“Darcy?”
Elizabeth was shaking his shoulder.
She repeated, “Darcy? I beg you forgive me, but I cannot sleep whilst you make that noise.”
Suddenly, he opened his eyes, blinking furiously in the dark, endeavouring to make sense of it. When he realised that he had been dreaming, he instinctively put his hand over his groin lest the specific nature of his dream be evident to her. That he was beneath the bed-clothes, in his night-shirt, and in the dark did not come immediately to mind.
“Yes,” he said, rolling onto his stomach in embarrassment. “Yes, of course. I shall do my best.”
“I do apologise,” she said. “It is imperative that I sleep when I can.” Then she asked with concern, “Are you unwell?”
Whether from the weather or his dream, perspiration had plastered his hair to his forehead.
“It is only these insufferable bed-clothes,” said he, attempting to relieve himself of them without turning over.
“Return to your sleep, Lizzy.” said he, “All is well.”
There was a time when the discovery of his arousal would have delighted her. He no longer dared to expose her to such lustfulness. Even he had heard the tales old women told of what befell a nursing mother if frightened. It was said she might lose her milk. He could not risk that. He murmured his apologies for disturbing her and waited to hear the deep respirations of her sleep before closing his own eyes again.
In retrospect, he realised he had been inexcusably smug to think that he could share a bed with her and resist his husbandly urges, which was imperative, of course. She would be unwell for some time.
With the same meticulousness that he employed in all his endeavours, he had worked it out in detail so as to keep any inappropriate inclinations at a minimum. When they kissed, he allowed himself only close-lipped chasteness. (Under no circumstances was he to relax his guard against the soft warmth of her lips.) A far greater dilemma (one that would not be withstood whatsoever if the kissing business was not held at bay) was to lie next to her each night. After the initial exhilaration of his return had cooled, he had inquired as to the nursing duties necessitating separate sleeping arrangements. Never, in all of their marriage, had they been under the same roof and slept apart. After a brief exploration of the other’s true wishes, it was determined that neither was disposed to forgo such intimate communion—even with such strong grounds against it.
There were hurdles to overcome. In order not to fall victim to his passion, his regimen was alternately to cling to the far edge of the mattress and to imagine at any moment the gnomish spectre of Mrs. Littlepage sitting between them with a baby in each arm. His sleep was negligible, but he managed to keep from disturbing Elizabeth’s. Once came the dawn, there were fewer wrinkles to avoid, for if she were awake, she was nursing and if she was not, he would steal from their bed so as not to ruin her sleep.
Although he had thought out his every move with precision, sitting in his dressing-chamber waiting for Goodwin to ready him for his morning shave, it was of particular mortification to realise how tempted he was to resort to that activity particular to pubescent boys to relieve the palpable pain in his genitals. Now it became clear that even in his sleep, his desire for his wife was ungovernable.
Regrettably, the rest of the day lay before him with unrelenting temptation.
To never again leave her side had been his initial compulsion and was honoured for weeks. It was only time and the aching in his vitals that bid him otherwise. He would have been quite happy to ride out each morning to engage solely in manly pursuits, eschewing such a female-dominated climate altogether. He could have made himself quite busy, not to return until supper was waiting. His temptation then would have been halved.
But he could not. Elizabeth had asked him to remain near her. He could never deny her anything—most certainly not himself. Therefore, he gathered his considerable dignity and reminded himself that he had endured war, pestilence, and a month on an ill-gaited horse—he certainly had the wherewithal to regulate his daily routine as he had the nights. But alas.
The stark light of day did not diminish his yearnings. He found himself watching Elizabeth surreptitiously whilst she nursed. The loving gazes she bestowed upon their gurgling young ones as they took their nourishment from her, the babies’ fingers tangling happily in errant strands of her hair—it was a display of pure, angelic bliss, so beautiful it made his heart ache. If she saw him there, she encouraged him to come close. Thither went he to her side, but knew he was a clumsy outsider to such a gentle scene. Moreover, despite the sublimity he witnessed, the moment the children were taken from her arms and the room vacant of unwanted eyes, he felt the irresistible need to leap upon her fecund form, tear her gown from her luscious body and use every means within his power to impregnate her with another child.
Such a letch was an abomination unto the Lord, and of no help in his present situation, either.
The treasured miniature that had accompanied and comforted him upon his treacherous sojourn on the Continent was once again his constant companion. He drew a loving thumb across Elizabeth’s likeness and pondered the conundrum he faced. For he would have paid any sum to exchange that tiny visage for her true aspect once again—and he dared not. Her very countenance before him was a cruel taunt when he could not go to her—to brush the curls from her neck and press his lips to the warm indention just below her ravishing little ear—and from thence to the luscious treasures below. As it was, he spent half his time in miserable semi-arousal—and hiding it like some randy schoolboy behind whatever waist-high furniture was at hand.
The mercy she had shown him by enticing him to take her in so bucolic an assignation, and in so fetching a manner, was one of unparalleled generosity. Its ghastly ending was truly a disappointment. But he had certainly not been disgusted. Its single evil was to recall to him events that he had hoped were long-embedded in their past. The moment he saw her blood, his alarm, the panic, the sheer terror of that ancient event gripped him like a serpent’s fang.
So firmly had he endeavoured to bury the memory, it was if it had occurred in another life.
It had been late one autumn, weeks before she had been expected to deliver their first child, when Elizabeth went into labour. It had begun in customary order, but as time wore on, hour after agonizing hour, no progress was made. The surgeon told them that the baby was not only quite large, but breech. With her usual pluck, she had endured a horrific labour. She had refused to cry out in her pain lest Darcy hear her—and he had pled for her to do just that. Servants covered their ears, Goodwin had been laid helpless, Fitzwilliam fled, and only Charles Bingley, Darcy’s friend and Jane’s husband, remained in the house to comfort Jane. And comfort her he did, for the outcome was grievous indeed. The baby was stillborn and Elizabeth was left clinging to life.
After the baby had been taken from her, Elizabeth had lain still as death. Darcy dismissed everyone from the room and had cleansed her himself, knowing even then the unseemliness of his insisting on such duty. Jane was witting, but others in the household were unaware of it save Hannah. She had been the single other person who witnessed his tender ministrations (she undertook the conservatorship of that private hour as a sacred trust). Yet it had been a fortnight before Elizabeth again opened her eyes. When she did, her husband was the first image she saw, for he had shepherded her care more devotedly than Jane. It fell to him to tell her that the baby was dead, and it was he who cried with her for hours after.
Upon that occasion long past, when Elizabeth’s milk had come, it was despised, a heartless reminder of what was not to be. It was a trial for him not to recall that when he saw her now. Perhaps that is why the vision of her nursing now tugged so decidedly at his heart. Quite unreasonably, all of the heartbreak, all her pain, Darcy had concluded, fell to him. His own imposing bearing (and his inordinate conceit of pride for it) bid him be wracked with guilt for fatheri
ng a child too large for her to deliver. She was not petite, but she was fine-boned. He, who prided himself upon being well-schooled in the nature of breeding—he, above all others—should have anticipated the dangers.
As it had the last time, it had fallen to her again to indicate when her body was sufficiently recovered from her lying-in. The morning she came beneath his window on Boots, she told him unequivocally that she was prepared once again to engage in those amorous acts that led to her confinement in the first place. Granted, when that time was nigh at hand, Mr. Darcy was in such a state of sexual deprivation, coaxing of mind or member was quite unnecessary. It was maddeningly brief, but still a delight.
It was also clearly premature.
Elizabeth had been entirely mistaken in the supposition that his fastidiousness had been offended by her unexpected discharge. Had her mortification not clouded her judgement, she would have realised that. He had never been repulsed by the monthly evidence of her fecundity nor did he abhor the evidence of childbirth. She was, however, compleatly unaware that he alone had cleansed her body after the stillbirth. The blood was merely a reminder of how very close he once came to losing her. His reticent disposition always resurfaced in times of trial. Hence, he could in no way explain what terror took hold of him that day or why.
One of the many blessings their newborns bestowed upon him as a father had been to relieve him at last of his long-held fear for a safe delivery. Still, he wondered if the twins had been but one, how large might they have been? That old bugaboo would occasionally seize him—that the children he sired were too large for his dearest Lizzy to bear. He endeavoured to remind himself of that with which they were blessed and fervently prayed that if they were gifted with more children, all would be well.
When upon the heels of their abridged tryst he curtailed further advances towards marital fulfilment, she wholly misunderstood. He merely wanted to give her all the time she needed to recover. They must not rush her. All the planets would soon align, abolishing misapprehensions and misgivings. They would once again laugh together beneath the bed-clothes until frolicsome inclinations fell quiet, suffocated by a passion that had found no boundaries. He hoped.
7
Connubial Contemplation
Elizabeth Darcy was quite unaware of the many unprecedented dilemmas her husband carried with him as he engaged in his duties within and without Pemberley, as she was weathering internal disharmonies of her own.
Having to nurse both hungry infants round the clock was no small bother either upon Elizabeth’s time or vigour. But even so weary a difficulty as this had its merits, for it had relieved her of one potentially sticky dilemma.
Although Mrs. Bennet was still in deep mourning at Longbourn, she issued ultimatums to Elizabeth via the post. History should have suggested to Mrs. Bennet that issuing such demands to her second oldest daughter was altogether futile, but she had not heeded that lesson. Mrs. Bennet knew from Lizzy’s previous pregnancy that she eschewed the notion of a wet-nurse. Mrs. Bennet, however, insisted (adamantly, even vociferously) that decorum demanded that her grandchildren have that service. It was no surprise that sweet, compliant Jane bowed to her mother’s wishes, and Lydia needed no prodding to give up any duty which supplied her no diversion, but Mrs. Bennet was most unhappy not to have that success with Elizabeth. If ever was the time, now Elizabeth must yield to her motherly advice, hence she wrote, “The very success of your marriage is at stake.”
Medical advice, tales of abuse, or common sense could not sway Mrs. Bennet from her belief that a wet-nurse was mandatory. Were her grounds for this directive not well-founded? It was a proven fact that a woman could not possibly carry out her marital duty with a baby at her breast and if she could, excitement of a carnal nature spoilt a nursing mother’s milk. Elizabeth may have birthed a son and therefore a Pemberley heir, but Mrs. Bennet knew having merely one was insufficient. Statistics were exceedingly unfavourable. It was far too likely that a baby would not live to see his first birthday. Some alarmists said only one in three would survive. (Although Mrs. Bennet had five who lived, they were all daughters and therefore unfit for numerical consideration.) An auxiliary son was imperative. Mr. Darcy had Mr. Bingley’s money ten-fold. It was essential that the effervescence of Mr. Darcy’s voluptuous fondness not be denied. Dear Lizzy must not waste a single fertile moment. No good came from nursing. It endangered the babe in her arms and denied further generation.
Indeed, Mrs. Bennet was unyielding on this point.
Elizabeth, unfortunately, was equally unyielding and as she was out from beneath her mother’s eye, did what she pleased. She had initially refused on principle to turn either infant over to another woman to suckle. It was a proprietary issue. Little though she relished a contest of wills with her mother, Elizabeth’s overabundance of mettle suggested that if it came to that, she would. However, after a rigorous birth, she was slow to regain her strength and as a result her milk supply was a bit paltry—enough perchance for one hungry mouth, but not two. Necessity regrettably demanded the employment of a wet-nurse. In the end, the birth of twins rendered the disagreement moot. Elizabeth did not give up her nursing duties—she shared them with squat, bounteous-breasted Mrs. Littlepage. (Mrs. Bennet would have been unhappy she suckled them at all.) As in most disputes where both were sides are left equally unhappy, this incident could be viewed as a draw.
Mrs. Darcy may have settled that discord without undue privation, but upon other fronts she was not so fortunate. Her mother was unconditionally oblivious to the passionate nature of the Darcys’ marriage. Had she been witting, she would not have worried that Elizabeth would forsake her nuptial bed. Elizabeth Darcy was certainly not disinclined to disport amorously whether she was nursing or not. As determined a mother as Lizzy was and as complicated as the manoeuvrings of twins were, she was determined nothing would interfere with the physical love she shared with her husband. She believed it a cruel evil to have to sacrifice one joy on behalf of the other.
However dedicated were her intentions, upon this vow she had been badly thwarted by practicality. Although Mr. Darcy had afforded her great affection atop the covers, with babies and nurses about, there had been little opportunity to creep beneath them. Indeed, what encounters they had managed had been somewhat furtive and not altogether rewarding. After the absolute fiasco to which she had subjected her dear husband in the glen, she wondered if he would be permanently affrighted from attempting to scale those lofty summits their passion had reached in unions past. She prayed not.
Hence, it took all her concentration not to allow her mind to wander from those mothering arts, for if her thoughts drifted, their destination was not always to those many blessings she enjoyed, but to the single one she did not. In this instance, however, this preoccupation was not the usual penchant by the well-recompensed to long for that which they are denied. Intimate nuzzlings and erotic delights were most noteworthy omissions.
Mr. Darcy did continue to inquire after her health with cordial persistence, and with equal determination, Mrs. Darcy continued to deny that Mrs. Darcy’s nether-regions had not been so anxious for marital rites as her libido. He, however, remained either unconvinced or uninterested. She had gone so far as to make certain that Mr. Darcy did not discover that the waddle she had not experienced since her honeymoon had once again afflicted her gait. (Upon that occasion she learned that time, and repetition, would heal all injury.) But he made no request (by word or action) to engage in those acts that had once been an integral portion of their love. She should have been miffed. As it was, her anticipation of renewing that very laudable part of their marriage was both barely containable and singly troubling.
The rapture with which he blessed her was not what gave her pause. It was, indeed, the perfervid road thither.
***
From the very beginning, Darcy had been the most tender of lovers. He not only took his pleasure, but was generous in granting hers. He
was impassioned, seductive, sensual, and romantic. (Just thinking of it gave her a voltaic frisson down her back that entered her innermost recesses.) But although their romantic idylls were many and their methods varied, within the tenacious Mr. Darcy dwelled an unsparing meticulousness that demanded he do nothing in a cursory manner. That could be an unparalleled gift when it came to the art of sexual congress. However, much like his lovemaking, inspection of her would also be thorough. No demure lifting of the hem of her night-dress would suit his leanings.
Therein was her conundrum.
Although his adoration of her naked form knew no bounds in times past, he had yet to gaze upon her fully undraped shape now that she had carried and birthed twins. Indeed, her confinement had abused her figure so unmercifully that she had been loath to do more than take a quick peek at herself in the looking-glass. Not only was she more than a small part plump, there were horrid red claw marks striating upward on her belly. Those scars were quite evident because her stomach hung from her frame like an empty sack of salt. Elizabeth was far less vain than the average handsome woman, but she was appalled at the notion of her husband looking upon her figure in its present state. If she looked upon it with repugnance, she could not bear to imagine his reaction.
It was against her nature to admit to miscalculations, but hindsight suggested that it had been a misjudgement to have instigated marital relations so hastily and indulged the dual insult to her nether-regions by beguiling him to their tryst astride a horse. Ultimately, the only shrewdness involved had been that the method she had chosen for that seduction involved the open air and thus a minimum removal of garb. Indeed, although the outcome had distressed him to no end, her method did accomplish one important goal—physical congress was achieved without him catching sight of much skin.
Darcy & Elizabeth Page 5