Duty and Desire

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?”

“Yes, sir,” the valet replied, then added ruefully, “these confoundedly confusing halls and passages were part of the reason for my lateness in waiting upon you last night. I followed the old woman there to that very hall, Mr. Darcy, and she with no candle! At least, none until she was in the gallery. Then, out comes a candlestick — from her pocket, I suppose — which she lit at the picture you were standing beneath.”

“The one of old Lord Sayre, Her Ladyship, and her mother?” Darcy drew a sharp breath.

“Yes, sir, the very one.” Fletcher shuddered. “It was passing strange, sir. She held the candle high as she could and just stared and stared at the painting. I almost fell asleep waiting for her to move on, but I woke up smartly enough when the candle suddenly went out! I had no idea which way she had gone and was that afraid she’d discover me that I didn’t even dare breathe.”

“Hmmm,” Darcy intoned and motioned Fletcher to walk beside him as they continued on. “And how did you know where I was?”

“The housemaids, sir.”

“Housemaids now, Fletcher?” He looked at the valet disapprovingly.

“Housemaids are very good sources of information, sir” — Fletcher sniffed — “as, like the Creator, they are everywhere present and never noticed by the gentry.” Darcy’s brow hitched up. “Your pardon, sir,” he added quickly. Then, after a moment or two of walking in silence, “I promise you, Mr. Darcy, I have conducted myself as I ought.”

“I trust that you did. Fletcher,” Darcy sighed. “At the moment, I have more reason to take comfort in your conduct than — Fletcher!” Darcy halted and fumbled several fingers in his waistcoat pocket. Pulling out the embroidery threads, he waved them before his valet’s nose. “You took these from my jewel case and put them in my pocket, did you not!”

“I-I noticed that you had left them in your case, sir,” Fletcher stammered. “You have carried them with you since Hertfor —— for a number of weeks.” Darcy noted his avoidance of the shire’s name but said nothing. “In the midst of all this madness, I thought you should have them by you, sir.”

“You told me that you did not believe in charms, Fletcher!” Darcy accused. They had reached his chamber door, and he waited as Fletcher opened it. Once behind its heavy protection, Darcy went at once to the window and broke the seal on the post while the valet brought him a chair.

“There, sir.” Fletcher set the chair to afford Darcy the best light. “And I do not believe in charms! Rather, there are those times that, to quote the Bard, ‘the patient must minister to himself.’”

“Meaning?” Darcy looked up impatiently from the letters as he pressed out their folds on his knee.

“Meaning, sir” — Fletcher took a deep breath and plunged forward into a speech that both of them knew might well cost him his situation — “that I put them in your pocket to remind you of the very different ‘charms’ of another young woman. One who casts others who style themselves ‘ladies’ very deeply in the shade.”

“You take too much upon yourself, Fletcher!” Darcy glowered. “And you toe the border of insolence. You can have nothing to say concerning the woman I take as wife, whoever she may be.”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher’s countenance fell before his master’s ire, yet he continued. “I know that I have strayed unpardonably beyond my sphere. But I hope to truly esteem whoever that fortunate lady may be and to see you content, sir.”