Friends and Enemies Page 6

  “What do you want to hear?” he mumbled, unsure if his mind could form a coherent thought.

  “Tell me your favourite memory of Miss Darcy’s youth,” she suggested.

  Surprisingly, he knew exactly what to share. His lips moved into a smile as pieces of the memory joined into a picture most lovely.

  “My mother loved botany. We have pages and pages of drawings she made of the plants around Pemberley. Each had the Latin name of the species and sub-species carefully printed on the bottom.”

  “She loved to draw?”

  “Not at all,” he chuckled. “My mother was a terrible artist. Though she tried and was diligent, her love was in the growing and nurturing of the plants.” Memories filled his mind. “Georgiana loved those drawings and cared not how well they were done. Over and over she would ask me to read her the scientific names of the flowers. By the time she was four, she could identify almost all of the specific flowers. She had a preference for those pink in colour.”

  “How sweet.”

  “Yes, it was.” He felt himself smile. “That is, until my Aunt Catherine came to visit.” His smile grew exponentially. “She seemed to favour a hideous turban with a posy of flowers attached on the side. Georgiana refused to call her Lady Catherine as my aunt demanded.”

  “Lady Catherine rather than Aunt Catherine?”

  He nodded. “You would have to know my aunt to understand,” he smirked. “Be that as it may, Georgiana called her Erica cillaris for the pink flowers she often wore.”

  “Dorset heath,” Elizabeth stated.

  “Yes, exactly.” Darcy was unsurprised she knew. “Aunt Catherine repeated over and over that her name was not ‘Erica’ only to be called such repeatedly by her niece. It was a matter which continually frustrated them both.”

  By then, Elizabeth was laughing. “I can imagine.”

  “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth.”

  She, again, raised a brow.

  “I needed that moment to resettle myself.” He stood. “But now I must pace.”

  “Do as you must, Mr. Darcy, and think nothing of it.”

  She selected a piece of needlework from the ever-present basket and quietly went about her task as he walked back and forth. Back and forth. It seemed like hours before Mrs. Gardiner and the man he assumed was the doctor came into the room. When they did, their gloomy expressions told him the news would be bad. It was.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dead.

  The babe was gone.

  To his intense shame, amidst the sadness, Darcy felt a trickle of gladness drip into his cold heart. Glad he would not be forced to marry an American stranger to pass the child off as one his wife brought to the marriage. Glad the spawn of Wickham would not grow up at Pemberley, a constant reminder of his sister’s sin. Glad Wickham would not somehow find out he had the means to forever extort money from the Darcy family to buy their silence. Glad he would not have to live a lie. Liars were his abhorrence.

  “My sister?” His heart dropped to his stomach and fear filled his chest. The babe was gone, but his sister had a long fight ahead of her that he fervently prayed she would win.

  “Tearful,” replied the doctor. “With the help of laudanum, she is now asleep.”

  “May I go to her?” Please! Please! Do not give me reason to stay away. No! Keep me away! What can I possibly say to her under these circumstances when my own emotions are raw and bleeding? He felt a tug on his right hand and looked down. When had Miss Elizabeth joined her slim fingers with his? Or had he reached out in desperation, seeking the comfort of the only person who knew his pain? He cared not how it happened, only that her palm was against his, providing strength and solidarity when he needed it the most.

  He looked to the physician. When he nodded his head, Darcy was poised to run out of the room.

  “Do not wake your sister!” the doctor demanded.

  Before he could leave, the butler announced the arrival of the Darcy carriages. Mrs. Gardiner took charge.

  “Barton, see that Miss Darcy’s belongings are taken to Miss Elizabeth’s room. Mr. Darcy’s trunks should be put in the guestroom.” She looked to Darcy. “Was your valet to travel with you aboard ship?”

  “He was not.”

  She turned back to her elderly butler. “Then direct both carriages to return to Darcy House and make no mention of any change of plans. As far as anyone is concerned, they are on their way to the Americas. Their location needs to be confidential, and we will leave it up to Mr. Darcy to decide who does and who does not know.”

  “As you wish, Madam.” The man backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  “I thank you for your quick thinking and your consideration.” Darcy bowed to the mistress of the home. “Before I go to Georgiana, might we be introduced?” It was the polite thing to do. He resented the fine breeding his parents provided coming to haunt him at this second. Why could he not be as self-centered as Wickham? Oh, wait! Miss Elizabeth already thought he was.

  “Mr. Darcy, I do believe we have no need of introductions, for I have known you since you were a lad.” Mrs. Gardiner’s small smile was indeed familiar.

  “I beg your forgiveness.” He bowed again. “Pray enlighten me, for at the moment I am hard pressed to think of anyone other than my sister.”

  “My father owned the book shop in Lambton.”

  “You were Miss Madeline Clark?” He had spent many hours in the shop with both of his parents, and he mourned when Mr. Clark died and the property was sold to another. It lost the comfortable feeling, that welcoming alcove where a child could pull books from a small shelf under the window and relax in a rocking chair piled with pillows. At her nod, he added, “Then we are the best of friends, are we not?”

  Looking closer, it dawned on him that there were relatively few years difference in their ages. Where he had thought her much older in his youth, she, in truth, might have only been about five years older than himself.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she kindly approached him, ignoring the joined hands, the point where he felt the only heat amidst the chill of his soul. “With Miss Darcy tucked snugly in her bed, might you have questions for the doctor that he could address to help you along? Surely, for an unattached man,” she glanced to where his and Elizabeth’s fingers were entwined, “you must wonder what to expect?”

  He deeply appreciated her wisdom. Without letting go of Miss Elizabeth, they moved to where the physician stood. Once all were seated, a million questions fought for precedence, yet none seemed clear. He knew not what to ask.

  “Sir, it is most unfortunate that your sister’s circumstances are entirely too common,” the doctor began. “From my experience of over thirty years in medicine, it is a rare woman who does not experience the loss of a child at some time in her life, whether at birth or later.” His head moved back and forth and his chest sagged at the statement. “Your sister shared that your own mother suffered several miscarriages prior to her final birth. Do you recall how it affected her?”

  How could he not remember? The memories were some of the most painful of his youth. His parent’s joy each time his mother was increasing. Baby clothes would be sewn, each stitch placed with love. The nursery would be aired and readied while lively discussions about the possible sex and baby names would fill his mother’s sitting room. He always thought his mother beautiful. Yet, during those early days, she was radiant.

  Then, the loss. The small shirts and gowns would be quickly packed away. The nursery would close, and Mama’s sitting room would be silent. Oh, yes, he remembered the quiet, broken solely by the heartrending sobs of his mother and the gentle voice of his father as he sought to comfort the woman he loved most in the world, even as his own heart was torn in two.

  As a lad, he had felt powerless. As a man, he felt the same.

  “Your sister is young. In time, her body will recover. Eventually, when she is much older and under more desirable circumstances, she may have many children.” The doctor continued, speaking int
o a room devoid of sound or motion. “Nonetheless, the toll this will take on her emotions is unknown. As an intelligent girl, she most likely will discern the benefits of no longer carrying a child without being wed. This knowledge will battle with her heart, which will feel anguish at the death.”

  “Did she…?” He needed to know, though he could not adequately find the words.

  “No, she felt no quickening.” The doctor wiped his large hands down his face. “More than all other explanations, this indicates there were likely difficulties with the pregnancy for a while. She was far enough along that she should have felt some movement.”

  Was this good? Better? Worse? Darcy rubbed his own face with his free hand. He knew so little. How could he be of help when he had no clue what to do?

  For the first time since Mrs. Gardiner and the doctor entered the room, Miss Elizabeth spoke. “Then, what can we do?”

  The physician paused before answering. “I have found that there is no better medicine than a listening ear. Allowing your sister to express her anger, hurt, pain, and loss will help her heal, even physically.”

  “I can listen.” Darcy stood to leave, pulling Elizabeth up with him. Determined to do what was best for Georgiana, he declared firmly, “I will listen.”

  Grateful, Elizabeth walked beside him rather than having to pull her along. He stopped before the first step of the staircase. He looked, truly looked, at the woman alongside him. Her beautiful eyes were pools of serenity as her calmness radiated to him. He suddenly felt invincible, though he knew it was a façade.

  “Do not let go of me, I pray you,” he whispered. Immediately her fingers tightened in his. “No matter what you might see and hear, please do not let go.”

  The plea in his voice must have touched her innermost recesses, her compassion, as she moved so close that her shoulder touched his upper arm. Even through the fabric of his jacket, he felt her heat.

  Gulping air, they took the first tread in tandem.

  He could do this!

  ***

  Georgiana was curled on her side facing them, her dark eyelashes resting softly on her cheeks. She looked so young. The hair next to her forehead was damp and her face was splotchy red and pink, a testament to her ordeal. Yet, her breathing was slow and steady. He was relieved to watch the bedclothes rise and fall with each inhale and exhale.

  Two chairs had been placed next to the bed, and he surmised they had been used by the doctor and Miss Elizabeth’s aunt as they waited for his sister to sleep. Another reason for gratitude. In unison, they sat, Darcy taking the closer seat.

  Silence—almost painful in its discomfort. Yet, what could he say? Georgiana would be unaware of any utterance, and the woman at his side already thought poorly of him. Upon momentary reflection, he could begin to work at changing her impression of him.

  “Pray accept my apology for my thoughtless words on the night we met. My concern for my sister made me unpleasant company. I should not have been at the assembly that night, nor should I have attended any other social function in Hertfordshire.” He blurted each word into the quiet. “As it was, I was correct to be concerned, was I not?”

  He could not look at her, although he felt her eyes on him.

  He pressed on. “I have done nothing to garner your promise of secrecy, Miss Elizabeth. I have treated you most unkindly. Therefore, I beg your forgiveness while I thank you sincerely for your confidentiality.”

  Again, he felt the squeeze of her hand, suspecting she was going to prove herself a far better person than he. When she did not speak right away, he finally pulled his eyes away from his sister, looking her directly in the face.

  “Now, knowing the pressures you were under, I cannot help but wonder. Who is the real Mr. Darcy? Elizabeth spoke quietly. “Having come to the realisation that I had completely misread Lt. Wickham’s character, I fear I have done the same to yours.”

  “Pray, do not distress yourself.”

  “But I must,” she insisted. “Despite condemning you for your arrogant pride, sir, I have gloried in my own wisdom, being just as proud.” She paused, as if in reflection. “Your tender care of your sister is not something I would have expected from you.”

  “But, I love my sister!”

  “I know that now, sir.” Using her free hand, she patted where theirs were joined. “In truth, I believe I actually told my father at one point that you had a black void in your chest where your heart should be. I am now embarrassed for sharing the insult and for believing it myself.”

  “No! Pray, do not.” His heart felt her barb as it pierced the surface. “To my shame, I gave you no reason to think otherwise.”

  Elizabeth gasped for air and clutched at her chest. “My father! He believes Lt. Wickham to be a man struggling to make his way in the world and feels sympathy for his plight. The lieutenant is welcomed at Longbourn almost daily, and my younger sisters are vulnerable to his charm. I need to write to him immediately.”

  She stood, releasing his hand as she did so. “I am sorry, sir, that I can no longer keep you company. You have given me much to ponder, and I promise to do so. However, for the protection of my own sisters, I need to give this immediate attention.”

  He stood, his hand reflexively reaching for her. “I understand. Go! Do as you must and do not fear I am upset at your needing to do so. If I felt Mr. Bennet would read anything from me, I would happily give my voice to your letter.”

  “No, sir, you are correct. You are the last man on the earth he would accept information from, I am sorry to say.”

  “Then, go.”

  Her skirt caught on the door as she raced through the opening. Without slowing her pace, Elizabeth reached back and pulled it loose. Then she was gone.

  He looked back at his sister as he sat by the bed. Crossing his legs, he rested his chin on his hand, his elbow perched close to his knee. He admired Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He admired her a lot, far more than he had admitted to Richard. That she should treat him and his sister with consideration after all he had done to her—she was a woman above all others, including those of the ton.

  What was he going to do about Miss Elizabeth? He looked at his sleeping sister. What was he going to do about Georgiana once she woke? He had no clue as to the true turmoil of his worries until he felt a hint of moisture on his cheek.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lady Anne Darcy had died in the early morning of the day he turned twelve. Georgiana had been born the day prior. Against the advice and commands of the doctors and midwives present, he had crept into her room the night she had given birth to his sister. Despite her exhaustion and weakness, her smile had been welcoming as he climbed onto the bed beside her.

  “Your father will not be pleased to see your tears, Son,” she gently counseled him. “But I will admit to finding great pleasure with the evidence of your tender heart. It tells me more than words that you are just as much my son as his.”

  “Why does he have to be so distant, Mama?” He begged her for a satisfying answer. It had not been the first time he had asked. His young mind could not grasp how such an intelligent man would welcome the attentions of a servant’s son, George Wickham, and in almost the same breath, reject his own flesh and blood. With George, his father had laughed and teased. With his progeny? He allowed for nothing except the pursuit of always being the best: achieving the highest marks in his classes, being the most athletic of all the boys, and giving his full attention to the responsibilities and duty of bearing the Darcy name.

  “Your Papa loves you, Will. He loves you very much,” she reassured him as her hand brushed through his curls.

  “No, Mama, I do not feel this to be the case at all.” He looked directly at her. “When I marry, I will cherish my wife as my father cherishes you. I will worry and fret when she is ill. I will laugh with her and smile often, as he does when he is in your presence. And I will tell her how much I love her. But, when I have a son, I will love him like you do, Mama. I will welcome his presence, I will play with hi
m, and I will encourage him by example to be proud of our heritage. I will not be as my father is.”

  “Your father is a good man, my son.” She gently tugged on his ear lobe, and he knew her to be disturbed at his comments.

  “He is a good master,” Darcy insisted. “I will cry for you, Mama, then I will cry no more.”

  And he had not. Until Georgiana. Until today.

  ***

  “Sir, might you take tea?”

  Darcy jumped at her voice, though Miss Elizabeth spoke in soft tones. Glancing around him, he spied a cup and saucer placed on the bedside table next to him, steam rising from its surface. When had she returned?