish to hear it. What were the odds that it was a worthy excuse, enough to vindicate his cruelty? Granted, according to her uncle, Mr Darcy had not meant to leave her waiting at the church; nor was there any supposed engagement to Miss de Bourgh. Did all the cruelty belong to Colonel Fitzwilliam, then? Or was ‘the letter’ he had been tasked to deliver filled with explanations so weak that the colonel could not bear to put himself in the middle of the situation, as she and Jane had long since surmised? Anger was easiest, but heartbreak continued to devastate her. She hoped the truth would free her to move on.

They were greeted at the door by a liveried servant, followed closely by Mr Darcy—almost as if he had been waiting at the windows for any sign of them. He was, unfortunately, even more handsome than she had remembered. He was also an imposing figure, sober, dignified. For just a moment, however, his eyes lit, and he seemed to hesitate for an instant before speaking. Her own tongue was tied as well.

She had her anger, still, but she had not expected the strength of the other feelings flooding her—memories of holding him, being held by him. Mere desire , she tried to tell herself, but she knew it for a lie the moment the thought formed. It was connexion —an electric recognition that tingled throughout her whole body. Did he feel it, too?

But after those first few seconds, the hauteur he habitually wore in company returned; he reminded her in all ways of his demeanour that first evening of their engagement, when she seemed a nobody or nothing to him before the Bingleys—impassive, distant, dignified.

He never informed them of our engagement , she reminded herself.

Mr Gardiner smoothly performed the introduction to his wife, and Mr Darcy bowed to both ladies. “Perhaps you would come with me to the dining parlour,” he began, but Elizabeth knew she could not do it. She could not sit over a meal and pretend to eat and spew pleasantries until he decided enough attention had been paid to the proprieties, and he could proceed to explanations.

“Please excuse my impatience—” she began, but was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a tall, well-formed young lady, who appeared both determined and somehow fragile.

“Please do not blame my brother,” she blurted, looking directly at Elizabeth. “I beg you, do not blame my brother for any of it. I?—”

“Miss Darcy.” An older woman emerged hurriedly from behind her, stopping the younger one’s speech. “It would be best if you allowed your brother to render any explanations as he feels are necessary.”

“But she should?—”

“ Please , Georgiana,” Mr Darcy interrupted. “Mr and Mrs Gardiner, Miss Bennet, my sister, Miss Darcy, and her companion, Mrs Annesley.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and suddenly he did not appear so very aloof, so much a stranger, but only tired and worried. As for Miss Darcy, Elizabeth noted that—despite a certain maturity of figure—in her obvious unease and lack of subtlety, she gave an impression of extreme youth.

After these introductions, Mr Darcy turned to the Gardiners. “I wonder if it would be possible for me to speak privately to Miss Bennet, regarding those explanations she is owed?”

Mr and Mrs Gardiner exchanged a glance, and Mr Gardiner opened his mouth to speak.

“Just tell them all everything, Fitzwilliam,” Miss Darcy interjected fretfully. “Her family should know. If you do not, I shall.”

He briefly closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Elizabeth saw his resignation. “Perhaps you would all join me in the library, then.” He turned to Miss Darcy. “Please, go and inform Mrs Fowler that we shall require a delay to our meal.”

Something to do with his obligations to his sister, then, must have been the reason for his absence. It did not make Elizabeth feel any better. His family must of course always be of great concern, but if her complaints meant he would drop his own wedding day with but a note to his cousin, they had been doomed to unhappiness from the outset.

The younger girl began a response to her eviction—probably a protest—but something in his expression must have, finally, quelled her. Closing her mouth, she meekly departed to do as he bade, her silent companion trailing after her.

With Mr and Mrs Gardiner, Elizabeth followed Mr Darcy up a great oaken staircase with massive balustrade; a footman leapt to open the double doors leading into a large chamber, and closed it behind them. Two sides of the room were shelves lined with books, another was a wall of windows covered by velvet draperies, and the last housed a great chimneypiece of black-veined marble. He led them to two leather sofas that were arranged before the flames. Elizabeth noted that the furniture here was somewhat worn, the leather soft, not possessing gleaming fabrics in the latest style, showing the wear of obvious use. The cushions were still plump, but a depression had formed in the seat of the one nearest the fireplace, and she caught herself wondering if this was a favourite spot for him.

She sat well away from that cushion, as if to protect her heart from the informal image. Her aunt and uncle took up sentry positions on either side of her.

Mr Darcy seated himself directly across from her, looking only at her, as if he were drinking her in.

Stop it, Elizabeth. It was foolishly sentimental imaginings such as these that had led to her public humiliation. She wanted her answers, but must make clear that he had not ruined her entire life, in case it was some finally remembered sense of honour which led him to recall her existence.

“It seems likely, from Miss Darcy’s words, that your sister required your attention on the date that was set for our nuptials. Possibly that is why you failed to return for our wedding. My uncle informs me that you wrote a letter to your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, which you assumed had been delivered to me before the ceremony. I wish to know one thing: why would you send such a letter, a letter calling off my wedding, to him ? It was very obvious to me that he did not like or respect me. Could you not see that? He did not hide it particularly well—or even try. I might also, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I was thus rejected by him. But I suppose that issue is of small importance, at this late date.”

Elizabeth’s aunt placed one hand upon her knee; it was a gesture of support, but also of warning—it was probably time to stop speaking now, allowing Mr Darcy to respond. Of them all, Mrs Gardiner had expected that they would hear from him; she knew of the Darcys from her youth, and had declared it impossible for such behaviour to stand without explanation from him. She did not at all blame her niece for her resentment, but sensibly, could not wish for fury to interfere with those answers Elizabeth was owed.

“I do not call it a matter of small importance at all,” Mr Darcy replied, his eyes still resting upon her. “You have every right to know. As for his reasons, I have sent a note to my cousin, asking him to explain himself at the earliest possible moment, upon his honour as a gentleman, else never enter my home again. I do want you to know, Elizabeth, that in addition to the letter I asked Colonel Fitzwilliam to deliver to you, I did write to you directly, more than once.”

He slid a small stack of envelopes across the low table towards her. “Full explanations for my absence are contained therein. I recently received my letters returned to me unopened, and it was not until then that I suspected something was truly amiss between us.”

They both stared down at them, as if it were easier to look at the tattered envelopes than each other. He took a deep breath before continuing. “The gist of it is, I went to town to collect Georgiana and bring her to our wedding, but found her gone—eloped, with a man I particularly hated and who had cause to hate me. That man I once told you of, who treated Bingley so cruelly—although I did not make known to you then that he was the same one who had pressed his suit upon my sister at Ramsgate.”

Elizabeth gasped. Mrs Gardiner took her hand, and she clutched it. “Not…not Wickham?”

He nodded once, sharply. “I had missed her by a mere two hours,” Mr Darcy continued, his voice unemotional, “and felt there was a reasonable chance that I could follow, that the life of misery and heartache she foolishly had chosen could be prevented, if I acted quickly. Act, I did, catching up to the eloping pair at Newark.

“As for why I chose to send your letter to Colonel Fitzwilliam, he is Georgiana’s joint guardian. It was necessary to inform him of her situation, at once. It did not seem right to me, at the time, to send such awful news to you by a letter alone. I imagined that he would behave as a gentleman ought, however, and deliver it to you with my wretched news. I am sorry, unutterably sorry, to find I was wrong.”

Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror oppressed Elizabeth, but before she could begin to express the perturbation of mind his words had excited, the library doors slammed open.

“What the devil is this about, Darcy?” Colonel Fitzwilliam growled the question, holding out a sheet of letter-paper before him.