The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

***

She is dead. She is dead. She is dead. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves seemed to pound out the words again and again until he could hear nothing else. When he closed his eyes, he saw Elizabeth’s face: the pert smile and fine eyes that he would only ever glimpse in memory. How long until the details of her features faded in his mind?

He had no likeness of Elizabeth, no miniature or silhouette. No lock of hair. No letters. With time, would he forget the curve of her cheek? The sparkle in her eyes as she teased him?

He had remained only one night at Netherfield, visiting Elizabeth’s grave in the morning before boarding the carriage for London. The sight of the gravestone had compounded the weight upon his chest. Its very existence was akin to a death knell.

Darcy’s father often had spoken to his mother at her gravesite in Kympton churchyard, and Darcy had been tempted to address Elizabeth at hers. But Anne Darcy’s body rested quietly in the bucolic country churchyard while Elizabeth’s was in some unknown watery grave. He would be casting his words into an empty hole in the ground.

Bingley had remained behind at Netherfield, gladdening Darcy’s heart. Now might not be the time for Bingley to resume his courtship of Miss Jane Bennet, but she—and her family—had obviously welcomed his presence. Before his departure, Darcy had begged his friend for any word should the Bennet family want for anything. He should have been a better friend to them before Elizabeth’s death, but he would do what he could for them now.

Bingley had agreed, although Darcy suspected that his friend intended to address any of the family’s needs himself. Darcy had no doubt that one day he would attend Bingley’s wedding to the eldest Bennet daughter.

Perhaps sufficient quantities of brandy might help Darcy survive the ceremony.

Bingley’s besotted stares at Jane were one of many reasons Hertfordshire could not be endured. Every sight in Meryton, every room in Netherfield, every word spoken at Longbourn recalled Darcy’s loss.

He drew in a ragged breath and released it slowly, willing himself to calm. Outside the carriage window, heavy clouds hung over endless fields of wheat. For hours rain had seemed imminent, but the day remained gray and arid.

Darcy tried to slow his thoughts, achieve a state of numbness. But he was unable to prevent himself from cataloging the missteps that had led to this melancholy place. If I had been less proud and difficult when making my proposal, perhaps Elizabeth would now be my wife, safely ensconced at Pemberley. If I had visited Longbourn earlier, she might have been persuaded to change her mind. If I had not allowed my damned sense of superiority to interfere with Jane and Bingley’s romance…

He had assumed he had all the time in the world to make Elizabeth love him. Even after his disastrous proposal, he had expected to have a second opportunity.

If she had accepted him—if he had made it possible for her to accept him—she never would have been on a ship bound for Jersey.

Darcy’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He was so damnably useless. During her life, he had caused Elizabeth only anger and grief. And now she was beyond the reach of any benevolence.

Furthermore, he had encouraged the Bingley sisters to disparage the Bennets—a family now sunk low into grief. And Darcy could do nothing to rectify the situation or assist the family. Perhaps someday he might be of a small service to them, but otherwise he was useless. Even Bingley did not need Darcy; he could easily conduct a courtship on his own.

Now Darcy would return to London—to balls and card parties and dinners. Every activity more empty and useless than the next. Each place populated by people who did not know his devastation. He had not been engaged to her nor had he formally courted her. His grief would be invisible to everyone, compounding the pain.

Women would talk and flirt with him. Men would joke and converse about horse racing and the latest legislation in Parliament. Nobody would realize that they were speaking with a hollow man; he would appear normal, but inside he would be empty.

How could he endure one day—let alone months, years—of balls and dinners?

Darcy’s walking stick rested across his legs. It trembled violently under his hands. Was the shaking a manifestation of his fear—or anxiety?

No. He was shaking with…anger. Elizabeth had been torn from his life. Torn away from her family. It was grossly unfair…

Perhaps anger made no sense in the situation, but with every beat of his heart, it pulsed through Darcy’s veins, demanding action. Foolish heart. What action could he possibly take?

He could not save Elizabeth. Her family did not require saving. What was left? Vengeance?

Elizabeth had drowned; he could hardly take revenge upon the sea. But something had caused the ship to explode. The Bennets had possessed few details about the accident, and the newspaper accounts had been vague about a cause. He had assumed it was an accident caused by large stores of gunpowder and a careless match. But Britain was at war. Was it possibly a deliberate act? Had a specific person robbed him of his beloved?

Darcy’s breath quickened. If someone had taken Elizabeth from the world—and from him—Darcy wanted him punished. But how could he possibly learn what had happened to the ship?

Fortunately, Darcy knew just the person to answer that question.

***

Darcy found the object of his quest the moment he stepped into White’s. In the first room he entered, Darcy’s cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, was lazily perusing the day’s paper, a glass of port at his elbow. Unsurprisingly, given the time of year, they were the room’s only occupants.

“William!” Richard stood and shook his cousin’s hand heartily. “I thought you were gone to Netherfield with Bingley. What brought you back to town?”

An unobtrusive servant arrived with a glass of brandy for Darcy; they knew his tastes at White’s. Darcy dismissed the man with the assurance that he would need nothing else. “Nothing good.” He sank into the upholstered chair opposite Richard’s.

Eager to delay his story, Darcy took a sip of the brandy, relishing the burn as the liquid slid down his throat. He would need every drop to endure the conversation.