Page 69 of A Stronger Impulse

When Darcy returned to The Breakers that evening, Lizzy was gone. He had known she meant to leave—had known that she must, since she would not accept him as her husband. But he had believed there would be one more evening…perhaps, even, one more chance to put into words the tangled feelings of his heart. However, Mrs Davis had, with an eager curiosity, given him Gardiner’s card and said with whom she’d departed.

“Said you already knew her plans,” the housekeeper added. “Said she wished you well. Made a fuss about me remembering to tell you that. As if I’d forget,” she sniffed, her opinion of fleeing wives clear.

Darcy only nodded his dismissal, relieved when the housekeeper was gone. He found speech difficult, still, with people less known to him. When he spoke with James or Frost, he could make himself understood; but when he tried to think of the correct words, they tangled madly. Only with Lizzy had he achieved anything close to real lucidity. And she was gone—what had Gardiner thought of finding her here? Obviously, he had thought she ought to leave without delay.

Spotting the letter to Matlock—his marriage proposal, the last thing she had written, full of his unrequited adoration—lying on the writing table, he crumpled it and tossed it into the grate. Restlessly, he roamed the house, soon finding himself entering the room she had so recently occupied. It had been so sweet, imagining her there, just beyond his connecting door, knowing if he called, she would come; knowing if she called, he would run to her. Yet, it had also been dangerous—their unspoken passion for each other, too great. She had felt it too. He knew that.

He had been angry at her refusal. And hurt. But he would not dwell upon it. What he would do, he had decided, after today’s long drive through the countryside to nowhere in particular, was keep on with his plans take his life back, without acquiring any bride at all.

Still, he wandered through her room, hoping against hope that she’d left some sort of note for him. There was nothing. But upon entering his own chambers, on his pillow, a sheet of parchment lay folded and sealed. He touched it, half-afraid it might disappear, a figment of his desires.

Carefully he opened it, then had to light more candles to better see it. Reading was still difficult for him, and it would likely be more easily deciphered in the morning, when he was fresh.

There was no possible chance of waiting.

It was difficult—and took what seemed an hour—but a word at a time, he made it out.

Dear Sir,

Your man of business, Mr Edward Gardiner, arrived today with the papers you requested and an earnest desire to see you much improved. Imagine my surprise—and his—to discover him to be the brother of my mother. A great rift between my parents and himself precluded my ever knowing him. Of course, you must recognise how trusted a companion he will make for my journey back to Netherfield. He will write, he instructs me to inform you, to let you know when I am delivered safely and to determine what next you wish him to do.

I will only add, God bless you.

E.B.

He lay awake for a long while that night. Incredible! The feared and unknown uncle had been Gardiner! A most trusted man of business, one of unshaken and unshakeable character and integrity, proven a hundred times over—he is her uncle!

Gardiner must have been appalled that Darcy would keep a young lady of her family, goodness, and virtue to nurse him.

Still, Elizabeth had taken no risks with his reputation, he noticed, even in that final note—sealing it and avoiding the Darcy name and her own. If the housekeeper had been so audacious as to break the seal and read it, nothing contradicted what she had been told, protecting him to the last, and her adieu had been charity itself.

Finally, the hours passing in wakeful sorrow, knowing he was being ridiculous, he went to her room, retrieved one of her pillows, and brought it back to his own bed. With the scent of her in his lungs, he finally fell into a troubled sleep.

The next morning, he spoke with James. “Leave…Pember. Pack.”

The footman broke into a smile. “’Tis about time, sir,” James replied with a candour he once would never have dared. “Yer people be there. ’Twill all be better from Pemberley.”

“Hope,” Darcy replied.

The earl might discover him there, but in the night, he had made his decisions. The devil with the earl; the ache of Lizzy’s loss was a missing limb, the urge to follow her to Netherfield and beat upon Bingley’s door a relentless temptation. But no; her decision had been made. And if he was not going to bow and scrape to the earl, it was time to take his life back. His speech was not perfect, his reading abysmal, his writing illegible…but he was whole; he was improving. He would instruct the housekeeper to forward any letters on to Pemberley in Derbyshire, then close up the house. Or perhaps have James tell her, he thought ruefully and went to speak to Frost.

* * *

Just before his departure, Darcy walked through The Breakers a final time, gathering memories. It was foolishly sentimental besides being painful. But the first time he’d attempted swimming in the ocean, he hadn’t been able to remain in but a minute or two—the combination of freezing cold and the sting of saltwater in his sores nearly felling him. Yet, he had grown to be glad he had faced it, persisting, strengthening his resistance to the cold and the pain until he could manage an hour at a time.

He would gather these memories now: Lizzy embroidering some delicate piece, reading to him by candlelight, writing at the desk, encouraging his every effort. Even those memories he hated, ones of pain and weakness, she had been here, caring for him, helping him, teasing him for some misspoken vulgarity until he laughed too. Finally, he pulled that last letter, his aborted proposal, from the cold, empty grate, smoothing it and folding it carefully.

The recollections were painful and stinging at present, but he would collect them, regardless, to hold in the most private regions of his heart.

* * *

Lizzy approached Netherfield’s grand front entrance with head held high and teeth gritted; she was not quite certain what to expect, but was taking Jane at her word that she would still be welcome.

“’Tis not too late, Lizzy. We can climb back in that carriage and return to London. Margaret and the children hated to see you leave so quickly.”

“It is a temptation.” Lizzy smiled gratefully at her uncle. “But I need to smooth things over with Jane and reassure Georgiana, who must be worried—despite the report she received from Mr Saxelby.”

The day before, they had driven straight through to Mr Gardiner’s lovely and spacious home on Egerton Crescent in London. He must have sent his wife an express from one of the inns where they changed horses, because she was eagerly awaiting them with an excellent meal and charming hospitality. Their four children—ranging in age from eight to three years—were each a delight. That very morning, Lizzy’s aunt had begged her to return to them soon.

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