Page 81 of Midnight at Pemberley

Elizabeth turned on him, her ire ablaze. “How will you stop me from going alone, William? Will you keep me under lock and key? Will you follow me and drag me back against my will? If you do, I will escape again and again, and one of those times I will make it to London, and I will find a solicitor and a barrister who will take my case against you, and although I, as a woman, cannot seek a divorce from you, I will let it be known that we never consummated our marriage. The ton will shun you, thinking you perverted in your tastes.” Elizabeth did not know why she said such awful things. She would never purposely hurt Darcy. Even with Lydia’s abduction, she, truthfully, did not blame him as much as she blamed herself. She had let down her guard, and Wickham had swept in for the kill.

Resigned, he stepped away from the door. “I will not stop you,” he muttered, “and not because of your threat, but because I will not see you hurt by me again. Send word where you choose to go, and I will have my man provide for you. Whatever you need—tell him. I will not deny you.” He stepped purposefully behind the desk, as if negotiating a business arrangement. “If you wish to leave today, I shall have the coach readied.”

She had made her choice, but seeing Darcy so withdrawn ripped at her heart. Her voice trembled. “I am sorry, William,” she said softly, as if offering a caress, but she did not turn around. Instead, she welcomed the tears she refused to withhold.

“I will think otherwise,” he said from somewhere behind her. Elizabeth heard the emotion in his voice. “I will never be sorry for loving you, Elizabeth. Even with everything that has occurred, I do not regret one moment I held you in my arms. I only regret that I brought you pain. It was not a fair exchange for the joy you presented me.”

Elizabeth forced herself to turn the latch. Made herself leave him. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, considering returning to his embrace. “I love you.” The words barely escaped her lips, but her heart screamed them. Tears choked her as she pushed away from the entrance and ran towards her chamber. In that instant, her life ended.

The tap on his study door was insistent, but Darcy made no move to respond. Elizabeth had departed more than two hours prior. He watched her board the coach, knowing she would never return. Even if he had not seen her leave, he would have known Elizabeth was gone. The house was a crypt. All the sunlight that had filled it for the past few weeks departed with the carriage that took her away. He now stood leaning against his forearm, looking deeply into a fully engaged fireplace, but feeling the chill of an empty hearth.

“William?” Georgiana knocked again and tried the latch before pounding with her fist. “William, open the door! Elizabeth left, William. Will you not go after her?”

Georgiana waited for an answer, but Darcy did not move. He locked the door when Elizabeth stormed away two hours and thirteen minutes earlier. He counted it off in five-minute intervals, wondering how long it would be before he died of a broken heart. How long could he survive without breathing? What had he done before her? Was there anything prior to when Elizabeth Bennet danced into his life?

His sister’s voice came again, but this time it was softer and more pleading. “William, please. Brother, we need her. We need Elizabeth.”

“Go away, Georgiana,” he called over his shoulder. “There is no more Elizabeth.”

“But, William …” She jiggled the door latch again.

“Bloody hell, Georgiana; I said there is no more Elizabeth!”

The glass shattered as it hit the door. An inhuman cry of pain filled the room as Darcy sank to his knees in defeat before rolling over onto his side to lie in a crumpled mess. He pulled the carpet upon which he rested around him, over his shoulders and around his body. It is so cold. Why is it so cold?

As the carriage pulled away from Pemberley, Elizabeth hoped Darcy would stop her. All along the lane, she imagined his riding up like a highwayman, stopping the coach, and demanding she return to him. Before she left, she found the door to his study locked. Is he behind the door? Does he not care enough even to speak his farewells? Secretly, she regretted her impetuous stand in his study. She should not have accused him of causing her family’s grief. Assuredly, he played a role in it, but so had she, and so had Lydia, and so had Mr. Wickham. It was no more Darcy’s fault than it was Lord Thomas’s fault for catching Leána’s eye two centuries earlier. Possibly, Lady Ellender D’Arcy shared some of the blame for her decision to trade Seorais Winchcombe for Arawn Benning, but as a woman in love she could easily visualize she would go to such extremes to save Darcy’s life if faced with a similar situation.

Now, as the carriage rolled towards London, Elizabeth urgently wanted to order it to turn around.Yet how could she admit she erred? And how could she be certain Darcy would welcome her return? She wanted what he wanted: a family, even if they adopted, and the estate, and lying in each other’s arms, legs entangled and bodies touching. She groaned in acknowledgment of her ill judgment.

Where will I stay? When she left Pemberley, she planned to return to Longbourn, but upon reflection, Elizabeth did not see how she could. She assuredly could not share with anyone what she knew of Darcy and of Wickham. And what other reason could she give her parents for her return? They would welcome her, of course, for a few days while Lydia’s disappearance was investigated, but she could not return in shame; her leaving Darcy would bring more notoriety to her family. Jane, Kitty, and Mary would suffer, never finding husbands of their own. In addition, her presence at Longbourn might draw Wickham there.

So where else was there? She could not stay with her aunt and uncle. Wickham might choose to strike their household also. Elizabeth would never risk the lives of her niece and nephews by returning there.

Darcy House? At least, there her presence would not place a loved one in danger. Her father could stay with her while he searched for Lydia. Although Elizabeth knew his search would prove fruitless, her father would know all the comforts Darcy’s money could provide.

After her family’s unproductive search, she would go far away—a just punishment for her conceit—for being the source of so much pain—and as a means to forget Darcy. She permitted the misery to break over her, but a gust of wind against the coach’s side had her peeking out the window.

The coachman opened the slot in order to speak to her. “Mrs. Darcy?”

“Yes, Mr. Peters?”

“There be a storm stirrin’ up the leaves. Might be best if ’n we stop at the next inn. You can seek shelter there.”

Elizabeth could hear the wind whistling through the opening. “I trust your judgment, Mr. Peters.”

“Yes, Ma’am. We should be there in a quarter hour or so.” He slid the slot closed and called to the horses.

Elizabeth felt the coach lunge forward. She would spend the night without Darcy—her first since they wed. It seemed unnatural somehow, but she would learn to survive without him. She had no choice. She brushed tears from her cheeks; yet, she knew there was no controlling how many tears she would shed over Fitzwilliam Darcy before her life was over.

A little after midnight, Darcy emerged from his study. The household slept, but he wanted no one’s assistance. Taking a single candle from one of those left burning in the entrance foyer, he made his way to his chambers, the ones connected to hers—to Elizabeth’s. She had been gone twelve hours and forty minutes, and, unbelievably, his heart still beat. Elizabeth had left him. He had known from the first moment he desired her that such was inevitable, but he had succumbed to hope, even though he was an aberration and had brought evil into her life. She deserved the best, and he had foolishly thought he could buy her those things, and that would be enough. He never considered the fact that Elizabeth’s goodness—her loyalty—her empathy were priceless.

Sometime over the hours since her departure, after openly prostrating himself at Misery’s feet, he formulated a plan: a plan to die. He knew where to find Wickham, and with the first streaks of dawn, Darcy would set out for Northumberland. For months now, he had set his estate—his papers—in order, and everything was ready for his death. Wickham had thrown down the challenge, and Darcy would respond. Lydia Bennet’s seduction was a message: a warning that George Wickham would not stop until one or both of them no longer existed.

Responding in kind, Darcy would release Lydia Bennet from her eternal grave. He owed Elizabeth that much, and if he died in doing so, his effort would be well worth presenting his Elizabeth the only peace he could. Then his wife could go on with her life, a life without him. Even if he survived, and Darcy held no illusions in that area, Elizabeth would never love him again. What woman could love the man who was the means of destroying a most-beloved sister? He wrote Georgiana a letter explaining his departure. He left specific instructions for his solicitors to execute the dictates of his will, leaving the estate and the care of his sister to Elizabeth until Georgiana married and his sister’s children came of age. At that time, Elizabeth would hold the dowager house. Naturally, the possibility existed of Elizabeth’s choosing to remarry, but he felt confident she would not bring another man into his house. If the situation were reversed, Darcy would never have another woman at Pemberley. It would be a break in the natural order of their love.

Reaching his quarters, he stripped down to his breeches and shirt before falling across the bed in exhaustion. Tomorrow he would leave to find his enemy. After several tomorrows, he and George Wickham would face the ultimate battle: a battle of strength, of endurance, and of fate.

The shadows draped the hedgerow surrounding the community cemetery as Darcy edged along its perimeter. The graveyard backed the land identified as belonging to Wickham. Hot and sweaty and dust covered from his four-days’ ride, he desired a bath and a warm bed, but death waited in a place where appearance made no difference. A deep hushed silence permeated the air. Darcy would cross the cemetery to circle behind the house Wickham occupied.