Darcy made a face. “Hehas nothing to fear from her. He is a younger son.” With a start, he remembered himself. “I am sorry, Bingley. I should not have spoken so of your sister.”
Bingley held up a hand, shaking his head. “No, Darcy, I should apologize. I know Caroline has made a nuisance of herself, pursuing you as she has. I wish to heaven she would listen to me, but she hears nothing I have said.”
Darcy heaved a sigh. “I should have been more forthright, I suppose. She is not one to take a hint.” Darcy considered his play, then pocketed the next ball. “I beg you would not trouble yourself further. It is no more than I have endured from many others, some even more determined than she.”
Bingley pursed his lips, wondering how much of the morning’s ruckus Darcy was aware of. Certainly, his sister was not yet ready to relinquish her quarry, but rather soon she would be forced to admit the futility of her efforts. Seizing that thought, Bingley brightened. “It seems we shall be brothers one way or another, eh old friend?” Bingley made his shot, hoping Darcy would drop some revealing comment. When his friend only silently lined up his next move, he tried again. “I can only assume that today went somewhat better with Miss Elizabeth, as you are not in your cups this evening.”
Goaded, Darcy missed his shot. He straightened, eyeing Bingley cautiously. “Only somewhat, you might say. It seems I am capable of effectively making a woman despise me after all.”
“She appeared to be speaking to you when we left. I say, that is progress, old man! Well, I mean, after yesterday, I would call it progress,” Bingley stammered. He reddened a little, wondering if he had overstepped. Darcy had never before spoken of women, save to express his dissatisfaction. Now that he had irretrievably committed both his honour and his heart to a woman who claimed to want little to do with him, Darcy’s introverted nature was even less inclined to pour forth his feelings.
Darcy’s mouth twitched, and a kind of sadness shone in his eyes. Blinking, he lowered his cue for another attempt, not really caring that he should have relinquished the table to Bingley after his failed shot. In his estimation, Bingley’s tactic of employing Elizabeth’s name was foul play.
Bingley cringed. Sensing that nothing he could say would improve matters, he clamped his lips shut. He determined to simply play his game and watch Darcy win… again.
Themorningfoghungdrowsily over the fields. A light rain threatened, but he needed to be out. Darcy pulled his hat down a little more tightly on his head, hunching his shoulders against the chill. A brisk ride would warm him soon enough.
Walking into the barn, he startled the young stable boy, already up and about his duties. The boy offered to saddle his horse for him, but Darcy waved him off. It had been some while since he had allowed himself this pleasure. The rich, familiar smells of the fresh stable, the supple leather beneath his hands, the warmth of Pluto’s breath as the animal caught his master’s scent were all a balm to his soul. The black put his nose trustingly to his chest, communicating in his way that he was glad for the attention and eager for a ride.
Affectionately he stroked the stallion’s neck. Growing up with horses as he had, Darcy knew to be cautious with such a creature. So much raw power and native beauty existed in the form of a friend, yet even as trusted as his favourite mount was, he was still a stallion—still a virile animal in the prime of his life, and as such, the horse was not wholly predictable, not wholly his own. Never would he be. Darcy could respect that. Still, something deep within him ached for a heart he really could possess.
He swung into the saddle, striking a gallop immediately after leaving the courtyard area. Only one destination called to his restless spirits, and somehow, he knew she would be waiting for him. The dry, hard path clapped under his horse’s hooves as he made his way toward the short hill where he had last spoken with Mr Bennet.
A flutter of green shawl caught the mild breeze as he neared the place called Oakham Mount. Dark hair shone in the sun, and a hatless young woman turned toward him, expectant. Elizabeth’s bright eyes smiled at him as he dismounted, with a gentleness that fairly radiated from her lovely face. It was so right coming to her in this place, with the glow of the sunrise warming her features and the whole of the new day before them. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a dove calling to his mate, and it filled him with a natural peace. He came wordlessly to her, claiming his right to be near her. Somehow, she found her way into his arms, resting her soft cheek on his chest.
Breathing deeply, he pressed his face into the swirling mound of her windswept hair and inhaled the fresh scent of her. She melded to him, fitting neatly under his chin as he curled his arms protectively around her waist. Then words—“I am sorry.” The same words tumbled from both their lips. She looked up, he down, surprise and amusement lighting her face. He brought trembling fingers to her cheeks, aching to share with her all his tender affections, but never daring to offend or frighten her.
A slight softening of the corners of her mouth, a barely perceptible crinkle around her sparkling eyes, and then she tipped her chin up to the beckoning of his hand. His head lowered, draping over hers to shield her from a sudden rivulet of water trickling off his hat brim. She arched away from the drenching but snuggled her shoulder closely under the protection of his arm. Undeterred, those marvellous eyes held him and drew him closer again.
He crooked two fingers under her chin, boldly this time reaching for her. His hand became instantly slippery and cold. She lifted her face from his fingers and straightened. She shook her head ever so slightly. “I cannot love a conceited man,” she murmured. She turned and vanished in a sudden fog.
With a strangled cry, Darcy’s long arms swept the cool air before his face. His hand crashed into a water pitcher which had been left byhis bed, sending it splashing over his sleeves, the sheets, and the floor. Gone was the glowing vision of Elizabeth standing in the warm sunrise, favouring him with her inviting smile. He jolted out of bed to the cold reality of a bitterly chill morning. A glance out the window revealed a pummelling rain falling. No doubt the sound had filtered into his dreams.
Groggily he sat up, scrubbing his face with his hands to clear his vision. There would be no riding today, badly as he longed for an escape over the rolling fields. It was yet very early, and he doubted even Bingley’s staff were up and about.
Wilson, jarred from his sleep in the adjacent dressing room by the crash of the pitcher, opened the door and peered carefully into the room. “Mr Darcy? Is there something I can do?” His eyes widened when he took in the drenched person of his master. “Some dry clothes? Do you wish to dress for the day?”
Heaving a sigh, Darcy looked about him at the carnage wrought by his disappointed dream. “No, not as yet. Just a housecoat and a dry shirt, please. You may return to bed.”
Wilson quickly procured the garments his master requested but was dismissed before he could help him change.
Darcy looked askance at the sopping blankets. Even should he desire it, he could not return to his bed without rousing the housemaids. The fire had gone out, too, leaving the room frigid. He ought to re-light it himself, he thought. Instead, he moved to the window. It was almost entirely fogged over, but even through the milky haze, he could see there was no light at all yet.
He began to pace restlessly, his thoughts on his last conversation with Elizabeth. Had she hinted at the end that she might come to view him in a more agreeable light? It had pained him to see her so broken, so miserable. She had believed him; of that, he was certain. Would she blame him still? What was it she had accused him of after his disastrous proposal? Conceit, arrogance?
He spun around. Without a second thought, he jerked open the door to his room and made his way down the hall. So long and purposeful were his strides that he nearly collided with a sleepy housemaid, creeping through the corridor lighting candles for the morning staff.
She leapt back with a little squeak of surprise. “So sorry, Sir! T’was my fault, I were not watchin’.” She held her eyes down in contrition, afraid to displease so distinguished a guest. He could well understand why. Caroline Bingley had bullied the staff into a sullen fear, threatening them all with immediate dismissal on more than one occasion. He was not certain that fact had become apparent to her brother. He decided to speak to Bingley about that later.
He began to apologize but saw the girl’s face redden even further. He stopped, allowing her to speak. “Were there… somethin’ in partic’lar Sir was wishing for?” She shuffled uncomfortably, not daring to meet his eyes.
He cocked his head quizzically. “I do not understand you, miss...?”
“My name is Sarah, Sir.” She lifted her face and swallowed nervously. “Mr Benson, th’old master here, he….” she trailed off, dropping her eyes again.
Mortified, Darcy gasped. “Heavens, no! I regret you should have thought so, Sarah. No, and I am sorry you previously had such a disgraceful master. Have you been treated unkindly since?” He would not believe Bingley capable of imposing himself upon his servant girls, but he wanted to confirm it from her own lips.
She shook her head, her eyes still glued to the floor. “No, Sir, but Nancy… t’is not your concern, Sir. F’rgive me for d’sturbin’ you.”
