Chapter Four

Darcy

A blue streak ripped through the night sky, drawing Darcy's attention away from the novel he had been reading. Thunder followed, and then another flash. They were coming so close together that it was impossible to tell if thunder came first or lightning.

The storm was overhead, and Darcy knew that, for many people, such weather was concerning. But for him, he always relished rainstorms, less so when they were accompanied by thunder and lightning, but they did not unsettle him as they might others.

After all, it was thanks to a storm that his home had been saved. On that dreadful night two years ago, when he had lost his sister and his life had been forever altered, rain had helped put the fire out.

Sometimes, in these parts, a shower could come unexpectedly, and he had never been more grateful than for that one. Not because it had saved his life, he had already been saved by the time the rain started. But it had saved Pemberley, the home of so many of his loyal servants at the time. Most of them were gone now, but at least they had left of their own accord and not due to the fire. Darcy sighed, shaking his head to push the thoughts away. He was about to return to his book when Cogsworth, his butler, interrupted him once more.

"What is it, Cogsworth?" he asked grumpily.

The butler, tall and slender, entered the room, his face stoic though his eyes betrayed apprehension.

"Cogsworth?" he repeated, this time placing the book on the little table beside him and shrugging off the blanket.

"There is a caller, sir," Cogsworth said, his voice laced with apprehension.

"At this hour?" Darcy asked, shaking his head. It was well past ten o'clock in the evening. Who on earth would be out at such an hour, and in such dreadful weather? "If it is my cousin, Richard, please show him to the guest room and tell him I am busy. I will see him for breakfast."

Cogsworth's jaw moved left and right as if he were grinding his teeth. "It is not Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir," the butler said, fidgeting with his fingers, something rather uncharacteristic of him.

Darcy rose, his right-hand itching where most of the burns were located, as it often did in this sort of weather. "For heaven's sake, Cogsworth, out with it! Who is here, what do they want, and why can you not manage it on your own?"

"It is Mr Bingley," Cogsworth said finally, with a note of urgency. "He is with company. A man and three women. They are seeking shelter from the elements. He has requested to see you."

"Bingley?" Darcy's eyebrows shot up, and he shook his head. How in the world was this possible? Darcy had never responded to any of his letters, most certainly not the most recent one with his ridiculous request for Darcy to attend his wedding as best man.

"Send him away," he said, with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"Sir, they said the carriage broke down, and in this weather… There are three ladies…"

"Send them away," Darcy repeated harshly this time. There was little he disliked more than people not obeying direct orders.

Cogsworth paused for a moment, then nodded. "As you wish, sir."

He disappeared, and Darcy tried to settle himself in his armchair again, but he was thoroughly disturbed now. A part of him wanted to ignore the entire incident, but another could not help but wonder about his friend.

Instead of sitting back down, he walked past his armchair to the window and glanced down. He could not see much as the front entrance was partially obscured from his study window. Cogsworth had said three women and a man. One had to be the new Mrs Bingley, but the others?

Perhaps Caroline, Louisa, and her husband? All the more reason for him not to let them in. Caroline had made it her mission to make herself Mrs Darcy all of her adult life.

He could only imagine what her reaction would be to seeing him in his disfigured shape. No, he did not want to see that. Voices rose from below, and Darcy opened the window to hear better.

"I will not have it!" he heard Bingley's usually soft voice say, filled with disbelief now. "Cogsworth, you have known me since I was a lad, you will let me in. I will speak to him."

"I am afraid I cannot permit that," Cogsworth replied, although he sounded like the feeble old man he was.

Then, to Darcy's utter horror, Bingley pushed his way past the butler and disappeared inside. No more than a moment had passed before he heard his friend's voice down below.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy. I will not be treated like a vagabond. You will at least see me and tell me to my face that you do not wish to speak to me. You will not use your servant to do the dirty deed for you."

What had happened to Bingley, he knew his friend had always had trouble finding his spine, and he had encouraged him to do so, but now was not the most opportune time. Realising that he was not going to find any peace or quiet, Darcy made his way down the hall.

"Very well," he muttered to himself, "he wants to see me so badly, he shall." He did not want to be harsh with his friend, who had always been gentle-hearted, but sometimes it was necessary.

It was either that or have the footman carry him out, and he did not want to subject him to such indignity in front of his wife and company.

Darcy made his way down the stairs. His feet felt heavier than ever before. The closer he got to the drawing room, the louder Bingley's voice grew. Mingled along with his was a soft woman's voice, Mrs Bingley, no doubt. He stopped halfway on the landing and glanced down.

There, a tall, blonde woman stood, a ruined bonnet in her right hand. Her gown, a lovely pastel shade, clung to her body, while a puddle formed around her feet. She looked lovely, with a heart-shaped face and a pert mouth. She was beautiful; there was no doubt, and she looked just as Bingley had described her in his letters.

Through the door to the drawing room, he saw three other figures huddled by the fire. They were not, as he had expected, the Bingley sisters and Mr Hurst. Instead, a middle-aged woman shivered by the fire, an arm slung around her slender body, while the taller, older gentleman, no doubt her husband, rubbed her arm. A younger woman stood nearby, her profile turned towards Darcy. Unlike the new Mrs Bingley, this lady had dark hair.

"Darcy, what is this? You refuse to shelter a friend in need? What has happened to you? First, you do not respond to my letters, and then…" Bingley fell silent because Darcy had slowly and deliberately turned towards him, positioning himself in such a way that his ruined, scarred side was perfectly illuminated. And his friend's expression once more made Darcy aware of what he looked like to people—a disfigured, mortifying ruin of a man.

"Are you satisfied now?" Darcy asked, his words tumbling out of his mouth.

"Satisfied?" Bingley said and blinked. "I've come to… Fitzwilliam… I had no idea…"

Darcy sneered. "Well, now you do. Now that you have come to satisfy your curiosity. I ask you to leave."

"Leave?" Bingley exclaimed, "Fitzwilliam, there is a storm outside. Our carriage is stuck in the mud. We haven't anywhere to go but here."

"You will not be staying here. I do not accept callers unannounced. I beg you now to leave me in peace."

Somewhere deep inside the part of him that still cared about his friend and the many years they had shared, he wanted to take back the words immediately, but it was too late, they had been said.

"But my wife and my sister-in-law, and her family… Where are we to go?"

"I do not know, Bingley. You are a married man, so I suggest that you behave like it. I know you are used to me being there to solve all of your problems, but those days are over."

These words were cruel and unnecessary. Bingley had grown into his own man long ago, managing his business and holdings without much help from Darcy. Yet the words had been said, and judging by his friend's face, he was utterly shaken. Good. If his old friend hated him, perhaps he would finally leave his life for good.