Chapter 17

Warning: This chapter is a complete heartbreaker. 

Chapter 17

Mr. Darcy

The darkness carried on in an endless drift of fatigue. While he slept, he did not sleep well. When he woke, he woke in a cold, heavy sweat. Throwing off the counterpane, Darcy stalked toward to the large glass doors overlooking Berkeley Square. Opening both panels wide to the heavily clouded and damp night, he stared. Helplessness lined his forehead and pulled at his mouth. The hour was much too early to call for his valet. In substitute, he went to the nightstand to retrieve the letter.

Slowly, he once more unfolded the parchment. Every word pierced him to the marrow. He wanted to believe her to be true, yet he wondered whether he could trust a single word she wrote. Darcy crushed the letter in his fist before pitching it into the fireplace. The weak embers tickled at the edges; the fragile parchment surrendered to the gasping flames. Darcy stole the letter back before it wasted away from him forever. 

When Wood first handed him the note, explaining the curious circumstances of the delivery, Darcy was utterly beside himself. It took every ounce of constraint to stop himself from releasing the long-serving, loyal butler on the spot. The moment he ripped the letter open in the receiving hall and raced through the words, a battle raged within him. He called for the carriage to be brought around so he might go straight for the Gardiners; Darcy assumed she must be residing with her aunt and uncle. He could not wait for the next day to confront Elizabeth. However, it was quite dark out. To call at this hour would be in every way improper. Moreover, a hesitant Wood told Darcy of Georgiana’s plea, and the gentleman canceled the carriage. His answers must wait. 

At the first, Darcy had not quite grasped all of the underlying intimations in Elizabeth’s letter. He now doubted she was with the Gardiners at all. Unable to sit still another minute, he summoned his valet to help him dress. The cold night air might well ease his turmoil. Jeffers, his valet, grumbled through the task of quickly dressing his master. Darcy paid him no heed. Once presentable enough to step out of doors, he sent Jeffers back to bed. Darcy considered saddling Ludo, only to dismiss the idea straightaway. While Jeffers grumbled, Ludo bit when inconvenienced. Forgoing his overcoat, Darcy made his way down the front footpath, allowing the damp night to pierce through his shirt. Taking a deep breath, he desired nothing more than to breathe in the fresh country scents of Derbyshire. Instead, his nose inhaled a sour odor, stale and harsh. Turning onto the walkway, he stalked his way east. Finsbury Square just so happened to be in the same direction. 

To occupy his mind, he considered the preparations needed to be completed. Darcy decided to remove himself and Georgiana to Pemberley for Christmas. She exhibited little improvement from the summer previous when she put herself in a scandalous position. If anything, a timidity of growing concern overwhelmed the girl. As for himself, he simply needed to be home. Darcy desired the ease and comfort of Derbyshire. Pemberley would benefit them both. 

For more than an hour, he ambled about, at last deciding to return to the townhouse. Letters needed to be composed for Pemberley’s housekeeper, butler and steward in order to ready the manor for their arrival. Indeed, he should include Colonel Fitzwilliam in his planning, for his cousin was likely to accompany them. Two carriages would be required to carry them north. As Georgiana aged, her travel things multiplied and enlarged, often necessitating two or more carriages for their trips together. Darcy also knew he would never remove to Pemberley, not without her–never again without her. 

Rounding the corner, a light breeze ruffled his hair. Again, the scent of something rancid hit him. The smell made him feel ill at ease. 

Before turning back down the footpath, a glimpse of something white caught his eye. Darcy could make out nothing of what it may be, perhaps a lost handkerchief tangled in a bush. He continued on his way. Once more, a breeze rankled his nose, the scent of rotting earth filled his lungs. The breeze drifted across the square, the handkerchief fluttering. Only, it could not possibly be a handkerchief, it was much too large. Darcy turned around, needing to see what might be spoiling the Berkeley Square lawn. After a few steps, his pace hastened into a run. 

“Oh God! No, no, no,” he cried, coming upon her. “No, Elizabeth, no.” 

Elizabeth’s lifeless body sprawled across the grass. She was face down, her fingers covered in mud from clawing at the ground. Her ravaged shift clung to her body from the blood. There was so much blood. Dropping to his knees, he pulled her into his arms. 

“Please, God, what has happened?” Her head lolled against his shoulder but she did not wake. Darcy violently shook her, desperately trying to make her open her eyes. She was gone. “Elizabeth, if you are… I will never… never–” The words choked in his throat. 

Elizabeth’s blood dripped between his fingers. His tears fell onto her colorless cheeks. “No,” he wept. The breeze rustled the tatters of her shift, this time the wind was warm and floral in scent. 

Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open, and she began to speak. “Tell–” 

Darcy pressed his ear to her mouth so he might hear the barest of whispers escaping her tongue. 

“I will do anything!” he begged. 

“Tell our son…” she coughed, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “I-I loved him.” 

“Elizabeth, hold on. I will call for a doctor. Hold on!” Darcy frantically searched the horizon, as though a doctor might materialize from the fog. 

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I love you. I love you…” Elizabeth’s eyes closed. 

Darcy lifted her from the ground and ran to Darcy House. The footmen were asleep, the entire household slept. Unthinking of anything but her, he kicked the door open and dashed up the steps to his room. Gently placing Elizabeth on his bed, his shaking hands poured the ewer of water over the wound on her side. She did not respond in any way. He tore and wrapped the silken sheet around her waist, blood seeped through in moments.

Unwilling to look on her face, he searched his room for anything which might assist her. 

“Sir?” Jeffers spoke nervously from the corridor.

Darcy heard him not, continuing to tear through the contents of the drawers about his bedchambers. Madness coiled through him, nothing made sense any longer. He pulled out a set of woolen gloves. He ran over to Elizabeth and pressed the thick fabric to the wound. 

“Sir?” Jeffers tried once more, this time lightly placing his hand on his shoulder. 

“Get out!” Darcy roared. The valet obeyed, though not without hesitancy. Once alone, Darcy fell upon Elizabeth’s breast and wept. Her chest did not rise, her heart did not beat. He felt nothing but cold flesh beneath his cheek. Clutching her cheeks, Darcy screamed for her to wake. Her blue lips remained unmoving, her pallid eyelids stayed closed, she would not wake. Grasping her lifeless hand, he lifted her dirtied fingers to his lips. Darcy’s shoulders shook with his sobs. After a while, he had not the will to shed another tear or make another sound. He was empty. He laid upon his bed, cradling Elizbeth into his chest, letting the time tick by. 

“Sir, I have called for–” 

Darcy held up a hand, silencing Jeffers. With his voice rasping, he said, “I must change.” In all gentleness, he set Elizabeth’s hand back upon the bed and let her go. “Do not move her. Do not touch her. Have my horse saddled.” He spoke no more. 

Charging north, Darcy pushed Ludo to lather. The horse instinctively knew not to rebel, he knew where to go. In the last fortnight, Darcy had thrice charged down this lane atop Ludo. This the fourth time, however, he would reach his destination and not turn back. He could never turn back again. 

Any traveler crowding the road was passed by with the fullest of indignation. His hands gripped the reins with paralyzed hands, all feeling lost to the night before. They paused but twice in their journey, the first of which Darcy retched everything from his stomach. Ludo took the opportunity to nosh on a fading patch of grass. The second pause came about as Darcy’s lungs collapsed beneath his chest, crying out for air. He nearly fell off the saddle whilst sucking in the tepid western gusts pulsing through the pine trees. 

At last he arrived, the sun too bright and welcoming overhead. The clouds rudely gave way to a lovely day. Looking to the middling manor house, several faces peeked through the windows to peer at their unexpected visitor. A harried shuffling could be heard through the open windows as Mrs. Bennet ordered her daughters to ready themselves. Darcy straightened his waistcoat and approached the front door. The servant showed him to the study. Once standing before Mr. Bennet, his mind snarled in a haze of madness. Darcy thought to throttle the man to within inches of his own death, if not further. 

“Do sit, sir,” said Mr. Bennet warmly, eyeing the gentleman with calculation. “Might I offer you something to drink?” 

“Give me the strongest you have,” Darcy interjected roughly, easing into the chair as though a cat stalking a rat. 

“Oh ho! Nervous, are we? Yes, I still recall when I visited Mrs. Bennet’s father those many years ago. I thought my heart would beat right from my chest.” Mr. Bennet went to a small console behind his desk, shuffling through the shelves. The old man moved slowly, his breathing rasped. His old hands shook, the glass stopper clinking against the decanter. “Have you just come from London?” 

“I have,” he hissed. 

Mr. Bennet looked over his shoulder to his visitor, his dark eyes yellowed and weary. “I am glad you have come today. I, myself, was in London until recently as well. I only returned the day before last.” 

Darcy shifted to the edge of his chair, preparing to lunge at the old man. His nostrils flared, his fleshed burned. Every part of him readied to attack. Suddenly, a small, strangled cry sounded in the corridor. Both men turned toward the door. It opened with a creak. 

“Do excuse me, papa,” interrupted Jane with a bright smile. “Mr. Darcy!” she added breathlessly, falling into a deep curtsey. Darcy had eyes for none but the child struggling in her arms. In all that had happened, Elizabeth’s final words hung somewhere just beyond penetration–until now. “I apologize, I did not know you entertained a caller. I shall leave you be.”

“Come in child,” sniggered Mr. Bennet. “I believe we all know why the gentleman calls so unexpectedly.” Jane Bennet blushed furiously, joining the men in the small study. James Bennet eagerly reached out for his adopted father. Mr. Bennet grabbed him up, tucking him in his arms, hugging him tightly. “I will deliver James to his nurse and return… in a short while.”

“No!” Darcy choked out, “don’t go.” He watched every movement of the child; the child who might have been carved from a mirror image of himself. And yet, in subtle ways, and much more importantly, James Bennet reflected his mother as well. In the shape of his cheeks, the pout of his lips–the perfection of his very being–the child was part of her. 

Mr. Bennet sniggered, a dry and harried sound. “I am not so cruel as to make you speak before me. When you are again in need of my company, I shall be in the parlor.” He departed, speaking softly to the child in his arms. The door was left ajar behind him. 

Jane sat beside Mr. Darcy, coyly looking to him with expectation. 

“Where is Mr. Bennet taking the child?” He demanded of Jane. 

“To the nursery,” she answered, smiling still. “Jamie has been in a most difficult mood this morning. I fear he might be getting a tooth.” She sat in sweet demureness, taking steady, deep breaths and settling her hands on the arms of the chair. Darcy knew this tactic, he had seen it dozens of times over with other ladies. Jane Bennet wished for Darcy look on her with longing. He only wanted the child. He only wanted Elizabeth. 

“Have you been well, Mr. Darcy?” Jane inquired. 

“No,” he said. 

“Oh dear, is there anything I might do?” She placed her hand on his forearm, gripping him gently. 

Shifting his gaze about the room, Darcy’s stare at last landed upon Jane’s pretty face. All his mind brought forth was Elizabeth dead upon his bed, her expression devoid of life. He thought he would be sick again.

“Might I–” He reached for the whiskey on the desk Mr. Bennet poured for him, gulping it down in one swallow. “Have you been well, Miss Bennet? I am sure you have been bereft of late.” 

Jane Bennet searched his expression for a moment before saying, “Indeed, I have been rather dispirited of late. You are most considerate, Mr. Darcy.” She kindly squeezed his arm. Darcy leaned forward, placing his hand over hers. Jane’s breath hitched.

“I am deeply sorry, Miss Bennet. I more than understand your grief.” Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy, all is well now,” she cried in the deepest compassion. Jane reached up, wiping at his tears and cradling his cheek. Darcy wondered if he might be allowed a companion in his anguish, a friend who might understand. “To see you ride up the lane this day, well I can most assuredly say my heart is bursting. Is yours bursting as well?” Jane smiled, awaiting his reply. 

A chorus of giggles drifted from the corridor. Jane could not stop herself from giggling with her younger sisters. Darcy jerked his face away from her hand. 

“Let us go for a walk,” Jane moved to once more cradle his cheek in her palm. “My dearest Mr. Darcy,” she said softly. The giggles grew louder. “Come with me. There is a lovely copse just on the other side of the garden.” 

Darcy followed her from the study, his mind heavy; his every sense felt crushed by the weight of an ocean. On their way, they passed by the parlor. He bowed to the assembled ladies and Mr. Bennet. An air of general expectation radiated throughout the room, excepting for one chair which sat empty beside a window. Darcy gripped the doorsill to keep from stumbling to his knees. 

“Where is your sister?” he asked of Jane.

“Excuse me?”

“Where is Miss Elizabeth?” questioned Darcy sharply. 

“Indeed, we are not quite sure,” Jane answered, her voice suddenly empty. “She departed for a companionship with a Mrs. Bainbridge a fortnight or so ago. They are to travel. We know not of their tour as yet. Lizzy has been unable to write.”

“She has been most occupied, dearest,” Mrs. Bennet added, looking out the window to the garden. The older woman dipped her chin to her chest, then turned back to Darcy with a bright smile. “Mr. Darcy will you not join us, perhaps you wish to make an announcement?”

“Not so hastily, Mrs. Bennet,” chided her husband. “Mr. Darcy and I must speak first.”

“Mamma,” Jane interrupted, “Mr. Darcy and I were just to enjoy a walk through the copse.”

“Oh! Yes, yes! Mary, go with them.”

“I rather not,” Mary returned. 

Mrs. Bennet twisted toward her daughter, speaking through her teeth, “Mary, dear, the weather is lovely.” 

“Send Kitty,” offered Mr. Bennet.

The Bennets, so occupied with their squabble, did not note the new arrivals outside the manor. Darcy stared at the men through the open window. A third man emerged from the lane. Darcy shook his head, clearing his mind.  

“You do not know where your sister might be?” he again questioned of Jane. She dropped her lips in confusion. Turning to Mr. Bennet, he said, “Where is Miss Elizabeth?” 

Mr. Bennet tilted his head, his brows wrinkling in puzzlement. “Is there a particular concern you have with Elizabeth?”

“Mr. Darcy,” spoke Mrs. Bennet, “I know how Lizzy can be rather… willful. But do allow me to assure you she shall be no trouble. Lizzy is not–”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Mary, and she swiftly fled the parlor. 

Darcy watched the young lady’s departure. “I must leave as well.” 

“Indeed, no. You have just arrived. Can you not remain for supper?” Mrs. Bennet implored. 

Jane stepped before him, her smile returned. “You would be most welcome.”

Darcy once again cut his sight toward the window, staring past Jane. “I am needed elsewhere.” The Bennets, following his gaze, at last discovered the men outside the Longbourn gate standing in the shadows of their horses with their arms crossed in a threatening manner. The younger girls demanded to know who they might be. Darcy stalked into the front hall without answering, torn between rushing up to the nursery to fetch his son or directly departing Longbourn. Clutching his head, he knew the former would come promptly enough. For the present, however, arrangements must be made in London. 

“Berkes,” Darcy coolly greeted when outside. The man stood firm and tall, his stance wide and ever observant. The other two men covered his flanks, silent. 

Berkes lifted his chin, “Darcy.” 

“Why are you here?”

“Claridge sent me to assist you in any way. Or to clean up, should the need arise.” 

Darcy shook his head, “There is no clean up at this time. I am returning to London.” 

“Let us be on our way.” 

The stable boy brought Ludo round. As he swung onto the saddle, Darcy glanced up and discovered Mary Bennet holding James as they looked down on the lane through an open window. She was speaking to him, pointing at the horses. The child’s expression remained firm. 

“I will soon be back for you, my son,” he said to himself. “We will somehow forge a life for ourselves, together.” Darcy kicked the horse, charging for London. “She will never be forgotten.” 

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I know, I know, heartbreaking. This was a tough one. But don't give up, someone else isn't give up, I can assure you. 

Thank you so much for reading. All of your support has been so amazing. Again, if you know anyone else who is looking to keep reading Echoes of a Storm, please send them to this blog. 

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~ Jenna