Pamela Aidan - An Assembly Such as This

“Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley turned to him as soon as the Hursts had mounted the stairs. “Charles is still in her toils! I looked for you to speak to him!”

“I am most sorry to disappoint you, Miss Bingley. There was no opportunity that would have answered. I could not very well take him by the collar and shake him like an errant puppy.” Darcy looked down upon her coldly. “And you know how he would take a lecture on this subject, even from me.”

“He will listen to nothing but praise of Miss Bennet.”

“Precisely,” Darcy replied sharply. “But if you are able to follow my instructions, I think we may yet save him from committing a disastrous error.”

“Anything, Mr. Darcy. Anything within my power.”

Darcy’s blood ran cold at her words, so like those Charles had pledged to him only a few days before. What was he doing? Such duplicity as he contemplated was entirely repugnant to his character. He forcefully quelled the wave of unease that rose in his vitals, reminding himself of the fatal nature of his friend’s inclinations.

“Mr. Darcy, what do you want me to do?” Miss Bingley pressed him.

“Wait a few days until after we have left for London. Then dismiss the servants, close up the house, and follow us to Town. But do not let Charles know that you have arrived. When I am satisfied that my plans have borne fruit, I will send you a note. Only then should you make him aware of your arrival. You need only affirm to your brother what I have told him, but in the lightest of tones. Do not bedevil him! Can you do this, Miss Bingley?”

“Y-y-yes, it shall be as you say, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley shivered at the intensity of his manner.

“Very well, Miss Bingley. Then I, too, bid you good night.” He bowed and turned abruptly for the stairs, but paused at the first to fix her once more with his imperious eye. “One more thing. You should send round a letter to Miss Bennet. Tell her that Charles will, in all likelihood, stay in Town and that you have gone to join him. Tell her that none of you will be back to Netherfield before Christmas. Indeed, that you may never return. Say all that is polite, but make the material point very clear. Charles will not be coming back! Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Miss Bingley nodded quickly, her eyes wide. Darcy bowed to her again and continued on his way to his chambers. It was now hard on three in the morning, and each step to his rooms testified to how profoundly exhausted the tensions and emotions of this night had rendered him. The knob of his chamber door turned even as he reached for it, the door quietly swinging open to reveal a gravely silent Fletcher against the illumination of a single candle at the bedstead.

“Mr. Darcy, sir.”

“Fletcher.” He sighed as he sat down. “I did not think a country ball would end so late.”

“Do not concern yourself, sir. I have put the intervening time to good use and packed up all your belongings, sir,” the valet replied as he pulled the emerald stickpin from Darcy’s neckcloth and began to unravel the knot. As he unbuttoned the controversial waistcoat, Darcy peered curiously at the head bent in service.

“All my belongings?”

“Yes, sir…and sent notice to the stable to crate Master Trafalgar for Pemberley. Will you wish to ride Master Nelson on your journey, or shall he be sent down as well, sir?” Fletcher dropped to his knee and carefully removed Darcy’s dancing pumps.

“Send Nelson to Pemberley. Fletcher, you knew I would not be returning?”

His valet looked askance at him. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. Do you still wish to depart at noon, sir?”

Darcy regarded his valet uneasily. “Perhaps you should tell me!”

“Oh, no, sir. That would be quite beforehand of me and worthy of dismissal, although I have heard that Lord ——— is very dependent upon the judgment of his man, who accompanies him, I believe, even to the gaming table.”

“So I have heard as well,” Darcy replied slowly. “Then I shall rephrase it. What time would you suggest, Fletcher?”

“Noon is the latest acceptable time, sir, as that will bring you to Erewile House somewhat late but not excessively so. It also recommends itself by being the earliest possible time that Mr. Bingley’s man may contrive to have him ready. May I remove your coat now, sir?”

Darcy struggled out of his chair, shrugged off the coat and, as Fletcher reached for it, the waistcoat as well. He was certain he heard the man sigh as he laid them both across an upholstered stool. Darcy watched him from under hooded eyes as he unbuttoned his cuffs and those at his throat.

“Noon it shall remain. You cannot be sorry to leave Hertfordshire, Fletcher?”

The valet did not answer immediately as he poured out hot water from the copper kettle kept warm by the fire into the basin on the washstand, but his countenance turned wistful.

“Sorry, sir? London has its pleasures, and Pemberley is the fairest spot on God’s green earth. Hertfordshire? Hertfordshire, I have found, has its own treasures, sir; and what man is not loath to leave behind a treasure?”

“What man indeed?” whispered Darcy, visions of his first sight of Elizabeth that evening arising before his eyes: the comely form, the impudent curls, her flashing eyes, and, later, her troubled brow, chastened voice, and anguished gaze. Darcy closed his eyes wearily.

“Mr. Darcy?”

“The man who knows his duty and, against all natural inclination, performs it. That man, Fletcher, will in the end know no regret.”

“As you say, sir.” Fletcher’s face betrayed no reaction to Darcy’s assertion as he motioned to the basin and the bedclothes lying across the counterpane. “Is there anything more you require tonight, sir?”

“No, no, that will be all. I have kept you up long enough. If I am not stirring by ten, please rouse me.”

Fletcher gathered up the discarded evening clothes and, bowing in acknowledgment of his dismissal, retreated to the dressing room door. “Mr. Darcy, sir.” He paused at the threshold. Darcy finished pulling his shirt over his head and looked at him inquiringly. “There is some brandy on the table next to the fire should you desire it. Good night, sir.”

Darcy looked over at the table as the door quietly clicked shut. He had not intended to partake at this late hour, but the idea now held an appeal. Perhaps it would still the competing voices in his head long enough to allow him to fall asleep. He poured himself a tumbler but left it on the table in indecision while he finished his ablutions and assumed his bedclothes. It stood there still when he had done, shining invitingly in the firelight. His hand closed around it, and with a quick motion, he downed half the glass. The liquid fire burned satisfactorily on its way down, its false warmth flooding his body within moments.

His duty! Yes, he knew his duty quite well — and the consequences of neglecting it. Georgiana had only just been rescued from his one instance of neglect of his duty. He would not fail Charles similarly. Not for all the “treasures” of Hertfordshire.

Darcy quickly downed the rest of the glass before her face could arise before him again and set it down on the tray. He walked over to the bed and pulled back the sheets, still warm from the heating pan, and slid between them, arranging his limbs in a position most likely to encourage sleep. He blew out the candle. Darkness enfolded him as the effects of brandy drunk too fast made themselves felt. A pair of fine eyes looked down upon him in confusion and sorrow, and Darcy turned in to his pillow to avoid them.

“Dear God,” he whispered into the depths of the night, “I pray I do right!”

With Fletcher’s help, Bingley’s man had his master ready to leave at precisely noon. By twelve forty-five they had left Meryton behind them and were bowling along down tolerably good road at a ground-eating pace in Bingley’s carriage. Although he was dressed and breakfasted, Bingley’s only contribution to the first hour or so of their journey had consisted of gentle snorts and snores. The sway and dip of the well-sprung equipage had been encouragement enough for Darcy to doze as well, as against all reason he had awakened at his usual early hour from a very troubled night. It was not until they made their stop at a coaching inn for a change of horses that Darcy put the first movement of his campaign in motion.

“Bingley! Charles, do wake up.” Darcy leaned over and, firmly gripping his friend’s shoulder, gave him an ungentle shake. “We are changing horses, and I, for one, need to stretch my limbs a bit. A pint would not be unwelcome, either. Shall we sample the local brew?” He cocked a brow at the muffled groans that issued from the folds of Bingley’s neckcloth. “Perhaps some coffee would answer better. Come, sir; up and out!”

Bingley opened one eye and, seeing the inflexible face before him, gave a great sigh and roused himself enough to stumble down the carriage steps. Darcy grabbed his arm and, laughing, propelled him toward the inn’s wide doorway. His query “A room, innkeeper?” was quickly answered, and a buxom daughter of the house curtsied them into a comfortable private dining room with a window that commanded the yard. An order for something hot and stimulating was given as Bingley slumped down into a worn but respectable couch.

“How can you be so infernally awake, Darcy?” Bingley yawned, squinting up at his companion’s profile against the sun streaming in through the window. “You were later than I to bed and up hours before me, I’ll wager, if your Fletcher had anything to do with it. That man is a positive martinet! He had my poor Kandle in such a quake he could barely hold my razor steady. I had to shave myself this morning, or he would have presented you with my corpse rather than — Don’t laugh, I swear to you, I’m not exaggerating!”