Page 17 of Losing Lizzy
His coach eased to the curb, and Jasper opened the door to set down the steps so Darcy could exit the coach. It was late in the afternoon and the streets were thin of people. He turned in the direction to which Jasper gestured to read the bookseller’s sign hanging above the establishment’s door. In the bottom corner were the words: “Albert Sheffield, Proprietor.”
“Excellent,” he murmured as he set his steps to cross the street. “Wait for me,” he instructed his driver and footman. He still was not certain whether there was a true connection between his former valet and Elizabeth Bennet, but he would soon know the answer.
* * *
Elizabeth swallowed the words rushing to her lips. For the third time in as many minutes, Mr. Townsend had asked her to join him for supper. “I am sorry, sir,” she enunciated each word clearly, “as I have said previously, I could not consider leaving my uncle alone. Mr. Sheffield has been ill for several days now, and the brunt of his care, as well as the operation of the store has fallen to me, as is only appropriate considering how my uncle’s generosity has always been directed at me.” She glanced to the clock on the shelf beyond Townsend’s shoulder. “In fact, I must close the shop and retrieve my daughter from Mrs. Harris’s house so I might return before my uncle wakes and requires my assistance.”
She started around the man to open the door to usher him out. Unfortunately, he caught her arm to pull her into his body. Instinctively, she stiffened. She had not been near a man since she had lain with Fitzwilliam Darcy, and Elizabeth had no desire to think upon allowing another man such privileges.
“I would thank you to remove your hands from my person, Mr. Townsend. These actions are highly reprehensible tome,” she hissed, “and not likely ever to win my favor.”
“You require a man, Mrs. Dartmore, and I require a woman of merit in my bed.” He bent his head as if he meant to kiss her.
Elizabeth turned her head to the side to prevent his lips from claiming hers and prepared to strike him; however, such was not necessary. Townsend was sent flying backward to land sprawled upon the floor. In her struggles, she had not heard the bell over the door signal someone had entered the shop. Quickly adjusting the cut of the dress she wore, she turned to express her gratitude only to feel the air rush from her lungs and her knees go weak. Her vision blurred as her rescuer turned to reach for her. “William!” she called as everything went black.
* * *
Darcy had seen her through the window coming toward him, and his heart had leapt with joy. Yet, things changed quickly. She had been brought up short. For a few brief seconds, a man in a gig had blocked Darcy’s view as he jumped out of the way of the careless driver. Finally reaching the door, he opened it to discover the horror of another man holding Elizabeth in his embrace.
Unable to control the instant anger coursing through him, he rushed forward to grab the man by the nape of his neck to spin him around, landing a solid punch to the tip of the scoundrel’s chin. The dastard went flying backwards. Sharp breaths rushed in and out of Darcy’s lungs as his stance dared the man to rise from the floor.
Sensing her behind him, he swiveled around just as the light in her eyes turned dark, and she swooned. His name was upon her lips.
Darcy moved without thinking, catching her under the arms to drag her up against him. “Come, love,” he coaxed as she sagged, a dead weight, nearly knocking him over until he locked his knees in place and dragged her deeper into his embrace. He tapped her cheeks lightly. “Wake, Elizabeth.”
The man he knocked to the floor demanded, “Who in blazes do you think you are?”
“The lady’s husband.” Darcy raised his eyes to view a blanket-draped man, a man who had served him for more than sixteen years.
“Good day, Sheffield,” he said with more calm than he felt. Darcy bent to lift Elizabeth into his arms to carry her to a nearby chair, where he sat first and cradled her on his lap.
“You are Lieutenant Dartmore?” the stranger questioned.
Darcy glanced to Sheffield who held himself perfectly still. Obviously, Darcy’s former valet had provided approval for the charade Elizabeth practiced. With a lift of his eyebrow, indicating his disdain, Sheffield said, “Did I not just say the gentleman is my niece’s husband?
“I thought you dead,” the man accused.
“Hardly,” Darcy responded pointedly, evoking his best Master of Pemberley voice. “Now, I mean to tend my wife.” He liked the sound of the word “wife” on his lips. “And as she and I are long overdue for a reunion and do not require an audience, if I were you, I would make myself scarce, before I recall how poorly you treated her and challenge you to a duel.”
The man frowned deeply, but presented Darcy a nod of agreement, turning crisply on his heels to exit the store.
“Thank you, Sheffield,” Darcy said in dismissal. “Thank you for seeing to Elizabeth when others turned their backs on her. I am forever in your debt.”
The man he had known since Darcy was twelve years of age bowed as would any good servant in addressing his master, but Darcy and this man had always held a relationship that had gone beyond the hierarchy of those positions. Likely, it was because Darcy had required someone’s advice—an older brother of sorts—after his mother’s passing and during his father’s deep grief. Perhaps it was because Sheffield had been born a gentleman’s son, as was Darcy. The only difference was George Darcy was worth more than five times that of Sheffield’s father, and the late Artemis Sheffield had had four sons to provide for. The eldest would receive the small estate the family owned. The second entered the military, as was expected of second sons, suchas his Cousin Fitzwilliam. The third took up law. Albert Sheffield was to join the clergy. Yet, the young Albert knew himself not the type to deliver sermons, and so he sought to become a teacher at one of the universities. He had come to George Darcy’s employment as a tutor for the elder Darcy’s son while he waited his turn to claim a professorship. After being with the Darcy family for several years, Sheffield transitioned into the role of a gentleman’s gentleman.
Sheffield pulled the blanket tighter about his person. “I ... I am most gratified ... to view you ... safe, sir,” he said with emotion filling his voice. “And to be accurate ... about my care ... of Miss Elizabeth, it is I ... who has been blessed ... to be of service ... to her. Enjoy your reunion.”
Then, Sheffield disappeared toward the rear of the store, leaving Darcy alone with Elizabeth. He shook her gently and cooed, “Come, love. Wake for me.” Darcy studied her features as she made her return to consciousness. How often over the last four years had he imagined waking up beside her? More than he could properly recall.
Her eyes fluttered open and closed several times before she smiled at him. Shards of his broken heart fell into place once more. She whispered, “William.”
For several elongated seconds everything was perfection. Then, reality arrived. Elizabeth bolted upright, fighting to scramble from his hold on her. Literally, she fell backwards upon her rear, having tripped over her hem.
“Away!” she cautioned, holding out her hand to ward off his advance. “Who are you?” she demanded.
Darcy rose to extend his hand to assist her to her feet. “You know who I am,” he said with a small smile of understanding.
“You cannot be Fitzwilliam Darcy. They told me Fitzwilliam Darcy was dead.”
