“I should hope so,” the dowager sniffed. “The girl has been far too retiring of late. She could do with a bit of sociability with her elders. I shall have a word with Darcy when he returns.”
Elizabeth offered a nervous smile. This would properly be her opportunity to speak of her misgivings, her concerns. Who could be more suitable than Georgiana Darcy’s own relations to know of her reckless intentions? But she also believed in her heart that the girl’s real scheme was not to ruin herself, but to cause a fray in the family. What better way to rip and tear than to force Elizabeth to inform on her, thus lining up the various relatives in factions? What a pretty disaster the childish heiress would have wrought! Better, perhaps, to continue with her own measures, which were by no means impotent.
“How is Billy getting on, my lady?” Jane asked the countess after tea had been served. “We hear so little from him while he is engaged in his duties.”
The Dowager snorted, but the countess merely nibbled at her scone. “He is well enough,” she declared, “but he could do with a bit of… supervision. My little boy is enormously fond of him, but I have oftener to search him up myself when it is time for lessons.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks heated. “I am sure he means no offence.”
“Oh, I do not think your Mr Collins is capable of intending to offend, but he is a bit distractible. And that brings me to why we came today, Elizabeth. I think he would do better with his cousins nearby.”
The dowager frowned and clicked her tongue. “Why not simply say what you wish? ‘Tis a thin pretence, for one does not bring on the family of a tutor when the tutor himself fails to perform.”
The countess laughed—a bold, carefree sound that Elizabeth had grown fond of. “Of course not! You are correct, for it was really an excuse. So, if you please, I have been very transparent and even a bit manipulative, therefore you cannot refuse my request. Elizabeth and Jane, we would be much obliged if you would consider removing to Matlock. It is only the proper thing, after all. What is Darcy to you? It was Richard to whom you claim a connection, therefore it ought to be his family with whom you reside.”
Elizabeth and Jane traded glances. Mr Darcy’s prediction had come true, and her heart fluttered with the joy of acceptance, of belonging at last. But then, what of Georgiana Darcy? And, judging by the doubt in Jane’s eyes, her sister was concerned for her budding courtship with Mr Bingley.
“My dear Elizabeth, you really ought to answer more quickly,” the countess sniffed.
“Of course,” she stammered. “Yes, we would be most honoured, and it was very kind of you to think of asking us.”
“It is not kindness at all, girl,” the dowager answered. “You married my son, and it is my duty to look after you.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “Then, thank you all the same.”
“Excellent!” Lady Matlock exclaimed. “We shall make the arrangements this very afternoon.”
Chapter 22
South Atlantic
Darcycaughthimselfjustbefore the pitch of the ship rolled him out of his bed again. Rough seas tonight, but mercifully that had not been the norm. Not that it mattered, for he had not slept for a week, anyway.
He lay sightless in the dark, gazing up at the black ceiling above him and wondering if it was worth trying to close his eyes once more. The ship pitched and rolled again, making his decision for him. With a groan and heave, he tossed his feet out of bed and dressed, then went out to walk the lower decks. Nightmares had begun to plague him, a thing he had never complained of in all his twenty-eight years. Memories tormented him, frightful visions dancing upon his thoughts. But it was nothing he could account for, nothing that could possibly make sense except as a symptom of delusion.
It was as if he could see and remember his cousin’s last battle—struggling in the dark against an invisible foe, crying out for comrades either dead or dying. His hands even felt sticky and slick, the sweat would bead from his brow, and then the ghastly agony, somehow felt and heard—a bullet out of nowhere, and the pain of the last moment, knowing there would be no more tomorrows.
That was one of the less horrific examples. Worse were the nights when Darcy awoke in a cold sweat, having thrown off every blanket and nearly every scrap of clothing in some semblance of fever. The thirst and lethargy of imagined sickness would finally drive him from his bed in search of relief, but the last thought to lance through his brain in that moment of unconsciousness, no matter the nightmare, was the name that must have died on Richard’s lips with his final breath.
“I must be going mad,” he told himself, gripping the railing against the heaving of the ship, and hanging his head to shake the cobwebs from his thoughts. “Stark raving mad. They will dose me with so much laudanum when I get home that I will be fit for nothing but a lunatic’s cell. And a straitjacket too, no doubt.”
“What’s that, sohr?”
Darcy nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice of a sailor behind him.
“You ken to something, sohr?” the man asked, leaning on his swab, and pushing his cap back on his brow.
“No—no never mind. I was thinking out loud.”
The sailor lifted his shoulders and continued on with his swab. “Suit yorself, sohr.”
After he had gone, Darcy removed his hat and swept a palm over his face. Thiswasmadness. He considered reopening that brandy bottle, but another comfort seemed more fitting for the moment. He felt his pocket—yes, the letters were all still there. He paced the deck for a little longer, relishing the cool of the night breeze, then went below and lit his lantern.
He was mortified when he read his last letter to Richard. The naïve suppositions, the faceless hopes he had written all smacked of hollow speculations. Of course, he had known what the possibilities were—everyone did. It was a truth known to all who sent their own off to war, but who did not in their way nurse some wilful obtuseness, some refusal to face the whole truth of it? Those who waved farewell to such men did so with as much simple hope as real understanding, else they would never have stood so stoically on the dock when that ship sailed away.
His own words failing to turn his more morbid thoughts, Darcy looked over the old earl’s letter. Perhaps a man of age and experience would have more wisdom to write to his son, but when Darcy read his words, he found no better assurances there than his own. That left Elizabeth’s letter.
If anyone could speak reason and comfort across an ocean, it would be Elizabeth. He tapped the edge of the envelope on his little table. Hang it all, Richard would not mind… especially not now. What had ever remained secret between them?
