Chapter 60

60

D arcy slumped in the great library chair in front of the fire, having just attacked it fiercely with the poker so that it had flared up. It would be warmer soon. It must be warmer soon. He had never been so cold than during this last week here.

His mind was disobedient; he played back that final day in his mind. He had been certain that his life held such joy and happiness as he could never have imagined; but then all had come crashing down before him from the moment he had seen the sheets of music in the muddy water of the lane outside Meryton.

He let his head fall against the back of the chair and screwed his eyes closed. He did not want to remember her fear-filled expression as he berated her for … so little. As he relived that day, again and again, he recalled what she had said, what he had ignored. She had been going to tell him; she had spoken to her father. Did that mean she had been forbidden to tell him before then?

If so, that made him the worst sort of fool; that he would accuse her of something she had no control over. He groaned. It was too late. He had proved himself unworthy of her.

He recalled that he had asked her if he might call upon her to prove he was a better man than she had thought, that he could prove himself trustworthy.

And now he had failed her — had failed himself. It was as Richard had said; he did not deserve her.

He'd ridden to London after — after that terrible moment, only to find Georgiana playing March of Hope , her face open and excited.

He'd slammed into his library, sent Georgiana back to Matlock House and shut himself up to brood on his loss — which was all his own fault.

Now it had been more than a week, and he still couldn't concentrate. He had stayed in London, rather than go to Pemberley. Having recalled his promise to Bingley to manage Netherfield while his friend was on his wedding tour, he could not quite bring himself to travel so far north, but had sent a brief note to the steward, saying he was available for anything urgent.

Having done so, he had exhausted all he could on outside matters, and he spent his days brooding in here, and his nights tossing in his lonely bed, his mind filled with the loss of Elizabeth.

It was all his fault. Why could he not have trusted her? And why, in heaven's name, why, had he not taken the time to think before confronting her? He even remembered Bennet telling him that Darcy was like Elizabeth in that he needed time to collect his thoughts before speaking intemperately.

He groaned again and clutched his temples. He would not allow himself a drink so early in the morning. That way lay oblivion.

There was a knock at the door to the library, and his butler looked in hesitantly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Darcy. I know you said …"

"That you were not at home to callers, but we are here to make sure that you are, Darce." Richard's voice boomed through Darcy's pounding headache.

"And I am here to find out just why you have done this!" Bingley's voice was equally accusing, and Darcy turned a surprised gaze on him.

"You are back early from your wedding tour. Is there a problem?"

"I should say there is!" Bingley said heatedly. "We have been called back to Longbourn so that Jane can say goodbye to her beloved sister who is dying of a broken heart."

"What?" Darcy fumbled at his mind. "Elizabeth is …" and his heart turned to ice.

"But you knew that, of course. Bennet said he'd written to you to beg you to return, but you have ignored him!" He crossed the room and yanked Darcy to his feet. "How could you?"

"Bennet wrote …?" Darcy shook his head. If only he had been able to sleep, he might understand what was going on.

"But you haven't even looked at your post, have you?" Richard grabbed a handful of letters from the tottering piles on the desk and hurled them around the room, where they fell, rather like the rice that had been scattered over Bingley and his bride.

"Richard!" Darcy berated him. "I must find that letter."

"There is no time!" Bingley grabbed his arm. "I can tell you in the coach what it says. I have had fresh horses harnessed, and we are going to Longbourn this moment." His voice was hard. "I just hope Miss Elizabeth is still alive. Jane is despairing."

Darcy's heart turned even colder. "Yes, yes." He glanced around the room. Everything could — must — wait. He rubbed at his chin, wishing he'd permitted Maunder to shave him earlier.

"Now!" Bingley hurried him from the room, and Darcy could hear Richard instructing that Maunder follow in the Darcy coach with a trunk and go directly to Netherfield.

It was only a moment later that Bingley's coach was bearing him towards Elizabeth. He had thought he would never see her again. He sat up straighter. "Tell me what has happened."

"No," Richard crossed his arms. " You tell us why Miss Elizabeth is apparently dying of a broken heart."

Dying. Darcy's heart meant to stop too. And he was sure it would if he was too late. What had he done to her?

"Jane said that her sister had told her your courtship would become official after we had left on our wedding tour, Darcy. Did that not happen?" Bingley's voice was quiet.

"It did." Darcy dropped his head. He had been happy then. More than happy. He had known his joy would only increase when they became betrothed, and then again when they were wed. Now, it might be too late.

"What happened then?"

Darcy shook his head, staring at his boots. Dusty and unpolished. How could he go to Longbourn looking like he did? But then … Elizabeth. Nothing was more important than he see her.

She was dying. What had he done?

He looked up at Bingley. "What does her sister … what does Mrs. Bingley say of how her sister is?"

His friend looked tired and worn. "She has told me that Miss Bennet had not left her chamber since you last saw her. No one has been able to persuade her to eat; they have barely been able to give her a little broth. For five days she just stared out of the window. Now she cannot rise from her bed." Bingley rubbed his face. "My Jane is in despair."

"You look as if you have been neither eating nor sleeping, too, Darcy." Richard's voice was incisive. "Georgiana is beside herself with the manner in which you sent her to Matlock House, and you have not entertained any of us as callers until Bingley told me what was happening and I decided enough was enough." He leaned forward.

"I'm not going to ask what happened, except to say you still love her, you fool, and you know that a lady cannot approach you, you have to make the first move. Is what she told you so unforgivable as all that? Or might you forgive her so that you can take what happiness you may?"

Darcy shook his head. "She told me nothing." He knew his voice was barely a whisper. "I accused her. I found out something, and I accused her of keeping it a secret. I … did not take time to think. I was so angry. I am not sure she would ever wish to see me again."

He glanced up. "It is likely that Bennet will not permit me into the house. He is very protective of his daughter."

"He would not — except that you are his last hope. But do not expect him to be civil."

"But what am I supposed to do, if she is confined to her bed?" How could he see a lady in her bedchamber if she was not his wife? His heart twisted; he had dreamed of her as his wife.

Now it could never be.