“Do you ever ride, Miss Bennet?” he had interjected just as she was turning away.
Elizabeth had paused to study him curiously.Why should he have cared whether she ever rode?“I am perfectly capable of riding, sir, but I do not find it a terribly relaxing means of exercise.”
“No, but it need not always be relaxing. Rather, I should have thought one such as yourself might find it exhilarating. Have you never tried a fence?” His eyes had swept—very lightly—over her figure then, as though mentally evaluating her athletic prowess and suiting her with an appropriate mount and sidesaddle.
“No, sir. Horses tend to have a will of their own. As my own mind is quite determined to have its way, I do not like to think of matching my strength against that of a creature ten times my size.”
He had smiled then, and it had been the first time she had observed the small dimple in his cheek.Oh, that smile she remembered so well! The rare one, reserved only for quiet moments when… when he saw an opportunity to match wits.“It is not the power of the body, but the strength of the mind that determines a rider’s success. I believe yours to be one of remarkable tenacity, and I hope you will forgive the assumption that you enjoyed equestrian pursuits. Have you had some frightening experience?”
“I have been frustrated, and on more than one occasion. My own feet do not disobey me so readily as my father’s old hunter.”
Some spark had come to his eye then, and though his features had not moved, there had been a distinct light of humour to his countenance.Had he been mocking her, or…or flirting?“I trust, Miss Bennet, that should you ever undertake the enterprise with the whole force of your natural will, you shall meet with success.”
Elizabeth had felt a scowl spreading from her lips. “That is hardly a gentlemanly speech, sir. I cannot know whether you mean to compliment me, or call me willful.”
He had appeared shocked, either at her saucy retort or at the audacity of his own words. “I meant no offence, Miss Bennet. It was only an observation borne out by what I know of your character. You do not shrink from a challenge, and horsemanship can prove a valuable skill for a young lady. It seems likely that one day you will assume the weight of duties that will nearly demand such an accomplishment of you.”Had he been implying that she would one day be mistress of a larger estate than Longbourn?
“I thank you for your concern, sir. Should I ever find myself in need of an instructor to improve my riding, I shall not hesitate to seek your advice. For today, I prefer two feet to four.” She had glanced pointedly at Mr Darcy’s own feet then, just as he shifted one of them in her direction. Oh, mercy, he had been about to walk on with her! How could she have been so indifferent to his intentions?
He had stiffened noticeably. “Until dinner then, Miss Bennet. I wish you a pleasant outing.”
Elizabethnowbracedagainstthat very tree, gasping in horror. How sternly she had rebuffed his first overtures of friendship! Many other occasions of their early acquaintance had played again and again through her mind, but that first private talk had been nearly forgotten. How could she have missed his good opinion, shining in every uncomfortable syllable and pouring from his hesitant expression?Oh, dear heavens, he loved me even then!
She turned into the tree, bracing her arm against the cold bark and burrowing under it. Disgust with herself coupled with redoubled sorrow that she had deliberately misunderstood his meanings at nearly every encounter. Had she only been more reasonable, perhaps their brief, explosive acquaintance could have instead been one of mutual amity. Perhaps she might have perceived his unmerited passion, kept so viciously in check, and have understood the torment he sustained in determining not to offer for her. And perhaps… perhaps when he did at last succumb, she would have answered his ardent plea with gentleness, rather than indignation.
Four months they might have had together! So brief—what couple can truly form into one spirit in such a short span? Yet what would she have given to know him only a little better! To feel his lips brush her hair, just once—to hear him murmur lovingly, “My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.”
A moan escaped her, a nearly inhuman cry of anguish as she crushed her face into the bark. If only she could substitute the physical pain of clasping that tree with all her strength for the wrenching suffering of her regrets! Yet it was not her own sorrow and loss that darkened her heart, but the certain knowledge that he had left this world believing she did not—never would! —care for him. The pain she had caused him could never be erased, and he had met his death never once hearing a tender word from her.
Four months she could have held him before that black day in August… But no! Had he been assured of her love, with her family in sufficient awe of his formidable approval, Lydia might never have been permitted to make that ill-fated journey! No dark errand might have then summoned him to the rotting underbelly of London, and no violent attack could have stricken him.It is all my own fault!
She beat her head mercilessly into the cold bark, almost wishing her brow would begin to bleed. Such an injury might at last bring atoning relief! Blood—Darcy’s blood—was no less on her hands than of those who raised their fists against him, and never could she be absolved. No court in the world would convict her, but what of poor Georgiana Darcy, if she knew all? Could she smile upon Elizabeth Bennet, the woman her brother had given his life to please, and hold her blameless? Certainly not! Because of her own pride and resentment, the best man in the world now lay cold in the crypt of his fathers.
She remained there, clutching the trunk of that unyielding old willow, until her fingers grew numb with the chill. Sighing deeply, she at last stepped back and looked once more on that hallowed ground where he had once stood. The grass, the leaves, even the lively brook were now muted. All was shriveled and dying in the ruthless grip of winter. Could her heart not similarly freeze? For a few months at least, could her love not slumber so she might know some measure of rest?
Oh, but even if the gift of merciful oblivion were offered her, she could never choose it. Elizabeth’s eyes scanned up the barren tree to the dwindling glow of the frost-obscured sun. To forget the pain of losing Darcy would be to grow insensible to her own conviction that there could never be another like him. Not for any inducement would she sacrifice the joy of being loved by one such as he, even for some relief from her sorrow. She would cling to that knowledge, that once shehadbeen loved and loved in return, and it had wrought a tenderness and a beauty in her that left her forever marked by its passing. She would content herself—she must! —for the power of this love must suffice for a lifetime.
Elizabeth clutched a hand to her chest, wishing to seize that ache and to never let it go, for it was now her only token of him.I will always belong to you!she vowed silently. Never will another touch my heart, for you took it with you.
Her mouth worked frantically as she made her resolution, desperate to avoid another wild outcry of anguish into the woods. None should know of her sorrow—it was hers to bear willingly and alone. Trembling, she dashed the cold tears from her cheeks. Then she turned quietly and resumed her solitary march to Longbourn.
Porto, Portugal
Sixpaces.
That was the limit of his freedom. Six of his measured steps described the length and breadth of the chamber he now occupied. Enough light was permitted through a grate above his head for him to account for the passing of days, and sixty-two new etches stood out in the opposite wall against the darker gray stone. His were not the only marks upon this wall—only the most recent.
Darcy spent most of his days pacing. He had tried at first protesting the injustice of his captivity to any passing voice, but all he ever earned for his trouble was disappointment and bruised fists. How quickly his circumstances had taught him to surrender!
No, he quickly corrected himself. He had not surrendered, merely discovered the futility of one approach. There would be another. After all, no one ever forcibly captured a man such as he, then kept him alive to no purpose. Someone wanted something of him, and it only remained for whatever external circumstances had driven his abduction to ripen to the fullness of their depravity. That there must be some reason for the delayed explanations and demands of his captors, he did not doubt. What it might be was the question that baffled and tormented him in his solitude.
As prisoners went, it is likely that he was treated well, though the experiences of his life to this point lent him no proper frame of reference. New clothing had awaited him upon his arrival to… well, he had no idea if this were a proper prison, or somewhere more secretive. A steady supply of fresh food and drink came thrice daily, and the food was of a far higher quality than might normally be accorded a prisoner. There was tea each morning and afternoon, and even wine some evenings—both of such quality that they were not objectionable even to himself, one accustomed to the very best. Most curious of all, there was meat each day of the week, save one—Darcy had determined that one day to be Friday, and had marked it as such on his stone calendar.
What manner of villain first violently kidnapped a wealthy man, then transported him in so careless a manner, as though his date of arrival were of lesser import than the cargo the ship carried? Why then leave him to himself without so much as a question or word of demand, yet feed him like a prince?
The mystery savaged his mind in those dark hours alone. With each day, he would the more readily have sworn away all that was his own, simply to regain his freedom and see another human face. Perhaps that was the intent, after all—the longer he remained locked away, the greater chance his captor believed for success to his objective.Let them have it all!Only that morning when his tray slid under the door had he cried out, “Ask of me whatever you wish! It is yours, whatever is in my power to give, only free me!”
His plea was met directly with silence, of course, followed by a few muttered words in another language in the outer corridor. He had been able to gather little of the language, or the country he was in, but he no longer thought it to be Spain or Italy. He was nearly fluent in Italian and reasonably familiar with Spanish, and the spoken words he heard were not quite right. Portugal was his best guess.But why?He had no business or contacts in that country. No enemies of whom he was aware, but it was a universal fact that a man of wealth never wanted for foes. Enough English soldiers had passed through this land in recent years, it was not impossible that he was known tosomeone.
