He reached within and found that well of fortitude which had seen him through so many battle fields. This was just one more dead man. That he had been in the grave for nearly four months should matter little—that he bore Darcy’s name mattered a great deal.
“Hold the cloth back a moment,” he ordered. With a final desperate grip on his courage, he leaned down. He narrowed his eyes, tilted his head, and looked again.
“Pull back a little farther, show me the right side.” Disgust was quickly forgotten. The mark—where was it? The skin was discoloured, certainly, but not so much that the mark could have disappeared. Had his infallible memory at last tricked him—now when he truly depended upon its accuracy? He searched for long minutes, left and right, up and down, until at last he admitted the truth witnessed by his own eyes.
“Don’ see nuthin’, Cap’n. You want I should turn ‘im back over?”
Richard stood back, his flesh prickling and his breath shallow. “No… no, I have seen quite enough.” He stared at the wall, blind to all but the starkly fresh images in his mind.
“Shall I put ‘im back, then, Cap’n?”
Noting the esteemed colonel’s indisposition, Broderick spoke for the first time in half an hour. “Thank you, yes, that will be all.”
“No,” Richard breathed. He shook himself, and his gaze—sharp like an eagle’s now—lit with sudden purpose.
“Sir? Did you wish to see more?”
“No. I have seen all I need. Take the body to the churchyard and give it a respectful burial, but it is not to remain here. I do not know who the man is, but he is not Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Christmas Eve
Netherfield
It was Darcy.
There he was, in that same chair by the writing desk—a quill in his hand, the faintest flush to his cheeks as Caroline Bingley questioned him about his sister. Elizabeth glanced up from her own book, chuckling her amusement at his obvious frustration.
He penned half a line, and Caroline begged him to convey her admiration for a certain table design of Miss Darcy’s. His broad shoulders lifted, his head raised, and he all but glared at her. “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present, I have not room to do them justice.”
His head tipped immediately back to his letter, but his eyes were slow to follow. They caught Elizabeth’s and held—almost unwillingly—before he drew a visible breath and returned to his task. Miss Bingley made some flippant answer, to which he replied rather brusquely and almost thoughtlessly. He appeared to be struggling to find the right words, for his pen hovered in one place as his brow furrowed.
Elizabeth studied him in some fascination. Such a fastidious, precise man! She imagined that a letter from him would be so carefully phrased, so eloquently penned, that any sister would admire it excessively—but what depth of emotion might be found therein? He always seemed so expeditious in his sentiments, never lingering over four words when one would do, but there had been that tenderness in his eye, a faint softening of his voice, when he had made it clear that he wrote to his sister. And was it some intention on his part that had caused him to glance her way, as if ascertaining that she attended his words?
Mr Bingley was now having his share in the discourse, commenting with perhaps a little too much levity how Darcy habitually laboured over his words. All in the room found the jest most amusing, save the one at whose expense everyone laughed. Elizabeth had remarked a slight flinch to his cheek when he voiced an even, reasoned defence of himself… and then his eyes had found hers once more. There was a curiosity—she might even dare to call it a plea—deep within those dark lashes as they flicked her way.
What did he expect she would bring to the conversation? She did not know the man, could not possibly speak with any expectation of good information. She had done little but tease him herself—but he had never seemed to mind that so very much. In fact, there had been a spark to his expression and an energy to his responses whenever she rose to bait him. He had even supplied his own defects as fodder, all the better for her to banter with him.
Ah.At last I see all clearly!Mr Darcy despised being mocked, when what he perceived as his strengths were laughed about as faults to be made an amusement for others, but he loved being teased. It was a moment for him to prove before himself and others that he was, after all, human.If only I had understood him better!
“Lizzy? Lizzy, are you well?”
A rush of air filled Elizabeth’s lungs as she started in her seat. Jane had taken the place next to her and now rested her hand gently on Elizabeth’s shoulder in concern. “Forgive me, Jane! I was only thinking of something.” Elizabeth tried to brush off her sense of disorientation by smoothing a trembling hand over her skirts. She had worn her second finest gown in observance of this, Jane’s first Christmas Eve as Mistress of Netherfield. It was her light green satin, with the worked bodice—the same gown she had worn that long-ago evening in this very room….
Jane narrowed her eyes quizzically. “Is that what it was? I thought perhaps your head pained you again or your supper did not settle well. You had the most alarming expression just now!”
“Did I? Oh, I suppose I was running through the little tasks I must accomplish tomorrow, and of course the Boxing duties. I’ve so much to do, I really must learn list them all out rather than allowing them to clutter my thoughts so.”
“Did you wish to use the writing desk?” Jane inquired. “I think Charles will not mind.”
“The writing desk? Why no—I have never done so. Why should you ask?”
“You were staring at it just now. I believe there are pens and notepaper in abundance, and the gentlemen ought not to join us for some little while yet.”
Elizabeth looked once more to the desk. Was there truly no one sitting there? He had seemed so real just now, with that dark curl falling just over his brow, the faint crease in the back of his tailored coat as he leaned forward in his chair. There was a light trail from his fingers in the nap of the buckskin breeches at his thigh, the barest evening shadow over his chin, and his left foot was shifted just ahead of the other as he bent to his letter…. He had been there but a moment ago!
She straightened, forcibly pasting a smile on her face. “No, Jane, I thank you. I am afraid I should be carried away and become rather unsociable, and then only think of the questions I shall have to answer when all the gentlemen come in! It is Christmas, after all, and no one makes lists of their tasks at such a festive time.”
“Truly, Lizzy, we are quite easy here. If it would give you relief, then by all means, jot down your notes so that you may then put them aside. Surely it would be preferable this evening to be merry and not distracted by other cares.”
