"I didn't try hard enough."
She rolled over, stroking his hair. "Close your eyes. It will be morning soon," she reassured him.
*~~*~~*
When he woke, he had a throbbing pain just behind his forehead, a taste of dirty socks in his mouth and an oozing gash on his foot. As he crept out of their bedroom, careful not to wake Elizabeth, Darcy was still hoping vomiting would help but he knew it wouldn't.
He asked Mr. Reynolds to dress him up then went downstairs. Lillian and Mrs. Reynolds eyed him as he hobbled into the dining room well after seven, wearing his breeches and white shirt. Yellow sunlight streamed through the windows and spilled across the floor. He grimaced and raised one hand, trying to shield his eyes.
"Must a been quite a party," Lillian commented.
"Is there a coffee?" he asked Mrs. Reynolds as two new powder kegs of pain exploded behind his eyeballs.
"You don't need no coffee," Lillian answered knowingly, as he limped past her, still squinting. "It'll just make you sicker, Fitzwilliam. Hair of the dog that's what you need."
"Coffee," he repeated.
"I will get it." Mrs. Reynolds answered and left the dining room.
He nodded, trying not to move his head very much.
"Your limp have somethin' to do with the busted lock on the door in the kitchen?" Lillian asked. "Or the blood on the stairs?"
"Possibly. I was drunk. I don't remember."
She flipped two empty chairs around so they faced each other, gesturing for him to sit on one and prop his foot on the other which he did.
She "hummed" in the back of her throat, leaning down and poking at the jagged cut on his heel. He jerked away when she found a tender spot, and she pulled his foot back, frowning.
"It hurts!"
"Course it hurts," she responded, sitting down. "It has a big splinter in it. Don't kick doors, open if you don't want your foot to hurt, Fitzwilliam. What happened last night? You have a fight with her?"
"Her?"
"Her."
"I've told you. She's not her. She's my wife," he reminded her. "She is Mrs. Darcy."
"She is that," she agreed coolly. "And my Georgie's stepmother."
"And Georgie's sister," he corrected her as he closed his eyes, massaging his temples. Georgiana was a daughter for him but he wouldn't dare to ask Elizabeth to be her stepmother. Being a sister was enough.
Lillian was quiet for a while. Then, she cleared her throat and asked, "What you think Georgie's gonna make of that?"
"Make of what?" he mumbled, still massaging his forehead and only half listening. "What do you mean?"
Catching him off-guard, she asked evenly, "I mean, you think Georgiana be pleased she was with child before her beloved Anne was even cold in a grave?"
He opened his eyes and stared at her, still hung-over and momentarily thinking he'd heard wrong.
"That was rude and uncalled for, Lillian," he said eventually.
"Don't change it, though."
"It doesn't make it any of your business," he responded tersely, and a tense silence followed.
Lillian stared at him rebelliously as Darcy's head throbbed. She'd been forgetting lately that she reported to him, not the other way around.
He opened his mouth to remind her of that fact but then closed it again. It wasn't only his wife that had died but also Lillian's very close person. His only sister didn't want to come back home but so was the girl Lillian had nursed and cared for. He hadn't cornered the market on pain in their unjust world. Lillian had her share as well. She also lost the people she loved.
Lillian poked at his heel a few more times and he jerked his foot back, still frowning at her as his forehead throbbed and his eyes burned. Regardless of how much she might hurt, it didn't excuse her basically calling Elizabeth a whore.
"She is my wife," he repeated deliberately. "If you can't respect that, if you can't respect her…" He trailed off, not wanting to make a threat he wasn't really willing to follow through on.
"Guess it can't be undone now," she said finally, seeming to realise she'd bitten off more than she could chew.
The butler entered the room with the coffee. Leaning sideways in her chair, Lillian reached for the kettle and then filled his cup.
"No. No, it can't. None of it can." He said when the servant left.
"Nope," she agreed coolly.
"You failed her, too," he said, letting some of the anger inside him boil to the surface. "You were supposed to look after Anne while I was gone but you weren't even here. You left Georgiana to take care of her and she was scared to death."
Lillian stared at the floor.
Eventually, he said, "Which also can't be undone now."
"Nope," she repeated. "Fitzwilliam, I know I should have been here."
"You and I can blame each other but Anne's still gone. I can't bring her back. Not for me, not for you, and not for Georgie. I met Elizabeth and it…" he paused, trying to put into words she might understand. "It seemed right. And then Jane.… It seemed like a place to begin again. You act like I'm being disloyal to Anne's memory when I'm not. I care for Elizabeth but it's not the same at all."
"I know. I change the bed sheets. It ain't the same at all."
"What do you mean by that?"
She didn't answer but her cheekbones stood out as she clenched her teeth.
"How dare you!" he barked at her, losing his temper. "I don't think you have any room to judge Elizabeth or me or us or our marriage and if you ever say anything like that again...– How dare you!" he repeated, angry but still not quite believing his ears. Lillian could be plainspoken but he'd never known her to be so blatantly disrespectful.
She flinched, wincing slightly in her chair the way Anne had when he'd get upset with her. "Forgive me," she said, sounding sincere. "But it's true. People are talking."
"She's my wife," he said, getting his temper partially in check. "Elizabeth's been nothing but kind to you, and you've barely been civil to her. Why are you so bent on hating her? Because you can't manage her every move? Because she doesn't look at you to tell her what to say when someone asks: How are you today, Mrs. Darcy? She's not Anne. She can think for herself." He closed his mouth, picked up his cup, then put it down again without drinking it.
" It's my house, you work for me and I've had enough of this. Elizabeth is not a girl. She's my wife, in a body and name. You might as well stop pissing around like a jilted mistress."
She grabbed her tray and left the dining room. Darcy, the King of Tact, laid his throbbing head on the table, sighing. Regardless of whatever bee she had in her bonnet that might not have been the most fruitful way to handle that situation.
*~~*~~*
He tried to be quiet but there wasn't much need. Elizabeth would have slept through the burning of Rome. He added a few logs to the fire so their room was warm, then brought a basin of hot water upstairs and set it on the nightstand. After some searching, Darcy found an unopened bar of floral-scented soap in the dressing room cupboard. He added a clean washcloth and a stack of towels to his collection.
She opened her eyes as he ran the washcloth over her belly, leaving a wet trail behind. "What are you doing now, Mr. Darcy?" she asked sleepily.
"Making amends," he answered, "Good morning."
"Good morning."
He wet the washcloth again, massaging it over her shoulders, neck, and breasts.
"How is your foot?" she asked, but he shook his head, wanting her to be quiet. It was his turn to take care of her.
Despite the fire, her nipples hardened and gooseflesh rose on her skin. The water glistened on her skin, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colours. Her hair had tangled into a dark mass of curls, making her look wild and primal. He squeezed the washcloth above her belly, watching the water stream over her hipbones and disappear between her thighs.
"Elizabeth, you said I frightened you last night. I didn't mean to. I had too much to drink, had a bad dream and when I woke up, I was upset. Forgive me,"
he mumbled. "It won't happen again."
He'd rehearsed these lines, and hers was "apology accepted." Instead, she asked, "Why could you not tell me the truth about Anne?"
He stuttered, caught off-guard, "I- I don't know. Because it was my fault, maybe. It's hard to talk about it. I'd rather not talk about it. I just wanted to apologise and make amends."
He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her head away.
"How was it your fault? Because of Lillian's baby?"
"Was that the consensus last night?"
"What?"
"Was that what everyone was saying at dinner? That Anne- That it was because I fathered Lillian's child?"
"No, I have heard no one say that except you."
He looked down, fiddling with the washcloth. "I told you. I'm not the father. I could speculate on who is, but I wasn't even at the Pemberley when that baby was conceived."
There was silence, and he shifted uncomfortably.
"Yes, Lillian is exquisite but so was Anne. I've never been unfaithful to my wife."
"I was not accusing you. I was answering when you asked about a consensus."
"I know you weren't."
He rinsed the washcloth, sloshing the soapy water over the sides of the basin. There was a rusty smear of dried blood on the bottom sheet, and he dabbed it, realising it was his. The back of his aching brain tingled and an unexplained shiver ran down his spine. He blinked in confusion, tapped it again, and shook his head, clearing it.
"I kissed her," he finally said softly. "Once. I was twenty one. Things didn't go well between Anne and I. I went to check on children, trying to cool off, and Lillian was with them. We talked for a while in the darkness and then, I don't know why, but I kissed her. No, I do know why. Anyway, I told her I was sorry and said it wouldn't happen again. And it hadn't. And it won't."
"Why?"
He slid each of his lips between his teeth, trying to plan an answer since she obviously expected one.
"Why did I kiss her?"
"No, why did you stop?"
"Oh." That was an easier, less embarrassing question to answer. "Lillian was a servant. Yes, she has been close to me since I was a child but she was a servant."
Elizabeth put one hand behind her head, staring at him in confusion. "But she was Anne's half-sister?"
"But I didn't know about it then."
"Would you do it if you knew she was your cousin?"
He was learning there were upsides and downsides to being married to an intelligent, observant woman.
"I don't want to talk about it anymore," he blurted out. "I just wanted to tell you I was sorry for getting angry. I brought you the tea."
He swirled the washcloth around the basin, watching the rough white fabric glide through the water.
He squeezed the cloth out and rinsed it again, splattering drops of soapy water across the richly polished wood of the nightstand.
"Mr. Darcy, it is all right," she repeated, sitting up. When he still didn't look at her, she put her hand on his shoulder and then slid both arms around his neck. "It is fine," she whispered to him.
"I guess I neglected to tell you a few things when I asked you to marry me."
She stroked his face, tracing his eyebrows and cheekbones with her thumbs as she tried to comfort him. "Well, you said you were not odd, which remains to be seen. You said you had a temper and curse. You were impulsive and demanding. You curled up and went to sleep when you drank. You said you liked children. You said you wanted me and cared for me and were not rough. That was all true. But I was relieved to find there were not bones in the house."
He pushed his eyebrows together, not sure he understood.
"You said there were skeletons in your closets."
He was probably being teased, but he wasn't certain. "I meant, there were secrets."
"Of course, I knew that," she smiled, flicking her finger lightly against the tip of his nose.
She was such a tease!
"What did I ever do to deserve you?"
"Something very, very bad," she answered, pursing her lips in mock seriousness and looking like the lady-friend he'd made in the Scotland. As much as he liked his new wife, he missed his friend.
"Elizabeth, I also said, when I asked you to marry me, that I would take care of you and Jane. Not the other way around."
"You have taken care of us. Look around. Could we possibly want for anything?"
"No, I don't mean with things. I mean…" he searched for the right way to say it. "You're very strong, Elizabeth. You don't share your secrets or yourself casually. I'm your husband but sharing my bed isn't sharing yourself. Sometimes one bed is as far apart as two people can get. I know I get angry when you push me to talk but I also know I need that push. But the more I push you, the more you pull away. I guess what I'm trying to say is… yes, you're right. I'm hurting but I know you're hurting too. You have to be but you're so good at not showing it. You said you'd tell me if you aren't well and I can only trust that you will. And if I don't hear you the first time you tell me, please tap me on the shoulder and tell me again until I do. I can be a little dense." He ran out of air and ramblings. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
She nodded that she did, leaning back on the pillows and looking like Aphrodite patiently waiting for Titian to paint her portrait.
"Do you really? The fearless hero is supposed to come charging in on his white horse and save the damsel in distress. Not the other way around."
"Mr. Darcy, I only let you save me in self-defence."
*~~*~~*
He slipped easily into a pleasant routine with Elizabeth. It was a lesser love but still quite nice and several steps above being lonely. Gray autumn days blended into frigid winter nights and 1811 went on as if life was real. Georgiana still didn't want to come back or met her new family. Every day he was starring at the door of her bedroom and then turning away without ever touching the knob.
Jane mastered rolling over and worked on crawling. Her blonde hair faded out a little, her brown eyes stayed brown. People unfailingly said she looked like Darcy but babies were like clouds. People saw what they wanted to.
Even on a good day, Elizabeth was a challenge. Or just difficult, depending on how generous he was feeling. She had and trusted her own opinions and wasn't hesitant about sharing them with him. When he didn't agree with her, she folded her arms, pursed her lips, and looked at him like he'd just blown his nose on her skirt.
She was generally difficult in a very erotic way, which might explain why most of their arguments began in the library and ended in bed. But when she wanted to work at it, she could turn being difficult into an art form.
He accidentally groaned "I love you" during intercourse, then told himself a man loved anything while he is in bed with a woman and never mentioned it again. He never understood what Elizabeth whispered to him but it still sounded nice.
*~~*~~*
A warm hand jostled him and caressed his face as he woke. The book of William Wordsworth's poems was still open on his chest and the candle near almost burned out. Outside, the icy wind whistled against the window, making him shiver despite the blankets.
"You were having a bad dream," Elizabeth whispered, soothing him. "A nightmare. Calling for Georgiana. You are awake now, Fitzwilliam."
He nodded, trying to get his bearings and only partially succeeding. Elizabeth was with him, so Anne was dead. And Georgie was gone.
"Tell me about your dream," she requested, leaning over him to blow out the candle.
He shook his head forcefully, exhaling, and she didn't ask again.
He rolled away, putting his back to her, and shifted restlessly until he finally got up. Thinking she was asleep, he sat on the chaise lounge in front of the bedroom window, arms around his knees, and stared out the dark windowpane. The wind blew the sleet against the glass panes, making insistent little tapping sounds as though desperate to be let in.
Almost immediately, Elizabeth got up and followed
him. She rested her hand on his shoulder, acting as though there was nothing unusual in him sitting nude by the window in the middle of the night.
"Come to bed," she whispered.
She took his hand, getting him to move. When they reached the bed, he stood still, the smoky haze of his dream still clouding his mind. Elizabeth traced her fingertips across his shoulders and down his arms, barely touching. She brushed her lips over his throat, then to his chest, teasing his nipple with her teeth and tongue. His body reacted automatically.
"…Don't have to do this," he whispered to her.
"It is all right," she murmured, guiding him back onto the mattress and gently working her way down his body with her mouth.
"No, lie back."
He wanted to be as close to her as possible. He wanted to feel every inch of her skin against his. Not just her mouth but her arms around him, breath against him, her heart pressing against his.
"You are… I care," he whispered through clenched teeth, sliding inside her. She was slick from earlier but less aroused than he, and what was a deliciously tight sensation for him was uncomfortable for her. He waited, panting, giving her body time to adjust to his. "For you. I do. You know that, don't you?"
It was suddenly very important to him she understood how grateful he was. To her. For her. Not only for marrying him but for being his friend. Not only for their physical intimacy but for being there, for him. She made his world comfortable, bearable. Two places at the dinner table, four legs in a warm bed and one more chance.
"I know," she whispered back, relaxing into the pillows. Suddenly, mercifully, his universe was condensed into the narrow space between her thighs and there was nothing else for what remained of the cold night.
*~~*~~*
Mrs. Darcy sat on the sofa and read a book while Jane was pulling herself up to standing, clutching her mother's dress tightly with her little fists. She let go, considered taking a step on her own, then decided against it and grabbed hold again. Elizabeth put one hand on her daughter's back, rubbing affectionately. Darcy paused at the entrance, watching his family for few seconds. As he opened the back door, delighted, Jane flopped back on her padded bottom and raised her arms, babbling for "papa papa."
Mr Darcy's Second Chance Page 10