Chapter Two

Darcy

Pemberley

Three Months Later

"M r Darcy, I daresay you are doing remarkably well," Mr Smith, the town physician, said as he sat back and indicated for Darcy to dress. "Is the salve helping at all with the tightness?"

Darcy shrugged. "A little," he said, and Mr Smith cleared his throat as Darcy slipped his shirt back on and tied his cravat.

"I can recommend something different, but I would keep with it for a while longer. A friend of mine recommended it, it is being used in France on our soldiers burned in battle quite successfully," he said, while Darcy slipped on his sage-coloured waistcoat and fastened the buttons.

"Well, I am not a soldier scarred in battle," he said bitterly as he tried to force the last button in its hole, his stiff fingers refusing to cooperate.

"Burned skin is burned skin, Mr Darcy. No matter how one came about it," Mr Smith replied and snapped his bag shut as he rose, pulling down his black coat as he did. "I left a bottle of laudanum with Mrs Potts as requested."

He paused and watched Darcy carefully, his jaw moved back and forth, betraying his contemplations.

"Say whatever it is you have on your mind," Darcy barked as he faced the man. He'd known Mr Smith since he was a boy. He'd tended to his parents during their final days, and he'd looked after Darcy and Georgiana when they were young. He'd always liked the man, but Darcy saw in Mr Smith's eyes the same apprehension he'd seen in others.

"I wondered how you are feeling, how has your mood been?" he asked finally, forcing the words out.

His mood? What sort of ridiculous question was this? "My mood is as one would expect. I manage. My hand bothers me at times, causing frustration," he said at last as he looked down at his hand.

Shiny reddish scars were spread across the back, ridges and valleys formed an odd landscape upon it—a sight he knew was repeated along the left side of his body and his neck. They were the areas where the flames and heat had caught up to him when he'd attempted to shield his sister.

At first, the pain had been excruciating. He'd begged for relief, even for death at times. But he no longer felt pain, indeed he felt little altogether as the fire had robbed him of his sensation, along with everything else he'd ever cared about.

"Mrs Potts mentioned your melancholy persists," Mr Smith said, drawing him out of his thoughts. Darcy looked up, feeling the pull where his skin had grown tight.

"I do wish my staff would not talk to you about my condition, it is unseemly, and I will not have it," he said, his voice echoing off the high ceiling of his study. "I shall have to speak to her about this."

"Please, do not. She is simply worried about you, as we all are," the physician replied.

"I do not need your worry nor your pity, Mr Smith. In fact, if we're quite done, I'd like you to leave me to my peace," he said, his tone brooking no argument.

"Of course," Mr Smith said at once. "But if I may, it would do you good not to shut yourself away. Spring is in bloom, and it is quite pleasant outside and fresh air would do you some good. The market is—"

"I have plenty of fresh air, Mr Smith. What I do not have enough of is privacy. I have no need to go into town or to market. I have servants for that. And I certainly have no need to be gawped at and whispered about by the townsfolk. I am sorry to disappoint but they shall have to get their entertainment elsewhere for I will not provide it," his voice rose with each word until it neared a cry. Mr Smith raised his hands at once and departed, bowing as he slipped out of the door. Darcy's chin trembled with anger. How dare this man tell him what to do? How to behave? How dare anyone question his state of mine?

Darcy rushed to the bell to summon Mrs Potts so he could tell her what he thought of her intrusion. His fingers curled around the bell pull, and he felt the heavy tapestry scraping against his skin as he tightened his grip, but then hesitated. Mrs Potts was a well-meaning woman and Darcy knew she wanted what was best for him.

In many ways, she was the grandmother he'd never had growing up. Mrs Potts had been Pemberley's housekeeper when he was a boy, she'd trained Mrs Reynolds—then a housemaid—to take her place when she'd had to stop working due to her youngest daughter's chronic illness.

He'd seen her often since, whenever she'd come calling at Pemberley. In fact, she was almost a member of the family, so much so Darcy had paid for her daughter's treatments—and eventually for the young woman's funeral. He'd been proud that the older woman had felt comfortable coming to him, leaning on him and Georgiana in her grief.

And when the time had come to repay this kindness, she hadn't hesitated. From the moment word had spread about the Pemberley fire and the loss of Miss Darcy and Mrs Reynolds, Mrs Potts had been present. Indeed, hers had been the first face Darcy saw when he awoke after being rescued. Not only that, but she'd also been there when he received the news about Georgiana's death.

No, he could not be unkind to her, he knew that. He'd known that when he took hold of the bell pull to summon her.

Letting out a sigh, Darcy dropped his arm and walked across the room, taking a deep breath as he stopped in front of the cheval glass that was covered with a large sheet. He wetted his lips and then ripped it off with one smooth movement, shuddering as he looked at himself in the mirror, a reluctant witness to the ruin that was his appearance.

His reflection, which he had once considered reasonably handsome, served as a merciless reminder of the inferno that had ravaged his features—and his home.

The left side of his face bore the indelible marks of that fiery ordeal, evidence of the agony he endured and the permanence of his affliction. His hand trembled slightly as it reached up to trace the jagged lines that marred his skin. Red and raised, like a crater, his skin didn't look anything like he remembered. When he moved his face or attempted to smile—a rare occasion these days—his skin stretched in an uncomfortable manner. He let out a grunt and replaced the sheet, not wishing to look at himself anymore.

Why did he feel a desire to do such things to himself? He already knew what he looked like now. A monster.

Not that he needed a mirror to tell him that. He needed only to look into the eyes of those who had known him before to see what he'd become. He grimaced, thinking of the first time he'd seen his aunt, Lady Catherine, after the fire. She'd rushed to his side along with his Uncle Matlock, but it was clear from her reaction that she'd regretted her decision.

The sheer horror as she looked at him had told him just how bad he looked, long before he ever dared glance into a mirror. Since then, she'd been largely absent from his life, embarrassed perhaps by his appearance. It was ironic, for so long he'd wished to be free of his aunt's constant efforts to make a match of him and his cousin, Anne to no avail. Until now. It seemed his scarred appearance and his newfound reputation for being a hermit and an unpleasant one at that had finally achieved it—he was no longer considered a perfect match for Anne.

Oddly enough, he continued to correspond with Anne, who'd turned out to be a support although a distant one, as he did not wish to see her face to face either.

Indeed, he had no desire to see any of his family—and he hadn't in months. At times, his cousin Richard would call on him and these visits were largely pleasant as Richard had never pretended not to be shocked by Darcy's appearance. At the same time, he never made Darcy feel badly about himself. It was odd how Richard always managed to find the correct words… With his cousin, he felt he could be himself. But as for the rest of his family… he hadn't seen them and did not wish to.

Just as he settled into the depths of his melancholy, a gentle knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," he called, his voice betraying none of the turmoil that raged within. Mrs Potts entered the room, her kind eyes searching his face for any sign of distress.

"How was the physician's visit, Mr Darcy?" she inquired, her voice filled with genuine concern.

"He assured me of my well-being, Mrs Potts," Darcy replied, his tone clipped and formal. "And he mentioned you were concerned about me. There is no cause for it."

Mrs Potts hesitated, her brow furrowing with worry. "I cannot help but worry about you, sir. You spend so much time alone in here. Have you considered venturing outside? A bit of fresh air might do you good."

Darcy offered a tight-lipped smile, the ache in his chest growing more pronounced with each passing moment. "I do go outside, Mrs Potts," he said softly.

"At night," Mrs Potts sighed, her gaze filled with understanding. "I wish you would allow yourself to be seen during the day, sir. You cannot hide away forever. Perhaps a visit to the church? The new vicar could do with a bit of supervision," she said and Darcy unwittingly let out a scoff.

"I think not. I appreciate your concern, Mrs Potts," he said quietly. "Pray, why have you come?"

Mrs Potts smiled and withdrew a letter from her pocket, handing it to him. "A letter arrived from Mr Bingley today."

Darcy's heart skipped a beat at the mention of his friend's name, a bittersweet pang coursing through him.

"Bingley?" he took hold of the letter, seeing his friend's familiar handwriting.

"It is good of him to keep in contact," Mrs Potts said, an unspoken accusation evident in her tone. For of course Darcy had not responded to any of Bingley's letters. He hadn't seen his friend since the fire and had no intention of doing so. To that end, he'd written to him some while ago asking him to consider their connection severed for good. However, Bingley hadn't taken him seriously for letters continued to arrive almost monthly. He'd stopped reading them after Bingley requested his presence in Hertfordshire, to help Bingley decide on an estate there.

Neverley House? He could not remember. Indeed, he'd shoved every letter thereafter into a drawer, not comprehending how his friend could be so incapable of understanding Darcy's decisions.

"Thank you, Mrs Potts," he said curtly. "That will be all."

The woman wetted her lips as if she had something more to say but upon seeing his frown she only nodded and walked away.

As Mrs Potts departed, leaving Mr Darcy alone with the letter, he felt a weight settle upon his shoulders, the burden of his solitary existence bearing down upon him with renewed force. He didn't want to see Bingley, that was true. Yet, a part of him would not let go of the memories of his former life. He glanced at the letter, wishing at once to read it while also longing to never hear from Bingley again.

His days were like this now, a constant battle between the Darcy he had been and the man he was now. Longing for his old life while also knowing nothing would ever be as it was.

The truth was, he didn't deserve to have the life he'd once had.

With a heavy heart, he walked to his dresser, placing the letter neatly on the pile holding Bingley's other correspondences. His gaze fell upon the stack of letters nestled within the drawer, a silent testament to the connections he had severed in his quest for solitude. Some were opened, bearing the familiar handwriting of Anne and Richard, while others remained untouched.

As he reached to shut the drawer, it stuck, stubbornly resisting his efforts. A quick glance told him the trouble was a letter that had slipped between the drawer and the desk. Frustration surged within him, he grasped onto the stubborn wood, pulling on it so hard the entire drawer flew backward, emptying its contents onto the floor.

He crouched down and winced as his scarred skin stretched with the motion. As he sat and sorted the letters and assorted papers again, he found himself looking at Bingley's letters again. Had he decided to purchase the property in Hertfordshire or not? Was he back home?

Darcy wasn't quite sure if it was the sudden explosion of letters onto the carpet or some other, deeper drive but he found himself breaking the seal on Bingley's first unread letter. As he sat, he felt as though the words on the pages came to life and he pictured Bingley's adventures in Hertfordshire, the idyllic landscapes and bustling society brought to life with each carefully penned word.

For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to envision a world where he had accepted Bingley's invitation, where he rode the fields and mingled at the ball. But as he read on, his smile faltered, replaced by a gnawing sense of apprehension.

Bingley hadn't just written to tell Darcy about the house. He had fallen in love, captivated by a young woman named Jane Bennet, whose charms had ensnared him almost the moment he stepped into Meryton. Darcy's brow furrowed as he read of Bingley's infatuation, a flicker of concern for his naive friend coming alight.

Jane Bennet's apparent lowly background stirred disquiet within him, not so much because she did not have great wealth, but rather because Bingley did.

Young men such as Bingley, na?ve and blind to the evils of the world, were often easily misled. Bingley had no father to counsel him, no strong influence to stir him right. That had always been Darcy's role. Without him there, it appeared Charles had followed not his head but his heart.

"You are a fool, Charles," he grumbled while opening the last letter, only to see his fears confirmed. Bingley had proposed to Miss Jane Bennet. Furthermore, he wished to have Darcy stand up for him as best man at the wedding.

The mere suggestion sent Darcy to his feet, the letter crumpled in his hand. Best man? Had Bingley lost his mind entirely?

Did he wish for his wedding to turn into a spectacle? For one thing was certain, nobody would talk about how lovely the bride looked, how inspiring the service had been—no, all they'd look at would be the monster standing at the front beside the groom. All they'd talk about would be that same man, the man who'd failed to save his own sister and had been hideously maimed in the process.

What was wrong with Charles? Didn't Bingley realise that he was no longer the same man? They had not seen one another in two years, and Darcy had made it abundantly clear that he did not wish to see him again. Yet, here Bingley was, extending an olive branch of friendship in the most unexpected of ways. Bingley had always been a naive sort, gullible and determined to see the best in everyone. But even he must have realised that Darcy wasn't the man he used to be.

He had failed in his duties—failed to protect his sister, failed to save Mrs Reynolds from harm. He was changed.

"Best man …" he scoffed as he approached the crackling fireplace, its flames casting dancing shadows upon the walls. Without a moment's hesitation, he flung the missive into the inferno, watching as the paper curled and blackened, consumed by the hungry flames. As the last remnants of the letter turned to ash, Darcy turned away and made his way back to his chair, sinking into its seat, determined to forget all about this unfortunate reminder of the life he no longer had.