He was pulling her closer, his breath ragged against her lips as his hands slid from her jaw down her shoulders, then caressed her back. Elizabeth pressed in to him, her hair tumbling down and shrouding them in a bower of secrecy.
William froze. Her thick hair had shut out the light from the window, and the air of their intimate sanctuary had grown hot with their shared breath. He began to pant in uncontrollable huffs, then his hands were frantically pushing her back, away from him. In another instant, he had rolled from the sofa and vaulted several feet away. He stood, white and shaken, looking back at her in helpless apology.
“William?” she followed him and raised a hand to rest it upon his shoulder. He flinched, and she withdrew it.
“Forgive me, Elizabeth. I cannot… I cannot explain. Dark places, stale air—forgive me, my love, it is not you!”
She sighed and bit her lip, looking away to the window. “It will take time, William.”
He shook his head, then extended a hopeful hand to her. She took it, slowly, and he drew her to stand close. He glanced over the shelves, then cast a regretful look back at the sofa. “It is hard, Elizabeth, being at peace again. I always wished to have you at my side, to share this room with you,” he murmured.
“You did. You sat there,” she gestured to the chair by the fireplace. “I could have sworn to your presence so many times. It was as though I could hear and touch you. This is the place I felt closest to you, so I spent many an hour here, wishing I could hold you as I do now.”
He gazed down at their hands, tracing his fingers longingly over hers. “I wish to be home again, in truth. I wanted to be strong for you. How it nearly killed me for you to see my weakness! I wish to be your husband, Elizabeth, a partner to care for you, not a broken shell for you to nurse.”
“William,” she turned him to cup his face in her hands, “there is nothing for you to feel ashamed of. Were you on your death bed, you would still be my strength. Nothing can change that.”
He touched his forehead to hers and she could hear him fighting to steady his breath. “You do not feel imposed upon?”
“No,” she shook her head emphatically. “I feel blessed. In every way, I have such extraordinary sources of happiness, and they are all bound up in you.”
A bashful smile hovered on his lips, and he covered her hands again with his. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”
She placed a gentle kiss on his nose. “William,” she whispered, then glanced significantly at the sofa where two girls still reclined.
His face sobered. “I will go now, before they waken.”
Elizabeth tipped her head to the right. “I am not certain about Georgiana, but Lydia at least is no longer asleep.”
He groaned softly. “I had no dignity left as it was, I suppose.”
57
“Lizzy, when I told you all those months ago about letting a man hold you, I’d no notion you would attempt it in public.” Lydia held the hand mirror as her sister brushed her hair, angling it so she could catch Elizabeth’s eye with a knowing smirk.
“Are you saying that we should have been entirely alone?” Elizabeth set the brush aside and made a coil, refusing to permit her sister to embarrass her.
“It is usually better that way. A large, soft bed—ow! You needn’t poke me with the hair pins, Lizzy.”
“I was only comforting him. We were not in any danger of a seduction.”
“That is not what it sounded like to me. I have never heard you make some of those noises, and I am perfectly certain that Mr Darcy had—”
“Lydia, that is quite enough! Yesterday was rather trying for him, let us leave the matter to rest. Please, I beg of you, do not tell Kitty or Mama!”
“Hmm. Well, you are lucky that Georgiana slept through it all. At least, I think she did. Poor girl, she would not have known what to make of it if she had wakened. You know that she and George never… well, you know… did you?”
Elizabeth made no answer for a moment, trying to at least appear to finish Lydia’s hair. “I was never certain. I am glad of it, though.”
“So was I. It would have been a bit strange, being best friends with another girl your husband had—” she broke off and bit her plump lip.
“Lydia,” Elizabeth set aside the brush and knelt before her sister. “You still love him, do you not?”
Lydia swallowed and shrugged. “What would it matter if I did? The blackguard will get what he deserves, and I will try to find someone else someday.”
“Lydia, anger will not help. I know, for I have tried it.”
“It is better than silly tears! At least if I am angry, I feel like I can do something about it. I still wish I could make him suffer, just a little. It would be easier if I thought he was sorry.”
“Perhaps he is,” Elizabeth adjusted one of the curls at her sister’s temple.
“Lizzy, do you think we could go to London?”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Why, Lydia?”
The girl gave a broken sigh and pouted. “Well, I thought perhaps before he is hanged, if I could see him once more. Mr Darcy did hope that I could induce him to tell what he would not tell anyone else, and… well he deserves to know—” Lydia swallowed and twisted her fingers together over her bulging stomach. Her eyes were low, but she lifted them hopefully again to her sister. “Will you ask Mr Darcy if he will take us?”
“I do not know if I can ask him for that, Lydia,” she confessed. “I will speak to him, but it may be too much.”
Lydia nodded and sniffed. “You’d better go on, Lizzy,” she shrugged. “He will be wanting to see you after he dresses.”
Elizabeth rose doubtfully. “You will be well?”
Lydia forced a brave smile. “I always am.”
Elizabeth lingered a few more moments, fussing over her sister’s dress, adjusting her curls, until Lydia at last grew weary of her attentions and demanded that she leave. She went downstairs to the breakfast room, but she was not hungry for more than a bite or two. William never appeared, so she determined to wait for him again in the library.
A fresh fire blazed, and all the evidence of their previous night had been swept away. Elizabeth glanced out of the windows, contemplating a walk, but it was raining. The fire seemed rather inviting, and that silly old journal lay just beside her favourite chair. She smiled, and made herself comfortable.
~
“A full shave? Are you certain, Mr Darcy?”
Wilson stood in his accustomed place at the right of Darcy’s chair, the shaving items all artfully arrayed before him. A steaming white towel filled a bowl, and the razor shone brightly from a recent sharpening. The floor round him was already littered with trimmings—he had survived that much so far—but it was not enough. He wanted to be himself again, and Fitzwilliam Darcy was clean-shaven.
Darcy gritted his teeth. “Yes, Wilson, please proceed.”
“Very good, sir.” Wilson cautiously approached with the towel, and Darcy closed his eyes. This time, the towel would not drape about his neck as it had done when he had intended a mere trim. He drew a deep breath, and his fingers sank into the arms of his chair as Wilson arranged it over his face.
He was trembling, every urge screaming at him to rip the cloth from his face, remove the hot steaming thing from the air he breathed. He knew he was panting, and could only imagine what his trusted valet saw. A fleeting temptation, to bolt to his feet and let the matter rest for another day, pressed into his consciousness.
His fingernails were now scoring the leather of his chair, and his jaw was beginning to ache. He would prevail against this irrational fear! He tried to recall Elizabeth; the way she had bent over him only an hour ago, loving him back to himself, back to his home. His breathing steadied, but his pulse still drummed. He would do this for her, to prove to her that he was deserving of her efforts!
An eternity passed, and the cloth became marginally more bearable. It was cooling, and mercifully, Wilson had
finished preparing the shave cream. Darcy opened his eyes in profound relief when Wilson whisked the cloth away, but now the real test was to begin.
The cream was less trying than it might have been, the soft bristles massaging flesh long hidden to all save Elizabeth and her teasing fingers. Ah, yes, if he could only think on her, close his eyes and imagine her smiling caress! He felt some of the tension leave his hands, but then Wilson turned away for a moment. What he brought back….
Darcy clenched his eyes again, but Wilson’s gentle fingers touched his cheek, reminding him that he must relax his face or he would be cut. He drew a long, ragged breath, and slowly exhaled.
Elizabeth leaned over him again, her hair tumbling down as a blessed veil, engulfing him and shielding him from the rest of the world. Her tender fingers traced his face, and his name was soft upon her lips. He sighed and felt his body release its tension. Elizabeth.
~
12 January, 1759
The babe has kicked mercilessly all day! Mr Darcy insists that it is too early for me to experience such discomfort, but I think perhaps he has forgotten that month he and my brother spent on the continent. I was decidedly with child before his departure, and if my woman is to be believed, I shall be delivered a full three or four weeks before he anticipates. We have it on a wager now; if I am correct, the child shall be named after me. If he is correct, it will be another Fitzwilliam after my father. That the child might be a daughter is clearly out of the question, for Mr Darcy desires a son, so a son I shall give him.
I tire of Lady Margaret’s stay at Pemberley. She seems to feel that as she is doubly my sister by marriage and was, until two years ago, a Darcy herself, that she has license to advise me in matters of the house and preparations for the child. Why, she has gone so far as to presume that our own children might one day marry! If that woman ever has a daughter, I shall be certain that my George—for I know that shall be his name—will have better sense than to marry a cousin twice over. Ridiculous woman!
I declare she must be padding her gowns to match my appearance, for I cannot conceive of how her own babe could be as large as mine. She is hardly circumspect with her personal confidences, but perhaps she speaks the truth. My brother was away at the same time as my husband, after all. Did they not all return to Pemberley together, along with that fellow from Portugal? But no matter, if my sister-in-law carries the next heir to the earldom, my brother is well pleased, regardless of when she is delivered.
She said the most curious thing to me this morning. She claims to have overheard an argument between our husbands in the study, though how she could have heard it all the way from the music room seems a mystery to me. I do believe the silly woman is lost, after all, for one would have to travel the long portrait gallery between those two rooms. That is the kindest assumption I can make, but my maid—
Elizabeth turned the page and flipped it back and forward again. Three or four pages out of the journal had been torn out, and not recently. She fingered the frayed edges of the missing pages, noting how yellowed they were.
Curiously, she scanned the following journal entries. Here and there, more pages had been removed, and then the narrative would resume with mundane details of the household. She was nearly through the volume, and found that the remaining pages contained very little about Lady Margaret or her husband, the former earl. There was one curious entry, near the end, that caught her attention.
14 March, 1759
I am pleased to note that the dreadful business seems to be behind us. Mr Darcy assures me that we shall nevermore hear the name Vasconcelos, and he thinks he shall not have to return to that cursed piece of ground again. My brother, I fear, has nearly ceased speaking to us. I am quite satisfied with that, but Mr Darcy is rather distressed. He insists that we must maintain solidarity with our family, regardless of their perceived errors.
George has not turned, or so my midwife reports. The news is of some concern, for she informs me that if he is born ill, I may find it difficult to carry another child. That matters little to me, for George is to be the heir my husband requires. Childbearing is a tedious affair, and I shall be pleased to have done with it.
I have grand plans for the London house, and as soon as the talk about that poor dead fellow cools, I intend to hire the very best decorator to be had. Mr Darcy agrees that I must show myself a gracious hostess, and naturally I must present myself at court next season. I have confidence that in time, all shall be forgotten.
I have decided that once this volume is complete, I shall give up on journaling. I shall have weightier duties, and it has become rather bothersome to secrete this from the maids. Every corner of my habitual chambers are regularly cleaned, and it does not fit within my desk, so there is no place readily at hand to keep it. Perhaps one day I shall remove certain passages and give this into the keeping of my son, so that I no longer have the bother of keeping it hidden away. I must close for now, Mr Darcy has been wanting me this half hour.
Elizabeth dropped the old journal, eyes wide. A dead man! And the mentions of Portugal were too staggering to dismiss. Hurriedly, she flipped back to one of the first entries she had read. There it was, a reference to the earlier Mr Darcy visiting Portugal and conducting some business. How had she not noted it before?
Her hands tingled, then felt numb as she feathered through the pages. Oh, she must show this to William! Stumbling out of her chair, she raced from the library.
~
Matlock House, London
“James Fitzwilliam! I would speak with you in private!”
The earl of Matlock had just been raising a glass to his lips when his sister forcefully invaded his study. His hand jerked, splashing amber liquid over his trousers. Annoyed, he lurched to his feet to brush off the troublesome stain. “Catherine? What the devil are you doing here?”
She slammed the door herself and whirled about in a storm of black mink and silk. “I will thank you to speak in a civilised manner! And why would I not have come, if my niece is deceased?”
“I had not thought you interested in leaving Kent. What is this all about, charging into my study like a harridan? Why can you not wait to be received properly?”
“Did you honestly think that I would not notice that monstrous announcement you had printed in the papers? I never thought you capable of something so foolish, James. Of all the preposterous notions! We settled that Georgiana was to marry a viscount, not some penniless second son who cannot be got out of his uniform!”
“Perhaps we have,” the earl smiled. “I have come to see the matter quite your way, Catherine. A viscount Georgiana shall have.”
“And Anne is to be wed to her cousin. This we agreed!”
He gestured dismissively. “Whatever pleases you, Catherine. You may have Richard for Anne.”
She lifted her cane, shaking it in his face. “I am not speaking of Richard. I have waited for you to confess your knowledge of it, but I can see that you do not intend to do so. Darcy has returned! I have seen him myself. There, now what have you to say to that?”
He had resumed dabbing the drink stain from his trousers, but stopped to gape at her. “Darcy? Are you consorting with spirits now, Catherine?”
She sneered. “Blasphemy! I speak of our nephew, Fitzwilliam Darcy, perfectly alive and residing at Pemberley at this very moment!”
“I would tell you to see the physician, if one could be found willing to attend you. Darcy has been gone half a year! What do you mean, coming to my study and crying out about dead men walking about their former estates?”
Fuming, Lady Catherine de Bourgh committed one of the least lady-like acts of her life. She twisted her mouth into a tight scowl, grasped what remained of the earl’s drink, and flung it in his face. “He is not dead, James! I saw him with my own eyes, and conversed with him at length until he ordered me out of his house. He ordered me!”
Matlock ground his teeth, murder in his eyes as the liquid ran down his face. �
�I always said the boy had sense. I ought to have ordered you out of my house years ago!”
“He accused me of conspiring to have him killed! I have never been so insulted in all my life. I insist that we make answer to this, James! I will not bear the brunt of whatever you have wrought with your scheming.”
“Scheming? I have done nothing against Darcy! Why are you so hasty to turn this on me? Where has he been all this time, if he was not dead, and why does he suddenly return? Had he some scandal to conceal?”
She blew out an impatient breath, rolling her eyes at his dullness. “He was in Portugal. Do not employ your arts with me, for I know you must have been involved in some way.”
“Well, I was not. The last word I had of Darcy, before I was escorting his body to the grave, was that he was in Town on business and intended to call in a few days. I never even had an opportunity to send a reply! Where does this ‘Darcy’ of yours claim that he was?”
“Did you not hear me? He was in Portugal, James. He was taken from the street, placed on a ship, and held captive for months, and you and I both know the reason!”
An uneasy expression passed over the earl’s face. His brow furrowed and his jaw fell almost slack. He put a finger to his lips and paced behind his desk. “Portugal?” he asked in a low voice. “I thought—”
“You thought our father buried that secret? Apparently, he did not, for the son of that vile man is the one who held our nephew.”
“What could he expect to gain? Darcy knew nothing of it, nor, I fancy, did his parents. Old Richard Darcy and Lady Georgina were quick to forget everything, and our own father spoke but little of that affair. I have done what I could to see the matter rest.”
These Dreams: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 58