Mr Darcy's Second Chance

by Gillian Smith

  "You can breathe now, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth said softly after Georgiana's footsteps had faded away.

  *~~*~~*

  Only children believed in happily ever-after but then, he'd been a child – an idyllic young man dreaming of a future too perfect to be real.

  He'd wanted to be a dutiful son and to make his parents proud. He'd wanted a beautiful, loving wife to willingly lie beside him at night and healthy children to hold in his arms. At thirteen, it had all seemed easily available. Then his mother died, two years later his father and he became a father of his baby sister.

  Dreams were washed down over time, their polish and gilt eroding away so their true core showed through. He had his boyhood dream, Darcy realised late one night when the house was quiet. The boy had just grown into a man.

  He had all the fine things he'd wanted, though he'd discovered they were merely that. Things. He recalled this summer he'd spend sleeping in Elizabeth's attic, clinging to a fine thread of happiness rather than returning to the hollow comforts of his empty estate.

  As a boy, he would have never envisioned himself marrying a woman like Elizabeth but he wasn't a boy any longer. Where he was impulsive and emotional, she was logical and methodical. He leaped. She held his feet to the ground. He loved and she let him. She was his ally even when he doubted himself and he was her protector when she didn't think she needed to be watched over. She was there when he needed her and he let himself need her. She made him a whole person. As he'd once hoped, they filled in each other's cracks, and no one, even Lillian, could come between that for very long. They had children – two beautiful girls and Georgiana, each with their own challenges, and each with their future still unwritten. And if he allowed her to, his wife would willingly come to him as soon as she was able, risking her life to give him another child.

  Fathers cast a long shadow. Money can't buy happiness. Home is where the heart is. A virtuous woman's price was far above rubies and every child was a miracle. As the years passed, dreams distilled down to reality and there was more truth in old sayings. This was a second chance at the life he'd envisioned, complete with its everyday flaws and miracles.

  As that realisation settled over him, Darcy listened to the wind in the distance and Elizabeth's soft breathing as she slept. He walked to the bed and lay beside her, then curled his body against hers in the darkness. He put his arms around her thankfully, closed his eyes and didn't dream that night.

  *~~*~~*

  He lounged on the sofa, pretending to read his book but actually watching as a maid helped Elizabeth dress. Her hair went up first, tamed by the brush, coerced into a braid, and pinned into a loose knot on her crown. She rolled on fine silk stockings and secured them with garters below each knee, then slipped off her dressing gown, revealing lace trimmed pantalets that reached her calves. She wore a simple white chemise against her skin, then a corset which the maid tightened carefully, stopping the instant Elizabeth told her to. She buttoned a corset cover over it but the fabric didn't meet in front, and Elizabeth took it off, not bothering. She was only dressing to go downstairs. It would be weeks before she was well enough to go out again, but her Priest was coming to the Friday afternoon tea.

  "Petticoats or do you just want your wrapper, Ma'am?" the maid asked, opening the wardrobe.

  "Petticoats. I will try a dress," Elizabeth answered, looking unenthusiastically her choices. Anything that might fit dated to her sixth month of pregnancy.

  "Give us a few minutes," Darcy requested and the maid quickly obeyed, laying her armload of ruffled petticoats on the bed.

  "What is it?" Elizabeth asked, turning toward him.

  He crooked his finger lazily, gesturing for her to come to him.

  She came, looking like she was contemplating mischief. Once she could get out of bed and see Jane and the baby whenever she wanted, her mood had quickly improved. She wasn't supposed to lift Olivia but she could hold her and could snuggle in bed with Jane as they took their afternoon nap together.

  "I know what you really want," he teased, grinning up at her.

  "Oh, you do?" she answered, playing along.

  "Something I have. Probably something you've long forgotten."

  "What would that be?" she asked. "A waste?"

  "Your dress."

  She seemed puzzled and waited while he retrieved the box that had come from a Parisian dress shop.

  "That dress? You think that is appropriate for Father Jones?"

  "No, it's not his colour. Try it on. I want to see how it looks."

  She rose a "you can't be serious, Mr. Darcy" eyebrow.

  "I know it won't fit. Just for fun." He leaned down, whispering, "You do remember the fun, don't you? That's something we used to have. Fun," he said slowly, sounding it out for her. "Fun. That which what provides amusement or enjoyment for someone, namely to me. Please?"

  "Oh, for God's sake," she mumbled, not sounding very convincing.

  She raised her arms, letting him slide the yards of delicate scarlet silk and gold lace carefully over her head. Like a child being born, her crown, then her shoulders reappeared as the dress whispered down her body and settled into place with an expensive sigh.

  "How does it look?" she asked tentatively, running her fingertips over the fabric.

  "See for yourself," he answered, adjusting the neckline, then turning her so she faced the dresser mirror.

  If there had been a crowd, there would have been a sudden hush, but it was just the two of them. And he didn't know which of the two was more surprised. Suddenly, instead of a pale, vulnerable woman, an elegant lady in French couture stared back, her fair skin glowing and her dark eyes sparkling excitedly.

  His sensible Elizabeth. Not Elizabeth, honey, or Elizabeth, dear – just Elizabeth. When he thought, if he thought, he thought of her as pretty, pleasant, easy-on-the-eye but for the first time, the word exquisite came to mind.

  His lips parted in silent, breathless amazement.

  "Who is that?" she said softly, studying her reflection. The woman in the mirror tilted her head as if there was a mistake and she might see someone else if she looked a little closer.

  "That's my wife."

  "Are you certain?" She turned sideways, watching the stranger who watched back. Elizabeth adjusted the neckline, self-consciously pulling the little lace sleeves higher on her shoulders.

  He grinned wickedly and pushed the sleeves back down again.

  "Do you think Father Jones will approve?"

  "I certainly hope not," he answered, pulling the edges of the bodice tight in the back so it was smooth in the front.

  It wasn't his imagination, and it wasn't the dress. She glowed. She radiated like a beautiful woman who, perhaps for the first time, was confident she was beautiful. Not Daniel's or Fitzwilliam Darcy's second choice, not a substitute for her sister or a convenient alternative to being alone, not a bed-warmer, or a baby-maker. Not a female body that was pretty enough in the dark but a strong, independent lady who wore beauty like silk, not armour, by the light of day.

  She could have died last month and he would never have seen her for who she really was. He'd thought he had – he'd memorised every inch of her body with his, but she was a woman that a man could strip naked and still not see all of. Still not see most of. How arrogant of him, he realised. He could explore her for decades and still be a novice.

  "Is something wrong?" Elizabeth asked, watching his reflection in the mirror as he moved away.

  Darcy shook his head tersely and sank back on the sofa. She followed, trying to keep the dress's enormous skirt from dragging on the floor.

  "What is it?"

  "Nothing," he answered immediately. "I'm glad you like the dress. It's beautiful on you."

  She stood over him, looking perplexed. "What is wrong?"

  "Nothing. I, uh, I was just thinking of something… Come here," he requested, pulling her to him.

  Elizabeth let him guide her and she sat on his lap, facing him, drowning them both in acr
es of blood scarlet silk. It seemed strange to be face-to-face again, without her belly between them. He tried to recall the last time they'd been so close.

  "I'm just glad you're getting better."

  "I am glad I am better, too."

  "I love you," he said impulsively, urgently, as if he'd never said it before. "You can't imagine how I love you."

  "I know. I love you too," she assured him, trying to comfort him.

  "Do you?"

  She nodded slightly.

  "Enough?" he asked before he thought.

  "Enough? Love is love. How does one love enough?"

  "I don't know," he answered honestly. He put his arms around her, pulling her against him. The fabric of the dress crushed as she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Beneath the rigid confinement of the corset, her rib cage rose slightly as she breathed but otherwise, she was perfectly still, just letting him hold her. Hold onto her – so she didn't get away.

  "Just a little longer," he requested when the maid knocked on the bedroom door.

  *~~*~~*

  "There you are. I was looking for you." Georgiana was preparing to play another song when her brother found her in the music room. He sat next her in front of the pianoforte.

  "Is it all right if we talk a little?" he asked. "If you want."

  "What did I do?"

  "Nothing," he answered quickly. "Nothing at all. I just- I suppose you've figured out…" He took a deep breath and tried again. "I'm not going, Georgie," he finally said. "I'm staying here. With Jane and Olivia. And you. And Elizabeth."

  He blew out the rest of his breath in a long, silent whistle, watching Georgiana out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to believe Georgiana was young, moody, confused. Still dazed by the loss of Anne and her aunt. Or that it had been her dreams of Elizabeth dying – dreams that, by all rights, should have come true – that had caused Georgiana to act and say things as she had. That it hadn't been Elizabeth being in Anne's place that had upset Georgiana but the desperate need to escape watching another pregnant woman die.

  It was difficult to tell. Georgiana was kind, gentle, and so sensitive to others that she seemed almost empathic. She lived in a borderland of four-four time and four-part harmony, of burnt sienna, cerulean blue, raw umber, and titanium white. Like the painters, she saw the real world only as flashes of soft light and shadow. She seemed to stand perfectly still as life raged around her and she could only watch calmly, unable to fight back, or run away. Like Anne, there was so much beauty in Georgiana's world but there was also so much pain.

  "I'm not leaving, Georgie," he repeated. "Elizabeth or Pemberley."

  "You promised," Georgiana whispered. "You said it would be a few weeks until Elizabeth was better and she's better now."

  "I don't understand how you could want me to leave Elizabeth. I know you were afraid something would happen to her when Olivia came but… She's better now. You seem to like her very much, Georgie. You trust her. If there's anyone you don't trust, it's me."

  The girl kept her head down.

  He'd rehearsed the next part for weeks, so it was a little easier. "I've thought about what Elizabeth said to you before Christmas, about Anne knowing what she was doing when she died. In some ways that's true but in some ways, it's not. But, regardless, I was the reason she was going to have a baby. I was the one who told you it would be all right, so if you need to blame me, that's fine."

  "Elizabeth just said that to make me feel better," Georgiana responded softly.

  "Oh. Well- Yes, she did. I didn't think you realised that though."

  Darcy worried his wedding ring with his thumb, trying to rearrange his thoughts. That hadn't been in the script of his speech.

  Georgiana turned her head to one side and looked at the empty wall.

  "What, Georgie?"

  "You loved Anne, didn't you? You would have done nothing to hurt her, would you?" she asked, as though she was afraid to hear the answer.

  "No, I would never have hurt her." His stomach knotted. Mostly, Georgiana had been alone with Anne the week before she died. God only knew what she might have said to her in her confusion. Or what Lillian might have said. "Georgiana, did she tell you differently? Did anyone tell you differently?"

  The girl shook her head slightly from side to side.

  "Then why did you ask?" He tried, just in case she might get an answer.

  She didn't.

  "No, I never hurt her, Georgie. Not on purpose. I wouldn't have forced her or betrayed her. I loved her. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I tell you I love you and I'm proud of you, it never sinks in, but I'll say it again. I do. You're my little sister, Georgie, and you'll always be my little sister. I'd do anything for you. But I also love Elizabeth and our girls. And If I chose you over them, it would mean I am a bad person. And I would hurt them so very much. I would hurt myself, too. You are almost sixteen years old; you are not a little girl anymore. You are a young lady and I want to treat you so. I want to believe in you and your good heart."

  Georgiana gave him a sideways glance but didn't comment.

  "Please talk to me, Georgie," he pleaded. "Tell me what's wrong?"

  "I tried to draw Anne last week but I can't remember her," Georgiana murmured as if telling a secret.

  "We have paintings. And you have hundreds of sketches."

  "But I couldn't remember her," she answered, emphasising "her." "I was afraid I was just making her up. I tried and tried but I can't remember what was Anne like and what was just the way I want to remember her."

  "Sometimes, neither can I," Darcy admitted.

  "It doesn't seem fair," Georgiana mumbled.

  "It never does."

  *~~*~~*

  As much as their society shunned sexual intercourse, it eroticist pain. Partially to ensure premarital chastity and partially because their mothers spoke from experience, girls were told marital relations hurt. Often brides barely knew what sexual intercourse was, but their mothers were clear on two facts. It was very painful, and they had to do it because their husbands wanted to.

  Darcy found it physically impossible to make love to a woman who was crying and pleading for him to stop but given the birth rate, other men must not.

  Gentlemen were taught that they married for children, not for sport. Wives were for children, mistresses and whores were for pleasure. Once they had that all-important legitimate son it was easier not to bother their wives in bed, which was often a relief to both parties. Many men loved their wives and disliked pushing them into an act they found, at best, uncomfortable and distasteful. They were devoted to them as the mother of their children but it wasn't worth the effort to make love to them unless there was no other female body available. And the majority of wives were devoted to their husbands, but embarrassed by their base behaviour, unsure how to please them, and often terrified of conceiving again.

  Marital fidelity was the exception, not the rule. For man. A wife who strayed was likely insane and quietly sent to a nunnery or mental asylum. The female orgasm was shameful too. Good mothers were not good bedmates and frigidity was considered lady-like behaviour.

  Anne had been quite lady-like.

  Most gentlemen had natural children before they married, often with a maid or other working-class girl. Once the affair cooled, those children were provided for but politely declined as the follies of youth. After a man married, it was considered bad form to seduce a servant in his own house or to let his wife discover any further bastards. But it was accepted to have a mistress. It wasn't shamed for gentlemen. It was actually fairly common.

  It was such a simple, common thing, for a man to love a woman, yet the world had twisted and distorted it into something barely recognisable.

  He understood the rarity of what he had with Elizabeth. He just didn't know how to have it again. He wanted to believe the problem was that it was too soon after the baby and she was still recovering. He wanted to believe that was ninety percent of the problem but it was perhap
s ten. And that was being generous.

  He hated Lillian. He hated her with a white-hot passion for taking something that wasn't hers to take. It seemed like a naïve thing for a man to take pride in but he had. He'd never been with a woman who wasn't or wouldn't soon become his wife. He'd thought about it, he'd been tempted, and he'd even started down the path a few times but he'd never really strayed. But what Lillian had said, whether it was true or not, had planted a seed inside his head which had grown, its roots tapping into his dreams and flashing images across his brain whenever he closed his eyes. Whether it was true or not, it might as well have been. "You asked, and I wanted to," Lillian's voice whispered each time he tried to focus on Elizabeth.

  "What is wrong?" Elizabeth had asked.

  "Nothing," he'd mumbled, telling her she needed to relax.

  She needed to relax. He needed to relax. He'd helped her undress. She'd helped him. The house was dark and quiet, the children were asleep, and the bedroom door was locked. It still felt awkward as though they'd never been intimate before.

  "I'm scared to even touch you," he'd admitted after it had become obvious.

  "We have done this before," Elizabeth had answered, referring to making love for the first time two months after Jane's birth. "Just go slowly."

  "If we go any slower, we'll stop," he'd said in exasperation. Elizabeth was trying but despite their best efforts, her body wasn't following suit, which made him even more nervous. "And you aren't scared?"

  "Of what?"

  "So you want a baby every year and you are not afraid it will kill you next time?" He'd demanded.

  "We have children when God decides we have children."

  "Well, let's not help Him along." He said touching the sheath.

  "That," she'd said again, pointing at it, "is a sin."

  "And watching you die nine months from now is some sort of blessing? Leave your priest out of our bed, please," he'd snapped angrily. "Three is a crowd."

  He'd known immediately that was the wrong thing to say. Very wrong.