Page 65 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Thank you, but I received serious family news. I prefer to walk alone. I must plan my travel.”
“Travel? Are you leaving?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! But… May I see you before you depart?”
I said something about next morning and turned away. I fixed my eyes where the path vanished behind trees. I had to reach that.
Somehow, I arrived. The moment I was concealed, I bent, racked by tears. Each sob tore like red-hot thorns.
My sister’s happiness had been ruined, utterly and casually—almost as sport—by Mr. Darcy. And, because my own hand had poured draca blood into her mouth, that lost love was driving her into madness.
25
ARDENT AND VAIN
Charlotte and Mr. Collinswere out when I returned. I brushed past the maid and ended in Charlotte’s drawing room, surrounded by embroidery hoops, neat skeins of thread, and a few woven ornaments hung on the walls.
I had cried myself out among the trees. Now I was calm but brittle, as if sealed with cracking varnish. My emotions had parched.
But my purpose was clear. I must cure Jane. Nothing else mattered.
I wrote a note ordering a carriage for tomorrow, traveling first to London then continuing to Longbourn. I sealed it and handed it to the maid, who gave a nervous curtsy and left to deliver it.
Then I stood, thinking.
Discard supposition and fancy. What did I know? Mary had found knowledge of this illness in our journal. The Scottish maid might have wisdom. Those, I would trust. But there was no reason to approach Mr. Darcy. Even if the idea were not abhorrent, the wyfe he treated had died.
The doorbell jingled, unanswered because the maid was out. It rang again. I did not move.
The sunlight shifted across Charlotte’s embroidery threads, their hues ordered to follow a rainbow.
The front door rattled as the maid returned. I heard her speak to someone outside. She entered the drawing room.
“Mr. Darcy, ma’am.”
He strode in on her heels without waiting to be acknowledged, and she left hurriedly.
His hair was disheveled, his hands clenched. He crossed the room twice, anxious or upset, his riding boots heavy on the floor.
My eyes followed him. This was the man who had harmed my sister. It was bizarre that he was present. Surely, he would recognize his mistake and leave.
He turned to me. “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
“What?” I spoke simply because his words were incongruous. Preposterous.
“I cannot bear to continue my silence. I hoped that the danger of our union could dissuade me, but…” He gave a despairing laugh. “Oh, I have tried! I see how draca worship you. Every dark memory cries that you must not be exposed to Pemberley. But the infatuated regard of those draca mirrors my own. I have tested myself by submerging in petty disgrace. I imagine your heartless, disporting father. Your mother scheming for marriage gold. But the degradation of my relations, the censure of society—even the mockery—is nothing to me. I love you. The sensation overwhelms anything I have experienced before. It is a glorious agony. Desperately, passionately, I ask that you end my torment, and consent to be my wyfe.”
My disbelief had become… blankness. Not surprise. Not anger. After all the emotion that had ravaged me, this was a farce, a pathetic play that failed to engage an iota of my belief. A tasteless display by a strutting actor with poor lines.
He was waiting, looking down at me from all that height.
“It is expected,” I said, “that an offer of marriage is met with civil appreciation, however unequally the avowed sentiments may be returned. If I could feel gratitude, I would thank you. But I cannot. You speak of torment. I had thought I would regret inflicting pain on anyone, but today, I am singularly uncaring. At least your suffering was unintended. I suppose that is my defense.”
Surprise or disbelief crossed his features, then he whitened with anger.
“Is this Wickham?” he said. “Has he drawn you into his evil?”
