“Are you close with your mother and father?”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “My mother is . . . she suffers from nerves and is often excitable. She only wants the best for her daughters, though. I cannot fault that.”
Her description fit perfectly with all I had witnessed in the mirror.
“And your father?”
She pushed the treacle around the plate. “There was a time when my father and I were very close.”
I understood. Their estrangement was because of me, because of the marriage arrangement.
“You can be close again.”
“Perhaps.”
Silence filled the room as we finished the meal. I swallowed my nerves.
“Elizabeth, may I . . .” I cleared my throat. “May I show you something?”
Her eyebrows rose.
“It is here, at Pemberley. A room I think you will like.” At her misgiving, I said quickly, “A surprise.”
I held my breath. Would she trust me in this small thing?
She pushed her chair back and stood. “Lead the way.”
I had forgotten what it felt like to smile, but I could not contain it. I bounded from my chair and was out the door in an instant—certain I had heard a surprised laugh behind me.
She followed me through the corridors of Pemberley until we came to a door. I pushed through, checking to see if she was behind me, wishing I could take her hand. Sunlight from the windows lit the portraits on the walls—my ancestors, staring at me.
“Is that you?” Elizabeth asked.
She had stopped in front of the last portrait. A man—a boy, really—standing tall and haughty, one hand on his hip and a knee cocked as if he owned the world.
“That was me.”
She glanced at me, no doubt comparing the former Fitzwilliam Darcy to the wounded man before her. She turned back to the painting—staring, unmoving. I shifted my feet.
“Those are my parents.” I pointed to a different painting, hoping to distract her.
“And you, as a boy?”
“Yes.”
The silence was such that I could hear her swallow. Finally, she drew her eyes away.
“Is that what you wished to show me?” she asked in a small voice.
I shook my head, a smile pulling at my lips. “This way.”
At the end of the corridor stood a door painted with the many colors of the rainbow—a decoration I had created as a child and which my mother never changed, despite its garishness.
I swung open the door, then bowed, sweeping my arm out. “After you.”
Her eyebrows rose a fraction, but she stepped past me and into the room.
Elizabeth exclaimed, “A library!”
She circled the room as if to see everything at once, her eyes wide in wonder, her hands touching the spines of the books. She tilted her head back to regard the volumes which stretched almost to the ceiling and stilled at the sight. She seemed almost as fascinated by the clouds, sun, and stars painted across the ceiling like the sky moving from day to night. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if reveling in the scent of dusty books.
When she opened her eyes again, true happiness radiated from her expression for the first time since she had come to Pemberley.
“May I . . .?”
“It’s yours,” I replied. “All of it.”
She threw her head back in laughter, as if in ecstasy, and my heart yearned for hers. I had to turn away lest my own face betray my thoughts.
In time, I told myself. In time she would look at me like that. For now, I relished her joy, knowing I had pleased her.
“I shall leave you alone.” As much as I wanted to stay, I knew I must give her privacy. At the door, she called out to me.
“Thank you.”
Pressing my hand over my heart, I bowed.
* * *
The library was as inspired as I had hoped. Elizabeth spent more and more time with me each day. At first, I asked if I could read with her in the library. She assented. We read together in opposite chairs enjoying the crackling warmth of the fireplace and the silent companionship. She began to tell me of the books she enjoyed and would read me passages that leapt out to her. Over time we discussed several different volumes and authors.
When the library became too oppressive, we would walk outdoors, the snow crunching under our boots. Elizabeth delighted in throwing snowballs at me. I delighted in tucking her cloak about her or warming her mittened hands in my own. She colored at the contact but never pulled away.
We talked over dinner, and I learned more of her family—her beloved sister Jane and her younger sister Lydia. She spoke of her parents—the things her father had taught her, stories of her mother’s whims and fits.
“What happened to Pemberley?” she asked one evening. We had both retired to the library, although neither of us seemed to be reading. I had been watching Elizabeth caress the pages of her book, her mind obviously occupied by other things.
I closed the book I had been ignoring and placed it beside me.
“You were not always . . . as you are now.”
“No.”
“And the servants?”
There was no reason for me to hide the truth from her. Not anymore. I trusted enough in Elizabeth’s constitution that she would not faint for fear.
“It was dark magic,” I began. “My mother was learned in the magical arts. Occasionally she took on students. One such was George Wickham.”
Elizabeth listened in silence, the intensity in her countenance never wavering.
“He was the same age as me. Very charming and a very quick learner. My mother was proud of her pupil.”
Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair. “And then?”
“And then he began to delve into darker spells, darker magic. My mother did not approve. Finally, after a great argument, she asked him to leave without a written character.” I had never seen my mother more incensed, a formidable woman full of righteous indignation. “Wickham was livid. He vowed revenge. He returned a year later intent on destroying my mother. But she was already dead.
“The night he returned had been warm, the windows and doors of Pemberley open and inviting the breeze inside. It was Wickham who had come instead. A servant had warned me, and I went out to meet him before he could step inside the house, to tell him of my parents’ deaths in the hopes that he would move on.
“When he could not have his revenge on her, he cursed Pemberley. Every person in this manse received a mark, a scar that never heals, the agony relentless.”
“Just one?”
My smile was bitter. “Except for me.”
Her eyes traveled over my body, at the scars she knew hid beneath my clothes to the ones visible on my face and neck. “You are in constant anguish?”
I looked away. I did not want to see her pity. “We have all become accustomed to pain.”
The fireplace popped, causing Elizabeth to jump. “Is there no way to reverse the spell?”
I gave her a sad smile, a wish for forgiveness. “None that I know of.”
Elizabeth rose from her chair and sat down next to me. Slowly, as if in hesitation, she took my hand in hers. “I am sorry.”
I pressed my lips to her hand and her chest rose with a breath. “It is not your fault. But thank you for your kindness.”
A thought flashed across her face but I knew not what. “Kindness is easy to give.”
I studied her hand in mine. A red patch of skin showed below her knuckles. “Have you been hurt?”
“No . . .” She glanced at her hand. My thumb lightly brushed over the inflamed skin and, she twitched. I let go.
That was the first of many truths and confidences shared. We also had evenings with the servants, small parties where we could talk and play cards. Plumette and Elizabeth would take turns at the piano. I delighted in watching her laugh and smile unobserved—at the heat that would color her neck and cheeks when she perceived me looking.
One evening,
Elizabeth called for dancing. I watched the servants ignore the unrelenting aches from their scars and take their turns about the room, Lumiere leading the dance with Plumette. Elizabeth played the piano, the music and laughter filling the spaces that for so long had been empty and cold. She had brought life back to Pemberley—and happiness.
“Might I have this dance,” I asked Elizabeth, proffering my hand; my heart hoping she would accept both.
Her eyes met mine, uncertain. Her fingers stilled on the piano keys.
“Only if you wish it,” I said.
Resolve lit her expression, and I prepared myself for the sting of rejection, but she said, “I do.”
I led Elizabeth to the middle of the room, her hand small and warm in mine. Plumette began a waltz, and I twirled Elizabeth around the room, long-forgotten steps coming easily to my feet. My hand pressed into her back, pulling her closer. She did not pull away.
“I must thank you.”
She lowered her lashes. “It is just a dance, Mr. Darcy.”
“Please, call me Fitzwilliam.” She tilted her head up. “And not for the dance. For this.”
“Whatever do you mean . . . ?”
“You must know”—I twirled her away from me and then back into my embrace. She was even closer now, her heat pressing into my body, setting me aflame—“Pemberley has changed since you have come. I have changed.”
Her lips parted, and I was desperate to taste them. I swallowed. Her eyes moved to my mouth.
“In essentials, I believe, you are very much as you ever were,” she said. “But . . .” She glanced away. “I think you improve on acquaintance.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Indeed?”
Defiance flashed across her face. “I still do not approve of the marriage contract. Or the mirror.”
I blanched. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
Her feet stopped moving and she stepped away from me. “Mr. Darcy.” My heart sank as the wonderful moment dissipated. “I appreciate the letter you sent me, and all that you have done for my family. It is likely my father would have arranged some match for me, anyway. I only wish . . .”
My shoulders bowed. She still did not want this marriage. Want me.
“I wish you would have taken the time to court me properly first,” she said. “Truly know me. Without the mirror.”
“I never used the mirror nefariously.”
She studied me. “I believe you,” she said. “But it was still a violation of my privacy.”
I turned away, shame-faced.
Her hand appeared on my arm, a gentle touch. “I think I understand now why you did not. You are humiliated by your appearance. But it would not have mattered to me.”
I looked at her in disbelief. “Do not say such things when you do not know.”
“I . . .”
“You would not have spared me one moment.” She would have seen nothing more than a wounded man. She never would have given me more than a polite greeting.
Elizabeth shook her head, and I could only wonder if I had courted her first as she had said . . . I took her hand in mine. “Let us not dwell on the past, only on what future lies before us.”
Elizabeth stared at our entwined hands, my scars blending with the red blotches still on her skin. “Does this not hurt?” she asked.
She had not let go—how could it possibly hurt?
* * *
The day was fine and I thought Elizabeth might join me for a walk. Upon inquiring of her mistress, Mrs. Reynolds told me Elizabeth remained in her room.
I knocked at Elizabeth’s door.
“C—c—come in.” Emotion clouded her voice.
I pushed my way into her room. Elizabeth sat on the bed, her head bowed.
“What is the matter?” Her tearstained face stopped my heart. I rushed to her side.
Elizabeth sobbed, tears splashing onto the mirror in her lap. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, wanting to take away her sorrow. She rested her head against my chest.
“I am sorry,” she said, sniffling. I handed her my handkerchief, and she dabbed the tears on her cheeks.
When she returned the handkerchief, I noticed the sore on her hand had changed. What had started as an angry patch of skin now looked
like . . . a scar. My whole body went cold.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” My hands began to shake, anger threatening to burst forth. I tightened my grip on her. “Does it hurt?”
“What?” She noticed my gaze on her skin. “Yes, but it is not that. Nothing can be done.” She looked on the verge of bursting into a fresh wave of tears, but instead she pressed her lips together.
I could not stop staring at Elizabeth’s wound. Her scar. When I had asked, she had not remembered injuring her hand. How then had she gotten it?
I was certain of the answer, but I did not want to admit the truth.
“It is my sister, Lydia.”
I blinked. Lydia? “What of her?”
“She ran off.” She took a shuddering breath. “With George Wickham.”
“The wizard?” I could get no air into my lungs. Elizabeth scarred. Lydia with Wickham. I felt frozen. My disbelief quickly turned to shame.
This was Wickham’s fault, not mine, I knew that. And yet . . . Elizabeth would not be scarred if I had not brought her here. And her sister. Why had Wickham taken her? Could he actually love her?
“May I see the mirror?” Wordlessly, she handed it to me. Wickham appeared much the same as he had before, just as handsome and cunning, though exhaustion seemed to draw on his features. He was staring right into the mirror, and at first, I worried he could see me, but when I called his name, he did not so much as blink. The image in the mirror retreated from his face to reveal a small room. A bed lay behind him, a form curled upon it.
“I do not know how this happened,” she continued. “There was never talk of him at home. How does Lydia know him?”
I could only shake my head. He must have concealed himself from her family. Again, why? What was his motive?
Unless it was to exact even more revenge on me. Had he not had enough? Was not his vengeance complete?
Elizabeth pressed her scarred palm to her forehead, then winced. “I know not what to do. It appears my father is starting a search party to discover them, but Wickham is a wizard! Even if my father manages to find them, there is nothing he could do against such a man.”
I took Elizabeth’s hand in mine while my thoughts moved at a lightning pace. Mr. Bennet would never find Wickham, nor should he. It would only result in more misery.
If Lydia had gone willingly, if she truly loved him, was it my place to interfere?
It was more likely he had deceived her, flattered her, perhaps he used his power on her. Even if she did love him, she was in grave danger, for he could never love anyone but himself, of that I was certain.
“What is to be done?” Elizabeth moaned. “My poor mother cannot leave her bed, and there is no one to care for her—Jane has gone on her wedding tour. My father will leave on this fruitless quest, and oh! How did this happen?” The look she gave me implored me to give her answers. To rectify the situation.
Studying the mirror, I took in the room, the bureau, a small table with a washbasin, the four-poster bed. Wickham stood with his arms folded, staring out the window. “Where do you suppose they are?” Elizabeth asked, her fine eyes wild with worry. I hesitated but felt certain I knew where they were. “Wherever that is, I must go there. I must help her! Someone must rescue Lydia!”
It took me but an instant to realize I would do all in my power to rectify this— to stop Wickham and bring Lydia home. I would never allow harm to come to Elizabeth.
After this moment, I might never see her again.
“Elizabeth.” I set the mirror down and took her face in my hand, brushed my thumb across her cheek. “My wife.”
She did not flinch at the title. A fire in her eyes joined the despair that flooded her features. Her lips parted
as my fingers brushed across them.
“You must go to Longbourn.”
She stiffened. My eyes flitted to her scarred hand and continued. “I believe Wickham and Lydia are in the village. Return home. Stop your father from forming a search party. Keep your parents at home. Be with them. They need you. Stay inside and keep them safe. Do not search for Lydia. I will take care of this.”
“But . . .”
I desperately wanted to hear the rest of her thought. But she was frightened for me? But she did not want to leave me? But she loved me?
Nothing further was said.
“Go home,” I said. “I release you from the marriage contract.” I swallowed, my throat thick. Escaping the nearness of her, I rose from the bed and turned away. “I will ensure your protection.” If I died, Elizabeth would become a rich widow. Even if I survived my encounter with Wickham, she could not come back to Pemberley. I had already scarred her. What if the scarring were to spread? What if she became like me? “You will be Elizabeth Bennet once again. Your family will owe me nothing.”
I looked back one last time. I ached for her; the distress near unbearable. “You will be free.” Of Pemberley, of me. “Keep the mirror—so you may always remember.”
“Mr. Darcy.” She stood and took a few hesitant steps toward me, and I turned to meet her again.
I drank in her beauty—her poise, the turn of her mouth, and the brightness of her eyes, the intelligence behind them—and could not help but say, “You have been a balm, a healing power for the scars I carry, both inside and out. You have been a light in my darkness.” Her face so close, I could feel the warmth from her sweet breath on my cheek. Her breast rising and falling quickly. My heart ached for her. For all that might have been. With something like regret, I took her hand and kissed it, then gently turned it over in my own and kissed her palm, her scar. There was no time for anything more. I bowed goodbye to my wife, my Elizabeth.
Elizabeth did as I bade. From my room, I watched her gallop away from Pemberley.
“She will never return,” I whispered to myself.
I turned away to concentrate on my mission. I armed myself with a bow and arrows, a sword, and three daggers which I hid about my person. It had been long since I had trained in such martial arts, but I would not approach Wickham completely helpless. I worried the Fates were against me, but I felt more confident with a sword at my hip.
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 16