“You have finished, sir?” Dawson asked, stepping out from the shadows where he had been silently standing vigil like one of Lincoln Cathedral’s more disapproving stone imps. “Shall I assist with the sealing wax? You look as though you have been run over by a mail coach. And possibly Lord Alvanley in his high-perch phaeton.”
“I am perfectly capable, Dawson,” Darcy replied, his voice a hoarse croak. Driven by a stubborn, wounded pride that demanded he manage his own humiliating correspondence, he flatly refused the valet’s assistance.
He turned his signet right side out so the Darcy crest showed. His vision blurred with exhaustion and lingering emotional devastation. Not tears. He could not taste salt. Not at all. He grabbed the stick of red wax, holding it to the flame of the dying candle until it melted into a rich, bloody pool.
His exhausted hand reached across the surface. He folded his confession into a neat square, poured the hot wax onto the seam, and sealed it.
“It is done. I shall give it to her this morning,” Darcy whispered, staring unseeingly at the image in the scarlet.
“Very good, sir.” Dawson eyed his master with a distinct lack of confidence. “Shall I draw a bath? You cannot present yourself in the grove smelling of despair and brandy.”
DARCY WALKED THE GROUNDSof Rosings Park two hours later. The crisp air did nothing to soothe the pounding headache situated behind his left eye. He felt hollowed out, a shell of a gentleman eternally shambling to his own execution.
He paced the boundary of the grove, rehearsing the exact angle of his chin required to project unbothered indifference. He would hand her the letter; he did not have to speak. He would prove that he was a man of reason, logic, and consequence.
Then, he spotted Miss Elizabeth approaching through the trees.
His heart launched into an undignified gallop. She was wearing a simple garnet morning gown, her curls escaping her bonnet to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was infuriating. She was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Darcy tightened his grip on the sealed missive in his pocket and forced his facial features into a mask of pure granite. He stepped onto the path, intercepting her.
Miss Elizabeth halted, her eyes widening in surprise, her posture stiffening into defensive hostility.
He did not speak. He trusted his vocal cords about as much as he trusted George Wickham in a bank’s strong-room. He performed a masterpiece of stoic dignity. He offered a stiff, geometrically precise bow, wordlessly handed her the sealed letter, and executed a sharp turn to walk away.
Perfect,he thought.Impeccable. I have defended my honour. I have drawn a line in the sand. I have acted like a gentleman. This will show her.
He strode away from her, congratulating himself on his dignity. He had survived the worst of it. The matter was closed.
Chapter Two: A Study in Ink and Agony
IF ARROGANCE POSSESSEDa physical weight, the missive resting in Elizabeth Bennet’s gloved hands would have dragged her to the earth’s core.
She stood rooted in the morning shadows of the Rosings parkland, staring at the paper. Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy had just emerged from the morning mist, blocked her path, and handed her this letter wordlessly. Then he had turned and walked away.
She gathered her composure, for she knew exactly what this was: it was the master of Pemberley’s rebuttal. She anticipated a structured, emotionally devoid legal brief detailing the exact mathematical reasons why her family was unfit for polite society. She fully expected a defence of his actions regarding dearest Jane and poor Mr Wickham, complete with marginalia, a family tree to the hundredth generation, and a glossary of his own superior virtues.
With a sharp intake of breath, she slid her thumb under the crimson wax of the Darcy crest, snapping the seal.
She unfolded the letter, preparing her eyes for the sweeping calligraphy of a man who controlled his pen as tightly as he controlled his temper.
Instead, she blinked. She blinked again, her mind struggling to reconcile the author with the ink and paper catastrophe before her.
The handwriting was erratic. The elegant, flowing script of Fitzwilliam Darcy she had known since Netherfield was jagged, frantic, and littered with multiple ink blots. It looked less like the correspondence of a gentleman and more like the final message of one plummeting off a cliff.
She braced herself for the opening salutation.Madam, it would surely say. Or perhaps,To Miss Elizabeth Bennet: A Catalogue of Your Deficiencies.
Her eyes fell to the first line, and she found no stoic justification.
You have ruined my peace,the jagged letters screamed across the page.
Elizabeth let out a short, incredulous breath. The sentence trailed off into an angry smudge of ink, followed by a disjointed complaint about his utter inability to sleep.
I have paced the floor until dawn night upon night,the letter continued, the script sloping wildly downwards.I have attempted to read, but the words were nonsense. I have attempted to drink, but the brandy tasted like ash. My mind is a prison, Elizabeth, and you are the warden. How could you accuse me of ungentlemanly conduct? How could you look at me with those magnificent, furious eyes and declare me the last man in the world?
Elizabeth’s jaw went slack. The righteous anger that had been simmering in her chest since his disastrous proposal the previous evening suddenly evaporated, giving way to paralysing shock.
She read further, her eyes darting over aggressively scored-out words and passionate, bleeding sentences. Mr Darcy, the unyielding marble statue of a man, was pouring out his heart with a vulnerability so embarrassing she almost felt the urge to avert her eyes to afford him some privacy.
