In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  Voices lifted in shouts and screams. People scattered in all directions. Lizzy stood open-mouthed, immobile in stupefied terror, staring at the calamity heading straight for her. Darcy, thankfully, reacted with brisk efficiency. At the second plangent crack, he pivoted, grabbing his wife and child in a crushing embrace, lifting bodily until Lizzy’s feet were off the ground, and lunged up the trail away from where the avalanche was destined to land. He whipped his head toward Mrs. Hanford, who also stood rooted to the spot, yelling in a snapping command, “Mrs. Hanford! Move!”

  She jolted, but his penetrating order did the trick, she too twirling about. Watson grasped onto her upper arm, hauling hard as they all dashed to safety. Yet, everything was happening so fast. The debris of tiny rocks and dirt showered their shoulders seconds before the rock crashed into the hard-packed ground, sundering down the middle with shards splintering from the edges and flying through the air.

  Darcy’s wide strides carried them ten feet from the place of impact, almost precisely where they had been standing moments before. Watson and Mrs. Hanford ducked to the left, behind a large tree mere milliseconds before a sharp limestone sliver forcefully speared the trunk inches above Watson’s head. Darcy did not look back, plunging headlong with his body curled around his family and his back to the danger. He faltered only once, grunting hoarsely as his step momentarily tottering to the right, but he adroitly recovered and ran until so winded he could barely breathe. Then he ran more, placing a good distance between them and the cavern portal before halting.

  The abrupt silence, or relative silence in comparison to the smashing and ripping sounds that still echoed within the cavern recesses, was proof that the immediate danger was past. Nevertheless, he looked behind, making absolutely sure that nothing menacing remained before loosening the bruising grip around Lizzy and settling her to the ground.

  She was trembling violently, her eyes wide and pupils dilated. Alexander was awake and equally alarmed, sucking vigorously on a thumb while the other hand was painfully clenched in his mother’s hair. Darcy studied them closely, gazing with penetrating intensity into their eyes, and bent to cup Lizzy’s cheek.

  “Are you hurt? In any way?”

  She shook her head, swallowing past the desert in her throat before able to speak. “I’m fine. We are fine.”

  He scanned over their bodies to verify her claim, and then nodded curtly. His face was grim as he turned to look for Mrs. Hanford and survey the damage.

  “William! Oh my God! You are hurt!” She lifted shaking fingertips to the two-inch gash along the underside of his left jawline, the oozing blood that had already soaked into his cravat and collar coating her fingers.

  He did not even look at her, shaking his head shortly. “It is nothing. Ah, there is Mrs. Hanford and Watson. They appear uninjured. Stay here,” he commanded, glancing at her then as he started to step away. The expression of severe dismay and teary eyes blinking furiously as she tried to remain calm halted him. He sighed, gently clasping her face and bending for a tender, brief kiss. “I am fine, Elizabeth. A scratch only that will easily mend.” He wiped the spilled tears from her cheeks. “Now that I know you and Alexander are safe, I must check if anyone needs assistance. Stay here, promise me. I will instruct Watson to take you to the carriage. I will return swiftly.” He kissed her again, smiling into her troubled eyes.

  She nodded. “Yes. Of course. As you wish. But then we are finding a physician to look at your wound.” She spoke firmly, once again in control and exerting her authority, meeting his eyes with a challenge.

  He chuckled. “As you wish, Mrs. Darcy.” Then he pivoted and strode briskly back to the cave.

  Miraculously, no one was severely injured. There were a number of scrapes and abrasion from falling debris or stumbling while running away. Three people suffered cuts similar to Darcy’s from launched shards. One man was impaled through the upper arm from a larger piece of rock, a wound messy and extremely painful but not fatal. Another man miscalculated his footing, slipping on a terrace edge, and tumbling down the slope to land in the river gorge. He hit his head hard enough to swoon and develop a huge knot, but aside from a massive headache and the pain from dozens of scrapes, he recovered without defect.

  A boy was sent to Castleton to fetch the surgeon. He was a disreputable looking character, but he tended the wounds efficiently enough, so Darcy allowed him to examine his laceration. The wound was not deep, the bleeding clotted long before the surgeon touched it. He cleaned it well, declared that it did not require stitching—not that Darcy would have permitted the scruffy fellow to pierce his skin with a needle—and slathered the slice with an herbal poultice and resin ointment to adhere the skin edges.

  The troglodytes rallied together admirably. Moments after the boulder landed, while the sound of impact still shook the air, they were soberly and resourcefully organizing. No one person appeared to be in charge, and few orders were given, but before Darcy or any of the visitors returned to the scene, the cave dwellers had triaged the injured to the main hut and were in the process of rescuing the poor man lying in the riverbed. Children were picking up the smaller rocks and women were sweeping the debris. Several burly men were staring intently at the heavy pieces of stone, clinically discussing where best to discard it, while others were examining the precious ropes and equipment for any damage.

  Of all the sights seen that strange morning, in some respects the cool practicality of these hardy people who lived roughly among rock, darkness, and the elements was the oddest.

  There was little for any of the gentlemen to do, so the Darcys were finally able to leave the Devil’s Arse with relief. The blood-soaked cravat was stowed in a pocket, and Darcy had washed his grimy hands and brushed the dirt off his jacket and out of his hair. The mundane tasks had served to restore his calm for the most part, and he rounded the corner beyond which the carriage waited with his emotions largely under control.

  Lizzy, unfortunately, had not been so lucky in finding an outlet for her worry. Alexander had nursed, more for the need to be cuddled than for nourishment, promptly falling back to sleep. This left Lizzy with nothing to do but pace for what felt like hours. She envied the infant’s ability to pacify, as she was a bundle of nerves ready to explode! The trauma coupled with visions of her husband bleeding, even though she knew the injury minor, threatened to undo her. When Darcy finally reappeared, walking briskly but composedly, her frayed regulation ripped apart. Tears spilled and she flew across the short distance, barely halting before slamming bodily into him.

  As abruptly as the tears fell, she flared irritably. The release of her fear brought on a case of serious pique and she grasped hard onto his upper arm while the other hand lifted his chin so she could examine the dressing.

  “He did an adequate job, I suppose,” she declared. “I saw him arrive and his appearance did not engender confidence. George would sooner kiss Lady Catherine than dress so disheveled and dirty. Tell me he washed his hands before slathering your face with this?”

  Darcy was smiling. “He did, sort of. Do not fear, love. I have sufficient knowledge of how to treat abrasions and lacerations. I have had a few others in my lifetime,” he said dryly, Lizzy snorting while she continued to blink her eyes furiously and fuss roughly. “I will send a servant to the apothecary for the necessary ingredients. I doubt it will leave a scar.”

  He clutched her hands, stopping them from their incessant fidgeting over his garments and person, and brought her fingers to his mouth for a tender kiss. When he spoke, his voice was low, steeped in checked emotion. “We are all well, dearest. But, if you are not too disappointed, I believe I would rather forego the afternoon’s agenda and return to Chelmbridge. Not only do I desperately need to change clothing, I also desperately need to hold my family close.”

  She nodded, smiling as her churlishness evaporated. She leaned into his chest, Darcy embracing and kissing the top of her head. “Indeed, I think I have seen enough caves to last me several years. Take me
home, Fitzwilliam.”

  They would not return “home” for two more days, but the Logans’ lovely estate was adequate for the requisite rest, affection, and sweet lovemaking they craved. Mutual agreement meant that Poole’s Cavern would be saved for another excursion at a much later date. They ended their holiday staying above ground, leisurely driving over the beautiful and unique landscape of the Peak from Chapel-en-le-Frith down to Buxton and through Tideswell to Hathersage before veering south. They reverted to the favored pastime of touring historical places and churches as they strolled along manicured lawns and easy pathways, pushing a fascinated Alexander in his perambulator.

  The last days of peace and delightful entertainment were necessary to erase the fright that cast a pall upon the whole vacation, both of them glad they had not succumbed to their nerves and rushed back to Pemberley immediately. On their first night in the familiar mansion that was in every way their home, after Alexander was tucked into his bed, Darcy pulled his naked wife onto his bared body. He drew her earlobe between his lips, sucking lightly, and then whispered huskily, “Shall we see how our bed compares to the Chelmbridge one in the sturdiness department?”

  He grinned, lifting his left brow, Lizzy dissolving in laughter as she nodded a definite affirmative. And with that declaration, and the passion that ensued, the holiday at the Peaks was cemented within their minds as one of tremendous enjoyment only.

  Chapter Seventeen

  COLONEL FITZWILLIAM’S AFFAIRS

  Riding alone through the ill lit secondary avenues of London as the midnight hour passed was generally considered an unwise option. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was a cautious man for the most part, but also one who, after years of war in places that made London’s mean streets appear as the golden paved lanes of Heaven, did not frighten easily. Nonetheless, he kept his right hand lightly resting on his thigh near the butt of a loaded pistol. He wore a nondescript suit of dark blue, blending into the shadows as his uniform would not allow. It was essential that his mission not be detected. Finding a balance between stealth while not so obviously trying to evade notice was the key. Fortunately, he was skilled at such tactics, the military thorough in the lessons taught to their officers, as this excursion was of the utmost importance.

  He turned down another back alley that led to the main thoroughfare he needed to hastily cross, but which was empty, whereas the broader street would likely not be. Even at this late hour and with the vast majority of the inhabitants of the fine townhouses he passed gone for the summer, the traffic in Town was never sparse. The ring of his mount’s hooves on stone blended with the noise echoing from the streets, but he kept his chin down and wide-brimmed hat pulled low just in case attention was drawn. Anonymity was essential. He could not, under any circumstances, encounter someone he knew.

  Outwardly calm and vigilant, inside his heart raced. This was the third night in the past two weeks he had embarked on this mission. It was late September, the worst of London’s oppressive heat passing as the trees slowly began to color. The afternoon breezes increased, the evenings shortened with impressive sunset displays, migrating birds flurried in droves, and fall blooms emerged as signs of the autumn season ahead. Not surprisingly, it was the first time in many long years that the hardened man of war who had also lived in the busy city for fifteen years noticed his surrounds in such a light. Fleetingly, he wondered if Darcy had experienced the same sort of sentimental, and rather foolish and embarrassing, tendencies as his love blossomed. Not that Richard would ever ask!

  Yet, as ridiculous as he felt at times, there was no denying that these past months were the happiest of his life. The “accidental” encounters with Lady Fotherby had continued unabated all summer long. Initial innocent meetings at The Green Park with brief walks gradually lengthening had led to additional “surprise” rendezvous about town, as planned agendas were shared while nonchalantly conversing. It was remarkably easy to arrange. The official social Season was over, but there were always events happening or places to meet casually. However, as amazing as it was to spend time with her in these settings, it was not as fulfilling as it could have been and as they both desperately wished for it to be. Frank or lengthy conversation was impossible.

  Her family remained firm on the necessity for her to mourn officially for a year. Although she had not shared her interest in the son of Lord and Lady Matlock, their increasingly frequent chance assignations were notable. Pointed questions had not been asked, but she gleaned from oblique comments and meaningful glances that her father and uncle were suspicious, at the least, and not happy about the development. She was worried about their opinion on the subject, but refused to dwell on it. Rather she delighted in what even at her age and past history was the first love she had ever experienced.

  That her emotions toward Richard Fitzwilliam were real and profoundly deep was without doubt. Clearly his devotion was as strong. Two weeks ago while meeting at the British Museum’s Roman wing, Lady Fotherby had slipped a folded parchment into his jacket pocket. She was so devious and sly in the transfer that he had not discovered the missive until late that night when preparing for bed!

  My Dearest R,

  I know this is incredibly forward of me and pray I will not earn your disrespect, but I find that my heart can no longer restrain its need to speak with you in a more intimate setting. Therefore, I beseech you to visit me this Tuesday hence. Come discreetly, I beg of you, at the midnight hour to the rear entrance of my house. My trusted servant will be waiting and escort you in undetected. My only wish is to converse openly and adequately express my feelings. No demands are placed upon you, I promise. I simply yearn for the joy in seeing your face. Yours, S

  The agony of waiting through the intervening two days until Tuesday was nearly more than he could bear. He vacillated between unparalleled excitement and intense nervousness. The latter emotion was somewhat embarrassing to admit. The truth was he did not know precisely what she contemplated by “adequately express my feelings” and was unsure what his outlook was on the prospects! Richard was not an innocent and obviously neither was Lady Fotherby. The physical attraction they felt for each other was palpable and the thought of loving her as he wished to with every particle of his body was a joyous imagining that he lived each night in vivid detail.

  Yet in every dream, she was his wife.

  For the first time in his entire life, the mere notion of intimacy with someone other than the woman he hoped to be wed to before the year was out was an untenable concept. He was more than willing to wait and found the abstaining strangely sweet. Still, as thrilling as the vision of consummating their sacred vows in the proper manner and time, he was only human!

  He need not have fretted over the matter, however. It is not that Lady Fotherby—Simone, as she would forever now be to him—was not involved in her own struggle over physical desires; but the simple delight in just sitting together holding hands, talking, and stealing kisses was exalting. They talked until the sun sent its first hazy rays over the horizon, Richard hastily escaping into the few remaining shadows. Embarrassment, hesitation, discomposure, unfamiliarity; it all faded in those hours spent communicating.

  He shared his past as he had with few people. Honest tales of his wartime experiences, reminiscences from his youth, blunders and ridiculousness of adolescence, University incidents and education, and so on. She spoke of her arranged marriage to the kindly Lord Fotherby, a man she respected and cared for, but had never loved. Mostly she talked about her sons: Harry who was now seven, and four-year-old Hugh. They were the light of her life, Richard understanding and accepting that his love would never supplant the place they held in her heart, but merely come alongside.

  They confessed their mutual infatuation all those years ago, admitting honestly that although real, it was of an immature nature. Perhaps it could have escalated into a deeper love, but no time was spent on worthless regrets. Besides, their current affair possessed all the traits of a silly, juvenile romance in how giddy and deli
rious they were. Now was all that mattered and by the time the first night waned into the blush of morning, their declarations of love were made and plans for a future together were set in motion. October ten was around the corner and Richard fully intended to make his intentions known and officially ask for permission to court Lady Fotherby no later than October eleventh!

  Successfully, he traversed the distance between his house to the grand manor in secret. Miss Hale waited at the servant’s door near the kitchen, guiding him through the dark passageways leading to the parlor. She took her seat situated near the doorway, prepared to attentively guard from any unwanted nighttime wanders, while he knocked softly and waited for his love’s welcome.

  It came quickly, the door opening to reveal her smiling face and seeking hand that grasped his and pulled him into the room. In a heartbeat, Richard yet fumbling to latch the door behind, she was in his arms.

  “I missed you so much!” she breathed, raining kisses over his face.

  “You just saw me today at the art exhibit,” he said with a laugh.

  “Yes, but we hardly spoke for all the others demanding my attention. What a bother! Why can they not leave me alone and allow me to gaze upon your face in abstracted contentment?”

  “There is little to look at, my dear. You would be bored in minutes.”

  “Stop that! I weary of you speaking nonsense, Richard Fitzwilliam. Yours is a face I can drown in. Now, come and sit. I have hot tea and your favorite berry tarts. Tell me about your day. You left the exhibit early.”

  “I really should not have come at all as my duties were overwhelming me, but I could not resist. Speaking with you, however obliquely, stealing a touch of your fingers or perhaps a kiss, has become my intoxicant. I am addicted to you, dearest Simone.”