❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
Darcy entered into the master chambers and drew open the curtain. It was a glorious summer night with a bright half-moon illuminating the sky. Its silvery hue reached into the deep recesses of the candlelight’s shadow and each light reflected off the crisp white linens where Elizabeth lay, giving to the large bedchamber an air of close intimacy. Quietly he came to the bed, sat down on the edge and indulged in the sight of his wife sleeping. Her fine lashes were like a wisp of gossamer upon her cheeks; her unbound hair extended across the pillow and framed her lovely countenance. Her sleeping gown diaphanous, her bosom rising and falling in a peaceful, even tempo, he thought there could be nothing lovelier to behold. The first time he had seen her in such deep repose he had thought her perfection and he had lain awake watching how her lips slightly parted in her sleep and how every hint of her playful impertinence gave way to a mesmeric stillness. He brushed away a strand of hair that fell against her brow and let his gaze wander from her lovely countenance down the length of her body. Lifting his hand, he placed it gently upon her belly and spread his fingers wide to detect some new tautness or increase that might verify his child was growing within, as though to bestow protection upon the same.
Thus captivated he did not observe Elizabeth open her eyes. She watched him in silence. In the silvery light she could see the corners of his mouth slightly lifted. She had never seen upon his mien such an expression of innocent expectation. It was incongruent with the strong and vigorous figure so barely covered before her. As she furtively watched him that wondrous desire to touch him and to be touched by him that still, after so many months, surprised her for its intensity, spread through her with the efficacy of a well-fed flame. She placed her hand atop his and she saw his small hesitant smile grown into that full and beautiful expression of contentment he so rarely allowed the world to see, but which in the privacy of their rooms was given to her readily and unreservedly.
Darcy removed from his sitting position and laid himself at her side. Resting upon an elbow, he lifted a hand to her face and traced its contours with his fingertips, delighting in the delicate silky smoothness of her cheeks, lingering upon the softness of her lips. “It is late; I thought you deep in slumber.”
She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek, closed her eyes. “I am awake now,” she replied softly.
“To my delight.” He took a strand of hair and wrapped it around his finger, toyed with the thick abundance that framed her face. Words from Milton came to him unbidden, and he spoke them in a hushed, mellow voice.
...He on his side
Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love,
Hung over her enamoured, and beheld
Beauty which; whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice,
Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whispered thus: Awake!
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
Heaven's last, best gift, my ever-new delight.[14]
He was in a strange, enchanted mood. The deep, hushed tones with which he spoke lulled her and stimulated her at once. She gazed into his face mesmerized by the beauty of his features, the radiant expression of his eyes, her heart racing as if newly enamoured. She raised her hand, touched his face and let it fall against his neck, felt his heart’s quickened pulse, felt the warm rush of need. “Fitzwilliam,” she murmured.
She rarely spoke his given name but in the quiet intimacy of their rooms; when she did—in a delicate purring whisper—he felt as though she were touching his innermost heart. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed aside her gown and kissed her bare shoulder, kissed her neck.
“The first time I ever kissed you thus, how you sighed in delight and clung to me with such sweet, trembling desire.”
“Did I?” she murmured, slipping her hand beneath his robe to feel the coolness of his skin, welcoming the longing swelling in her breast, the desire that sent her heart racing.
“You did, Eliza, and set aflame within me a desire I seem unable to satiate.” Bringing her gently into his arms, he spoke softly. “If I were a poet I could perhaps compose my own pretty verse to tell you all that I feel. But in truth, it is better that I am not. For I cannot love you as a poet would, with the forlorn passivity of the mind; I can only love you as a man.”
“What is poetry to love but an adornment of no significance? What are words but promises yet to be kept?”
“You understand me, Eliza.”
“I do.”
“Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,” he whispered. “Be mine.”
Some few words did come, treading lightly as a midnight wanderer. Phrases half spoken, fully comprehended, lost at last in a deep, lingering kiss. Elizabeth sighed with candid pleasure. “Fitzwilliam,” she murmured again; “My most beloved Fitzwilliam.”
Feeling her soft and warm and welcoming, he sank into her embrace, finding within it, again, the sanctuary he had not known he sought until the first time he had been in the generous custody of her arms. They embraced with a singularly unhurried, open generosity, discovering between them an utterly new, sweepingly intense intimacy. Falling at length into a deep sleep, hearts and limbs entangled together, it would be futile to question who held within the greater share of pleasure and gratitude.
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
Heavy pounding at Darcy’s dressing room door abruptly awoke them. “What the devil?” Darcy cursed groggily. “I will return momentarily,” he whispered to Elizabeth as he rose from the bed, wrapped his robe about himself and exited into his dressing room.
Elizabeth could hear the murmuring of Darcy’s voice and that of his valet, as well as some ill-defined shuffling sounds. Presently, Darcy returned to the bedchamber fully if hastily clothed, his greatcoat indicating that he intended on going out of doors. Surprised by his dress, she inquired what had occurred to necessitate so hasty and unwelcome a departure.
“A matter of some urgency. Do not distress yourself, all is in hand and will be well, but I must attend to it.” With a hurried kiss she was witness to the flow of his greatcoat as he walked briskly and purposefully out of their chambers.
Unable to sleep, Elizabeth rose and dressed early. She could not find that Mrs. Reynolds knew any more than she. “One of the stable boys was sent to call for the master. Hewitt spoke with him and then in haste retrieved Mr. Darcy. I do not know where they went,” Mrs. Reynolds explained.
“There is no fire on the grounds or at one of the cottages? No injury or illness?”
“Not that I am aware of, Mrs. Darcy.”
Frustrated at her ignorance and with no information to be had, Elizabeth went to the breakfast room where the entire party of guests soon began to gather together at table. Schemes for the forthcoming day were discussed. Mr. Ashton—who was as gifted an artist as he was a musician—liked to dabble with drawing now and again, and this morning he was of a mind to draw a Grecian tableau. He was attempting to convince Jane to sit for Aphrodite. Mrs. Thorney was always the last to join the table; when she took her seat Mr. Darcy’s continued absence became a topic of concern.
“Will not your husband be joining us this morning?” Mrs. Ashton inquired of Elizabeth.
“It is unlikely. He was called away early this morning.”
“Was it very early?” Mr. Thorney asked.
“Yes, I am afraid so.”
“He would never be awakened for a trifle!” Georgiana interjected, alarmed.
Mr. Thorney concurred. “It certainly does not bode well. It is never anything good when the master is awakened from his slumber. I hope it is nothing too grave.”
“Let us hope.” Elizabeth responded calmly, but shared an expression of uneasiness with Georgiana.
“Do not concern yourself, Mrs. Darcy,” Lord Enfield offered reassuringly. “I was out earlier for my morning ride and saw no unusual activity. Matters often appear graver than they are, and I am sure he will return
with no fine tales to tell. So neither you nor Miss Darcy need be unduly concerned.” Looking across the table to Georgiana, he bowed his head with respectful attentiveness.
In that gentle, innocuous expression of concern Miss Bingley saw for the first time that Lord Enfield’s interests were elsewhere engaged and his pleasing attentions the night they all danced together were revealed as no more than a caprice of the moment. She turned immediately to Sir Hamish who sat to her left.
As they were finishing breakfast a commotion was heard outside in the hallway. All rose in haste. Darcy had returned and as the group fell out into the hallway with an unmistakable, loud bustling of curiosity, all were witness to the most unusual sight of the famously fastidious Mr. Darcy dishevelled and unshaven. Interjections and speculations were plentiful.
Mrs. Reynolds was hovering about Mr. Darcy like the old, doting aunt she sometimes felt herself to be. “I will send for the doctor,” the kind housekeeper was enjoining.
“It is entirely unnecessary, Mrs. Reynolds. A little bandaging is all that is required. Hewitt can attend to it perfectly well.”
Elizabeth was immediately at his side, alarmed by the sight of his hand wrapped in a bloodied cloth. “Fitzwilliam!” she cried in earnest distress, lifting his hand to inspect the injury and made anxious by the profusion of blood.
The entire party had followed Elizabeth out of the breakfast room and were crowding about, staring and fretting and remarking upon the relative bloodiness of the cloth and speculating upon its cause.
“Elizabeth, it is nothing,” Darcy snapped impatiently, brusquely pulling his hand away. Irritated by the intrusive, suffocating curiosity of the chattering group, Darcy intoned a cold “excuse me” to the gathered company and briskly walked away to have his hand attended by Hewitt.
Miss Bingley watched him turn away and saw a look of unmistakable, utter dismay wash over Elizabeth’s countenance as he disappeared up the staircase. She relished so open a dismissal of his wife’s ministrations, recalled his stoicism at the arrival of her portrait the previous day and began to think she had misapprehended their apparent state of harmony entirely. Whilst Kitty, for her part, wondered once again if the fine house merited tolerating such an unpleasant husband, especially as for her own taste the house was too large by half and she much preferred the modest comforts of Longbourn to Pemberley’s vastness and refinement.
Lord Enfield was immediately at Georgiana’s side, and with kind solicitude assured her that her brother’s injury was clearly of no consequence if he required only his valet’s attentions. Georgiana was grateful for his delicacy and felt remorse for having felt his presence such a burden. He led her back to the breakfast room and encouraged the others to follow. “There is no need to linger,” he insisted to Elizabeth’s great relief. “Let us all attend to whatever business we may have and leave others to theirs. All is well; carry on. No need for such a spectacle.”
Elizabeth was left alone with Jane and Mrs. Reynolds, humiliated and hurt by Darcy’s apparent dismissal of her concern in front of the entire gathered party. Mrs. Reynolds still had no information to offer and Hewitt had followed immediately on Darcy’s heels; none could clarify for her what had occurred. Elizabeth felt superfluous and slighted.
“Lizzy, your hand is bloodied,” Jane observed.
Elizabeth stared at the small amount of blood that had seeped from the wrappings as Darcy had so brusquely pulled away his injured hand from her gentle grasp. She rubbed it away impatiently. “Clearly I am not needed,” she cried bitterly to Jane, turning and making haste to exit to the gardens. Tears were rising fast and she wished for no one, not even Jane, to witness her anxiety. Her tears slowed as she walked outside, but she felt an unfamiliar ache in her heart. The prior evening when he had come to their bed and they had made love with such an absolute openness she had felt nearer to him than ever, felt to her very marrow that there was no space between their hearts. Rebuffed now at a moment of such delicacy, she was confused and angry. She did not know how to respond to what she felt a cutting dismissal and it did painfully recall a moment in London when he had similarly so casually dismissed her in front of Lady Edith. She felt as surely as if his hand were now within her own the brusqueness of his withdrawal, felt it a manifest betrayal of the pledge they had made to one another on that cold December morning. But she had her fair portion of vanity, and her prolonged absence would only bring further attention to the strange slight, she was sure, and for the sake of her own pride collected herself and returned into the house.
She calmly entered the morning parlour where a few of her guests were quietly occupied and picked up some needlework.
“Are you not attending to your husband’s injury?” Miss Bingley inquired provokingly.
Elizabeth shot her a look of unqualified abhorrence; she was in no humour for Miss Bingley’s ill-intentioned pettiness. “I am his wife, Miss Bingley, not his nurse. His valet is more than capable of attending to Mr. Darcy’s present needs.”
“Mrs. Darcy, I beg your pardon if my inquiry offended. I intended nothing ill.”
“Did you not?” Elizabeth replied dryly.
Miss Bingley certainly relished the opportunity to antagonize her old rival, but was impeded from further insolence by Mrs. Thorney. “Unmarried women always make the mistake of thinking husbands require a surfeit of attention, when what they truly desire is to be left in peace. It is no small part of why gentlemen marry, after all. To be freed from so many bothersome, obstinate, unwelcome attentions is certainly no lesser benefit of marriage. Mrs. Darcy,” she continued, turning to Elizabeth. “This book you recommended, First Impressions[15], it is indeed charming. Such a delightful mockery of pretentiousness and ambition.”
Elizabeth raised her brow at the provocation and Mrs. Thorney smiled in return. In that mischievous and warm smile, Elizabeth understood that in this contrarian and sometimes perplexing woman she now possessed a true, faithful friend.
Upstairs, Hewitt was finishing the cleaning and wrapping of Darcy’s wound. “The cloth is very bloodied,” Hewitt commented flatly as he expertly completed his task.
“It is no great injury, Hewitt. I have certainly sustained more grave injuries in the past,” Darcy replied with evident irritation. He could not comprehend why everyone, even Hewitt, was making such a nuisance over such a trifling injury.
“Perhaps, nevertheless,” his valet opined obliquely.
Darcy looked at Hewitt inquisitively. Hewitt had been in his service for many years and had never crossed over the tenuous bounds of propriety that existed in the strange relationship of familiarity and service between a gentleman and his valet. The man clearly had a thought he wished to express but that he felt might be too presumptuous to offer. “Say what you will, Hewitt. I give you leave.”
“I was merely reflecting, sir, that for such a minor wound it certainly bloodied the cloth a great deal. It is not surprising that Mrs. Darcy should have been so concerned with so much blood.”
Darcy turned and looked at the cloth in the wash bin, bright with blood, saw Elizabeth’s expression of utter dismay as he pulled his injured hand from her grasp and walked away.
“Quite bloodied,” Hewitt repeated softly. It was certainly not his custom to draw Mr. Darcy’s attention to what could be perceived by others as a slight or a fault; yet he thought this moment propitious to so doing. He said no more, but when Mr. Darcy’s wound was fully dressed and he was washed and shaven and changed into fresh clothing he went immediately in search of his wife. Hewitt was satisfied with his discreet intercession, for Mr. Darcy’s contentment and good humour were advantageous to the entire household and all its connected people; Hewitt was mindful that Mrs. Darcy quite manifestly was the source of this beneficial felicity.
Darcy entered the parlour where Elizabeth and a few others remained quietly occupied. Upon his entry into the room, Miss Bingley immediately propelled herself into a recital of care and concern. “Your hand, Mr. Darcy!” she cried with presumptuous de
votion. “It is well mended? Your valet has cleaned and dressed it? You are well? What concern we all felt at the sight of the blood. Such anxiety! But of course it must have been nothing of consequence to be off so quickly. Is there anything you require? Are you quite recovered? May I be of service in any way?”
“Thank you, I am quite well,” Mr. Darcy offered perfunctorily, crossing the room to where Elizabeth sat and holding out his hand to her. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me a moment?”
Elizabeth put down her needlework and placed her hand into his. He led her outside through the opened terrace doors without a word of apology or consideration to those in the room, her hand grasped tightly within his own.
“Well,” Miss Bingley began to lament at so hasty and discourteous a departure.
Mrs. Thorney, who had put down the book she had been reading when Darcy had entered the room, immediately cut her short. “Truly, Miss Bingley, he is entirely claimed for! Such devotions! What is your purpose?”
“Pardon me?” Miss Bingley cried.
Mrs. Thorney chuckled derisively. She found Miss Bingley’s airs every day more tiresome. She was aware of the young lady’s failed ambitions towards Pemberley and it did not surprise her; such a woman as Miss Bingley, dripping in ambition and artifice, could have never captured a man of Mr. Darcy’s integrity. Mrs. Thorney stood and walked over to where Miss Bingley sat. She looked down at her for a moment before responding. She was a handsome young lady, but she did herself no favours by behaving with such an utter lack of grace.
“You ought to consider your own dignity and perhaps moderate your attentions.”
To Teach the Admiring Multitude Page 31