He scolds the rose for being fair,
And insults what he ought to bless.
A roar of approval met the song. Mrs. Cooper folded her arms, radiant with righteousness. Even the children stared at Darcy with solemn accusation, as if he had stolen their pudding.
He attempted to sit through it so that they would not have the pleasure of running him out of the room, but the man apparently had innumerableways to spin out his rhymes. When he came at last tofrownagain—having already crowned it, clowned it, drowned it, and given it arenownthat no honest syllable deserved, Darcy was done. With rigid composure, he stood and turned to leave the room. As he headed for the stairs, the ballad followed him down the passage like a curse with a chorus.
So, fare thee well, our Lord of Frowns,
Who sees a crown and scolds it down.
We’ll cherish her, for thanks are due—
And trust you’ll learn to thank her too.
In his chamber, Darcy yanked off his coat and threw it across the chair. His boots followed, the smell of ale on the leather a reminder of the scullery maid’s “accident.” He paced the narrow confines like a caged wolf, his mind churning through the events of the day.
They thoughthim the cruel lord, the hard-hearted persecutor of innocent maidens.Him, Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had dedicated his life to the proper stewardship of his estate and the care of his sister. Who had never once taken advantage of his position to abuse those in his employ. Whose own servants often boasted to others of his kindness and generosity.
Yet one clever actress with fine eyes and a talent for crocodile tears had turned an entire inn against him in the course of an afternoon.
He was not a pious man, only a decent one, yet tonight he found himself on his knees in prayer. The proper words, learned under his mother’s influence, would not come. Instead, Darcy found himself offering up a far more desperate plea.
“Let the snow cease. Let the roads clear. Tomorrow, if it please You. Let me travel on to London, to Georgiana, to the life I understand. And let meescape this woman’s company forever, for surely the world is wide enough that we need never meet again.”
The prayer was both sincere and absurd. He did long to see his sister, to resume his proper duties, to be free of the constant judgement of strangers. But he also recognized the absurdity of his situation, a grown man fleeing from a slip of a woman who must weigh less than eight stone.
The thought did not amuse him.
Darcy rose and crossed to the window, pulling back the curtain to look out at the night. Snow still coated the stable roof in white silence, but it had ceased to fall.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered to the uncaring darkness. “Surely tomorrow.”
As he stood there, Darcy found his thoughts drifting back to the quarrel. He could see her face as clearly as though she stood before him—the tilt of her chin, the colour rising in her cheeks, the brightness of unshed tears in her eyes.
Her words echoed in the silence of his chamber. He pushed them away, but they returned with stubborn persistence.
That was unfair. He was compassionate. He was generous to his tenants, kind to his servants, devoted to his sister. He fulfilled every duty his position required.
Yet even as he marshalled his defences, another memory surfaced unbidden: Lord Matlock at last year’s ball, berating a footman who had spilled a little wine on Lady Catherine’s gown. The servant had been dismissed on the spot, turned out without a character, his livelihood destroyed over an accident. Darcy had said nothing. It was not his place to interfere in another man’s household.
But he had been uncomfortable. Had thought it harsh.
Was that what he had done today? In his determination to expose Miss Bennet’s deception, had he become the very thing he deplored?
No. The situations were different. Lord Matlock had punished an innocent servant. Darcy had merely refused to be taken in by a calculating schemer.
Darcy would not be deceived, no matter how thoroughly everyone else had been fooled. Tomorrow the roads would be clear. He would move on to London, to Georgiana, and put this entire miserable episode behind him.
And if, in the deepest hours of the night, he found himself wondering whether an attractive, intelligent young woman who defended servants, gave away blankets and firewood, and looked at him with such hurt in her eyes might be exactly what she appeared to be. Well. That was merely exhaustion playing tricks on his good judgement.
He was right. Heknewhe was right.
A few hours later, a soft knock sounded at his chamber door. Darcy opened it to find Anders and Johnson standing in the narrow corridor, their expressions carefully neutral.
“You asked us to seek you out when we were through, sir,” Johnson said.
“Come in.” Darcy stepped aside to allow them entry, then closed the door behind them. “I have been considering the situation. You cannot sleep in the stables. It is too cold, and you will be in no condition to drive tomorrow.”