Chapter 13: Darcy

"Darcy, have you heard a thing I've said?"

Darcy turned and stared at Bingley, who was pacing in front of the fireplace. They were in a small parlor with a drafty fireplace and older furniture, and Darcy had the feeling Bingley was hiding from his sisters.

"I'm sorry, Bingley. You were speaking of…Miss Bennet?"

"You are guessing!" Bingley accused, but he was too good-natured to be upset for more than a moment. "And you are correct. You are too clever for me, old friend."

"She is all you speak of," Darcy said, smiling. "I can't claim cleverness by guessing she is the topic of our conversation, I can only beg your apology that I was not listening."

Darcy glanced again at the doorway. He had just seen Miss Elizabeth walk by—run really. Had she looked upset?

Bingley nodded at Darcy's words and began pacing again. "So, do you think it a good idea?"

She had been upset. Darcy could feel it. "Is what a good idea?"

Bingley stopped suddenly, his boots clacking against the floor and his arms spreading wide with exasperation. "Me, making an offer for Miss Bennet!"

Darcy stared down at his own boots, perfectly polished. They shone so well he could almost see his reflection in them. They were just like everything else in his life: perfectly appropriate and perfectly maintained. Someone else had purchased them, knowing what a man of his station should wear. His valet buffed them and kept them in order.

Everything in his life was orderly, stately, clean and supposedly perfect. But—none of it made him happy. He had no spark. He'd had no…challenges. He'd allowed his world to become a rarified bubble of expectations met and maintained.

Where was the joy in that?

In his mind's eye, he saw Elizabeth's face as she'd appeared so quickly in the doorway. Then she'd disappeared. Just like in his life: what chance, what fate, had caused him to come here, now? He'd almost told Bingley to look closer to London for an estate. How easily they could have done that.

How easily he could have chosen another path, and never met Elizabeth Bennet.

"Darcy? Good God, don't keep me in suspense. I want to marry Jane. You've always guided me. Would you give your blessing to this match?"

Darcy took a deep breath and shook his head slightly. What had Elizabeth been upset about, when she flew by the doorway? "Her family is problematic. When I first observed them at your ball, I found her younger sisters to be undisciplined. Her mother and father also showed a lack of restraint and manners. Though Mr. Bennet is a gentleman, I am sure I have no need to point out that his means of supporting his family are inferior to yours."

Bingley colored and crossed his arms, but stood silent, waiting for Darcy to finish his assessment.

"I've upset you."

"You speak the truth." Bingley struggled to remain calm, his cheeks turning nearly as red as his hair. He dropped his head and studied the floor. "And I asked for it."

Darcy paused, thinking of Elizabeth. Where had she been going?

Had she been in distress?

"I present you with facts," Darcy said slowly. "But the truth is greater than those individual statements."

Bingley looked up, startled. "Yes?"

"Yes. If you had asked me last month—last week, even—I would have advised you against the match." Darcy paused again. Elizabeth had been rushing toward the kitchens, but she had not yet returned down this hallway. He began to feel more than curious.

He began to worry.

"Darcy, if you can't speak any faster, I shall be forced to throttle you. Don't hold me in suspense! I cannot bear it."

Darcy stood and walked toward the open doors. He glanced out into the long hallway.

It was empty.

"This goes toward the kitchens, yes?" he asked, pointing in the direction Elizabeth had run.

"What? Yes. There's the kitchens, and the stairs to the servants' quarters. Oh, and a door to the back of the house and the herb gardens. But—what are you talking about?"

Darcy turned around and stared at his friend, and then surprised him with a wide, open smile. "The truth is that Jane Bennet makes you happy, and you love her. And if she loves you, you have the means to ignore all my other, smaller, petty considerations. Make her an offer, Bingley. And may she make you the happiest of men."

"Why—thank you! Thank you, Darcy! But I say, where are you going?"

Darcy walked swiftly down the hallway. He could not ignore the growing sense of unease that had taken over his being.

"Darcy? Darcy! Where you off to, man?"

"I'll be back shortly," he called out, not bothering to turn around and check on Bingley. He had no time. Something in him urged him on: Go, go now. Find her.

"But what are you doing?" Bingley cried.

What was he doing? Darcy didn't answer, not out loud, as he strode faster and faster down the hallway. Soon the passageway ended in a small foyer. He could hear the cook in the kitchen, through the door to his right. A plain stairway ran up to the servants' quarters, as Bingley had said. And there was a large, oak door with a small window near the top, showing the glittering white world outside. And beyond—he could see the horizon, where darker clouds were gathering. In fact, the day had gone from bright white to an ominous gray.

"Sir?" A young maid stopped suddenly on her way downstairs, shocked to see him standing there.

He turned, feeling like a fool, but he had to ask. "Have you seen a young lady come this way? Miss Elizabeth Bennet?"

To his surprise, the girl immediately nodded. "Yes, Sir. I do believe it was Miss Elizabeth—Miss Jane's pretty sister, yes?"

"Yes." Darcy's voice sounded strangled when he spoke. "Yes, is she in the kitchens?"

"No, Sir." The maid glanced toward a set of hooks on the wall. "Why, that's odd. She borrowed a cloak and boots, but that was at least half an hour ago. I thought she would have been back by now."

"Where did she go?" Darcy could hear a thundering in his ears, like his heartbeat had gone out of control. Like warning drums, in the distance.

The maid shrugged. "I've no idea, Sir. Just…outside."

Darcy put his hand on the door, ready to race out into the frozen world. But no, he had to think. He needed clothing, and he'd have a few other men come out with him to search for her. He hoped he was wrong; he hoped this dire, gnawing feeling in his gut was nothing more than his imagination. As he thanked the maid and turned, running back down the hall and up to his room, as he called for his valet, he hoped that he would find a flushed but hale and happy Elizabeth, walking a trail nearby.

He could imagine her gentle ire and laughter, as he and four or five poor footmen discovered her. He could imagine her witty remarks. He could see her staring at him, searching his eyes, wondering why he had come to find her.

She would know soon enough, he thought, as his valet found his thickest greatcoat and sent word for help. She would see it in his eyes, when he found her—that he was as wild for her as Bingley was for Jane.

More so.

That he would make her an offer.

That he would do anything for her, including gathering an army and heading out into the storm. He pulled his boots on and grabbed his sealskin hat, running downstairs and once again staring out that small, cold window near the kitchen door. The day was darker, and fresh snow was beginning to fall now. His valet told him that four footmen would be here presently; they were getting their coats and boots. Bingley was on his way, as well.

"Have them follow my footsteps," Darcy said, pushing the door open. A blast of freezing air greeted them.

"Mr. Darcy, please—just wait five minutes!" his valet urged.

"I can't," Darcy said. "Have them find me. I've got to find her. Now."

And then he was outside, the white world turning grey and dark. The snow that fell now was cold and small and hard, on the verge of hail. It stung his eyes and face, but he moved forward. There! There, he could just see footprints. They'd be covered with fresh snow soon enough, but for now, he could track her.

He just prayed—he just prayed he could find her. For he had the most terrifying feeling that she was already lost…to him, and to the world.