“More ‘matters’ for you, I fear.” Fitzwilliam joined him at a goodly distance from the anxious group at the settee.
“Without question,” he returned. “I suspected of whom she spoke. The poor man has the worst land on the estate and, to complicate matters, a large family and equally large ambitions for them. He is trying to send to school as many of his sons as show promise, which makes for tired scholars and weary laborers.”
“And less income.” Fitzwilliam shook his head. “He shall have to keep them home.”
“He does, Richard. They school only out of season, but he keeps them to it on their own at night. It is his parcel. The land is truly wretched.”
“What is to be done?”
Darcy sighed. “I shall speak to the steward tomorrow.” The Sunday tenant visits Georgiana had wheedled him into this winter came to mind. He could not help but smile at the thought of the turn her more feminine Darcy sense of outrage would take at such a state of affairs. From observation of her ministrations at Pemberley, he could fairly guess what she would deem appropriate succor. He would see to it tomorrow.
The sound of the drawing room door opening behind him brought Darcy up straight, a mixture of excitement and panic jolting up his spine. Elizabeth! The knot of his neckcloth became suddenly unbearably tight, and he reached up to pull at it as he swung around to greet the arrivals. The old footman announced Her Ladyship’s guests in the overloud voice of one who was losing his hearing.
“The Reverend Mister Collins and Mrs. Collins, Your Ladyship.” The Collinses made their bows to the room, but Darcy only nodded perfunctorily, his eyes searching the darkened entrance for Elizabeth.
“Miss Lucas, Your Ladyship.” Little Miss Lucas, hesitant as always, made her brief curtsy and moved aside. The door closed behind her.
Where was Elizabeth! Darcy looked at the closed door in disbelief. She had not come? How — why could she not have come? For a moment he could not move but only stare at the offending portal.
“Fitz?” Richard’s questioning voice broke his trance. Ignoring his cousin, Darcy strode over to the knot of visitors and hosts with every intention of pulling Collins aside to charge him with an explanation when Lady Catherine unknowingly anticipated him.
“Mr. Collins,” she demanded stridently, “where is Miss Elizabeth Bennet!”
“Your pardon, Your Ladyship, Miss Bennet is quite distraught to be denied the honor of accepting your most gracious invitation this evening. It was with the greatest disappointment that —”
“Why, Mr. Collins, why is she not here!” Lady Catherine cut him off.
“Miss Bennet suffers a sick headache, Your Ladyship.” Mrs. Collins curtsied her interruption into the conversation. “She begs you will excuse her this evening.”
“A sick headache!” The rest of Lady Catherine’s opinion on sick headaches was lost to Darcy as he turned away in confusion. She was ill! This was an exigency for which he had not accounted. Ill? Richard had said nothing about her appearing ill this afternoon.
“Damned unlucky turn of events.” His cousin joined him at the window. “Instead of enjoying la Bennet we must suffer le Collins! Odd, though…she did not seem ill this afternoon.”
“How did she seem?” Darcy could not stop himself from asking the question.
“Thoughtful, a bit pensive perhaps,” he replied. Then he laughed. “We did speak of you, after all.”
Richard’s attempt at humor brought Darcy’s thoughts to a focus. She had spoken of him! She also knew there lacked but one day before he was to depart Kent. Could she have become uneasy in his delay? Or could she, in feigning illness, be offering him an opportunity? The idea was not an improbable one. It could very well be. On the other hand, she might truly be ill. He thought of her alone, waiting in expectation or resignation, and his course was determined. In either case, it was impossible for him not to go to her…and immediately!
Without a word, he wheeled abruptly about and strode away from the window. Intent upon the door, he ignored Fitzwilliam, who finally stepped in front of him and then took him by the arm. “Fitz! Where are you going?” he hissed at him. “You cannot just walk out!”
“Stand away,” Darcy shot back, his voice low-pitched but commanding. He would brook no further delay or debate.
“Fitz! Think what you are doing!”
“I have! I know what I am doing!” He shook off Richard’s detaining hand. “Make my apologies to Her Ladyship and the Collinses — or do as you wish! I am past caring what she thinks of my manners!” Darcy challenged his cousin, his eyes mirroring the implacable set of his jaw.
Fitzwilliam’s hand dropped from his arm, his face a study in apprehension. “Do as you desire then, and Heaven help you, Cousin!”
Responding only with a clipped nod, Darcy walked past Fitzwilliam, opened the door, and with hurried strides passed through the hall. He took the stairs in twos and threes, hitting the corridor that led to his rooms at nearly a run. Fletcher must have heard him coming, for the door to his chambers was unceremoniously yanked open a second before his arrival.
“Mr. Darcy!” the valet exclaimed, his eyes wide at his master’s almost wild appearance.
“Fletcher, my coat and hat — immediately, man!”
Fletcher said not a word as he hurried back to the dressing room to gather the demanded items, leaving Darcy to the quiet orderliness of his rooms. She had not come! He strode the length of the room and back. The more he considered that singular fact, the more plain its meaning grew. She had prevented him from making the mistake of declaring himself in an unseemly setting, and then what had he done but withhold himself from her, incommunicado, for an entire day! She probably had been expecting him, and his absence instead had confused her — or decided her. It would be just like Elizabeth to act to bring matters between them to culmination. Their sparring at Netherfield and, lately, at Rosings should, of all things, have taught him that!
Fletcher’s footsteps brought Darcy around. “Sir.” His gray coat was held out for his arms. Catching his sleeves, he plunged his arms into the sleeves and pulled the garment up over his shoulders before the valet could assist him. “Your gloves, sir.” Darcy pulled them on and reached for his hat, plucking it from Fletcher’s grasp and tucking it under an arm as he made for the door.
“Fletcher.” He stopped short at the portal and turned to his valet. “If anyone should inquire…”
“You were urgently needed elsewhere, sir,” Fletcher supplied smoothly. “And you will not be back —?”
Darcy nodded appreciatively at his valet’s astuteness. “An hour.” He considered the possibilities. “Several hours,” he amended as he smoothed his gloves. “Perhaps longer.”
“Very good, sir,” he replied, his confident, professional air a steadying calm upon Darcy’s churning thoughts. His long stride ate up the length of the hall, but at the top of the stairs Darcy halted. If he used the main staircase and doors, he risked being waylaid by Richard or spied by one of Her Ladyship’s servants sent to inquire after him. Turning on his heel, he retraced his steps to come to a stand before the door to the servants’ halls. Not since he was a boy had he traversed the small, dark corridors used by the staff in their unobtrusive service to the household, but surely he could remember the way!
“Darcy?” Fitzwilliam’s voice echoed up the stairs. He had no choice. In a moment he was on the other side of the door and making his way to the servants’ stairs and down, dodging several maids overburdened with armloads of sheets and toweling on their way up to the bedchambers. The servants’ hall was deserted, and Darcy stepped down into the long, low room, searching for a door to the outside. Finding none, he crossed the room to discover a short hallway, a step up on the other side, and the desired exit.