Chapter 10

George thankfully kept the conversation going during the short drive into Lambton. Darcy was grateful and relieved to hear that small talk hadn't changed much in the last 200 years.

How've you been? What have you been up to?

Weather has been fantastic all autumn. Perfect for football. Last week, we had an amazing match . . .

Happy to see they've started to patch up this road. Rain has a way of muddling up even the sturdiest roads. You know what I mean?

While George chattered away, Darcy reviewed a list of current happenings and subjects he could focus on. Current events and politics had always intrigued him. Unfortunately, the cultural aspects of today's society continued to be foreign and awfully loud and useless to his educated mind. Try as he might, he couldn't convince his mind and ears to tolerate the noise that regularly droned from televisions and music devices. Nothing seemed to edify or enlighten. With any luck, George and his friends would be more interested in Parliament than gossip and entertainment. Elizabeth warned him that it was unlikely, but assured him that he wouldn't offend if he stayed silent and only appeared interested. Not everyone needs to be a chatty Kathy, she had said. You seem to be the brooding type anyway. While he would never admit to brooding in public, he would easily claim a more reserved and observant nature in public.

"So how do you like Lambton?" George asked, snapping Darcy from his mental warmup.

"I haven't been to Lambton recently, but I remember it as being a quiet, quaint little town," he said. His answer was vague, but truthful, if not the complete and unabridged truth. Darcy assumed that was a line he would have to navigate throughout the evening.

"Lambton hasn't changed much in the last 50 years. There are a couple of restaurants, a pub, a few shops, a bakery, a church, a petrol station, and a small grocery store. There's not much for entertainment, but you'll never meet a more welcoming bunch."

Secretly, Darcy was becoming more anxious about seeing all of the changes that would inevitably show themselves in his little village. Fifty years may not have changed much, but Darcy now understood that his homeland had undergone an industrial revolution, two wars, and various modern updates that made his England seem almost primal and barbaric. Even he could admit that much would have been improved if only a decent plumbing system were in place. Electricity was also much preferable to fire.

"I assure you that I don't require much by way of entertainment. I prefer a night at home with a book to many social events, though I am partial to the theater," he winced slightly at his reference to the theater, hoping that people still attended the theater.

George grinned in response.

"Margie told me that you had hermit habits. Well, I'm glad you decided to come out tonight. The pub isn't too rowdy. It really reminds me of a British Cheers—everybody knows your name!"

Knowing he was going to a pub reassured him not at all. Pubs attracted people from all walks of life, imbibing as much and as long as their pockets would allow them. Excessive drink meant excessive noise and no respect for propriety or space. Oh, why did he decide to go out tonight? Elizabeth, that's why. She was the infuriating reason behind this little adventure. He knew he needed to re-enter society, and it rankled every sensibility to acknowledge she was right. Darcy hated being persuaded to do something that was so against his nature; it made him supremely uncomfortable and temperamental. If there was a God, and He hadn't completely abandoned him, this modern-day pub would only admit gentlemen. He had little hope that he wouldn't cause offense if he encountered the fairer sex.

George parked off to the side of the road and explained that the pub was just down the street. Darcy slowly stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. As air filled his lungs, a simple thought drifted through his mind: the country always smells the same. He had always relished those moments, whether he was in a carriage or on a horse, when he finally escaped the city and all of its putrid smells of smoke, human and animal waste, rotten food, stale liquor, and layers of dirt. The gentle sweetness of fresh air was a sure indicator that he had left the boundaries of the city and had finally entered the country.

Just as it had in the past, the smell of the country reinvigorated and filled Darcy with peace. It was just a simple dinner with other local men. Nothing traumatic would happen. He'd be able to eat, listen to the conversation going on around and leave, hopefully, an hour later.

"This is it!" George swept his arm toward a building called The Pretty Pony. Its exterior was nothing remarkable. It resembled a small home, like a parsonage, brown and nondescript. Outside the door, he read and frowned at a display board that read: Fat people are harder to kidnap! Stay safe! Eat lots here!

Great heavens! The evening already feels interminable.

The establishment was nearly empty and George gratefully chose a table in a corner near the back. While George got the attention of a barman, Darcy browsed the menu and quickly found a meat pie that seemed somewhat familiar. However, when it was time to order, George immediately rejected his choice and insisted that he order the burger. He continued to describe it ways that made it seem messy and ungentlemanly. Already fed up with the evening and anxious to return to home, Darcy tried to graciously accept his judgement and pray that the evening would end soon.

Luckily, George steered the conversation toward Pemberley, asking Darcy how he enjoyed the estate. They were discussing the latest film that was scheduled to start filming there in the spring when their food arrived. Darcy's original conjecture was right. The terms juicy, mouthwatering, and cheesy meant messy, undignified, and shouldn't be eaten within view of polite society. But Darcy couldn't deny that it was the best thing he had eaten in weeks. It was rich, full of flavor, and completely satiating. Since he spent most nights on his own, he settled for a few sandwiches that he had seen others who worked on the estate bring for lunch. He tried to replicate them on his own, but the most he achieved was a meal that would temporarily fill his stomach. Margie was kind and would occasionally bring him food on Sunday, but nothing compared to the hot juiciness that was the grilled cheeseburger with sautéed onions and mushrooms and what George referred to as special sauce. If eating delectable food was his reward for going out, then he had indeed found his motivation for socializing.

As they ate, The Pretty Pony began to fill with more patrons and the noise grew exponentially. From their dress, they all seemed to be well-to-do, not the rabble that Darcy was used to seeing in a place like this. Friendly gestures were exchanged as groups gathered and the seats at the bar quickly filled. When the tables next to theirs filled with the loud laughter and chaotic conversation, Darcy felt his back and neck muscles to tense. It seemed that even his familiar aversion to large groups, especially raucous ones, was event to distract him from his delightful meal.

Fate must have truly had a vendetta against Darcy because one of the loud tables was filled with friends of George. He invited them over and introduced them to Darcy who could only nod in response, not being able to hear their names against his silent attempts to find an excuse to leave. He would walk the five miles back to Pemberley if needed!

Somebody asked him to "scooch" to make room to combine the tables and he found himself seated next to a blonde woman. Before he could school his features, his senses were assaulted by her perfume and he winced involuntarily. Praying the poor woman didn't see him, he turned toward her—holding his breath—and offered her a brief, curt nod. Darcy had to remember to breathe out of his mouth if she was going to sit next to him the rest of the night.

"Hello," she said, leaning in to him. "I don't think I've seen you here before."

"I'm sure you haven't. This is my first time to this, um, pub."

"Oh!" she squealed, reminding Darcy of how Georgiana would react to new sheet music or bonnet. "You're new to Lambton? Do you plan on staying long?"

"I am, in fact, not new to Lambton and my plans are not yet fixed."

"I, for one, hope your plans include some time in our little village. I think I'll enjoy getting to know you."

Darcy had no idea how to respond to such forwardness. Getting up to stand at the edges of the room seemed an unlikely way to make friends. Plus, he wasn't sure what was considered forward for women these days and what was now accepted behavior. Flirtations existed in his time and Darcy hated them as much then as he did now. There was nothing more irksome than feigned and fabricated attraction. Why couldn't people simply say what they meant without all of the insinuation, all of the games?

He sat still and silent as the rest of the group traded jokes, stories, and memories from other similar nights. Darcy observed it all, trying to capture the flow of conversation and failing miserably. He was never particularly good at having a friendly and purposeless conversation with anyone who wasn't a close friend or family. Now, mix in references unknown to him and in tones that were so loud they bordered on being impolite, Darcy's characteristic stiff and stoic posture turned to stone. He felt his scowl deepen and his breathing become more forceful. He had assumed that he was adjusting admirably to his unheard of time jump. He was back at Pemberley. He was using a computer and reading the news daily. He was watching movies and other television shows, for heaven's sake!

He'd never be able to assimilate. And he couldn't go home.

In frustration and panic, he abruptly stood and hoped he gave an acceptable excuse before exiting the pub. He walked more than a mile down the road before a car passed and, thankfully, did not stop.

Stupid, stupid. Arrogant and naïve. What was I thinking? Modern man? I am no modern man and never will be! What am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to be? I was born to be a kind, judicious master. I was trained at my father's side, was educated at Eton and then at Cambridge, completed a respectable tour on the Continent. I shouldered my inheritance with dignity and Pemberley prospered as never before. What could I have possibly done to offend the Fates, the gods, or whoever actually runs my damned existence?

Darcy continued to fume as he stalked off in what he hoped was the direction of Pemberley. He was grateful to see the lights of the estate up head. He eventually made his way to a back entrance that used to be a servants' entrance—yet more proof of his descent to nothingness. He trudged up the stairs to his bedroom, shut the door and stared into even more nothingness. If only Richards would come through his dressing room door, help him remove his boots, and hand him a brandy.

He turned on the lights and started to pace with his hands clasped behind his back, the sound muffled by the admittedly superior carpet now in his bedchamber. He tried to think rationally, find a solution to his situation, a remedy to his madness, but couldn't bring his thoughts from the increasingly all-consuming thoughts of despair and loneliness. Naming his feelings made him feel even more weak and helpless, then he remembered that these emotions were not new to him. He felt them on the night he disappeared after drinking the magic cognac. Instead of being in his room, he was pacing the length of his study, waiting for his family to arrive for the birthday dinner his sister had arranged for him—though it was meant to be a surprise. He was a man who had everything, but felt incredibly empty, like something had been stolen from him. While still a considered a young man, he truly felt his age that night. He felt time slipping away from him and wondering when he would begin the next stage: establishing his own family. It was the one duty he had failed to complete. Though Pemberley could survive without his issue, he knew it was his duty to provide for Pemberley's prosperous future in every way.

This is preposterous! I am a well-educated gentleman—I am a man! I will get a hold on these volatile and useless emotions.

His pacing lost some its vigor, though his face seemed to harden into a scowl. Whatever it was that brought him here was unadulterated evil. What other force would pull a man from all he knows, reduce him to little more than a pauper, and abandon him in an unknown land, surrounded by strangers and even stranger customs? His anger blinded him again and he wished he could go or a ride. Instead, he left his room to storm the halls of the estate that used to be his.

I may as well be a ghoul that haunts unsuspecting ghouls. I am no better or useful than a specter, a lone relic of the way things used to be.

Liz didn't hear from anyone at Pemberley for more than a week. She fully expected a late night recap of William's night out, but hadn't heard a peep or received a single text from William or Margie. Hoping that they were just busy getting the estate ready for the winter and Christmas season, she set her mind to work and Genny.

By the beginning of November without any news from up north, Liz called Margie to do a little recon before calling William that night.

"Margie," Liz preamble, "how are you? How's the winter prep going?"

"Oh, this old place runs like a well-oiled machine, thanks to me. Truthfully, there's not much for me to do. Your William works like a madman and hardly allows me to do more than accompany him in the cart to look at the progress he's made."

"How is he? I haven't heard from him in almost two weeks."

"He's . . . fine," Margie hesitantly replied as she tried to find the right words to convey her worry.

"I'm actually becoming quite worried about him. He works like a dog, but hardly says a word beyond what's absolutely necessary. I worry about him being alone at night and wonder what he does with himself. I doubt he sleeps if the dark circles under his eyes are any indication. The poor boy won't talk to me, but I think he'll talk to you, my dear."

Margie could hear Liz sigh on the other end before she answered, "I'll call him tonight after I get Genny down. Thanks, Margie. Let me know if there's anything you need from me."

"Now that you mention it," she paused, hoping that she wasn't being too forceful or demanding, "I would love for you to invite William to the city for a few days. He needs to get off this estate. Whatever happened when he went out with George made him more reclusive and I'm afraid this place is slowly killing him. He needs a change of scenery and to be with someone he trusts."

"He's not a child that needs sheltering," she nearly spat, frustrated that William had to be handled with kid gloves at his age.

"No, no he's not. But no matter our age, we all want to feel safe and protected by people we love and trust. You of all people should understand that and be a bit more empathetic. For all of William's strength and intelligence, that man is little more than a lost boy. I can tell he's angry and depressed. He won't let me help him. He needs you."

"I know," Liz sighed. "I know that and I'm sorry. You've taken on a lot by letting him work there with no references or information beyond what I told you." Liz rubbed the back of her neck as she reviewed her calendar for a possible time for William to visit.

"I'll invite him for the week of Thanksgiving, which is the fourth week of November. That gives you a little over two weeks to have everything in hand before I take away your most valuable worker."

"Wonderful! Thank you, dear girl. I'll reserve his ticket for the train this afternoon."

"He may not want to see me. Just wait until he agrees to the trip."

"Oh pish posh. He wants to see you even if he says no. I'll get the ticket now so all credible excuses are out of the way."

All Liz could do was chuckle at the woman's aggressive, but gentle, approach to people problems.

That night, Liz made a cup of tea before settling into an oversized armchair, mentally and physically preparing herself for her call. From what she'd learned from Margie, William was going to be angry. Experience told her that Liz had very little patience with angry people and would quickly become defensive—and offensive—in response.

Charles never got angry. He was always happy and calm, just the man she needed to soothe her irritated and occasionally volatile spirit. As she found William's number, she tried to summon Charles's calm and imagine how he would handle a situation like this.

"Hello," William said in answer to her call.

"Hi, William! How are you? We haven't talked in a while," Liz said, trying to force an extra dose of cheerfulness into her tone to mask her nervousness and make him more comfortable, like one does with a grumpy kid.

"I've been quite busy of late. I apologize for not calling."

Liz thought he sounded anything but sorry. Undeterred, she ploughed ahead.

"You never told me about your night out with George. What did y'all do?"

"We went to a pub."

"Which one?"

"The Pretty Pony."

"They have great food there. Charles took me there once and the burger was divine."

"Yes, the food is satisfactory."

Satisfactory? "Well, did you meet anyone."

"A few people, but I didn't stay long enough to recall much about them, let alone their names."

"Wow, okay." The friendly approach wasn't working; time to try a frontal assault. "William, are you okay? You seem angry and Margie said you've hardly spoken to anyone since you went out with George. What happened?"

"I'm not sure what propriety demands of privacy today, but I have always come to expect that my business is mine and not up for discussion or analyzing. You and Margie will kindly desist from discussing me in the future," William tersely replied.

"William, we care. We weren't gossiping. We only want to help."

"I don't need your help nor do I want it. Furthermore, there is absolutely nothing you can do to help me."

Liz could feel her temper rising and took a calming Charles breath before continuing.

"William. Please, tell me what's wrong. You can't let whatever you're feeling build until you implode."

"Enough useless advice!" he exploded. "It was at your damned insistence that I went to that pub and was surrounded by people who I could never hope to understand. I've never done well in public or performed well for strangers and a change in century will not change me. I don't belong here! I can't go home and will never be at ease in this day and age. No matter how many senseless platitudes you lecture me with, you will never fix whatever has happened to me. I'm certain I will find a way out of this mess without needing to defend myself to you or Margie or any other well-meaning but nosy busybody. I will say it again madam, kindly desist."

"Why are you angry with me? I've only ever tried to help you."

"And I am telling you to stop! You've only ever made things worse for me. Returning me to Pemberley? It may as well be a tomb, full of all of the dead things I love. Sending me your dead husband's clothing? I've never worn anything that wasn't tailored to me and my tastes. Every time I dress I'm reminded of everything that's been taken from me and your so-called charity only exacerbates the situation. A man must have his pride and I need to find mine again."

"Fine. I'll stop paying your phone bill. I'll stop looking into setting up a bank account for you or finding a way for you to have valid ID. I'll definitely stop worrying about how you're adjusting to Pemberley. I'll tell Margie she can stop training you to manage Pemberley, you ungrateful ass! And I definitely won't invite you to London for a week to be with me and Genny. I don't want you to ruin our holiday. Goodbye, Mr. Darcy." Liz tearfully and angrily ended the call, staring out over a darkened Regent's Park until she fell asleep.

A/N: Whew! This chapter gave me a run for my money. I had to rewrite it three times until I felt like I wasn't writing for a Disney channel sitcom. A huge thank you to those who review, follow, and add me or this story to your favorites list. Your interest inspires and motivates me.