The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words

by Joana Starnes

  I gaze out the window of my chamber, watching her tending her garden. She clips the last of the late daisies and places them in the basket on her maid’s arm before moving toward the larger chrysanthemums. She stops and tilts her head to the side as though she is not sure the sage blossoms or viburnums meet with her approval, but she is quick to gather some rose hips and wild grasses. I know what she has in mind. She thinks to brighten my study with a bouquet. She has no idea one glimpse of her is all I need to make my day lighter.

  Fifty years. I shake my head in disbelief.

  For half a century, Elizabeth has kindled a spark in my eye and made my heart skip a beat. The old doctor putters around listening to my chest and muttering dire warnings. He still thinks I have a heart condition, but I know better. I gave my heart away years ago. It belongs to that lass in the garden.

  “That lass.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?” The doctor jars me from my reverie.

  I wave him away with a shake of my head and return to my memories. Where did those years go? The first time I saw her, I confess, I had a rather high opinion of myself. Where did we meet? Surely, I cannot have forgotten something that important. Yes, now I remember. At that blasted assembly ball in Meryton that Bingley insisted I attend. Good old Bingley. I wonder, did I ever thank him for changing my life on that crisp, autumn night? Probably not. Like more than one obligation I have overlooked through the years, most likely I forgot that debt of gratitude I owed my friend, and now it is too late. But I will not think about that. I would rather think of Elizabeth at that assembly ball.

  So young and beautiful—she could not have been more than twenty—and when Bingley urged me to dance with her, what did I do? Declared she was not handsome enough to tempt me! Not handsome enough to tempt me? Who was the fool that uttered those words? What a pompous ass I was in those days. From that night until this moment, Elizabeth has tempted me with little more than a turn of her countenance.

  I watch her snip the spent blossoms from the rose bushes, all the while instructing the maid. Her lovely hair is no longer dark but now silver. It still gleams in the sunlight, though. Her figure is yet trim, although it is difficult to tell beneath those voluminous skirts that are the fashion today. Most absurd design any dressmaker ever contrived! I prefer the styles of our courting days. I smile and begin to chuckle.

  “Mr. Darcy, do you find my instructions humorous?”

  I look up to see the doctor handing me a slip of paper covered with unintelligible scratching.

  “Perhaps I should leave my directions with Mrs. Darcy?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “’Tis unnecessary to bother my wife. I am still able to read.”

  “And you will follow my orders, sir? Do we agree?”

  “What? Hmm . . . right.”

  “I hope you mean that, Mr. Darcy. You are no longer a young man, you know.”

  I frown. Why point out the obvious? “Neither of us are young, Doctor.”

  “Yes, well, I must be on my way.” With that, the gloomy pest left my room and not a moment too soon.

  Now, where was I? Oh, yes, remembering Elizabeth as a young woman. Once again, I begin to smile. If I had to choose, when would I say she was at her loveliest? The day she accepted my proposal? I can still see the pink in her cheeks. Well, not the day of my first proposal. Her cheeks had turned scarlet that day. With what passionate ardour I had declared my feelings for her! And then . . . I turned into an arrogant goat. I still recall how my chest swelled with pride. Not only did I vow to marry her even though my family would condemn the union, but I went so far as to disparage her relations. I wince at the remembrance.

  ’Tis better not to dwell on that part of my life. Much more pleasurable to recall the second proposal on the lane near old Lucas’s house in Hertfordshire. Sir William Lucas—how he delighted in his purchased title. I still can see him strutting about Netherfield at Bingley’s ball, but why am I thinking of him? Much better to remember that we were left alone outside his house long enough for me to ask for Elizabeth’s hand again. And that time—I can see it like it just happened—she accepted.

  I laugh aloud. Suddenly, I recall an occurrence that took place shortly afterward. Elizabeth and I left the path and struck out to climb a small rise from which she promised I would have a splendid prospect. Today, I forget the prospect, but I do remember her promise coming true. The excursion proved to be splendid! It marked the first time I kissed my darling girl. Surely, she was at her most beautiful then. But try as I might, I cannot recall her likeness. What I do remember are the words she whispered as soon as I released her soft, warm lips.

  “Again, please.”

  I am certain I obliged her request but for some reason I cannot capture the image. Curses on the cruelty age inflicts! I can remember, however, the surge of passion that flooded my senses at her shocking entreaty. Without a doubt, I knew that woman would lead me on a delightful chase for the remainder of my days.

  I turn back to watch Elizabeth sit down on the bench in the garden, her eyes inclined toward the lake. Even at our advanced ages, she is lovely. Can she feel my eyes upon her? Will she cast her attention up to my window? She does not but rises and disappears from view. A cloud darkens the scene before me. How I love that woman and how I need her. Without her I am like the garden without sunlight.

  Now, what was the question I had contemplated only a few moments earlier? I detest growing old. Not only does my body fail me, but my mind as well, which is much worse. About what had I been thinking? I recall the subject as most pleasant, and I long to return to that feeling.

  I know.

  When was Elizabeth the most beautiful?

  One naturally would say our wedding day—never had there been a prettier bride. Or perhaps that night when she first shared my bed. I close my eyes, savouring the memory. I strain to see her, but I cannot.

  I consider that first year of our marriage as our halcyon days. We devoted ourselves one to the other, and it was like heaven. I took pleasure in acquainting Elizabeth with the joys of Pemberley, and her enthusiasm delighted me. How often we had roamed the park and woods. Later, I set out to show her the wonders of Derbyshire. Some days we left at first light and did not return until sundown. She was eager to explore, and I was as eager to see my home and the surrounding lands through her eyes. But then, toward the end of that first year, the situation changed.

  Jane Bingley gave birth to her first child, a daughter, and Elizabeth became enchanted with her niece. Three months earlier, Charles had purchased an estate within thirty miles of Pemberley. My wife and her sister were overjoyed to be within such an easy distance of each other, and after Charles and Jane became parents, we oft-times found ourselves at Summerlin Park. Babies, and our lack thereof, began to occupy the foremost position in Elizabeth’s thoughts.

  “I have it!” I speak aloud, causing myself to startle. I talk to myself these days much more than I admit but rarely with such fervour.

  I now realise the date Elizabeth’s beauty was at its pinnacle. It could be none other than the day she gave birth to our son Will.

  “Yes, that is it,” I murmur. “She was never more beautiful than when I feared for her life.” I feel a frown crease my brow because I remember that it also marked the beginning of a troubled time in our marriage.

  * * *

  Jane had asked me to wait in the hall outside the lying-in chamber until Elizabeth and the babe were made presentable. I remember walking into that room, seeing my love dressed in a clean gown, her long curls brushed and spread out on the pillow behind her like a crown. She smiled down at our child in her arms, her expression serene and yet filled with a joy the likes of which I had never witnessed before. Never had I seen anyone lovelier or anyone I loved more.

  “Elizabeth?” I had whispered, rooted at the door, hesitant to enter.

  Raising her eyes to meet mine, she beckoned me. Quietly, I advanced toward the bed. I was conscious of movement in the background. It may have been
Jane and the midwife, or the maids scurrying about, arms filled with bundles of discarded sheets and towels, for the bed was made fresh and clean, but I could not say for sure. I only had eyes for Elizabeth.

  The chamber looked nothing like it had an hour earlier. I know it is not the custom for a husband to be allowed in the room during his wife’s lying-in. Jane had declared it so when I pushed open the door before the babe was born. I refused to heed her words, so the midwife repeated the order with such emphatic distinction it could not be misunderstood.

  “My wife is in pain. My place is at her side!”

  I had barked at the poor woman with such force that she withdrew at once. I was not in the habit of speaking to any woman in an ill-bred manner, but Elizabeth had been in labour for two days and nights. I could no longer tolerate having her progress simply reported to me. I had to see for myself.

  At that moment, Elizabeth had screamed as the pains resumed, and I ran across the room to her bedside. I took her hand in mine and kissed it. Jane handed me a damp cloth and I bathed my wife’s forehead, all the while kissing her hair and assuring her that I was there. As the pain subsided, she opened her eyes.

  “Do not leave me,” she whispered.

  “Never,” I cried.

  But I did. Three hours later, Jane bade me join her and the midwife beside a window on the far side of the room. “We think the doctor should be fetched,” my sister whispered.

  “I’ve done all I can, sir,” the midwife added. “Your wife needs more than my efforts to see her through.”

  “Why did you not tell me this before?” I demanded. “You let her suffer like this for days on end when all along a doctor’s skill was required?”

  The midwife backed away, and I realised once again I had been overbearing in my distress.

  “Darcy,” Jane said softly, “things have grown dire only within the last hour. I fear for Lizzy’s endurance. She is far too weak. We need help.”

  I rushed to the bed and gently took my wife’s hand again. “Hold on, my love. I will return with the doctor and all will be well. Do you hear me, dearest? Do not give in. Wait for me!”

  With that, I strode from the room, raced down the stairs two at a time, and out into the night. The cool breeze struck me in the face, and I gulped it in, grateful to be able to breathe the fresh air after the stifling chamber where I had left my wife. I did not wait for a groom but ran to the stable, shouting orders to the nearest servant to saddle my fastest horse.

  Now that I think back on it, I wonder that I did not send a servant for the doctor. At the time, I could think of nothing but accomplishing the deed with great haste. I did not trust a servant to impress the necessity for swiftness upon the physician as I would. When I reached his house, I refused to allow the poor doctor to even dress properly but hastened him from his bed wearing naught but a pair of breeches and his nightshirt while I carried his boots in my hand. Harnessing his horse to a carriage wasted precious time. I insisted he mount the first horse I saw and ride back with me.

  “What about my bag? How can I carry it and guide a horse?” he sputtered. “I much prefer a carriage, Mr. Darcy.”

  I grabbed the bag and held the reins while he climbed into the saddle. With that, we were off and back to Pemberley before the good doctor could raise further objections. Peculiar expressions crossed the servants’ faces when I ushered him up the steps and through the front door with bare feet.

  “Mr. Darcy, I must have my boots before entering the sick room. I insist!”

  I relented and allowed the man to sit down in the entrance hall and pull on his boots. All the while, I stood over him urging him to make haste. When we entered Elizabeth’s chamber, I could see my wife’s face was not only pale; it had turned grey. I sensed Jane beside me, attempting to secure my attention, but I could not comprehend her words. I wanted nothing more than to learn that Elizabeth still lived. I called her name, but she did not answer. Kneeling beside her bed, I took her hand in mine, but she took no notice.

  “Elizabeth!” I cried louder, and yet she would not answer. Taking her by the shoulders, I lifted her head from the pillow and called her name again.

  “Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to treat the patient,” the doctor said. I felt Jane tugging at my arm, and the midwife entreating me to leave the bedside. I know not how I left the chamber. I cannot recall. It was as though I staggered through a dark, cold tunnel with no light ahead. Elizabeth could not die. I could not live without her. I had nothing if I lost her, nothing at all.

  “Darcy, drink this.”

  I roused, sitting on a bench in the hallway with Bingley beside me offering a snifter of brandy. Brandy? Why would I drink brandy when my wife—I jumped up and headed back to the chamber, but before I could reach the door, Bingley and my valet, Sheffield, blocked my passage. We came close to blows, but the two of them wrestled me back to the bench. I had but sat down when Elizabeth began to scream anew.

  Her cries were much weaker than before I had left Pemberley to fetch the doctor. I could feel her life ebbing away from me. I turned to Bingley, wanting to find some semblance of hope in his eyes, but in its place saw dread. When another scream resounded through the thick walls of her chamber, I jumped up and pushed my way toward the door. Just as I reached for the doorknob, a tiny cry, like that of a kitten, made me stop and listen.

  “Is that—” I turned toward Bingley and Sheffield.

  A huge grin on Bingley’s face confirmed what I wanted to hear. The babe had been delivered!

  But what of Elizabeth? Without knocking, I pushed the door open only to see a horrifying sight. I shall not describe it for fear of shocking those who are faint of heart. I can only say that God in His infinite wisdom created woman much stronger than I ever suspected. When viewing the remains of the struggle my wife had undergone, my hands began to shake.

  Before I could utter a word, Jane was urging me back through the door out into the hall, assuring me that all was well, and that I could see Elizabeth and the babe once the doctor was finished.

  “All is well?” I muttered aloud. How could all be well within the scene I had witnessed? I could have lost her!

  Of a sudden, Bingley was shaking my hand and congratulating me on becoming a father. Sheffield held forth the glasses of brandy, and that time, I accepted the offer.

  “Do you have a son or daughter?” Bingley asked.

  I stared at him before acknowledging I had forgotten to ask. Three words kept echoing in my head. “All is well.” I prayed to God that it was true.

  * * *

  We gave our son my name—Elizabeth declared it her heart’s desire—and we called him Will. He appeared healthy enough, but all parents know that childhood is fraught with disease, and the fear of death is a common worry. A similar anxiety for Elizabeth’s health remained in me for I knew many women died from childbirth. The fear of losing her besieged me. I gave my full attention to the doctor’s orders and demanded a roaring fire maintained in my wife’s chamber day and night even though it was late August. She was restricted to a diet of teas and warm liquors, and solid foods were strictly forbidden. When I entered her chamber on the third morning after our son was born, I ordered blankets placed on the windowsills to guard against outdoor air creeping through the crevices.

  That was the day Elizabeth rebelled.

  After sitting up in bed, she began to unpin the curtains drawn around the bedframe.

  “Elizabeth!” I cried. “What are you doing? You must not yet sit up. And why do you push the curtains back? There are dangerous draughts about.”

  “Where? I feel nothing but this oppressive heat. If I do not have some air, I shall be roasted alive,” she announced. When I frowned at the foolishness of her actions, she laughed aloud. “Fitzwilliam, it is too hot in here to draw breath! Pray, if you do not open the door and allow fresh air into this room, I shall rise from the bed and do so myself.”

  My wife refused to be swayed either by Mrs. Reynolds’s admonitions or my reading
a list of the doctor’s orders deftly punctuated by a wagging finger. She declared that the doctor had yet to give birth himself; thus, her knowledge was greater than his.

  On the fourth day, Elizabeth rose from the bed and walked to the window and back, much to my dismay. Arranging herself in a chair, she then directed the maid to have the nurse bring her the babe, whereupon she promptly put the child to her breast. The nurse’s shocked gasp was echoed by Jane, who had just entered the room.

  “Lizzy, have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “My milk is coming in, and I am feeding my son,” she said quietly.

  “But why?” Jane turned to me. “Darcy?”

  I stood there staring like a simpleton.

  “Jane, calm yourself. Why should one of our tenant’s wives nurse my child when I have sufficient milk?”

  “But it . . . it is simply not done,” Jane murmured. “Especially here at Pemberley.” She raised her eyebrows in my direction.

  “Fitzwilliam, do you object to my feeding little Will?” Elizabeth asked.

  I cleared my throat. Did I object? I hardly knew.

  “It may not be the fashion,” Elizabeth said, “but I have a great desire to do so.”

  “If it is your desire, my love, and not harmful to you, then do so.”

  Unknowingly, I had been backing up toward the door and finding myself there, I turned and fled. I sought refuge in the library and closed the great double doors behind me. It seemed my knowledge of caring for a new mother and babe was highly insufficient. My wife, who had been raised in more humble circumstances than I, had her own opinions of child care, and who was I to disagree? I had never actually seen a woman nurse a child before, but the look of peace that descended over Elizabeth’s countenance as she held our son filled me with wonder. I decided so long as my wife and the babe thrived, my place was anywhere but their chamber.

  From then on, I spent my days seeing to Pemberley, supervising my tenants, and exercising my horses. Of course, correspondence to my family announcing the new addition occupied my time as well. I found so many tasks to complete during the first month after Will’s birth that I had little time to visit the nursery and Elizabeth’s chamber until the end of the day.