Page 38 of A November to Remember

Elizabeth drew the blanket higher over Jane’s shoulder and settled back into her chair, pulling her dinner tray onto her lap. She had been certain of Mr Darcy once. Certainty, she was discovering, was far easier to maintain when a gentleman had the courtesy to behave badly all the time.

Chapter Nine: The Goddess of the Stables

November 3rd, 1811

The water in the copper tub was hot, but Fitzwilliam Darcy remained oblivious to the temperature. He sat submerged to his waist, staring at a floating island of lather with intensity, as if attempting to set water on fire through sheer force of will.

He had not seen her. Not once.

After Elizabeth Bennet had marched into the Netherfield breakfast room yesterday morning like an avenging angel wrapped in damp wool and mud, she had vanished upstairs. Darcy had spent the previous evening staring at the drawing-room door, longing for a ghost that refused to haunt him. He had endured Miss Bingley’s relentless interrogations regarding the precise dimensions of the Pemberley library, survived his cousin Richard eating his weight in roasted fowl, and tolerated Robert’s sighs. And all for nothing. The yellow guest chamber had swallowed her whole.

“You did not sleep, sir,” Dawson observed, laying out linen.

“I slept excellently.”

“Of course, sir. I only mention it because you have been washing the same shoulder for four minutes, and I feared the skin might come away.”

Darcy looked down; the shoulder in question was pink. He transferred the sponge to the other one with as much dignity as he could muster.

“The household is at sixes and sevens,” Dawson continued. “Cook has produced beef tea in quantities sufficient for a garrison, on the colonel’s standing instruction. Mrs Nicholls has annexed the passage and is issuing orders. Miss Bingley has ordered the breakfast room flowers changed twice. The first arrangement was found to be too yellow.”

“Too yellow?”

“It was felt, sir, that the colour might draw undue attention to the yellow chamber, and thence to its occupant, and thence to its occupant’s sister,” Dawson said, warming the towel at the fire. “The second arrangement is hothouse roses. Red ones.”

“Subtle.”

“As a herd of bulls, sir.”

Darcy rose from the water and his valet wrapped the towel around him with the efficiency of a swaddling nurse. Darcy stepped onto the woven mat, his mind still returning furiously to the same thought. He could not stop thinking about her eyes. They had been blazing with exertion and defiance and she had barely looked at him. It was an outrage. It was a scandal.

It was the most intoxicating thing he had ever experienced.

“The charcoal superfine today, sir, or the dark green?” Dawson inquired, moving to the wardrobe. “The charcoal conveys an aura of mourning, should Miss Bingley attempt to engage you in conversation before noon.”

“Yes. Fine. Anything,” Darcy muttered, rubbing his hair vigorously with a smaller towel.

He crossed the bedchamber to the window, tossing the towel onto a chair. He rubbed the condensation from the glass and peered out into the grey morning. The storm had broken, leaving the grounds battered but vibrant. He let his gaze drift across the lawns, over the gravel drive, and towards the large brick structure of the stables.

A figure was walking across the yard. She wore a dark morning dress and a shawl clutched tight against the November chill. Her hair, usually pinned in some semblance of order, was hastily braided, a few rebellious curls escaping to dance in the wind. She was alone, marching with that determined, headlong stride of hers straight to the corner paddock where the most dangerous animal was kept.

“Dawson!” Darcy barked, spinning away from the window. “My shirt. Now.”

“Sir, you are still substantially damp—”

“I do not care if I am actively dripping, Dawson, give me the shirt!”

Dawson, reading the urgency in his master’s voice, abandoned his glacial pace. He produced the linen shirt, which Darcy tore from his hands. He shoved his arms into the sleeves, ignoring the uncomfortable cling of the fabric against his wet skin. He did not wait for the superfine coat; he grabbed his breeches, managing to fasten them while hopping towards his boots. He thrust his bare feet into them, abandoning his stockings entirely.

“Your cravat, sir!” Dawson protested, holding up a length of white starched linen.

Darcy snatched it, threw it around his neck, and tied it in a single, brutal knot that would have caused Beau Brummell to weep in the streets. His hair was a damp, curly mop, hanging over his forehead in wet spikes.

“Sir, you cannot leave the room resembling a vagabond who has recently survived a shipwreck!” Dawson exclaimed, stepping into Darcy’s path.

“Watch me.” Darcy sidestepped his valet and threw open the bedchamber door.

He took the back stairs two at a time, bypassing the main passages and the risk of encountering a Bingley. He burst through the servants’ door and broke into a run.