“My sincere condolences, lady,” Darcy addressed her with feeling.
“I thank you,” she returned solemnly. “Some would scoff at a twelve-year-held sorrow.”
“Then they never knew the depth of felicity in true family feeling,” Darcy quickly affirmed. “My mother passed away more than twelve years ago and my own dear father, five; so I am intimately acquainted with such sorrow. In my case, both deaths were the results of lingering illnesses.” His voice took on a slight tremor. “I was away at school during most of Mother’s illness, but I shared my father’s last years and bless Heaven that we had them together.”
“You ‘bless Heaven’?” Lady Sylvanie turned upon him a countenance suddenly full of anger. “Can you really mean what you say, or is the phrase merely a platitude you employ in Polite Society? Proper sentiment for proper persons!”
“My lady,” Mrs. Doyle whispered forcefully as Darcy drew back, his brows raised at her vehemence. The maid sought to restrain her mistress with a hand upon her arm, but the lady heatedly shrugged off, motioning her away to the end of the hall.
“I, sir, do not ‘bless Heaven,’” she spat out contemptuously, “and I never shall, for Heaven is either cruel or powerless, as has been amply proved time upon time. You cannot tell me, Mr. Darcy, that as you watched your father slowly dying you did not have numerous occasions to think the same.”
Darcy stared at her in consternation at both the strength of her passion and the challenges laid against his own convictions. Such theorizing he had heard at University — the philosophy and theology rooms at Cambridge had been rife with this kind of speculation. Then, yesterday, that ‘thing of evil’ at the Stones had shaken those basic assumptions he’d entertained about his world. Today, a beautiful woman with every reason to think ill of the world was questioning them. The lady had struck close to home, and the doubts he’d suppressed or left unanswered, his dissatisfaction with the economy of Heaven, were brought uncomfortably to the fore.
He cast about him for how to answer her demand, and strangely, the queer interview he’d had with his sister’s companion, Mrs. Annesley, came to his mind.
“The human heart is not so easily mastered. Trumpery will not turn it aside of its course…. Mr. Darcy, do you give any credence to Providence?”
“…all things work together for good…. Sweet are the uses of adversity…. It was not in your power or mine to comfort Miss Darcy…. You must look elsewhere.”
“My lady,” Darcy began stiffly, intending by way of an answer to repeat Mrs. Annesley’s proverbs, but the anxiety with which Mrs. Doyle was regarding them even from her distant station gave him pause. He began again in a gentler tone. “Lady, I am ill qualified to furnish you with a defense for the actions of Providence and confess that I have questioned them and continue to struggle with their goodness and influence myself.” A look of triumph appeared in the lady’s eyes. “But a woman who knows more of this than I,” he continued, “who has suffered far more than either of us, I daresay, recently expressed to me her confidence that all that happens is ‘for good.’” Lady Sylvanie began to turn away, disappointment with him written clearly upon her face. “You turn away, but there is more, lady.” He reached for her instinctively and laid his hand lightly upon her arm. “I have seen the happy results of this conviction in her life and, more important, in the life of my sister.”
Lady Sylvanie stood very still, her eyes roving over his face, searching for what, Darcy could not say. Then, with a lift of a brow she countered, “I am all delight that this woman and your sister are reconciled to their ill treatment by Providence. But you, Mr. Darcy, will you grin at adversity and call tragedy ‘good’ because Heaven bids you do so?” She stepped closer to him, her eyes glittering, inviting, and whispered seductively, “I know how it is. What you believe you must say before others, before the world. But you are not such a fool!”
In that moment, everything in Darcy urged him to answer her with what she wanted. No was such a simple word, and what man would not quickly aver that he was, most definitely, not a fool? He also knew, instinctively, that No would bring the lady willingly into his arms, that his question that morning of her welcome of him was fully answered. Her eyes sought him as her hand came to rest upon his arm; her breath trembled with passion as he, without thought, moved closer. Cascades of sensual delight broke over him as she laid her other hand upon his chest and, with parted lips, looked up into his eyes.
“Lady,” he breathed low in both warning and pleasure.
“Mr. Darcy!” Fletcher’s voice boomed and echoed from the opposite end of the hall. “I say, Mr. Darcy!” A small cry of rage escaped the lady as Darcy’s head came up to see Fletcher walking briskly toward them, waving something in his hand. “Sir, it is a letter from Miss Darcy!”
Red-faced and breathing rapidly, Fletcher quickly arrived at where Darcy stood, still waving the post he clutched in his hand. The lady, meanwhile, had dropped her hands from Darcy and retired a few paces away to engage in close, agitated conversation with her maid. After a flicker of a glance at the pair, Fletcher concentrated wholly upon his master and offered Darcy a bow with an extravagance quite out of his nature. The tilt of his brow when he arose made it all the more clear to Darcy that something was afoot. He accepted the missive with a curt nod, his mind clear enough from the heated impulses of the previous minutes to make him thankful for Fletcher’s odd, yet timely, appearance and motioned his valet to stand while he glanced at the direction.
The flush of shame and alarm at what he had almost allowed cooled instantly, and a frown creased his brow as he looked sharply back at Fletcher, whose shoulders returned him an almost imperceptible shrug. The direction was not in Georgiana’s fine script; rather, it was in a much bolder hand that he recognized as Brougham’s. Darcy’s eyes returned to the letter. He had asked Dy to watch over Georgiana; so it was not unreasonable to assume that a note from her might be franked by his friend and wrapped in a report of his care. Good Lord, nothing was amiss, was it? The haziness of Darcy’s mental processes of moments before was banished as concern for what Brougham’s news might be possessed him.
“My lady, ma’am, your pardon.” He turned to address the women behind them but, on doing so, found it difficult to meet Lady Sylvanie’s eyes. “As you have heard, an important post has arrived concerning my sister. I beg your leave to indulge in its contents without delay.” By the end of his speech Darcy had regained his composure to the degree that he was able, once more, to look the lady in the face. She regarded him regally, her chin high, with only a hint of the flush of passion that had so suffused her features earlier.
“Of course, a letter from a sister must be attended to at once,” she replied lightly in dismissal. “We will have the pleasure of your company at supper, I trust, regardless of the news?”
“Very likely, my lady.” Darcy bowed. “You will excuse me.” The lady curtsied, as did her maid, but before he had completed his turn to leave, Darcy saw the old woman direct such a look of pure venom at his valet that he almost flinched. Feigning blindness to the malice he’d seen, he called Fletcher to attend him, and both men exited the gallery as rapidly as was seemly.
“How on earth did you find me, Fletcher?” Darcy demanded under his breath as they made their way through the labyrinth to Darcy’s chamber suite. “Do you know how to get back?”