The light pressure of a hand on his arm brought him back. He looked down into brimming eyes full of compassion as his sister gently pulled on his sleeve. Helpless to deny her, he bent and received the benediction of her kiss upon his cheek. “Dear Brother, tell me,” Georgiana whispered. “Tell me what happened at Rosings.”
At Georgiana’s plea, Darcy looked down into his sister’s face, his heart stilled in his chest, before he turned away to stare once more out his window. Georgiana’s loving appeal and gentle kiss pierced him to the quick, tempting him to lay before her all the crushing pain of Elizabeth’s determined rejection and the bitter knowledge of himself that he had gained from it; but there was in her eyes something that made his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth with a sudden, irascible stubbornness. Was it possible that she could understand his pain? Yes, he might grant that what she had experienced at Wickham’s hands had been similarly devastating before working such unexpected changes in her and bringing the singular sort of maturity she now exhibited. But while he continued grateful for the solace she had found in religion, he could not, in the cold economy of Heaven that was his own experience, find anything, not even the compassionate solicitude in Georgiana’s eyes, to draw him in that direction. It had always made him uncomfortable, and now, in all he had lately undergone at the behest of Providence, he was become decidedly inured against it.
“Fitzwilliam?” The catch in Georgiana’s voice warned him that his demeanor had betrayed something of what had passed within him. Whatever that had been, and he could not put a name to it as yet, he knew it was not something for her tender sensibilities. Working to settle his features into softer lines, he turned back to her, grabbed for her hand, and brought it up to his lips.
“It was nothing, sweetling. You must not worry.” He stroked her hand with his thumb but could not look into her eyes. Suddenly, his room, indeed all of Erewile House, felt oppressive and confining. He must get out, it was impressed upon him, or suffocate! He released Georgiana’s hand. “I thank you for breakfast and your company, but I must leave you now.” He walked quickly to the bell pull and gave it a quick tug.
“Leave?” Georgiana’s brows slanted down in puzzlement. “Where must you go?”
“Out, my dear,” Darcy returned almost curtly. The urgency to escape from his sister’s keen observation felt like an intolerable weight hung large within his chest.
“B-but…we have not finished discussing the Unveiling,” she stammered, her eyes pleading with him to remain.
“The Unveiling,” he repeated absently, unwilling to meet her gaze. “I believe it cannot be avoided.”
“Fitzwilliam, please —” she remonstrated, but he cut her off.
“You must reconcile yourself, Georgiana, and proceed in the expected manner with as good grace as you can. I will grant you that the guest list may be pared down to only family and our closest friends, but the Unveiling must proceed.” He dared then to glance at her, but he saw with relief that she had turned away from him. A click at the dressing room door claimed his attention.
“Mr. Darcy, sir?” The formality of Fletcher’s bow revealed that he had not, as yet, accustomed himself to the fact of Miss Darcy’s unusual presence in the master’s rooms.
“My coat, Fletcher. I am going out.”
“Out, sir? But where, sir?” the valet asked, puzzled at the stark order. “Do you require your walking coat, your driving —”
“Out!” Darcy repeated, his irritation growing as he cast about for a destination that would satisfy both his inquisitors and his own requirement for relief. The solution came to him with sudden clarity. “Out — fencing!”
“Very good, sir.” Fletcher bowed low again, but his delicacy was for naught; for, despite its softness, the sound of the bedchamber door closing behind Miss Darcy’s skirts echoed clearly through the room.
“Yes.” Darcy looked about him approvingly before beginning his warming exercises. He had made the right choice. The atmosphere of the fencing rooms was just what he required to exorcise the demons of mind and the cramp of his body that had plagued him since That Day. He threw back his shoulders and began tracing the slow arcs and easing into stretches that would loosen the muscles in his back, arms, and limbs, readying them for the demands which he would soon place upon them. It had been rather a long time since he had held sword or foil, and though the weight felt good in his hand and the urge to immediate action was great, he knew it behooved him to commence his reacquaintance slowly. Yes, this was exactly what he needed. No one here would think of demanding of him anything more than common decency, fair play, and style in his swordsmanship. Of those, he was quite as capable as any gentleman and more so; for the first two lay in his blood and, as to the last, he knew his swordplay was generally considered both powerful and elegant.
From the corner of his eye, Darcy spied Genuardi, the fencing master, who acknowledged his presence with a salute and a bow. Pausing in his regime, he returned the courtesy, ignoring the wistful or jealous glances cast him by lesser blades who dreamed of such attention, and then returned to his study. The blood in his veins began to flow faster; his sinews and muscles warmed. The stiffness fell away from his limbs. His movements increased in their speed and fluidity until, finally, he felt that rush of power, of such control over his body that he knew it would do all he asked of it. God, it felt good! He slowed his movements, his heart pounding only moderately, then stopped to wipe the sheen of perspiration from his brow and survey the room for an opponent. He heard the step behind him only a second before feeling the tap on his shoulder.
“Darcy, old man! Where have you been?” Surprised at the voice, Darcy pivoted to face Lord Tristram Monmouth, who gestured carelessly with his foil. “Care for a go?” Tris’s brow lifted lazily, but there was in his old university roommate’s manner a certain nervous tension for which Darcy could not account. That Monmouth was here at all was strange enough. He could not remember seeing him in the fencing rooms any time over the last two years. Perhaps his wife, Lady Sylvanie, had lost her fascination.
“Monmouth,” Darcy returned, nodding his assent, and walked away to claim a position on the floor. Tension was good. It made one’s opponent too careful or too reckless, and either could be used to advantage. Centering his feet upon the mark, Darcy looked up to observe his challenger and decided that, in Monmouth’s case, it would be too reckless. Why, he could not assay, for Tris’s “En garde!” had already sounded loud in his ears. They met. Within seconds, Darcy knew he had been right. Tris’s swordsmanship in their university days had been admirable, but he had not, evidently, advanced his form much beyond that.
Their engagement was not a long one, its duration more a result of his permission than of Tris’s skill, but in the course of it, he found himself, not once but twice, forced to block an illegal thrust. The first he put down to the heat of the moment; the second time, he was not so certain and quickly put an end to their play, scoring his touchés in the remaining bouts with precision and speed. Stunned by Monmouth’s actions, he searched his face as they exchanged the formal ending salute, but Tris only smiled back at him, seemingly unaware that anything untoward had occurred. Was it possible he had just been carried away or, perhaps, forgotten proper form over the years?