Closing his eyes briefly, they flew open when Richard slapped him on the back. “Perhaps it is the men who need to prove their mettle under this trial, Darcy.”
Unsettled, Darcy replied with the only thing that came to mind, “Perhaps.”
CHAPTER 18
No sooner were the windows covered than the wind completely shifted, turning its full force against their side of the house. The layers of fabric covering the windows were a paltry barrier against the storm’s direct hit.
“Move to the corridor!” Darcy ordered as his cousin quickly helped Mrs. Hammond to her feet. “Everyone, go now!”
“Lord have mercy, but this sounds like cannon fire hitting the broadside of a ship,” Mrs. Hammond noted as she scurried through the doorway to relative safety.
With the exception of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, who closeted themselves in the stillroom again, the ladies were willing to get away from the onslaught, so it took little time until they were squeezed into the narrow hall. With the doors at each end closed, they were encased in total darkness. The women whimpered and moaned.
“This is God’s judgment day for Meryton’s seeking their own pleasures ahead of the will of God,” a female voice proclaimed over the sounds of the storm.
A voice Darcy recognized as belonging to Miss Lydia replied, “Oh, do be quiet, Mary, for I suspect the wind is blowing just as hard at Westminster Cathedral as it is here.” After a briefpause, she added, “You have sour grapes because you missed an opportunity to perform. Perhaps this storm was God’s way of saving the rest of us from listening to you.”
“Sisters, enough!”
Darcy would recognize Miss Elizabeth’s voice anywhere. She was close. Too close. With his vision gone, his other senses were on high alert. A waft of honeysuckle tickled his nose. An elbow poked his middle.
“Pardon me,” she whispered.
Elizabeth, with her lustrous hair, her refreshing scent, and eyes that sparkled in the sunlight. Forcing the image away, he thought of anything and anyone except Miss Elizabeth Bennet: his favorite dog when he was young, his first tutor, and his stern grandfather Darcy who always reminded him to mind his posture. When that did not work, he mentally recited the Latin oath he swore before gaining access to the Bodleian Library at Oxford. Tipping his head back against the door’s wooden panel, he reflected on the series of events that led him to be pressed into a hall with Bingley’s neighbors along with Netherfield’s servants. And her.
His fingers itched to reach out and touch her arm. His heart nearly persuaded him that it was the right thing to do, to offer comfort during exceedingly stressful events. His conscience, however, lashed at him for rejecting all the reasons he should not connect himself to the lady.
Certain members of her family were…unrestrained. Even though he saw facets of Miss Lydia and her mother that were appealing, they would be an embarrassment to have associated with the Darcy name.
He rubbed his eyes as weariness oozed through his veins, both from the late hour and his circumstances. His defenses were down, a scary prospect far outweighing the potential fordamage from the storm. Dropping his hands to his side, he pressed his body against the door. Away from her.
For five long years, until Ramsgate, Darcy carried his secret alone. Seeing Wickham stirred his emotions until regret, anger, and even guilt twisted his gut. Would George have turned out as bad had they been raised as brothers? Or would Darcy be more tolerant of the wrongs that were done?
Vexed and tired, he occasionally considered what it would be like to have someone to share with, but any attempts always led to disappointment. For a certainty, he would never expect a woman to carry the burden he bore. Nevertheless, to trust someone enough to pour out his heart, including the torrid information he read in his father’s journal, felt freeing.
He should hate Wickham. He should hate his parents for keeping secrets. No, he should resent them for not acting perfectly in the first place. Yet, he could not hate or resent any of them. Even Wickham, with his easy smile and gregarious personality, deserved a measure of something due to the circumstances of his birth.
No! He refused to allow his mind to travel in that particular direction, especially in a time of crisis. Wickham was a nuisance hellbent on seeking his own pleasure despite the trail of damage he left strewn behind. That he sought to claim the hand of Georgiana Darcy for the sake of her dowry was lower than anything the rake attempted to that point. Would he finally be satisfied if he had a fortune? Likely not. Was he redeemable? Darcy sincerely doubted it.
Just thinking about him made Darcy’s chest hurt.
Wind pounded the door at his back, testament that the windows and the outer kitchen door were blown open. The high-pitched wail as the air forced its way into the building was deafening and fear inspiring. His own heart thumped loudly,gaining speed when small fingers with blisters on the tips entangled with his own.
He cautiously twisted his hand against hers until their palms pressed together. In that instance, despite the turmoil from without and within, he found peace.
Elizabeth was near enoughto the door to feel every movement of Mr. Darcy each time a gust hit the back of the door. What would they do if he could no longer hold that thin barrier in place? There was nowhere else to hide unless they could somehow make it into the cellar with the men, an impossible task with the force of the storm blowing against them. They would be tossed hither and thither about the kitchen.
The darkness and the shrill howl of the gale sent chills up and down her spine. In her lifetime, she had never felt the presence of death hovering around, waiting to snatch her final breath until that moment. Regrets over opportunities missed or not yet presented to her filled her soul. For as long as she could remember she wanted to travel, to visit the lakes and mountains in the north or the continent and beyond. Since adolescence, Elizabeth dreamed of wearing a deep blue silk gown with golden thread embroidering the sleeves and hem while dancing with a handsome gentleman at a London ball where she rubbed elbows with the elite of society. She’d never been courted. She had yet to experience her first kiss. Should her life end at that moment, she would miss much.
Walls shook then rippled as the wooden paneling loosened with the onslaught. Fear drove her to reach out to the only person stable enough to trust. Mr. Darcy protected them to thatpoint. If there were a chance of survival, she would cling to whatever opportunity was available. She reached for him.
The strength of his hand was comforting. What surprised her was the roughness of his fingertips and the firmness of his grip. This man did far more than sit behind a desk writing letters and giving orders. He was an industrious man.
Her mind instantly pictured him with his shirtsleeves rolled up doing hard physical labor at his estate, a smile on his face from a job well done. The image almost robbed her of breath. Without a doubt, his cousin also experienced the physicality while in battle conditions. Nonetheless, it was not Colonel Fitzwilliam who captured her attention and held it close. The master of Pemberley, who was far out of reach for her, appealed to her from every direction.
She felt his exhale whisper against her ear.She shivered when his chin brushed her temple.
“Miss Elizabeth, I feel you tremble.”
