Darcy saw Elizabeth’s expression change, and instantly he regretted his words. Here he was, in a darkened room with her—a most excellent state of affairs, his cousin Fitz would say. And what must he do but spout the first foolish thought that came into his head? Why couldn’t he converse about the weather? It was raining hard enough to wake the dead!
He felt his lips twist into a rueful smile. “You must think me quite mad, Miss Elizabeth. Indeed, I hardly know how to explain what I mean.”
She returned his smile—a singularly beautiful smile, he thought. It was sincere and engaging, with none of Caroline Bingley’s tight politeness. “You are not yet a candidate for Bedlam,” she pointed out. “Although I dare say, if it continues to storm for the next fortnight, we shall each be joining you there.”
“We’ll fill a van,” he agreed. “What I said about Aunt Jane is unimportant. I was thinking aloud.”
“A profitable way to occupy your time.”
The lifted brow, the twinkle in her eyes—under the spell of her charm, Darcy could feel his reserve evaporating. “Oh, certainly,” he quipped. “I babble nonsense, thereby causing my friends to look askance or leave the room. Most productive.”
“I promise to do no such thing, Mr. Darcy. Pray continue. I would like to hear what you have to say about Aunt Jane.”
Her tone was decidedly friendly; perhaps he should risk it. Moreover, this was a prime setting for speaking freely. And yet—
“After all,” she went on, “you can scarcely embarrass yourself more than I have embarrassed myself tonight.”
“Upon my word,” Darcy burst out. “Do you consider your cousin’s actions to be your fault?”
“N-o,” she said slowly. “But as he is my relation—”
“You are responsible for nothing that he does. As for relations, I dare say every family has a Collins or two—we certainly have. I have promised to forget what happened earlier, so I suggest that you do the same. Now then, let us discuss Aunt Jane.”
The candlelight enhanced the anticipation in her gaze. Darcy drew a long breath and began. “Have you had someone in your life who was—how shall I say it? A deuced managing busybody?”
“Indeed, yes,” she said promptly. “Mr. Collins fills the role admirably.”
Darcy gave her a look. “I had in mind someone like a governess,” he said lightly. “Or a steward or a groom. A masterful sort of person whom it is impossible to get round.”
“It wouldn’t be a groom. I never have learned to ride.”
I’ll teach you.
Darcy blinked. Where had this thought come from?
“But I do know what you mean,” she went on.
He worked to regain composure. No more stray thoughts! Moreover, he must take special care not to embarrass her. “What I mean to say is, have you ever had the suspicion that you are being managed by a force outside yourself?”
“Do you mean being compelled to take a certain course of action? Such as,” she added, twinkling, “how we must all remain here until Christmas? By order of this Aunt Jane?”
“Exactly. The rainfall and the bridge—and the mumps—have conspired together.”
She tilted her head. “Coincidence?”
“I would be inclined to agree, if it were not for the letter. Charles Bingley claims that he never wrote the invitation that brought Miss Woodhouse and her friends here.”
“How very odd.”
“Isn’t it. I’ve seen the letter. The writing is his.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps he did write, and then forgot?”
“I devoutly hope so, Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy leaned forward. “And yet, my own experiences cause me to wonder.” He paused. She would certainly think him mad if he continued. And yet, the temptation to confide in her was almost overmastering.
“Yes?” she said. “Do go on.”
Darcy cast caution to the winds and plunged ahead. “Have you ever taken matters into your own hands? Run with an impulse? And then, quite suddenly, it is as if the situation is erased, and you discover that you are back where you were originally? That what you did has simply disappeared?”
She did not answer right away, and he liked her for it. At length she said, “Perhaps you dreamed it.”
If only he had! But Elizabeth was intent; she wished to understand him. There was nothing scornful in her tone. He could not resist—he must continue.
“I have wondered that, yes,” said Darcy. “But I recall the erased events vividly.” He hesitated. “This is a faulty metaphor, but it is as if pages were removed from a storybook.”
“Are you one of the characters in the story?” she said, smiling. “Perhaps what you are referring to is an act of God.”
Darcy returned her smile. “Ah, but He has a very different feel. We worship and pray; we confess and are forgiven. But this other—this manager—merely alters things. Rather ineptly, sometimes. Not at all like the Almighty would.”
“Then it must be coincidence.”
“Like coincidence in a storybook?” he countered. “There are rather too many of those to be believable. Cinderella loses a slipper, and it fits no one else in the kingdom. Sleeping Beauty is kissed by a prince, not licked by a hedgepig. Beauty returns just as the Beast is dying.”
“Or a letter is delivered at a critical moment,” suggested Elizabeth.
“Precisely. A letter did come, just before Wickham ran off with my—” Darcy stopped, aghast at what he had been about to say.
“Dear me, is even Mr. Wickham under your manager’s command?” Elizabeth sounded amused.
Darcy felt his jaw tense. “Apparently so,” he said stiffly.
He saw her eyes widen in surprise. “I—do not follow you,” she said slowly.
Of course she did not. She would never understand unless he was specific—and that meant being forthright. There were risks with complete frankness. On the other hand, perhaps it was well that Elizabeth learn the truth about Wickham.
“Look here,” he said, showing her the knuckles of his right hand. “A year ago April I had an, er, altercation with George Wickham, wherein his nose and jaw were broken.”
He heard her intake of breath. “Broken by you?”
He shrugged—what else could he do? “Behold the scar.”
Her eyes blazed into his. “Of all the unjust, hateful, barbaric—”
Darcy cut her short. “I had my reasons, Miss Elizabeth. Wickham attempted an elopement with my—” Again he stopped. Georgiana must be kept out of this. “I arrived in time to confront him face-to-face. The elopement was halted—by me.”
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her cheeks. “An elopement,” she repeated. “Oh, this does not sound like him at all.”
“He stood to gain a substantial fortune,” said Darcy. “But I digress. The point is not that I hit him, but that after I did so, I found myself back at Pemberley. It was as if I’d never gone to Ramsgate at all.”
“But you did hit him.”
“In truth,” he said ruefully, “it was rather worse than that. He struck his head sharply as he fell; the amount of blood was ghastly.”
“So you killed him.”
“To be honest, I do not know. As I told you, almost at once I was back at Pemberley. When I did journey to Ramsgate—for the second time, which had somehow become the first—I arrived two days earlier than before. There was no confrontation then, for Wickham had not yet come.”
“A happy circumstance,” cried Elizabeth.
“For the state of his face, yes. I must confess,” Darcy admitted, “I brought a pistol that second time, for I had every intention of shooting him. Instead, I—merely wrote a letter. I negotiated a settlement, for I had my sist—”
Blast his unruly tongue!
“I had the reputation of another to consider,” he amended. “I did not wish to broadcast his infamy to the world, on account of her. But here is the curious thing: the scar made when I struck Wickham remains, do you see?”
To Elizabeth’s credit, she leaned in to study the back of his hand.
“When next you see Wickham,” Darcy added, “you might notice the slight notch to his left ear, made by my ring.”
“You say you hit him,” said Elizabeth, “but it turns out that you did not.”
“The managing force—Miss Woodhouse’s Aunt Jane, if you will—stepped in and changed things. But she forgot a few details. Such as the cut to my fist and to Wickham’s ear.”
He saw her doubt, and yet she was not dismissive. “And this same force is at work here?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Stopping something from happening? Or else rearranging something that has already happened?”
Darcy felt his cheeks grow warm. How fortunate for the concealing shadows! “I believe it is the former. To be frank, yesterday afternoon I was to travel to London,” he said, “and my intent was to keep Charles Bingley there for as long as possible.”
He saw Elizabeth consider his words. He also saw irritation flash in her eyes. “To keep him there,” she repeated. “In spite of his growing affection for my Jane? You wished to keep them apart?”
“To be fair, I saw little evidence of her regard for him.”
“You saw little—Oh! How blind you are!”
“If I am blind,” he countered, “then you are naive. You have no idea the number of women who have pursued Charles Bingley simply for his fortune. He has an affectionate heart; I have often seen him in love. Can you blame me for assuming that your sister had mercenary designs?”
“I can and I do!” she cried. “Jane sincerely loves him. He is not a prize to be won!”
“Now that I have seen them together,” Darcy said more mildly, “I am inclined to believe you.”
“Who made you an authority on—” She stopped. “Oh. You—approve of the match?”
Darcy had to smile. “Let us say that I have revised my opinion somewhat. They seem to be well-suited,” he said. “And she does sincerely care for him. But I believe Miss Woodhouse is to be the final authority. Give me your left hand.”
He saw her quick intake of breath, and the surprise in her eyes as her gaze flew to his. Slowly she put out her hand. Darcy realized his gaffe and hid a smile. The poor girl! Did she think he was offering her a ring?
And yet she held out her hand to him.
Darcy felt the blood rush to his face. He lightly clasped Elizabeth’s wrist, and from a pocket brought out the missing bracelet. “I believe it is the left you favor for bracelets, is it not? You wore this at Sir William Lucas’s party, as I recall.”
“I—yes,” she said, a little breathlessly. “But how did you—”
Darcy ignored the question as he enjoyed the warmth of her. “This is rather pretty,” he said, and he opened the clasp. “It is fortunate that you noticed it there in the corner.”
“I—thank you.”
He frowned over the clasp. “The latch appears to be broken. Shall I ride into Meryton and have it looked at? Is there someone with the skill to mend this?”
“I do not know. Perhaps Mr. Wade, who looks after clocks and timepieces. But there is no need, Mr. Darcy, truly. It is not altogether broken. I know to be careful when wearing it.” She leaned in, and he inhaled her scent. “Do you see, just here,” she said, “how the catch—”
The drawing room door came roughly open. Bingley came in, with Jane close behind. “There you are!” he crowed. “We’ve been looking everywhere.”
Darcy kept a light hold on Elizabeth Bennet’s wrist. He felt her pulse quicken. “Do not move,” he murmured. “Brazen it out.”
“What’s all this? Alone together—and holding hands, are you?”
“You have been reading too many novels, Charles,” said Darcy lightly. He released Elizabeth’s wrist.
Behind them edged Miss Bates, Emma Woodhouse, and Tom Bertram. “This is very nice, I must say,” quipped Bingley. “My sister is not here to act as duenna, and what must the pair of you do but slip away together!”
“I was helping to locate Miss Elizabeth’s lost bracelet,” said Darcy evenly. “And here it is.”
“Mr. Collins was with us,” Elizabeth hastened to say. “Until very recently.”
Bingley was smiling widely. “Alone,” said he, “with a single candle between you. Indicative! Highly indicative!”
Darcy refused to rise to the bait, staring down even Miss Woodhouse’s interested gaze. He rose to his feet and assisted Elizabeth to do the same. She hesitated, and then placed her hand lightly on his proffered arm.
“We shall never hear the end of this,” he confided in a low voice, as they left the drawing room together. “But it could be worse, you know.”
She looked an enquiry.
“I could be Collins.”
“Oh—you!” she whispered.
Was a playful blow to the arm a good thing? Darcy rather hoped it was.