Pamela Aidan: Duty and Desire

“Well, old man, I shall display some unwonted mercy and take myself off to the Guard before I win Pemberley from you.” Fitzwilliam stretched out his shoulder muscles before reaching for his regimentals. He slid the guineas into an inner pocket and shrugged into the scarlet.

Darcy feigned a grimace. “So you keep saying, but the day has not yet come, nor will it, Cousin.” He picked up his own coat and led the way out to the stairs, Fitzwilliam behind him. “You will come, then, Christmas week?” he asked.

“Depend upon it,” Fitzwilliam replied as they descended the stairs. “You have me confounded with this news of Georgiana, and even did I not share guardianship of her, I should be concerned on the basis of our close relationship alone. Besides, it has been too long since we have shared Christmas! Her Ladyship will be in high gig to have me home and spend Christmas at Pemberley again.” They reached the hall, and Fitzwilliam turned a serious mien upon his host. “She has been concerned about you, Fitz — about both of you, really. This invitation will, I am sure, ease her mind.”

“My aunt’s solicitude is appreciated,” Darcy assured his cousin, “and I confess I have been negligent in my correspondence with her of late. That will be remedied. I shall write her tonight!”

“Then I’ll leave you to it. Do me a kindness and tell her that you saw me today and that we dined together, et cetera, et cetera.” A sudden thought seized him. “And don’t fail to mention I was in church, there’s a good fellow! She will be glad to hear from you, of course, but doubly glad to know her scapegrace of a son spent a sober Sunday. I would write her myself, but she will believe you.”

Witcher opened the door at his master’s nod, and the cousins gripped each other’s hands in a firm, familiar manner. “I shall so write, Richard,” Darcy promised solemnly but then laughed. “Although retrieving your character to my aunt seems rather a lost cause at this late date.” At Fitzwilliam’s answering crow, he added mischievously, “Perhaps if you made attendance a habit…”

“Ho, no! Thank you, Cousin. Just write your little bit, and all will be well. Good-bye, then, until Christmas! Witcher!” Fitzwilliam nodded at the old butler and, pulling his cloak tight, ran down the steps of Erewile House and into the hack summoned for him while Darcy turned back to the stairs and the not unpleasant task of writing his Aunt Fitzwilliam.

The sun had long surrendered in its battle against the clouds and fog. Vacating the field to his sister moon, he had already retired to observe what she could make of it when Darcy committed the final syllables of his letter to paper. As he sanded and blotted the missive, he noticed the darkness with regret. Now not only the weather but also the light was against any notion of a brisk turn about the square to work out the cramped sinews of his limbs and the perturbation of his mind. He laid the letter on the silver servier for Hinchcliffe to post in the morning and arose from his desk with a groan.

“Wickham!” Darcy went to the window and, leaning one arm against the frame, peered out into the night. The square before him was unnaturally silent, the sound of any passing horse or carriage being muffled by the pervasive fog. The morning’s sermon had caught him off his guard and unsettled what had previously been a fixed disposition of mind. The sensation was most disagreeable, and his attempt to reason it out with Richard had proved utterly useless. The question still remained: How did one account for Wickham and men like him? Further, was he prepared to believe that Wickham was in little worse a position in the eyes of Eternity than himself?

Richard had not understood, thinking Darcy wished to find excuse for Wickham’s actions. But the truth was that Darcy’s hot resentment of the man had been re-animated because Wickham seemed to be intimately involved in Elizabeth Bennet’s poor opinion of him.

Darcy straightened, walked back to his desk, and blew out the lamp upon it. Standing motionless in the dark library, he wearily reviewed the morrow’s duties. In the morning he must clear his desk of any remaining items of business. Then, at half past two, present himself in Cavendish Square and commission Thomas Lawrence to paint Georgiana’s portrait on their return to Town. Last, he was expected at Aldford Street for dinner with Bingley and his sister.

He closed his eyes, and another groan escaped him. Bingley! If all went well, that coil, at least, would be cleared. He prayed that Caroline Bingley had followed his directions precisely and restricted herself to disinterested affirmations of the doubts he had planted in her brother’s mind. If she had tried to bully him into giving up Miss Jane Bennet, Darcy knew that all his own subtleties of suggestion would have been for naught and he would be confronting a Bingley with heels dug in and head lowered in mulish obstinacy.

The thought chilled him. He had not considered failure. If, against his family and friend, Bingley insisted upon Miss Bennet despite her unsuitable standing in Society, would he cut the connection or stand by Bingley? Stand by him, surely! But at what cost? Perhaps very little. It well might be that Bingley the married man would no longer be interested in the attractions of Town and, as relations between the wed and their bachelor fellows did tend to thin…Darcy shook his head. No, Bingley would remain Bingley. Although his company at some events might fail, Darcy could not doubt his continued warm regard. And that would mean…

“Elizabeth.” He had not meant to think of Miss Bennet’s sister, let alone to say her name aloud, but it echoed in the darkness of the room and fell softly against his ear. Darcy gripped the edge of his desk with painful force and commanded himself not to be a fool. “She dislikes you, idiot! That should provide proof enough against being in her company.” Before he could berate himself further, the door suddenly swung open, and the blaze of a lamp held aloft caused Darcy to blink and cover his eyes.

“Mr. Darcy!” The lamp was lowered and set on a hall table. “Your pardon, sir. I heard a sound, and as the library was dark, we could not think what it could be.” When his eyes had finally adjusted, Darcy was able to discern his butler in the doorway with one of the sturdier footmen behind him armed with a kitchen faggot. “With that business in Wapping, sir. All those poor souls murdered in their beds.”

Darcy looked askance at his staff. “It is quite all right, Witcher. Understandable, I suppose, but we are a goodly distance from Wapping!”

“Yes, sir.” Witcher bowed his head. “I guess it is the fog, sir. Has everyone a bit nervous not knowing what is behind or afore you. Just the kind of weather for mischief.” He motioned the footman away to his post and then bowed to Darcy. “Your pardon, again, sir. Shall I leave you this lamp?”

“No, you may take it with you. Good night, Witcher.”

“And to you, Mr. Darcy.” Darcy waited until the elderly servant had descended the stairs to the servants’ floor before starting up to his bedchamber. Sleep would be his only escape from the piercing uncertainties of this day. “‘To sleep’ but, dear God, not ‘to dream,’ I beg you,” he murmured.

Darcy settled back into the dark green squabs of his traveling coach as the tollgate at Hampstead vanished behind them in the half-light of early morning. Unbuttoning his greatcoat only enough to reach inside his waistcoat, he pulled out his pocket watch and held it up to the feeble light. It was a quarter past seven, which meant that they had taken less than an hour to navigate the streets of the city and pass through the toll. Now, the road before the horses lay wide and free. The smart snap of his driver’s whip cracked against the approaching dawn, assuring Darcy that James, his coachman, was not unaware of these excellent conditions or of his master’s impatience to be home. The coach surged forward.