Elizabeth looked at the letter, the heat flaring in her chest again.I respect that he is capable of great feeling,she thought.I respect that he is innocent of Wickham’s slander. But...
“I do not know,” Elizabeth whispered, running a hand over her tired face. “I truly do not know. My understanding of the world has been upended in the span of twelve hours. I need time. I need to think.”
“You do not have time,” Charlotte warned gently. “He is leaving Kent soon. If you do not give him some indication—”
The intense debate was abruptly shattered.
The bedroom door burst open with the force of a battering ram. It rebounded off the wall with a loudcrack, startling both women so badly Elizabeth nearly knocked over the washstand.
Maria Lucas bounded into the room, bringing with her a flood of silly energy.
“Lizzy! Charlotte! You must come down at once!” she shrieked, bouncing on the balls of her feet as if the floorboards were made of hot coals.
The heavy atmosphere of moral dilemmas and ten thousand pounds a year evaporated, replaced by the absurdity of Maria’s giggling.
“Maria, please,” Charlotte sighed, seamlessly shifting from puppet master back to tired older sister. “What is the matter? Is the kitchen on fire?”
“No! It is Papa and Mr Collins!” Maria gasped for air, overexcited with the news she brought. “They are demanding your presence downstairs! Both of you! This very instant!”
Elizabeth shoved the letter behind her back, her heart hammering. “Why? Has something happened?”
“There is a new carriage heading to Rosings!” Maria squealed, clapping her hands. “It has just passed by the window! Mr Collins says we must all assemble in the front parlour to witness the sweep of the turn! He says it is a marvel of modern coachmanship and we are missing history being made!”
Elizabeth stared at the young girl.
“The sweep of the turn,” she repeated flatly.
“Yes! Mr Collins is positively frantic! He is holding a knotted cord!” Maria grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and began dragging her to the door. “Hurry, Lizzy, or he says the dust will settle and we shall miss the effect!”
Elizabeth was forced to suppress her emotional turmoil. She took a steadying breath, pushing the image of Mr Darcy’ssprawling handwriting out of her mind, and the sensible arithmetic of Charlotte Collins into a corner of her brain.
She arranged her features into a mask of vacuous enthusiasm.
“Coming, Maria.” Elizabeth prepared to descend the stairs and face the mundane reality of her Hunsford hosts.
Charlotte caught her eye, offering a knowing, unsympathetic smirk.
Ten thousand a year,Charlotte mouthed.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and marched downstairs to admire the unknown horses.
Chapter Five: The Arrival of the Viscount
A GENTLEMAN’S HOMEwas his castle, but a guest chamber at Rosings Park was his gilded prison with a distinct lack of a beautiful warden.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley and the most humiliated man in the south-eastern counties of England, was pacing the length of his room in a state of utter despair, his boots carving a groove in the Aubusson rug. He had been pacing for the better part of an hour, stopping only occasionally to press the heels of his hands against his burning eyes or to let out a low, wounded sound that Dawson had politely categorised as a ‘strangled sigh’.
He was wrestling with options. It was a choice between three equally catastrophic avenues of ruin.
Option the first: He could march down the grand staircase, walk across the park to the parsonage, demand an audience with Miss Elizabeth, and formally ask for his letter back. This would require him to look at those magnificent, dark eyes and admit that he had, in a fit of sleep-deprived mania, written a passionate manifesto declaring herthewarden of his prison.
Option the second: He could allow Anne’s plan to unfold. He shook his head. He was not that stupid. The plan had flaws.
Option the third: He could instruct Dawson to pack his trunks, summon the carriage, and execute a cowardly but very appealing flight to London. He could vanish. He had done it before. He could leave Kent, leave everything behind, and spend the rest of his natural life actively avoiding the county of Hertfordshire. The downside to this tempting strategy, however, was that Elizabeth Bennet would permanently retain physical proof of his downfall. She could frame it or read it at dinner parties.
“I shall have to emigrate,” Darcy announced to the room at large, pivoting sharply by the fireplace. “To the Americas, perhaps. Or India. I hear the tea trade is thriving, and the likelihood of running into Mr Collins is close to nought.”
His self-appointed dignity rescue mission offered no real comfort.
