Chapter X

Exeunt

Darcy awoke most irregularly late the next morning - or afternoon, rather. He had slept rather deeply after the exhaustion of the ball - exhaustion due in part to the various moments of unfulfilled lust, in part to the blasting headaches caused by Mrs. Bennet's yattering. There had never seemed to be an end to the old woman's clucks and squawks on the delightful marriage prospects now in view between her eldest daughter and Charles Bingley. Darcy had decided by the end of that blasted night that he would find a way to settle this Jane Bennet nonsense as soon as possible. For more reasons than one…

His attraction to the girl's sister frightened him. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy - a man of the world who had experienced deceit, danger, and all the trouble that came along with them - was frightened of a woman. The thought was both alarming and humbling at the same time.

The lust, the headaches, the alarm, the humility - they had all threatened to completely undue him before the night was through. It had actually been quite lucky he had made it to his bed before he had collapsed in a heap on the floor. Rather, he had been able to collapse onto a mattress. His tired body had quite literally thrown itself under the coverlet barely two seconds after he had shod his clothing.

His rising in the morning - or afternoon, rather - was just as abrupt.

The first sound he was to hear upon awakening was the unmistakeable screech of Caroline Bingley.

"Charles, be reasonable!"

Darcy's upper-half sprung off the mattress so quickly his skull nearly slammed against the headboard. Close call, he thought as he rubbed the top of his head, in a way assuring himself that it was still in its proper place on his neck. Darcy listened very closely for Bingley's response but heard nothing, the poor fellow never having the voice nor the inclination to stand against any person, let alone his tyrannical nightmare of sister. Caroline's rejoinder, on the other hand, was most definitely audible.

"Why do you not close up the house now and be done with it?"

Darcy all but leapt out of the bed and into his morning attire. He was unsure of Kendall's current condition but there was no need to wake the poor man, and either way it would take far too long to endure his machinations. Darcy knew not what had inspired this haste in him, only that the thought of leaving Netherfield so suddenly had sent a sheer wave of fear running through him.

After shakily throwing his shirt from the night before over his head and practically tripping over his breeches and boots, Darcy ran to his dressing room for a waistcoat. Blue, green, white - oh, who cared? He aimlessly grabbed at a forest green waistcoat, covered it with a deep blue coat quite clashing in color, then reached for the inevitable cravat.

Damn it all, he hated these things. Darcy looked in the mirror for assistance…and found none at all. These things were simply to difficult for any average human being to handle. (Darcy was convinced that men like Kendall and Cremms were born with either magical powers or above average minds, because it seemed as though there was nothing in the world a gentleman's valet could not handle.)

Darcy lowered his head till his chin was pressed against his chest, holding the troublesome cravat immobile so that he could slip on the blue coat.

"Charles, if you are going to London, why not take us all? If you pack up the house now, we may spend the upcoming Christmastide among the ton! Would you not enjoy that so much more than being among these…country people?"

Oh dear Lord… London!

All thoughts of the damnable cravat were forgotten as Darcy ran from his room and took the stairs two at a time.

His first instinct had been to try the breakfast room, seeing as it was the morning and that was where most people went in the morning - but then he remembered that it was the afternoon, rather. So, as soon as his feet were off the staircase and on the marble floor of the entrance hall below, Darcy made a mad dash for the drawing room. Throwing the double doors open without a care, Darcy entered the drawing room to find an enraged Caroline Bingley and a rather distressed Charles Bingley looking at him in wonder.

And that was the moment Darcy was able to recall the fact that he wore no cravat, had not buttoned his waistcoat, most probably had not buttoned the top fastenings on his undershirt either, and that he had not shaved, fixed his raggedy hair, or even so much as washed his face.

Darcy surreptitiously glanced downwards to ensure that he had remembered breeches.

Yes, he thought with a relieved sigh, he had remembered.

The only thing worse than standing in the middle of a drawing room dressed like a complete mongrel was the promiscuous gaze of Caroline Bingley generously perusing his disheveled state.

Darcy instantly sat in the closest chair. And covered himself with his arms.

For the longest time no one was able to say a word. Bingley looked half amused, half terrified. Caroline looked as if she were attempting to decide whether she should grab Darcy or faint at his feet. And then there was one word from the far corner of the room.

"Hello!" Louisa Hurst giggled, then waved sheepishly as she took in the mismanaged state of his attire. Surely, even from Mrs. Hurst's faraway seat at the other end of the room, Darcy must have looked quite the sight. However, Louisa did not seem to take offense at his appearance, or to even be shocked. She simply sipped her tea with the bliss of brainless woman, and smiled at him. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"

Darcy allowed himself the slightest of smiles directed toward his folded arms. So he was not the only one having misconceptions on the time of day… Darcy looked up at Louisa with friendly eyes and said with what he thought was a rather boyish grin, "Or afternoon, rather."

Louisa positively beamed, her often…not so pleasant appearance looking almost beautiful with the obvious delight she felt at being spoken to. Darcy thought he heard a slight growl from Caroline as she sent a fuming glare in her sister's direction. A possessive glare that seemed to say, Just try to make him smile again and you will see what happens. Louisa quickly withered back into the confines of her corner.

Now that Darcy had recovered himself, he looked to Bingley and opened his mouth, ready to ask his questions. But then his jaw quickly snapped shut as he realized that he couldn't remember why he had rushed down there in the first place. Therefore Darcy simply sought to question Bingley with his eyes, cocking his head a bit to the right and glancing a few times in Caroline's direction, gestures that he hoped Bingley recognized as a query.

It took Bingley a few moments of staring nonplussed at Darcy's state of dress and tousling his own puffy, orange-red head of hair before he took the hint. "Oh!" Bingley blurted with a bit of an embarrassed look. "I am leaving for London in a few moments, some business with my solicitor at the London house, and Caroline insists that I turn a short venture to Town into an all out caravan away from Netherfield, for good!" And then suddenly Bingley's eyes turned pleading. "Darcy, I… I couldn't possibly."

That was when Darcy knew that his dear friend was in love, and with none other than Jane Bennet. Bingley's cornflower blue eyes were alight with a passion that Darcy had never seen from the likes of any man before. And the damning thing was that Darcy understood his passion, having recently come to terms with the fact that he himself was highly attracted to a certain Bennet lady. But Bingley's passion made no difference; because Darcy had closely observed the lady in question at last night's ball, and had determined with great certainty that Jane Bennet was not in love with Charles Bingley. It was all Darcy could do not to hold Bingley in a tight embrace then and there, as he thought of the great injustice of his friend's unrequited love. The lady was pleasant towards him, to be sure; but whilst Bingley had fawned over Miss Bennet and catered to her every need from almost the first moment of their meeting, she herself had appeared almost indifferent to his attentions. She smiled at Bingley the way she smiled at all men - and women, for that matter. There were no visible sparks of love in her; and that, to Darcy's knowledge, was a clear sign of feigned attachment. Clearly the poor girl was driven on by her mother's unshakable desire - no, yearning - for her girls to marry well and fast. Darcy almost pitied Miss Jane. However he could not allow himself to sympathize with the woman who would forcefully - albeit unwillingly - break his best friend's fragile heart if their makeshift courtship lasted another second.

But then there was that look in his eyes…

"Bingley, go to London as you planned."

Caroline obviously had not taken his statement seriously. "But - but, Mr. Darcy, you must wish to finally be free of these horrid Hertfordshire people and back to the decent society of London," Caroline drawled, her smile quivering as if she were attempting to hold in a laugh.

"Yes, Mr. Darcy, you must!" Louisa parroted from her corner, clearly hoping to regain a place in the conversation.

Darcy's eyes were cold as ice, and no doubt the same color as he said, "No."

The sisters were absolutely flabbergasted. "…Oh," Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst said in perfect harmony.

"Well then," Bingley said with a triumphant smile and an awkward cough to cover his laugh, "I shall see you all in a couple of days. Try not to shoot all the birds at once, Darcy." Then he left the room with an extra skip in his step, closing the double doors behind him.

After watching his friend exit the room, now most definitely jovial in mood, Darcy raised his arms over his head as he released a world-weary sigh, leaned his head against the top of the straight-backed chair he sat in, and began to close his eyes….

But not before he saw Caroline's eyes grow what he swore must have been ten feet wider as she marveled at her newfound viewpoint.

Darcy leapt from his chair, bolted to the doors, threw them both open, and ran to find Kendall.

"Mr. Darcy, we should like a word with you."

Darcy looked over the leather-bound copy of whatever book it was he had intended to read but in the end had done nothing but stared at. The Bingley sisters loomed in front of him, Caroline with her arms crossed determinedly in front of her and Louisa performing an unconvincing facsimile of anger. He would lament the relative silence he had been enjoying a mere two seconds ago. Darcy took a deep breath and attempted to bridle his impatience before he spoke. "Yes, Miss Bingley? Mrs. Hurst?"

"Mr. Darcy," Caroline began in an authoritative tone, "it has become essential that we assist my brother Charles. Immediately."

Darcy set down the unnamed book. "Er, assist your brother in what way, Miss Bingley?"

"By rescuing him from the clutches of a common fortune hunter, of course."

"Common fortune hunter?" Darcy's mind reeled. Surely they could not mean...

"Why, Jane Bennet!" Miss Bingley circled the perimeter of the room, casually brushing passing objects across her fingertips as she elaborated on her plot. "She could not possibly feel any affection towards him. Indeed, she does nothing but sit about like a pretty Grecian statue while Charles gleefully does her bidding. I do not even want to discuss the issue of the Bennet family." Darcy hid his face behind the glass of brandy he probably should not have been drinking so very early in the morning, loath to admit that his own thoughts had been working in the same unsatisfactory direction. However, he could not bring himself to call the girl a fortune hunter. Miss Jane may do nothing in response to Bingley's generous attention but sit about like a Grecian statue, but she was a kind, smiling Grecian statue. It wasn't very good evidence against her treachery, but the truth was that it was quite impossible to imagine Jane Bennet as anything but a saint.

Caroline took Darcy's silence as a free invitation to continue. "It is high time we left this God forsaken countryside," she sighed, accompanied by the dramatic addiction of a weary hand over her brow, "before Charles' tendre for Miss Bennet spirals out of control and he does something…" She shuddered. "Something terrible."

"Such as?" Darcy nearly snapped. For a fraction of a moment he had agreed with her sentiments, but really this was too much.

"Such as propose marriage."

"And what would be-?" Darcy had been about to ask what would be so terrible about that, when Miss Bingley interrupted him with a loud shriek of, "Everything!

"They have no wealth! No connections! They are a family who has no influence in Society - running mad about the countryside! It is unfathomable, Mr. Darcy, and I believe you know this as well as I! Indeed, I am certain you are aware of the Bennets' lowliness!"

"I find it difficult to believe that you, Miss Bingley, would accuse any family of lowliness," he replied in a low, malevolent tone. "You who descend from a family of tradesmen and…what was the other one?" he provoked. "I believe it involves the words fish and mongers?"

Louisa beamed, nodding her head exuberantly in confirmation; but Caroline visibly blanched at his insult, and for a moment truly did look as though she would require smelling salts. However, with a determination that Darcy had to admire, Miss Bingley lifted her chin and responded to his assault with equal fire. "I believe it would be best if we resisted the company of both Miss Jane and Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would not you agree, Mr. Darcy?"

Caroline placed two hands upon the library desk and leaned menacingly toward him. "After all," she continued in an enigmatic whisper, "we do not want anyone to become enamored with the homely wretch's 'fine eyes,' as I recall them being so affectionately endeared."

Darcy jumped to his feet. "What did you call her?"

"A homely wretch," Caroline returned. "Plain, obnoxious, and altogether unworthy of any man's notice."

"You listen to me," Darcy growled, shaking with the intensity of his anger. "Elizabeth…is-"

The empty brandy glass in his hand shattered.

Miss Bingley's mouth gaped.

Darcy was so shocked he barely noticed the sharp needles of pain that shot through the palm of his hand.

"Mr. Darcy!" Mrs. Hurst gasped. "What on earth happened?" Caroline speared her sister with an impatient glare.

I don't know, Darcy thought. I don't know.

"Shit!…My apologies, Kendall."

"It's quite alright, sir. I'm sure I would utter worse words were I in your condition."

Darcy sat with his trusted - and, thankfully, fully recovered - valet in two seats near the large window in his bedchamber, Kendall doing his best to remove the many shards of glass implanted in his master's palm.

Another moment of silence ensued, interrupted only by Darcy's mutter of, "We're losing the light." Darcy turned his head to watch the slowly setting sun dip below the horizon, trying not to wince when Kendall plucked away another tiny fragment of glass. Oddly enough, the small pieces were the most painful.

"I'm nearly finished, sir." Another pluck with the tweezers.

After clamping his lips together in order to subdue a cry of pain, Darcy turned to Kendall and smiled gratefully at him. It was strange, and actually quite comforting, to be cared for. And, he was forced to admit, a bit embarrassing. He was a man of eight and twenty years. But at the moment he felt only eight.

…

More silence.

…

Kendall paused in his work. "What is it you did again, sir?"

"Nothing, Kendall," Darcy barked.

…

"Do you have my things packed, Kendall?"

"Indeed, sir. Packed and loaded in the carriage." Another pluck.

"Aggh!…Excellent."

They were leaving for London. Actually, they should have left hours ago, but Caroline had to take damn near a millennium to pack her things together, and now they were forced to travel by night because the Bingley sisters "simply could not fathom leaving their brother alone any longer than was necessary." Did they care that the roads were dangerous at night? No. Would they mind it if a pack of highwaymen tipped the carriage and killed them all? Of course not! And why? Because no one ever listens to a damn word I say!

And yet, Darcy thought amidst the sting of pain as Kendall used the brass tweezers to remove an almost microscopic shard of glass, why should he be listened to? He was a fool. Going so utterly mad over a woman he didn't know the power of his own strength - or of his anger.

Miss Bingley's spiteful words against Elizabeth had brought out a fury in him he had only known the day of his mother's death. His vision had turned a deep red hue and his hands had burned to hit something, to attack, to lash out. In the case of his mother's passing such feelings were understandable - she had given birth to him for God's sake, and he'd felt the strongest love for her that a son could ever feel toward his mother. Did he feel…something for Elizabeth? Anything? Anything at all? He must have felt some kind of affection toward her if a mere few words against her had caused a well made piece of glasswork to shatter in his hand. But what kind of affection was it? Was it…?

No, he didn't even want to think the word.

That was why he had to leave Hertfordshire. And, he swiftly reminded himself, to save Bingley from a loveless marriage! There was no doubt in Darcy's mind that his friend was intending to wed Jane Bennet, something he was convinced would be a major misstep if Bingley truly went through with it. And there was her family's low connections and lack of status to consider, but that was only a trifling matter in comparison to this:

What would he do if Bingley married into the Bennet family? He would undoubtedly see Elizabeth time and time again. There was very little remaining of his sanity, and he knew that were he once more thrown into the young lady's frequent company he would be irretrievably lost.

But he was doing this for Bingley, Darcy's mind shouted as he attempted to quench the nauseous wave of guilt rising in his stomach.

They were doing this for Bingley.

Another pluck of the tweezers.

"AGGH!"

Within one hour they had all exited Netherfield Hall, never to return.

Darcy was finding it difficult to understand his own melancholy. He could not say for certain why the recognition of the fact that he would never again walk through those halls, or that there would never be another morning spent seated at that library window, made his heart feel as if it were being pulverized by a heavy silver hammer. All he knew was that he had to keep his head down. He could not look at Netherfield.

And yet he couldn't help himself.

Darcy warily raised his hand to lift the rim of his top hat above his line of vision, intending only to glance at the building, just for a moment! But in just a brief upward flick of his eye he saw it.

Elizabeth's window. Or, rather, what was Elizabeth's window, during her stay at Netherfield. And for a brief moment of insanity he could have sworn he saw a flash of her pure white chemise, just as it had been that fateful night not so very long ago when he had prayed for her.

"Mr. Darcy, do hurry! You'll freeze yourself!" he heard Caroline call.

"Yes, Mr. Darcy, do!" Louisa cried.

He would never see her again.

"Mr. Darcy!"

Good God, he would never see her again.

"Mr. Darcy, do come quickly!"

"I'll never see her again," he whispered so softly it was barely heard above the wind, repeating the phrase for the simple reason that he had to utter the words aloud in order to really believe they were true.

"Mr. Darcy!"

Darcy entered the carriage, the movements of his body completely absent from the thoughts of his mind. Never to see her smile, never to hear her boisterous laugh, never to catch that scent that was so intoxicatingly hers, never to look into those rich chocolate brown eyes and lose his soul, never again.

"Finally," Caroline moaned. "I thought we'd never leave."

It was that word. That horrible word never. As the carriage rolled down the rutted country road every single bump pronounced the dreadful two syllables. Never, never, never, never.

Darcy shook his head, secretly hoping the action would shake the word away as well. He would have to get his priorities straight. It was high time he returned his attention to his responsibilities. Perhaps that was how he would pass the time during the long carriage ride to London, counting his responsibilities. He tried - Georgie, Pemberley, tenants, crops, servants, but the awful word continued to invade the barricade he'd created in his mind. And so it went on for hours. Managing accounts, never, looking after Aunt Catherine, never, never.

He had to do something to get the word off his mind. Anything.

After taking a moment to assure himself that his fellow travelers were asleep, Darcy surreptitiously placed several crisp pieces of paper on the traveling escritoire. He would write something. He had a penchant, perhaps even a talent, for narrating. It was a bit of a secret between him and his little Georgie, beginning from the days of old when Darcy's holidays home from school found him sitting at the edge of his sister's tiny bed creating his own makeshift fairytales for her. Even when he was not at home but studying at Cambridge, he would burn the midnight oil penning her a tale and would then mail it to the nursemaids with instructions that she read them to Georgiana at nighttime. Anything to keep their mother off her mind.

He would write her a bit of a short story. For old time's sake.

Darcy put his pen to paper and squinted his eyes to allow them to grow accustomed to the dim lighting allowed by the carriage lantern. And then he began. Writing without thought, mindlessly scribbling words that mirrored the recesses of his soul.

There once was a whimsical enchantress, so spirited and sparkling each movement of her hand convinced the stars that she was one of them, and that it was their duty to run in whichever direction her delicate forefinger pointed. Her lips were softer, redder, and more lovingly shaped than the most perfect petal of a rose, and when they bent into a smile the universe itself could not help but to smile in return. Her eyes were so dark and fine that in their depths even the coldest of men could lose their souls. The enchantress often walked in the wood near her manor, and felt herself so at home with the trees that she often relied upon them for her support, relieving to their sturdy trunks all her woes - for though she did well not to show it, the lovely enchantress did indeed have troubles.

At the brisk light of one charming, misty morn, a hunter, plain and wretched, stood submerged in the greenery of the magical wood. He hid himself well, concealing his appearance from the world with the drooping hood of his hunter's cape. And with his looks he locked away his words as well, never willing himself to speak a word in the presence of any being from the tallest of men to the tiniest of frogs. Even in the presence of his own self.

When the hunter saw the beautiful enchantress, making company with the trees as was her habit, he became instantly bewitched by her, and found himself forcing his own shadowy figure closer behind the tree against which rested her back. She did not sense his presence. Her attention was fixed solely on the sky, with its soft, wispy clouds floating by and its pink sun rising to greet her. But the hunter could sense the very essence of her, finding himself quite willing to stand in his spot behind her shoulder forever, breathing into his lungs that magic that redirected the stars and persuaded the sad world to join her in blissful happiness. And behind the sturdy tree branches he did stay for what seemed to be hours summing to eternity. Then it began to rain.

Whilst all the little woodland creatures trotted and hopped and crawled for cover from the quickly falling raindrops, the hunter and the enchantress remained fixed in their spots. And suddenly: fate. One single, intervening drop of rainwater fell beautifully to earth, and in that precise speck of time the enchantress and the hunter released a cherishing sigh. The enchantress turned and looked upon the cloaked figure at her shoulder, startled at the sight of his shadowed presence. But then the enchantress smiled, an upturn of the mouth so sweet everything from heaven to the deepest levels of hell sensed the birth of an unknown joy in the mortal world. And the hunter was compelled to say the first words any piece of the universe had ever felt escape his lips,

"'Tis quite a miracle, isn't it? Water falling from the sky."

Only after Darcy penned the final quotation mark did any sense of reality return, and he began to realize just who he was writing about, why he was writing it, and what he was feeling. It was time to put it all behind him. To put her behind him. So, even though it nearly tore apart his soul to do so, Darcy lifted the soft pages of his soulful narrative into his hands, slowly crumpled them into a ball the size of his fist, opened the carriage window just a crack, and tossed the wrinkled mound of words into the wind and onto the dirt road behind him. He had expected it to feel as though the weight of the world had been lifted off of his shoulders, but instead he felt nothing but extra weight on his soul, and perhaps an extra emptiness in his heart. But when he closed his eyes and rested his weary head against the carriage, he saw Elizabeth as she had been that day so shortly after they had first met, with pretty little flowers embedded in her braided hair. "Good bye, Mr. Darcy," she whispered.

And with lids still lowered he answered in the softest of whispers, "Good bye."