“Ah... well, then. I shall bid you a good night.”
She drew a breath and stepped around the chair to rest her hand over his. “Thank you, Richard,” she whispered. There was a quick hesitation, then she pecked a kiss on his cheek before turning and going to her room.
Whether Elizabeth rested that night, he never knew. Sleep was maddeningly elusive for him, however. There was no excuse in the world for the sassy vixen who used to fly across the Wyoming range with her hair streaming in unruly knots and her tongue ready to slice any foe to ribbons—no reason at all whyshewould not now speak a word that was not some passive banality.
No reason, except that she was no longer the same Elizabeth Bennet. She had left a jagged piece of herself on that mountain prairie she had once called home. And, quite possibly, an even larger portion of her being now resided in Derbyshire. What did that leave for him?
Yet, what troubled him more was his own mirror. If she had been submissive and silent, he had been a false veneer of hope and good cheer. He knew what his own front concealed—a lava bed of rage and resentment, of hurt and emptiness. What of hers? How long before they both cracked, and would they even know each other in the aftermath?
Chapter 51
Boston, Massachusetts
June 1901
Itwasacityrich in stories. Every corner, building, and even many of the trees seemed to tap one on the shoulder, beg him to linger, and to hear what they had to tell.
Darcy had taken a house in Brighton, overlooking the river. It was close to Georgiana’s conservatory, and she was away most of each day. Darcy had little of his own to do, but it was pleasant to walk, and so, he did. Every day, he set out, sometimes wandering for the entire afternoon.
No one recognised him. For a naturally private man who had more than his usual reasons for desiring solitude, this was a pleasant relief. He was free to ponder and reflect, free to sit for hours in a park, gazing at nothing, free to simply search for himself. He had never thought himself precisely lost, but the last year had taught him that he was far from the grounded and confident man he thought he was.
Bingley. Now, there was a man who knew himself and was comfortable in his own flesh. And secure in more ways than that... but Darcy preferred not to think of happy Bingley and his glowing bride. In fact, they were another of the reasons he had left England for a time—he could not bear being the one to greet them upon their return from their wedding tour.
The reprieve was not meant to be, however, for when Darcy returned to his rented house one afternoon, a telegram from Bingley was waiting for him.
Letter from Gardiner. Mrs Bennet and her daughters going to New York instead of London. Gardiner says you directed them there. Please advise.
New York? His last message to Mr Gardiner had clearly directed that gentleman to contact Bingley in London for further arrangements regarding the family. Perhaps it had not arrived in time or had been misunderstood. His stomach sank. Did that mean three women were presently wandering New York, expecting to meet someone who would never come?
This was entirely his fault. It was he who had secretly conceived the idea to surprise Elizabeth by bringing her family to her. Bingley had not been involved at all, except to be informed of it. And when he had lost Elizabeth, everything changed...
Darcy nearly ran back to the door for his hat and hailed a cab. A letter was too slow. He needed to talk to Mr Gardiner at once.
“Yes,IsaidGooseCreek,” Darcy repeated into the telephone receiver. “Wyoming. No, not Little Creek. Goose… G. O. O. S. E… Yes, I will wait.”
Thirty seconds of tapping and clicking noises followed, and he heard the operator speaking to another relay. More clicking. Another relay, and another.
“Sir, I have the rail office at Little Creek on the line. Go ahead.”
Darcy groaned and tried to set her right again. This call was going to cost him half his fortune. Several minutes later—how long he could not say—she finally announced that he was speaking to the telegraph manager at Goose Creek.
“Mr Gardiner, please. Edward Gardiner, at the Mercantile?”
The line crackled.“Hold, please.”
Darcy leaned against the wall and rubbed his aching forehead. He wondered how far the rail office was from Mr Gardiner’s store… or if the man was even in town. Had he gone with Mrs Bennet? He might never find them! Long minutes passed, and for some of them, Darcy was certain the line had been disconnected. The static ceased, and he was tempted to tap the receiver or crank the handle again to raise the operator’s attention.
A quarter of an hour came and went. At last, a masculine voice came to the line.“This is Gardiner.”
Darcy nearly shook in relief. “This is Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
There was a brief silence. “The Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire? It is an honour, sir.”
Darcy plugged a finger in his opposite ear. “Gardiner, I am in Boston just now, and I had a telegram from Bingley that Mrs Bennet was coming to New York. Is everything well?”
Another snapping sound garbled Mr Gardiner’s reply.“… yes, just as you said… last letter.”
“Bingley’s letter? I sent a telegram before I sailed. Did you get it? Did Bingley write to you?”
