Page 58 of Near Pemberley

Richard gave a half laugh. “No, perhaps not. But temporary forgetfulness may be.”

Darcy said nothing further.

It was then, while his eyes wandered restlessly over the room once more, that they settled upon the young woman standing apart from the others.

She seemed out of place.

Her gown, though fashionable in intention, sat awkwardly upon her slight figure; the excessive paint upon her face only emphasised how young she truly was beneath it. While the others laughed naturally enough, she laughed too quickly, too loudly, glancing continually towards the older woman beside her as though uncertain whether she performed her role correctly.

The sight unsettled him immediately.

The mistress of the house approached with smooth assurance.

“A pretty creature, sir. Very lively.”

Darcy’s gaze did not leave the girl. “She appears too young to be here.”

The woman laughed lightly. “Gentlemen often prefer innocence.”

Disgust rose sharply within him. “That paint is absurd,” he said curtly. “And the gown makes her look ridiculous.”

The woman blinked, plainly uncertain how to respond.

“If you intend to send her to me,” Darcy continued with visible impatience, “have her washed properly and dressed respectably first.”

“Respectably, sir?”

“Yes. Decent. Please show me to your best room.”

The woman stared at him another moment before the sight of money rendered further confusion unnecessary.

“As you wish, sir.”

Darcy was shown upstairs by a narrow passage dimly lit with wall sconces whose candles had long since burned low. The sounds of music and laughter from below softened gradually as they ascended, though not entirely enough to disguise the character of the house. Somewhere distant, a woman laughed too loudly; elsewhere, doors opened and shut with hurried discretion.

The room into which he was finally conducted had evidently been arranged to imitate luxury, though the imitation itself only rendered everything more depressing to his eye.

Heavy curtains shut out most of the evening light. A fire burned low upon the grate, while the lingering scent of perfume failed entirely to disguise older odours beneath it. The furnishings were costly enough, yet nothing possessed the quiet comfort of genuine elegance. Everything seemed arranged for display, immediate pleasure, and forgetfulness.

Darcy remained standing after the woman withdrew, unwilling even to sit.

Everything about the place oppressed him. He felt not temptation, but fatigue – a profound weariness with himself, with London, and with every attempt to escape thoughts which returned regardless of place or company.

Instinctively, his mind turned again towards Derbyshire – towards Elizabeth.

How infinitely removed she seemed from everything surrounding him now: from the overheated room, the artificial laughter below stairs, the practised corruption hidden beneath fashionable appearances. He remembered instead the clear morning light at Lambton, the seriousness in her eyes during their last conversation, the quiet sincerity with which she had spoken to him.

Then the door opened again. The girl entered quietly.

The transformation, though simple, was startling. The paint had been removed entirely. Her curls, freed from excessive ornament, fell naturally about her face; the plain gown she now wore revealed not a hardened woman, but a frightened child attempting unsuccessfully to appear worldly.

She looked up.

Darcy felt the blood drain from his face.

No.

He could neither move nor think.