by Beth Massey
“Miss Elizabeth, I demand you allow me to take you back to your aunt and uncle. They are concerned for your safety, and I gave them my solemn promise that I would rescue you.” He sat up very straight and glared down at her. Once we parted in Kent, what you do ceased to concern me in the least; but I always honour my obligations.” Darcy had commanded his voice to drip with disdain and just a hint of sarcasm when he told of his promise to her relatives. Putting on his best arrogant expression, he continued with “Still, you are on my property and you will do as I say. If you do not allow me to mount you on this horse immediately, I will pick you up and throw you over the saddle. That would require you to explain to your aunt and uncle why I had to resort to such measures.”
Elizabeth looked up fiercely at this insufferable man. What kind of a gentleman forces a lady to look up at him while he berates her? Truth be told, embracing the anger he provoked allowed her to hide the depth of her humiliation. The fury in his eyes as he threatened her must be because she disrupted his plans… and she was pleased. Surely he had returned early so he could spend the night with his mistress. His willingness to demean her just fuelled the fire of her jumbled emotions. She wondered whether the others in his party had arrived as well. Suddenly the idea that Miss Bingley might see her indignity propelled a decision. Inhaling deeply, she squared her shoulders and determined it was better to conclude this encounter as quickly as possible. With as much anger on her face as she could muster she said, “It is not worth my time to argue with one as insufferable as you. I agree to allow you to take me back to the house.”
Before she had time to prepare herself for his touch, Darcy jumped down, lifted her and mounted the horse behind her. She became cognizant of the impropriety of his rescue as a wave of desire coursed through her body. He was the only person who had ever caused her to have these sensations, and they almost always were heightened with the increase of tension between them. Mr Darcy encircled her with his arms and took the reins. For the second time that day she became overwhelmed emotionally and began shaking uncontrollably.
They rode in silence for a short while before Mr Darcy began to speak. He no longer sounded demanding and cruel. His voice was the way she remembered from her dreams… lush, soft and soothing. “I am sorry if I frightened you. You are so difficult to intimidate, and I am not sure what the cause of your distress is. I am not angry with you Miss Elizabeth. I am very pleased you came to Pemberley. I have wanted to confess some things to you, but I did not know how to accomplish the task. I thought about writing you, but I was unsure whether you would read the letter.”
With his mention of writing a letter, she let out a gasp, reached into her pocket, and added sobbing to her shaking. He seemed perturbed by her outburst. He paused, then after a moment’s reflection continued. “Please, Miss Elizabeth, you need not fear, I do not plan to renew my addresses.”
Elizabeth stiffened at his words and her fury at the fickle nature of his affection resurfaced and prompted her to say, “I know, sir. Why would you do that when you have someone else to ardently love… someone who allows you to rub up against her and does not require marriage?”
He could not believe what had come out of her mouth. His Elizabeth did not even know what those words meant… at least he did not think she did. Had she just accused him of having a mistress? They were almost to the bridge. In response to the wave of righteous indignation that burst into his consciousness, he pulled her tighter to him. Right then and there with her struggling to throw off his embrace, he made a decision. Her closeness, her words, her anger, they were all having an effect. Now he must add mortification that she would feel what was happening to him. Putting that unpleasant fact from his mind, if not from his pants; he concentrated on his need to show her his secret and make his confession. He turned the horse away from the house and headed for the source of the stream. The narrow path up the incline was well hidden from view.
She turned to look at him with fear in her eyes. “Where are you taking me? The house is the other way.” The stony expression he settled on did nothing to calm her, but unfortunately for him actual anger had taken hold. He was beyond promoting her good opinion. Though she had not seemed to calm her anxiety, she added squirming and protesting to her shaking. “Let me down this instant. Is this an attempt to compromise me?” After a moment of quiet, her invective started again. “You must think me stupid—once I am forced to marry you, my inferior status will keep me quiet about your poking others on the side? Or perhaps, your mistress is savvy enough to know all the ways you like it.”
Once again he was appalled by her words. He had never thought her common and vulgar, instead he had always believed she and her sister were the epitome of proper behaviour. Her voice was loud as she struggled and insisted she be allowed down. With the rain, he was sure no one could hear her; as they were headed in the opposite direction from the search parties. His traitorous body insisted on reacting to the friction caused by her attempts to escape. Once again, he was mortified to think she could feel him pushing into her hip. In desperation, he reined in his anger and tried to reason with her. “Miss Elizabeth, I must insist you stop wiggling. I am in dan… we are in danger of having an accident. There is something I must show you. Perhaps, it will prove to you the honour of my intentions.”
The insistent pressure on her hip brought to mind the statue of Achilles. Seeing the statue had been instructive about what was between men’s legs, but it had not educated her on that thing’s ability to come alive and to push. The expression the young maid had used ‘poking’ became a visual image.
They were quite far up the densely wooded incline. The terrain flattened out, and a fissure in the brush allowed them to ride a short distance into a clearing. Before her stood the most beautiful little cottage she had ever seen. It was made of the same stone as the big house and had an arbour of pink roses over the door and two windows on the front façade. A rivulet of water swollen by the rain gushed down the slope on the left side of the cottage. As she looked up the stream, she saw a small waterfall cascading into a pool. This was the subject of Lady Anne’s painting. As they approached, she noticed it had been enhanced by nature and was even more enchanting than his mother had depicted it. Elizabeth marvelled that the sun had come out and a rainbow graced the sky directly over the cottage.
When Darcy lifted her down, Elizabeth looked at him with confusion. She tried to grasp the significance of the breach of propriety of being here with him; but she was too wet, too cold, and too exhausted to make much sense of anything. Should she agree to go into the cottage with him so he could confess? Was he owed that courtesy because of her cruel rejection? From the moment they turned into his estate, she had experienced so many emotions—regret chief among them. Add to that the jolt of jealousy when she learned he loved another. More than anything at this moment, she felt drained. Could she listen to him confirm her fears without breaking down again?
Unable to control her shivering and In order to delay going inside to her doom, she lowered herself to a stone bench in front of the cottage. The seat was wet and soaked her right through to her skin. She sprang back up and looked around bewildered.
As he saw the fear and confusion register on her face, he was suddenly struck by the impropriety of his action. Now that he had her here, what should he do next? The decision was not to be his. Luckily he was standing close by when her knees buckled, eyelids closed halfway, and her mouth opened as if she planned to speak; but no sound was heard. He caught her before she hit the ground. Gathering her into his arms, he entered the cottage and gingerly placed her on the bed. Jenkins had laid a fire in the hearth, and within minutes Darcy had a healthy blaze. Bice jumped down from the window ledge and nonchalantly curled up in front of it as though he had built it for her
The proper thing to do was to go back to the house and bring her uncle. A relative should make the decision of what was to be done. But what excuse could he use for bringing her here, or explain the evidence of it being a p
lace designed to please a female? Heaven forbid if he looked within any of the books. Her uncle might not be a horseman. He might be unable to walk up the steep slope. As he looked at his watch, he realized it had only been half an hour since he had left Mr and Mrs Gardiner. That decided his course of action. Her swoon was just the result of anxiety and exhaustion. They had time for her to rest here. When recovered, he would take her to the Gardiners and tell them he had found her wandering in the woods.
Her uncontrollable shivering during the entire ride concerned him. He had first thought it was from being distraught, but now as he looked at her—so pale and soaked her lips tinged with blue—he became concerned she had caught a chill. She may never forgive him, but he had to do what he knew he must to protect her health. Removing her wet things, he clothed her in one of the nightgowns he had bought for their special place. She was as beautiful as she had been in his dreams. He chastised himself for improper thoughts and reminded himself of her pleas for dignity. She opened her eyes at one point as he was trying to pull the gown over her head and lifted her arms to help him. A beautiful smile lit her face before her eyes closed again and she drifted back into unconsciousness. He put her under the coverlet, arranged her clothes to dry before the fire and resolved to allow her an hour to rest. By then she would be dry and warm and they could return to the house. Shuddering at the thought of her fury when she realized what he had done, he vowed to tell her over and over again that he would ensure no one ever found out his actions.
Mr and Mrs Jenkins had readied the room for his return. There was bread, cheese, fruit and wine. Fresh candles had been put into the candlesticks, and an earthenware jug was filled with pink roses from the arbour. The scent of lavender had assailed his senses as he tucked her in. Mrs Jenkins had refreshed the sachets tucked into the bed linens for him.
He removed his jacket, and hung it on a hook. With the intention of reading while he waited, he sat in one of the two comfortable chairs near the fire. The copy of The Vicar of Wakefield he had bought for her was where he had left it before his trip to London. They had discussed Goldsmith’s novel at length during one of their walks at Rosings. Darcy had read it once years before, and told her he found it overly sentimental with an unrealistic happy ending. She had contended the story was a satire of the sentimental novel, and the comic attitudes and situations depicted often made fun of society’s morals and values. Before leaving for Town, he had begun reading it again and concluded she was correct in her contention. The character of the Squire forced him to realize how many men among his acquaintance enjoyed tricking naïve young women with nary a thought of the consequences for them. His mind wandered to both Georgiana and Belly. The lengths the squire went to deceive the vicar’s daughter, Olivia… faking a marriage in order to collect her virtue, was precisely what had happened to Isabel. It had been years since she had told him her tale, and he had forgotten. Wakefield told his story with great humour, but this time the subtle hypocrisy with regard women’s vulnerability was not lost on him.
His musings brought to mind the words Elizabeth had flung at him, ‘rubbing against’ and ‘poking.’ He wondered where she had learned them and realized they were not words he had heard men utter. Men usually described the ‘act’ with words of conquest. He did remember one friend who depicted his triumphs as ‘slipping it to.’ Even that utterance had seemed proud of his duplicity. Her words had been more earthy and picturesque. Of the two he quite liked the image that came to his mind when he thought of ‘rubbing against’ her.
He poured himself a glass of wine and took a few sips. The tabby, with the job of keeping mice at bay in the cottage, arose from the hearth, stretched and jumped into his lap. A nudge of her head on his hand demanded affection. While doing as the cat insisted, his mind became filled with imagining how Elizabeth would react when she awoke. He returned to his book, but within minutes the exhaustion from his trip, the warmth of the fire, Bice’s purring and the agitation from seeing her so unexpectedly took its toll; and he began to doze.
3
DREAMS YOU DARE TO DREAM REALLY DO COME TRUE
A quarter of an hour later, Elizabeth awoke and was confused as to time and place. She was wearing a beautiful nightgown, was in a huge bed made up in fresh linens redolent with lavender; and Mr Darcy was sleeping in a chair by the fire with a cat on his lap. For a moment she wondered whether they were married as in her dreams; but then her head began to pound with the memory of hearing those awful words, her jealousy, her tears, her anger, their confrontation, and the ride. She looked around the room and realized that much within was perfectly suited to her tastes. The coverlet, curtains, and upholstered chairs were the warm earth tones – greens, rusts, ambers and browns – she preferred. There was a painting hanging on the wall of a young girl reading, that looked remarkably like her. She was even wearing a mustard-coloured dress, the same hue as the one she wore the day they read together in the library at Netherfield.
She arose from the bed and encased her feet in the slippers left beside the bed. They were just her size. A robe was hanging from the bedpost. It was a rich burgundy, and as she slipped it on, the monogram startled her… ED. Where had he brought her? Were those the initials of his mistress? Where was she? The personality of this cottage was precisely as she would have made it. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she walked around the one room.
In front of the massive stone fireplace were two very comfortable chairs with a small round table between them. On the table was an open bottle of wine with one empty glass and one partially full, as well as a copy of The Vicar of Wakefield open as if he had been reading it. She smiled with the memory of their literary debate. The tabby in his lap opened one eye but quickly returned to purring. She turned her attention to the other items in the room. The bed dominated; but there also was a dressing table with a bench, mirror, basin, pitcher and a silver hand mirror, brush and comb set. Once again, the set had been engraved with the initials ED. In an alcove was a larder; and it appeared it had recently been stocked with bread, cheese, fruit and several additional bottles of wine. A table for eating had been commandeered for writing; and was topped with an assortment of quills, an inkwell, and fine quality paper with an engraved border of twining roses and a small depiction of this cottage in the corner. A stack of books, a glue pot and a candelabrum completed the items on the table. The mantle was adorned with an earthenware jug, of roses and several silver candlesticks. The thickness of the stone walls made the cottage cool despite the afternoon summer sun streaming through the windows. Thankful for the blaze, she was pulled in the direction of the filled shelves flanking the fireplace.
The books included all of Shakespeare’s works, and she was amazed as she viewed the other titles on the shelves that the selection perfectly mirrored her taste. Every volume she opened had attached to the back of the front cover; a piece of the rose adorned paper from the table. The care he had taken to have the pages produced touched her. In his strong legible handwriting, she remembered from his ruined letter, he had penned a note. Each was a dedication dated sometime in 1812, and all expressed his love for her. Many mentioned reading the book together, but some referenced information gleaned from their discussions. When she opened the copy of Paradise Lost, she could not help but giggle and that prompted the cat to leave his lap and join her at the book shelves to sniff her feet and twine in and out of her legs. . She returned to Milton’s poetic images; he had not written of their magnificence, but instead had penned:
June 1812
For my dearest Elizabeth,
This great man also had relatives in Cheapside… in fact he was born there. I guess this is a perfect example of not judging a book by its cover.
I love you,
FD
Laughing quietly, she continued to view other volumes—greedily opening to the dedication page. With each one, she was moved by his words in one way or another. Some brought on mirth, while others caused her eyes to sting with unshed tears, and several evoked shame
at her harsh rejection as well as her rush to judgment earlier today. On the table, where he had obviously been penning the inscriptions, she found a copy of Pope’s Essay on Criticism. This seemed to be one of the last he had written. It was longer than the others. With it, she got an inkling of his confession:
July 1812
To my dearest Elizabeth,
I have loved you since almost the first moment I saw you, but yet I chose to deny my feelings. Instead, I publicly demeaned you, and then compounded my malice by being arrogant enough to expect your acceptance of my proposal, despite my earlier disdain. I rarely smiled at you. I never complimented you nor defended you from Caroline Bingley’s viciousness. I said while proposing that marrying you would be a degradation. My claim that your family was inferior was said with great conviction despite your having met my aunt.
In my letter, I excused my behaviour when separating your sister from Mr Bingley by claiming I believed her indifferent. There is some truth to my belief, but I also know that my desire to rid myself of my feelings for you played a significant role in my action. My plan is to speak to Charles and tell him of both my interference and your assessment of Miss Bennet’s true feelings. I hope my gesture will not be too little too late.
Mr Pope said,
“To err is human, to forgive divine”
If you are reading this, I have confessed my errors, and you have decided to be divine. But please, never lose your fiery spirit.
I love you,