Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Three

On the third day of Lady Matlock’s indisposition, the weather improved slightly and I almost expected that Mr Darcy would join me on my wanderings about the park; I had even brought a handkerchief with me to embroider, should we sit together in the hermitage once again. He was nowhere to be seen, and I told myself I was not disappointed. Neither did I allow my mind to dwell on his whereabouts. After all, it was not as though we had talked much. The only conversations we truly managed concerned Derbyshire and his ancestral home. I needed no help in longing for a holiday in the Peaks.

Uncle had meant to take us touring—we had often planned to visit Lambton—and I truly believe that, had he not died, we would have done the thing by now. How odd it was, to consider that I might have visited Pemberley on that trip; had we done so, I might have asked Mr Darcy’s housekeeper for a tour. I might have happened by just as Mr Darcy and his beautiful, elegant wife strolled through their beautiful, elegant home, laughing and smiling at each other, noticing no one else. For some reason, the thought soured me on my pleasant day of freedom.

It was envy, of course. I had lived, I had been happy, even; but it was not the life or the happiness I had anticipated. And then my uncle died; Uncle Gardiner, who had been almost more of a father to me than my own. I did not want to dwell on my loss, but today was the sort of day that brought losses to one’s mind. Grey skies, cold and comfortless, with nothing blooming.

Earlier today I had received a letter from Aunt Gardiner, and it was wonderful to finally discern the beginnings of happiness within its lines. Her eldest daughter, happily wed just before her father’s death, expected to give her a first grandchild. The three who remained with her had adjusted to country living, and she explained her ailing mother’s health had actually improved since their arrival. The neighbourhood was welcoming, and several difficulties had been overcome; the vicar had agreed to educate the boys, and a retired drawing master of uncommon ability had volunteered to work with Ellen and help cultivate her artistic passions. Her mother’s roof had been replaced for the most reasonable sum, and they were, at last, cosy and comfortable. It made sense, I suppose, that at the very point when my aunt was recovering her spirits, I should be overcome by a wave of longing—for my uncle and aunt, for the home we once shared, for the company of my young cousins.

But then, worse, came a stabbing misery: I yearned for my parents and Longbourn—or at least, what Longbourn had represented. Safety. Status. Youth. Unfairly, I blamed Mr Darcy for the onslaught of despair—seeing him again had harrowed up my feelings from their neatly aligned rows, disturbing my peace by poking at parts of the past I had chosen to forget.

I walked faster, trying to outpace my emotions. I knew several methods in achieving control, but it had been a long while since I had to use them. Remember how fortunate you are that your health is exceptional, that you can walk these grounds with strong limbs and lungs. Remember the comfort of your chambers, the excellence of your meals, even the small savings you are accumulating. Remember that you are not without family, that you are loved.

My breath hitched. No! I will not allow it! No self-pity! No stupid, useless tears!

And then I heard a voice calling, though some distance away.

I did not wish to see Mr Darcy now, when I was so near to losing my composure. And perhaps he had not yet spotted me.

And so, with an impulsive loss of dignity so complete I blush to remember it, I hitched up my skirts and ran.

I must have run a half mile or so, and while I was an avid walker, I do not believe I had run so far in a stretch since I was a girl. Collapsing at the foot of a large oak, hardly able to catch my breath, I tore at the fastenings of my now mud-splashed coat, sweating, gasping, heart pounding wildly. My cap slipped and hung askew, my hair almost combusting at the loss of pins and fabric securing it.

And so of course, that is where he found me, obviously alarmed by my flight, as well as my current unkempt and disordered condition. I might have even laughed at his expression, were I not so embarrassed.

I yanked off the hated cap, uncaring of the wrenching pins still clinging to my hair. At least now the breeze could reach my scalp. With a deep sigh, I leant back upon the oak, closing my eyes and hoping that a stray bolt of lightning might end my mortification.

I expected his remonstrances, but his question, when it came, surprised me.

“Does my presence distress you?”

I opened my eyes. Heedless of his clothing, he knelt beside me on the ground. He looked concerned and yet…there was a penetrating keenness in his gaze, as if he asked more than his words implied.

“Your presence at Rosings, or your presence now, in particular?” I replied with my own question.

“Is there a difference?”

I sighed, closing my eyes again. A distant bird trilled its song. A breeze fluttered leaves in a raspy rustling. He simply waited.

“No,” I said. “It is not you. I…I do not like to remember what I cannot always forget. It was a moment of…homesickness, for a home long gone. I ran from it.”

“Does that work?” he asked, as if he really wondered.

I considered. I no longer was in any danger of sobbing, so… “Yes. Sometimes.”

He settled in beside me at the base of the huge oak tree. We were in a more densely forested section of the park, and it was colder here in the gloom, now that my sweat was drying. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing occurred to me. My deepest thoughts were too close to the surface, my tenderest emotions too exposed. ‘How do you find the weather?’ was the only question that seemed safe, and it was a stupid one since we were sitting out of doors in it. So I sat in silence, close enough to hear his intake of breath and soft exhale.

And then, in the most casual tone one could imagine, he asked, “I wonder whether you would do me the honour of marrying me?”

I turned to stare at him. Had he suddenly sprouted a second head, I could not have been more astonished.

“Is this a joke?”

He frowned. “It would be a terrible one. No, of course not.”

“Mr Darcy…I am nearly nine and twenty.” I am not quite certain why I felt the need to clarify that—he must have had some idea.

“And I am nearly seven and thirty,” he replied. “It does not signify.”

But it did. He and the first Mrs Darcy were childless, and so it made sense that he would want to marry again, so quickly even, to fill his nursery. Surely a female at the peak of her youth and beauty would be a better choice.

“Why?” My mother was probably rolling in her grave at my hesitation, but it made no sense why he would wish it, other than the fact that I was here, obviously available, and the whole thing could likely be accomplished at very little trouble to himself.

“Because it is my dearest wish,” he said politely, stiltedly, and completely unbelievably.

My pride, that prickly wench, revolted, but I was accustomed to bridling her. This was my fourth proposal of marriage. Mr Collins had been the first; Mr Plimpton—of extremely good fortune and noxious breath—was the second. While I might have overcome his odours, he spoke to me as if I were a not-overbright child. Mr MacAdam was handsome, prosperous, charming, and, to use the slang term, a rakehell. I was, at first, delighted with his courtship, but when Uncle discovered several flaws of an alarming nature in his character, I broke it off immediately. Heaven only knew our family had suffered enough with one of those.

Of the four, Mr Darcy was far and away the best of the lot.

I was not desperate. While the countess would not live forever, by the time she departed this mortal coil and Jane must take me in, the children would be older and I, hopefully, would be more accustomed to the idea of living as my sister’s impoverished relation. I did not need to marry.

I wanted to. I wanted my own home, my own life. Not at any cost, as Charlotte had. Was marriage, to him, a price worth paying?

I had been staring at him while these thoughts blundered and plundered through my mind, my mouth open in shock, when without warning, he leant in.

Is he going to kiss me?I barely had time to think the question before his lips were upon mine. I had been kissed before, as well—once by John Lucas in my fourteenth year, and thrice by the nefarious Mr MacAdam. This was not anything like those. His lips were firm, with nothing tentative about his intent, but neither did he loot and pillage, such as Mr MacAdam was wont to do. This was a man who knew what he wanted to discover, but did not mind searching for it.

He wanted me. It was in the seeking pressure, the restrained hunger, the intensity of purpose, the coaxing pleasure. Within it, I was taken by yet another surprise: I wanted him, as well. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, be held close, to return his seeking with my own. I wanted to know what he thought, and I wanted his thoughts to be of me. I was young again, pretty and proud and powerful.

He drew back; he had never touched me, except with his lips, and yet my whole being felt as if he had.

I was speechless, although I managed one word: “Yes.”

He blinked, as if I had surprised him. Had he thought I would say no? I was not stupid; the life he could offer me was far better than my current one. I had decided upon my three requisites, of intelligence, respect, and character. He met them all, and then some. Love was not a part of it, but there was feeling. It was not a cold transaction, as I first feared. I might have agreed regardless, but that kiss soothed my pride and encouraged…happiness. Or at least its cousin, contentment.

I pulled my disordered senses into some sort of regulation. “I suppose you will wish to wait until your year of mourning is completed.”

“No. Absolutely not. No banns. I will get a licence.”

Again, I was surprised—by his vehemence, if not his words. It was not quite the thing, to remarry so quickly…but most would understand, if not approve. He was childless at close enough to forty. Brows would raise at his choice of bride, however.

“We must find someone for your aunt,” I said. “I cannot leave her in the lurch.”

His expression turned incredulous. “She treats you as a drudge. Your quick departure is the least of what she deserves.”

This was true enough. “But it is not the least of what Dawson, her longsuffering maid, deserves.”

He shook his head, his feelings about Dawson’s plight obvious. “I must go and make arrangements. Your settlement. Will Tilney act for you?”

I had not thought of practicalities. “I am sure he will.”

Nodding crisply, he stood, and held out his hands to help me up. “I shall go to him then, and whilst there, I will order my cousin to find someone for his mother, and do it expeditiously. I shall also make it clear to my aunt how you are to be treated until I return for you.”

I accepted his assistance in standing, noticing how quickly he dropped my hands when I was steady on my feet, astounded at how little he thought of issuing edicts to earls. “I wish you would not do that. In fact, I wish you would say nothing to her.”

He frowned his disapproval.

“I must live in her house for what may become weeks while you settle things. It will be awkward. She will not like it.” Of that, I was certain.

“I will return before Yuletide. This, I promise you.”

“Even so.” I fell into step beside him, wondering why he did not take my arm, while noting that he did not argue the point of his aunt’s displeasure. I understood, and even appreciated that he did not try for more kisses. Mr MacAdam had constantly pushed at boundaries, making me feel as though I must be always on my guard, telling me time and again that he loved me beyond reason…and thus leaving all responsibility for good judgment upon my shoulders. Truly, I ought to have been warned long before Uncle Gardiner’s discoveries that the man was careless at best and dangerous, at worst. His good looks had, briefly, eclipsed my good sense.

Mr Darcy was not the same sort of prettiness. There was nothing angelic or golden about him. He was all hardness—hard muscle, hard expression, hard lines upon his face. His gaze was direct and piercing, his jaw chiselled from tenacity and fortitude. And yet, he took my breath away, and I was glad that he was taking responsibility for my sanity. I was not sure I was to be trusted.

What would he do, I wondered, if I reached for his hand? But it was the sort of thing lovers did. I was too old not to know the difference between desire and affection.

Still, there was every chance affection might grow someday. I was certain my uncle would have approved the match. I only hoped that Pemberley would, eventually, approve of me.

* * *

Mr Darcy used the excuse of his aunt’s illness to make a speedy departure before noon. There was no one to think a thing about it when I walked out with him upon his leave-taking. We strolled together out the entry, down the brick steps, and along the vast lawn. At a place just to the east of the walkway that was neither in view of the house nor of his coach, he halted, turning to look down at me.

I wondered what he saw; I had repaired my appearance, but in my high-necked grey gown and lace cap, I supposed I appeared as the Maiden Spinster, sprinkled in shelf dust. He gently clasped one of my front curls, rubbing the lock between his thumb and finger, studying it as if it were words written in a strange tongue. I hoped he would kiss me again, but was also attacked by an unusual shyness.

“Will you remove this?” he asked, lightly touching the frilled edge of my cap, his expression almost indifferent.

It was a strange request, but I obeyed as if in a dream, plucking pins and pulling off the thing. It seemed wicked, somehow, to be discarding even so innocuous a piece of my wardrobe in the light of day, in a place where really, anyone might round the bend and see us. It made me self-conscious, and I wondered whether he would be so dispassionate if I demanded the removal of his cravat. I handed my cap to him, and he took it with some surprise, as if he did not know what to do with it.

I flushed; for some reason, I had thought he wanted the ugly thing as a sort of keepsake, and I snatched it back.

“Well, goodbye, then,” I said, studying the high polish of his boots, my cheeks on fire.

A large hand clasped my chin and tilted it upwards. Unable to avoid his direct gaze, I saw his amusement. Suddenly, I was exasperated. “How am I to understand what odd freaks a gentleman might take into his head?” I said, sounding every bit the Maiden Spinster. “I have never been engaged.”

A peculiarly intense expression filtered into his eyes, his hand tightening on my chin. “No,” he said. “No, you have not.”

And then he did what seemed to me at the time an odd thing; he pulled off his gloves, dropping them heedlessly to the ground. His fingers threaded in my hair, dislodging pins, pulling a little painfully, even, where the pins tried to restrain his searching hands. When they were buried in the masses of my hair, he simply stood there, looking at what he’d done, clenching them briefly. I thought he might kiss me again; our faces were very close—I could feel the heat of his breath—happily nothing like Mr Plimpton’s. But after a few fraught moments, he extricated his fingers, more carefully this time, though I was certain my hair now looked a fright. He stepped back, bent down, picked up his gloves.

“I will return as soon as possible,” he said. “Be well.”

We were back to formalities, so I gave a little curtsey. He bowed.

Nodding curtly, he turned on his heel and strode towards the carriage. I plunged my hands in my pockets, following more slowly to watch him drive away. My right hand touched my embroidery scissors, enclosed in a leather case, and the handkerchief I had meant to finish stitching today. Without letting myself think about it, I withdrew them and hastily clipped one of my curls, wrapping it in the linen.

“Wait,” I called, hurrying forward. “Wait, please.”

He stopped, nearly to his carriage, and slowly turned, his countenance inexplicably fierce. “Yes?”

His coachman and his man stood nearby, openly curious, gawking.

“I only…” I trailed off, back to blushing again in the face of his apparent anger. Awkwardly, I stuck out my hand, as if to shake his.

Slowly, he held out his in return, and I placed my gloved hand against his palm, dropping the handkerchief onto it. He stared at it for a moment before fisting his hand around it.

“Goodbye, Mr Darcy.”

“Thank you,” he said, his anger muted though not completely disappeared, but his voice less harsh. He bowed again. I stood stiffly, feeling as though I had made a fool of myself and thus back to being annoyed with him—but it was a familiar emotion, and easily borne.

He strode to his carriage; I watched to see if he would drop my offering onto the ground, but he had the courtesy to keep it, at least until I was out of sight. We were off to a grand start.