The Best-Laid Plans

A heavy sigh broke from Darcy’s chest as the carriage rounded the corner. He flinched as he turned away and headed back towards the house. He would have thought that the last four months had inured him to sadness. To the wrenching sense of loss that he had carried with him ever since April. Yet seeing her leave Pemberley brought it all back, sharper than ever.

“Accursed fool!” he muttered under his breath.

Why had he not asked them to stay? Stay at Pemberley, rather than the inn at Lambton?

Would she have consented to the scheme? He sighed again. Who knows? She was… altered. Different. Overpowered by mortification, just as he was. The entire time spent together strolling through the gardens – there was so much he could have said! Yet he had kept silent, stifled by the fear of pushing forth where he was not wanted.

“The deuce!” Darcy cursed yet again. At least he could have asked her for how long she and her relations were proposing to remain in the area. Surely there could have been no harm in asking that! Yet he had stood tongue-tied, and so had she, until she had begun to speak of her travels through the Peak – Matlock, Dove Dale – and he had grasped the subject as if it were a lifeline, and blathered mindlessly about scenic spots and natural beauty. He scowled. The devil’s own fool, rambling on about Matlock and Dove Dale, when so much was at stake. She was here! She had consented to set foot in his home. Why?

“Is there anything you require, sorr?” asked Thomas, the youngest footman, and Darcy turned towards him with a start.

“Pardon? No. No. Nothing. Ah, yes, in fact,” he suddenly reconsidered. “Where is Mrs Reynolds? Would you seek her, pray, and ask her to join me in my study? I must speak to her.”

It was an impulsive, senseless notion, and Darcy was well on his way to regretting it by the time that his aged housekeeper made her way into his private realm and found him, port glass in hand, staring out of the window.

“Good evening, sir. Thomas told me you wished to have a word…?” the elderly woman prompted, once she had closed the door behind her and waited, hands crossed, for him to have his say.

“Yes,” Darcy acknowledged, setting his glass down and squaring his shoulders. “The couple who visited earlier today,” he began with caution – and a touch of slyness that was as uncomfortable as it was uncommon.

“Mr and Mrs Gardiner, yes. And their niece,” Mrs Reynolds supplied, and Darcy pursed his lips.

“Yes. Precisely.”

“What of them, sir?”

“Did any of them mention what had brought them to— Hm! To this part of the country?” he amended – for what purpose would it have served to ask if any of them had disclosed their reason for visiting Pemberley? What the blazes did he expect, that she would blithely walk in and share her private thoughts with his housekeeper?

“Aye, sir. Mrs Gardiner said something about seeking old acquaintances. I understand that she grew up in Lambton.”

“Ah.” Of course. He already knew as much from Mrs Gardiner herself. “And did the lady speak of the duration of their stay?” he asked – only to meet with disappointment.

“I think not, sir. Not that I can remember.”

“No matter,” Darcy forced himself to say – for it would not do to share his frustrations with his housekeeper, even though the devoted woman had known him ever since he was four years of age. “And how long have they been here?”

“In Lambton, sir?”

“No. At Pemberley.”

“All in all, some three hours, I believe. Just over an hour in the house. And then Lawson took them for a stroll through the grounds and the ornamental gardens.”
“And indoors? What did you show them?” Darcy pressed on, and could not fail to note the surprised glance that his housekeeper cast him, before she evenly replied.

“I took them on the usual tour, sir. Through the reception rooms, that is to say. The drawing room, the music room, your father’s sitting room and Miss Georgiana’s, the picture gallery…”

“The library?” Darcy prompted, but Mrs Reynolds shook her head. He pursed his lips. “Ah. A pity. That would have pleased—” He caught himself at the last moment before blurting out that the library would have pleased Elizabeth the most. And what of it? Had he not learned yet that she would not be lured with material possessions? He flinched as Madame de Villeneuve’s moral tale sprang to mind. La Belle et la Bête. The Beauty and the Beast.

“My apologies, sir,” his housekeeper offered, drawing him from dark ruminations. “I was about to show them the library, but I spotted Mr Lawson below, ready to take them on the garden tour, so I thought I should not keep him waiting. We were delayed in the picture gallery, you see. The young lady turned back twice to examine Miss Georgiana’s charcoals. And the newest portraits too.”

“Oh?”

The newest portraits. She had turned back – twice! – to examine the newest portraits. Georgiana’s – and his. What in heaven’s name was he to make of that?

Three whole days had flown by – and he was still none the wiser! Darcy tightened his fist on his knee and shuffled in his seat, hard-pressed to summon the patience to submit to his man’s ministrations. There was not a moment to lose. Elizabeth was to leave Lambton by the week’s end. Her uncle said so yesterday. So he must make the most of the days that were left. Call upon her. At the inn in Lambton.

He frowned. There was no privacy to be had in this house, even if she could be persuaded to call at Pemberley again. Miss Bingley was as hard to shake off as a thistle caught in a sheep’s tail – damn the confounded woman and her impudence!
A stroll around Lambton or a quiet morning in the Gardiners’ parlour at the inn might offer better chances of a private conversation with Elizabeth.

And if he could arrange it… what was he to tell her?

‘If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.’

No! Not that!

A hiss left his lips at the direct, immediate pain of the sharp razor cutting into his chin, when the other pain – the one sparked by the hideous prospect of a second rejection – made him start.

Weston, his valet, was profuse in his apologies.

“Do not concern yourself. It was my fault,” Darcy acknowledged, then closed his eyes with a wince as his man busied himself with tending to the cut.

Darcy’s wince had naught to do with it, but rather with another acknowledgement, an inward one this time: it was far too soon for such forthrightness. He needed to proceed slowly and with caution – demonstrate that he had taken her reproofs to heart – take the time to court her. If she allowed him to.

‘Elizabeth, would you permit me to start again?’

No. Still too rash. Too blunt. And it would be presumptuous to call her by her Christian name. He would do well to bear that in mind. Even if she had been Elizabeth to him in his private thoughts ever since November.

Darcy released a long sigh and silently cursed the sleepless night that seemed to have addled his brain, for it was working more sluggishly than ever. But at least he remembered to keep still, so that Weston could finish shaving him, and not turn him out with his face covered in cuts and scratches. That should be a fine thing, if he were to appear before her as though he had fought his way through the brambles.

‘For goodness’ sake, think!’ he fiercely prodded, yet felt as if he were pushing against a brick wall. A few choice oaths rattled through his otherwise useless brain. Of all the times to turn into a dunderhead who could not string two thoughts together!

‘Miss Bennet, might I be allowed to travel to the South with you?’

No. Far too vague.

‘Miss Bennet, may I be allowed to escort you to Longbourn?’

She would find it odd, to say the least. And what of Georgiana? He ought not leave her to the task of playing host to Bingley’s aggravating sisters.

Weston was still at work, and the razor still sharp against his skin, so Darcy’s scoff remained a mental one. Miss Bingley and the Hursts could damn well carry on to Scarborough. Georgiana would be safe and content at Pemberley without them. Or she could come to Hertfordshire with him. As for Bingley, he would like nothing better.

Ah, but what if there was no joy for Bingley at Longbourn?

Elizabeth would know. That was something he could ask her…

‘Miss Bennet, I hope you would pardon my presumption. I do not wish to pry into your sister’s sentiments. I have caused too much damage already. But I do wish I could find a way to repair it. Would you be willing to advise me?’

She would not object to that, surely. It was a start, asking for her assistance. Asking her to forgive him. Will she?

Darcy drew a deep breath. Enough! Only Elizabeth had the answers. And he had to ask. He had to!

The horse’s hooves beat a steady canter along the tree-lined lane to Lambton. When the rising sun broke past the brow of the hill, Darcy squinted into the sudden brightness and readjusted the brim of his hat, then gripped the reins and leaned forward, urging his mount into a gallop towards hope.