Answering her call, he came onto the balcony (she thought he looked quite fetching with mussed hair and sleep still in his eyes) but when he saw her there on Boots and leading Blackjack, he did not hesitate. Dressing was the work of but a moment. He leapt upon Blackjack and was after her in a flash. She knew that she took unfair advantage by not waiting for him to mount, but she cared little, for it had been her design all along to lead him to the bucolic shelter of trees that had played host to past pleasures. It was an ideal location to renew those ministrations that had been the glory of their marriage.
Under no other circumstances would she have capitulated a race. Upon this occasion, however, she allowed him to overtake her. If she had any misgivings having employed such a ruse, they were then compleatly soothed. It had been an altogether divine—if far too abbreviated—union. They had shed their clothes and consummated their love with the same dispatch that he had dressed. Months of celibacy had been ended in a great hurry. She was only mildly disappointed. History suggested further loving rites were to be enjoyed.
He lay beside her, his bare back no more sensible of the damp grass than hers. He had not responded to her inquiry beyond his half-hearted murmur. Therefore she decided that to cajole him from what must be a satisfying rest she would have to offer more than conversation. Thereupon, she threw one arched leg over his and cupped her heel, closing the gap between their bodies with a small undulation of her hip. It was an infallible demarche for a woman who was in want of her husband’s notice. Indeed, he opened one eye full and looked upon her, a notification that she indeed had his attention. Moreover, his hand found her bare thigh and began to stroke it. But he did so only for a moment.
He rose upon one elbow facing her and gazed into her eyes so deeply and with such intensity that she did not think that, were she so inclined, she had the fortitude to look away. He slid his hand beneath her leg and, without quitting her gaze, drew her knee purposely to his lips—a manoeuvre that suggested to her that her pleasure was of no less import to him than his own. It also pointed to the probability that he would have the strength for an encore. Only the thought of the bliss that was to follow allowed her at last to close her eyes. She lay back, transported to a place and time only known to infinity and could not keep a small sough from escaping the back of her throat. Her reverie, regrettably, was short-lived.
“Lizzy…”
Upon most occasions, it was with unadulterated joy that she heard him utter her name. This time however, differed. Although it was not in his nature to speak in an exclamatory fashion, it was implied. Such was her alarm that she thought someone might have happened upon them. She first shrank back and looked about. Seeing nothing, she endeavoured to sit up. To her further apprehension, he cautioned her otherwise.
“Pray, do not.”
Although the timbre of his voice was in compleat disagreement, she was altogether relieved that they need not flee. She saw having to dress with all due haste in an unfamiliar garment to be no small challenge. If someone had trespassed upon them, it was likely she would have had to take leave with the tail of her shirt the only thing between herself and compleat exposure. The thought almost made her smile, but he interjected.
“You are…in distress,” he said softly, but she detected a slight catch in his voice.
There was an intrusion upon them, but one of quite another nature than interlopers. She saw then that she had begun to bleed. She was truly horrified—but not from fear for her own well-being, but that he would fear for her well-being. She was also miffed. It had been a full ten days since she had last been vexed by such a bother and she had believed herself essentially returned to her former robustness. She had given herself a week before she began to scheme. It had taken three full days to conjure just the right combination of seduction and playfulness with which to lure him. Hence, to have their idyll come to such an unromantic end was an abomination. She refused to admit that her health might be compromised even to herself. Until this moment, she saw all to be going quite splendidly. Even the fickleness of her spirits had waned. This was an exceedingly unhappy set-back.
“It is nothing,” she assured him whilst abruptly drawing her knee from his grasp.
“Are you certain?” he asked, then thought better of it and altered his question. “How can you be certain?”
“I am quite sure it is nothing irregular.”
She would not have it any other way. Regardless, it looked as if any possibility of a second voluptuous union had waned. He simultaneously stood and began donning his shirt, then hastily began to tuck it in. She sat immobile, transfixed—watching his hasty reclamation of his ensemble and thus the disintegration of what had been an idyllic reunion. With resignation over this unlucky perverseness, she looked to the rumpled pile of purloined trousers and fretted about wearing them in her untidy condition. There seemed little choice; hence she picked them up and flicked them so as to get them into some sort of identifiable order. She had just begun to snake her foot down one leg opening and was silently bemoaning his over-reaction to her little recuperative set-back when a cramp overcame her. Before she could stifle a slight groan, she felt herself expel an unseemly gush of blood. She had weathered enough days of womanly indisposition not to be altogether alarmed by this turn of events (although even by her account it was a ghastly amount), but the cramp was severe enough to give her pause. The pain, however, was not her primary concern. For while not unaware, she knew her husband was largely unschooled on the prolific nature of such flow. She would have been happy to spend all her days with him unknowing of just how indecorous feminine complaints could be.
“I can ride,” she insisted, anticipating him contending otherwise.
She began pulling on the breeches, the legs of which were unspeakably uncooperative. He suggested himself of the opposite opinion of both her readiness to ride by herself and the necessity of her donning the breeches by pulling them from the feet that she was just beginning to fit down the narrow leg passages. The yank was far more abrupt than she liked and she almost said as much, but he had tossed the garment aside and then swept her up in his arms before she could utter a sound. In one motion he plopped her sideways upon Blackjack’s saddle. He managed this with such economy of motion that she was still stuttering “But, but…” when he pulled himself behind her and gave Blackjack his heel.
“Boots…” she began, pointing behind them.
“Leave them,” he demanded.
“No,” said she, “my horse.”
“She will follow,” he assured her.
He dug his heels into Blackjack, demanding him into a canter, then bethought the situation and slowed him to a walk, clearly in a quandary whether speed or comfort held greater import.
As they got on fast to Pemberley House, she clung to his shirt. So tight was her grasp, she feared she might rend the fine linen. She was in no particular state of alarm, therefore she could not account for her own discomposure. Gradually, the realisation from whence it sprang occurred to her. He in his shirt and in great dismay, she across the saddle in front of him was the same attitude in which they took leave of the inn after her long-past kidnapping at the hands of the villainous Tom Reed. It was disconcerting for that to be brought to her mind just then and she wondered if he recalled it as well.
They headed directly towards the courtyard, but public exposure of their little adventure was clearly something they most fervently did not wish to endure. Before she could bid him to find a more discreet entrance, he anticipated her, turning Blackjack towards the postern at the rear of the house (with Boots trailing loyally behind). When they gained the entrance archway shielding the steps, he leapt to the ground and held out his arms. Perhaps he had done just that at the end of that long-passed ride—she did not recall. But upon alighting from a horse on every mundane occasion, he had not drawn her down quite as tenderly as he did then.
Once upon the ground, she anticipated manoeuv
ring the steps under her own power. Again he thought otherwise. And again he swept her into her arms and with extraordinary purposefulness, took the steps two at a time. She was still a bit humiliated and would have preferred a less dramatic entrance.
“Pray, husband,” she begged, “I am not so unwell as all this…”
Unthwarted, he did not alter from his hurried pace until they reached her bedchamber. Quite unceremoniously, he kicked back the door.
“Hannah!” he commanded.
Aware that her mistress was from her bed and the house, Hannah had kept a worried eye out for her return. She did not need to hear the commotion to be fast on their heels. Hence, when Darcy turned and called for her, they met—causing Hannah to come to a near skidding halt.
“Good. Good,” he pronounced, then said, “Mrs. Darcy is unwell. See that the surgeon is called.”
At last, Elizabeth’s interjection was heard, “I am quite well. I do not need to be seen.”
This too, was a repetition that recalled events that neither would have wanted to be brought to mind. Still, she insisted that all was well.
“’Tis merely a small regression,” she insisted. “I need only to rest to repair fully.”
She had finally made a statement with which he could at least partially agree.
“Yes, Lizzy. You do need your rest. Pray, is there anything than I can do to relieve your present suffering?”
She shook her head. However, he did not await an answer before he snapped his fingers at Hannah, who then hurried off to see that the doctor was indeed called. Once the maid had withdrawn, they could speak more plainly.
“It was unwise, I fear,” he said.
As he had not specified “it,” Elizabeth was left to wonder which of the various activities she had just undertaken was the one to which he referred. Any that he might have specified might not have found argument from her, for she had again begun to cramp. In fortune, she was by then beneath the bed-clothes and any unseemliness her body committed would remain between her and the maid.
She had been so caught up in denying her indisposition whilst simultaneously being thoroughly embarrassed by it that the extent of Darcy’s dismay had been lost to her. Only then did she become aware that his countenance betokened throes of uncommon anxiety. Clearly he was not acting, as he often did, as her overseer, but seemed what was for him highly alarmed. It was only to her veteran eyes that it was discernible as such. (Anyone else would have thought him only in a bit of ill-humour.) Hence, she repressed her ever-increasing pique at his officiousness and lent him all due allowance.
“I have been done no great harm. I shall be fine,” she assured him, patting the top of his hand, which rested proprietarily upon the bed next to her.
His gaze suggested that he was not particularly reassured. “May I safely leave it to yourself to determine…?”
“I promise,” she did, in fact, promise him.
He smiled gamely, but did not leave her until the surgeon arrived some two hours later and offered similar sentiments. Mr. Upchurch stood over Elizabeth whilst Darcy looked on, hence the good doctor was unable to be more explicit with the couple than to inquire if Elizabeth had undertaken any unusual activities of late.
“She went out upon horseback,” Darcy accused.
“Did she now?” the surgeon said mildly. “Now we mustn’t do that for a while longer, shall we, Mrs. Darcy?”
Having become quite familiar with Mr. Upchurch over the years, Elizabeth understood that the man suspected that her horse may not have been the only thing she had been astride. She blushed so profoundly that she felt it spread from her cheeks and down her throat and then invade her décolletage. His wife’s reaction did not escape Darcy’s notice. Her chagrin contaminated his composure, but to a far less discernible degree.
The expression of contrition upon his countenance very nearly made her laugh. He looked like a child caught with his hand in the sugar bowl. Wisely, she overcame that inclination. Her merriment, however, was not lost upon him and he managed to alter his aspect into his particular version of punctiliousness.
“I shall be much more circumspect,” she solemnly promised Mr. Upchurch.
The surgeon left forthwith. Indeed, he left with such haste it was unclear whether it was owing to Mr. Darcy’s dour countenance or his own embarrassment over having to allude to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s possibly premature connubial connection. Either way, he was out the door and down the hall so quickly that he almost tripped over their aging wolfhound Cressida upon his way.
Darcy and Elizabeth both heard Cressida whimper and Darcy walked to the door and looked out.
“She is uninjured?” Elizabeth inquired.
When he turned, he nodded his head and walked back to the side of her bed.
He said, “Cressida looks to be quite well. But, Lizzy, the question is, are you truly uninjured?”
As he said this, his countenance almost crumbled and he turned from her. Alarmed, she half rose. He heard and turned about once more.
“Do not. Do not, please,” he said, urging her to lie back.
In that brief moment, he had regained his composure. The happiness she had felt just that afternoon had now been usurped by self-reproach. She had selfishly pressed them to return to their previous intimacy. He was exposed not only to unseemly female emissions, but to profound apprehension.
The request was spoken with a level voice, but his eyes pled, “Promise me that you will see to your own well-being with greater resolve.”
“I do promise,” she said, then commenced to add a proviso. “But…”
“No,” he said. “Please, no.”
He looked away and began again, “Lizzy, my love, I have been far too deeply concerned for you to be soon at peace…”
She took his hand, but spoke no more. As much as she would have liked, there were no words to beguile him from his disquiet that day or for many days thence.
6
What Lengths Love Knows
From the very beginning, the throes of love in which Darcy found himself over Elizabeth had little to do with comeliness and everything to do with allure.
Although she was known as quite a country beauty, she had not the classic oval-faced, long-necked handsomeness of her sister Jane. Indeed, she was quick to assert Jane to be twice as handsome and thrice as good. Hence, she may have harboured some conceit of her own cleverness, but she believed her aspect quite unextraordinary. Her husband would not have disagreed that she was superior to most in wit and information. However, as he had been held in thrall of her physical charms for some time, he thought them nothing less than exceptional. Because his nature did not lend itself to expansivity, these sentiments remained largely unexpressed. It had been only in their most private moments that he would speak rapturously of the fineness of her eyes and the turn of her countenance (not infrequently would his delineation of her charms wander into those phrases lauding attributes not normally employed in polite company). These flights of linguistics were infrequent even before his away to Belgium. Since his return to hearth and home and the arrival of new ones in their bed, he had little time to speak to Elizabeth in confidence at all, much less give her an accounting of how very much motherhood had improved her handsomeness. Yet he was quite beside himself in admiration.
***
It was a muggy night, so damp Darcy’s night-shirt stuck to his skin. He had thrown back the bed-clothes with disgust and had automatically reached out for Elizabeth. Her cool skin was always a comfort.
But she was not there.
It came to him then that she would be tending to one or the other of the infants. At that moment, even that usually sublime image was not a consolation to him. Restless, he turned upon his side and propped upon an elbow so as to gaze out upon the tree limbs that swayed beyond the railing of the balcony. The wide double doors had been thrown open in a futile at
tempt to entice a cool breeze inside. Maddeningly, rather than come in, the wind stubbornly whirled about outside, enticing the drapes out through the doorway where they noisily flailed about. So blustery and oppressively humid was it, he wondered if a storm was brewing.
It was then that he saw Elizabeth.
She was leaning against the railing, her night-dress pirouetting about her ankles as if dancing with the wind. As it whipped about, the thin gauze of her gown alternately caressed her body and then capered away—revealing and then concealing her womanly curves. It was a voluptuous sight—one that beguiled him from the bed.
Bare-footed, he padded out the door and came quietly behind her. She did not give a start when he put his hands upon her hips. Rather, she reached behind and placed her hands upon the sides of his thighs and leaned back against him. It would have been difficult to determine whether she rolled her head to the side, hence inviting him to kiss her upon her neck, or whether he initiated it by drawing her hair to one side. Regardless, he kissed her there whilst his hands instinctively embarked upon an exploration of her torso. Through the rushing of the wind a sough was heard; whether it came from her, from him, or simply from the trees, he was uncertain. Or he was until she began a slow undulation against him and he heard the same sound once again—this time he felt it as it escaped from the back of his throat. She continued to writhe, and as she did what had begun as a near sigh turned guttural. He felt his body pervaded by an unparalleled hunger for her—hunger that announced itself by a substantial tightening in his loins. So profound was his need that he turned her about far more brusquely than he intended. If she was displeased, it was unapparent other than the impish look she gave him as he drew her near. Her hand slid to his manhood and, rather than stroke him, she clasped it appreciatively. His heart was beating so feverishly in his chest that he could hear it in his ears.
Darcy & Elizabeth Page 4