Chapter 3

For some time, Darcy did his best not to think of the morning’s encounters. In the afternoon, he met with his solicitor, one of the appointments his aunt’s foolishness had forced him to cancel. Afterwards, he went to his club—non-participation in life, indeed!—and spent three or four hours at a game of chess, which he lost.

Returning home, he wrote to his sister, all the while remembering the time he had written to Georgiana from Netherfield, whilst Miss Bingley complimented his pen, his writing, the length of his letters, and anything else she could think of to try and ingratiate herself. Whereas Elizabeth had been wholly the opposite—teasing him for his suggested faults.

“Implacable resentment is a shade in a character,” she had said. “But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”

He had thought, in that moment, she had seemed rather sad about it. Sad that he could not be teased? Sad that he was hopelessly resentful? Why had he not taken any opportunity to explain at least some of that resentment? Who knew what lies Wickham had shared with her?

And the burning question, that, when he tried to close his eyes that night and sleep, prevented any semblance of rest:

Do I want to be ‘safe’ from her?

It is too late, he reminded himself. She is betrothed to another.

Sleep was a long time coming, however. When it did at last…it was to unrelenting, horrible dreams.

Darcy approached his chambers with keen expectation. His man would be within, and could remove this blasted neckcloth—knotted within an inch of his life in the most elaborate of folds, a true palatial fortress of a cravat, practically choking him. But what had he expected? It was his wedding day, and he must present himself in state for his bride.

Unfortunately, Pennywithers was not to be found—not in his sitting room, dressing room, or bed chamber. He searched everywhere in the vast space, but it was empty. He was alone.

Not for long, however. On the other side of a connecting door, nearly hidden within the panelling, was the mistress’s chambers. Would Elizabeth, even now, be dressing in some translucent, revealing gown, purchased especially for this extraordinary night? Or might she be already awaiting him in her bed?

His excitement, hardly containable, reached new proportions at the very idea. He had imagined, had dreamt, had anticipated this moment, it seemed, for years. It was odd that he could not remember what his prior objections had been—stupid ones, certainly.

In the absence of his man, he impatiently decided he must undress himself. Divesting himself of his coat was difficult; he heard a stitch or two rip. Well, Pennywithers must repair it, mustn’t he? Blast him for his abandonment! Removing his boots took even more doing, and he was in a sweat by the time he got them off. Why had he decided to wear boots instead of slippers to his wedding? What had he been thinking? Why had Pennywithers allowed it? Again, he cursed the missing valet.

Breeches and smallclothes were thrown aside, as was his vest. He stood before the looking glass, clad in only his long fine linen shirt and the dratted cravat. Tugging at it only seemed to knot it more tightly; he clawed at it, pulling at the thing, yet, unable to loosen it. Frantically, he rummaged in his dressing table and bureau for his penknife, thinking he would simply cut it off. The knife was inexplicably absent from its usual spot, and creeping feelings of panic assailed him.

Calm yourself, he ordered his reflection. Do not be stupid. Leave it. Your shirt is long, not as long as a nightshirt, but long enough. Perhaps it is a bit irregular to appear before Elizabeth in it; still, you need merely don your dressing gown and you will look perfectly acceptable, especially to your new bride—who likely would prefer the candles doused shortly after your arrival, regardless.

Unfortunately, a dressing gown was nowhere to be found. He owned at least three of them, and worked up a sweat tearing wardrobes apart in his search. He would be having a stern word with Pennywithers, that was certain, and he yanked the bell-pull, furious. If Pennywithers did not appear, his housekeeper, or one of the many, many servants he paid to wait upon him and see to his every need would find his man or his penknife or his dressing gown, or he would know why!

No one arrived. What was the matter with his entire household? Why, on the most important night of his life, had they all deserted him? It made no sense.

He had only two choices. He could wait here alone, growing ever more enraged, or he could go to his bride.

Darcy leant against the bureau, taking deep breaths, forcibly quieting his wrath.

It is my wedding night. Nothing shall ruin it for me; nothing shall ever be wrong again, once I am with Elizabeth.

When he had regained good regulation over his temper, he stood straight and walked to the connecting door. Elizabeth is the only one who matters, he told himself.

At the door he paused in the act of reaching for the door handle; his hand was actually trembling, as he imagined her awaiting him in her bed, surrounded by pale linens, her hair—her long, silken tresses revealed to him, spread across her pillow. He might look ridiculous at the moment, but he would make her forget everything.

Eagerly, he drew the door open.

He blinked in the brightness of dozens of candles, golden light blazing from every available surface and momentarily blinding him, disconcerting him. It was unexpected, but unwilling to wait another moment, he turned to the enormous bed.

Reclining upon it was a large, naked, extremely hairy—and extremely male—back.

“What is this?” he shouted.

The reverend Mr William Collins turned a startled face towards him, the glutinous mass of his large, hairy belly sluggishly following as he twisted around.

“Mr Darcy! What are you doing in my wife’s bedroom?” the vicar shrieked. “Get out! At once! If you require my ministering, it will simply have to wait until the morning!”

Shocked and alarmed, Darcy staggered backwards; suddenly he found himself once again in his own room, facing the closed connecting door.

“I did not see what I just thought I saw!”

“What did you expect?” Bingley’s voice startled him into whirling. His friend was dressed for riding. “You cannot believe that every man would be as slow to act as you are. I am returning to Netherfield. I hope it is not too late for me, as it is for you.”

“Too late?” he repeated stupidly.

“Far too late,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, suddenly appearing beside Bingley, his medals gleaming against his regimentals. “’Tis for the best, Darcy. She shall be much happier this way.”

Darcy thought of the hairy blob of a man who lounged naked in a bed awaiting Elizabeth. His Elizabeth. “Impossible!” he cried. “How can she be happy with that…that…”

“Husband,” Bingley finished for him. “He is her husband. For as long as they both shall live.”

“No!”

“Yes,” the colonel said mournfully. “She had not gold enough to earn your good opinion. She has ample to earn his.”

Words failed him, but it was not the time for them. Giving the other men his back, he wrenched at the door. It would not open, not for all his strength.

“Too late, Darcy,” his comrades chorused. “Give it up. Too late.”

“Noo!”

Darcy sat bolt upright in bed, the sound of his own horrified shout of protest waking him.

“A dream!” he gasped aloud. “Not real. Only a dream.”

But with a sickening feeling, he knew it was no dream. It could easily be truth. Elizabeth might already be married to the Reverend William Collins. Gone, lost forever to him. The phantom neckcloth still choked him.

Flinging the bed curtains aside, he scrambled out of bed. Thin grey light streamed through the chamber’s window. It was already morning.

“Pennywithers!” he shouted.

Darcy checked his pocket-watch again. It had taken far longer to escape London than he had hoped, even mounted, as several streets were clogged in early morning traffic. He had given his stallion, Plunder, his head once they were on country roads. Still, it was nearly ten o’clock before Longbourn was in sight, and it took him another ten minutes to reach the manor house door.

At its entry, he faced a neat older woman, obviously an upper servant.

“I’m sorry, sir. The family has gone to the church for the wedding.”

His heart moved to his throat, so that he almost could not speak. “Miss Elizabeth?” he choked out.

“Yes, sir.”

“How long ago?”

“Not long. Perhaps half an hour.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and raced back to Plunder.

Before he was even half the way to Meryton’s churchyard, it began to rain. Darcy could not care.

Perhaps he was mad. It did not matter; he was only sure of one thing: he must try. For the rest of his life, he would hate himself if he did not. He might anyway, for delaying—he ought to have made for Longbourn the moment his aunt had read him the news of a betrothal. Instead, he had done as Bingley accused, as had become his habit: arrogant dismissal, putting off life, refusing to risk his heart.

The words spoken from the dance floor at Netherfield filtered through his mind. At the time, he had only fixed on his annoyance with Elizabeth’s interest in Wickham, instead of the obvious solution. Why had he never made Wickham’s character known to these people? He need not have said much—he had a vast selection of stories displaying the churl’s dishonesty, none of them betraying his sister.

Neither had he any high moral ground for despising her family—his own was as flawed as anyone’s. Why in heaven’s name had he worried what the earl would think? It was his own father whose good opinion he wished to honour—and his excellent father would have adored Elizabeth. He also knew that his father would have trusted him—and he could trust himself—to make whatever sacrifices were necessary to see Georgiana taken care of and his tenants as well. As he had been reminded too many times lately, fortune was not everything.

As he thundered down the road, a particularly virulent gust of wind sent his hat sailing, but he had not a moment to spare to retrieve it. With a sinking feeling, he realised that when it came to Elizabeth Bennet, he had always fixed his attention on the wrong things, chasing distractions, ambitions, and fears.

Now it might be—probably was—too late.