I returned to Pemberley but once during the day to eat a quick meal and summon my steward to accompany me on visits to the tenants. I ordered repairs made on several of the cottages. Upon each inquiry concerning the general health of the families, I was told that Mrs. Darcy had already called upon those who were ill and seen to their needs. I beamed in approval of the remarks made regarding her kindness and generosity.
Of course, Elizabeth was kind and generous. That was Elizabeth. And yet there I was treating her with rejection, or so she thought. By the time I returned to the house that evening, I had determined I could no longer simply avoid my wife. I must talk with her, and no matter how the matter displeased her, I must be forthright.
Our discussion would not prove pleasant while sharing a meal; thus, I resolved to delay our conversation until afterwards. My plans were set awry, however, when Elizabeth failed to come down for supper. I was alarmed. What could be wrong?
Tapping at the door of her chamber, I did not wait for an answer but rushed into the room. “Are you ill?” I cried.
She sat at her writing desk, a plate of food before her. “I am perfectly well,” she answered.
“Then why have you failed to join me?”
“Why should I? Since your return, it has become more than apparent that you do not desire my company. I asked to dine in my room to spare you the aggravation of my presence at your table.”
Frowning, I advanced into the room until I stood before her. “Aggravation? My table? Elizabeth, of what are you speaking?
She rose and placed distance between us by crossing to the other side of the room. “My maid informed me that you slept on the sofa in the library last night. I saw your cravat discarded beside your bed when I awakened this morning. I can only suppose that upon finding me asleep in that same bed, you would rather squeeze your long frame onto that ill-fitting couch than share a bed with me. I understand, Fitzwilliam. You need not inconvenience yourself by speaking the actual words. I will perform the odious task for you. You no longer care for me.”
“Elizabeth!” How could she possibly think I did not care?
I covered the distance between us in three long strides and reached for her hand, but she turned away before I could touch her. She raised her hands as though she might shield herself from my advances and shook her head back and forth. “Please, Fitzwilliam, leave me.”
“I cannot . . . I will not . . . until you listen to me.”
“Listen to you! I was more than willing to listen to you last night. Did I not beg you to converse with me? But no, you insisted that I play for you, and the moment I finished, you told me to retire.”
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes in dismay. “I know I am at fault. I dealt with the situation in an awkward manner.”
“Awkward? Your manner is unbelievably straightforward. I have been dull and failed to grasp the truth. Since shortly after Will was born, for some reason I have lost your love. Why, I do not know. I have heard tales of marriages where men lose interest in their wives eventually, but we have scarce been married more than two years. Or did you forget our second anniversary passed while you were away?”
I blinked rapidly. I had forgotten. In my quest for information to protect her life, I had hurt her deeply.
“I did not think your indifference would occur this quickly,” she continued. “I hoped it would never happen at all, but as I said, obviously, I am dull.”
I shook my head while walking to her side. “No, no, no. Elizabeth, you do not understand.”
“Then make me understand,” she said, leaving me to sit down on the settee before the fire. Her colour was high, but the light had vanished from her eyes. They were filled with pain, and my heart went out to her. How could I have hurt this woman I loved more than life?
I did not sit beside her. I did not trust myself to do so for I knew I would attempt to take her in my arms. Instead, I sat in the chair on the other side of the settee. Where should I begin? What could I say? I swallowed several times. My eyes roamed about the room, all the time aware that she watched me, wariness guarding her heart. Perhaps, I should stand. I rose and moved to the fireplace, resting my arm on the mantel. Her eyes followed me, but when I met her gaze, she began to study the rug on the floor. I placed my hand over my mouth. This scene was as clumsy as the first occasion upon which I proposed to her. No, it was worse! Elizabeth believed I did not love her.
At last, I took a deep breath. “Allow me to begin by assuring you that I ardently love you, Elizabeth, with all my heart, with all my being. I do not know how to not love you.”
Her face softened, her lips parted and she drew in a deep breath, but neither did the suspicion in her eyes waver nor the rigid set of her shoulders alter. She needed more than a declaration of love from me.
“You are correct in saying I have avoided you, but not because I no longer love you. If I loved you less, I would have no need to leave you.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “That statement does not make sense.”
“You would understand if you had witnessed the scene that I did when you gave birth to Will.”
Her mouth gaped. “Fitzwilliam, I was there!”
“But you did not see how you suffered. Elizabeth, you came close to dying!”
“I may not have seen the suffering, but believe me when I tell you I was intimately acquainted with the fact.”
“And that is why I have avoided you.” I turned back to the mantel, confident that she now understood my reasoning.
She rose and moved to stand before me. “I see. You cannot bear to watch me suffer through having another child, so you think to solve the problem by never causing me to be with child again. Am I correct?”
With relief, I nodded.
She placed her hands on her hips and turned away, taking a few steps before whirling around to face me, fury evident in her manner and her tone. “Fitzwilliam, there is a much easier solution. I fail to understand why even you cannot see it. When and if I ever give birth again, simply leave Pemberley! Then you will be spared the irritation of witnessing this misery on my part that you find intolerable!”
Wait! Why must she resort to sarcasm? Did she fail to understand me? I was doing this for her, not me.
While I stood there, lost in the muddle my emotions had made of my reasoning, Elizabeth crossed the room and evidently left the chamber. I heard the door slam behind her. With haste, I strode out into the hall and looked in both directions but saw not a sign of her. On the landing below, I spied Mrs. Reynolds and asked her of Elizabeth’s whereabouts.
“She walked out the front door, Mr. Darcy,” she said.
Regulating my hurried manner into one of calmness, I descended the stairs until Mrs. Reynolds disappeared on the floor above. In an abrupt change of pace, I raced down the last four stairs and ran out the main entrance of the house. Looking about, I saw not a trace of my wife. It was dusk, and the sun sat low in the sky ready to fade from sight. I quickly glanced toward the gardens, a favourite retreat of Elizabeth’s, but she was not there. Neither did she stroll beside the lake on the opposite side of the house. Hurrying toward the stables, I stopped a groom and asked if he had seen her.
He pointed in the direction of the steps leading toward the walk through the woods. “I saw Mrs. Darcy goin’ in that direction a few moments ago, sir.”
Once again, I tempered my steps to a dilatory pace until the servant returned to the stables, whereupon I flew up the steps and down the path. The trees darkened my view, but not before I glimpsed the whisper of her skirt as she turned around the bend up ahead. It was all but dark when I caught up with her.
We did not acknowledge each other, but I fell into step beside her, my hands clasped behind my back just as hers were locked together in a similar fashion. I wondered if she did so to ensure that I could not take her hand in mine. We walked for some time until the sun had vanished and the path ahead could no longer be seen.
At last I spoke, hoping her vexation had le
ssened. “Do you walk with a destination in mind?”
“Away from you.”
I closed my eyes in acceptance. Had I not known this woman long enough to understand she did not give over quickly, especially when she felt she had been wronged? Effort on my part would be required to secure a return to her good graces. I stopped walking, but she continued.
“Elizabeth,” I called. She halted and turned. I could barely make out her features. “Come back to me.” I held out my hand.
“Why should I?”
Oh, but she was stubborn! “Because it is too dark to see the path ahead of you.”
She raised her chin.
“And because I did not mean to hurt you, but I have, and I am sorry for it.”
She still did not move.
“And because I love you so.” My voice broke on those last words.
Slowly—very slowly—she meandered back down the path until she stood beside me. She would not take my outstretched hand, but neither did she resist when I reached for hers and tucked it inside my arm. We began our journey home.
“This discussion is not over, Fitzwilliam,” she said softly.
“I am more than aware of that, my love.”
* * *
After a night spent in separate beds, during which I slept little knowing the woman I loved lay so temptingly near, I rose and ate breakfast alone. It was not unusual for me to dine alone in the mornings. Often, Elizabeth had to feed the babe before dawn and would fall back to sleep afterwards. I went on with my day, enjoying a gainful round of shooting that morning and spending several hours that afternoon answering correspondence, among which I penned a long letter to Georgiana and her new husband in Bath. Perhaps it was better that my wife and I spent the day apart, I considered. It gave me time to prepare my thoughts for the conversation I knew I could not escape that evening.
As expected, at the close of our meal, Elizabeth declined to play for me. Instead, she took a chair beside the fire in the music room, accepted the sherry I poured for her, and gazed up at me with pronounced expectation in her expression. I sat upon the settee, a generous brandy in my hand and dread in my soul, and waited. It did not take long.
“What has persuaded you to believe that I shall die in childbirth?”
I had not expected that question. “Persuaded me? What need have I of persuasion? I paced outside the lying-in chamber for days, praying for your deliverance. I saw your suffering, Elizabeth, and I pushed my horse to exhaustion, fetching the doctor to save you! Do not speak to me of persuasion.”
“I am neither insensible of your concern, Fitzwilliam, nor ungrateful for your efforts. I acknowledge that Will’s birth was long and difficult.”
“Difficult! It was brutal!”
“It was troublesome, but I am fully recovered. No harm has been done.”
“I thank God you are recovered, and I intend to see that you remain so.”
“By decreeing that I never have another child.”
“Absolutely.”
At that moment, the door opened, and the nurse entered the drawing room, bringing young Will in for his evening visit. She handed him to me, and I was surprised that immediately he did not begin to wail. I walked about the room, lightly rocking him up and down in the hopes he would remain quiet.
“Talk to him,” Elizabeth said.
I raised one eyebrow. “And what do you think he wishes me to say?”
“Whatever comes to mind. He wants to hear his father’s voice.”
I gave her a look of incredulity, but, squaring my shoulders, I attempted to converse with my son.
“I bagged six birds this morning, Will. When you are older, I will teach you to shoot. And to ride—yes, riding must come first before you handle a gun.” I heard Elizabeth’s laughter behind me and turned to see her attempting to stifle her amusement.
“You told me to talk to him. What did you expect? I cannot coo like Bingley.”
“It does not matter.” She joined me and began petting the babe’s cheek, her voice taking on that manner it does when speaking to a child, a manner I seemed completely unable to render. “Does not matter one bit, does it sweetheart? You love whatever Papa has to say, do you not, my little man?”
“Papa,” I echoed. “It seems strange to think I am anyone’s Papa.”
“But you are,” Elizabeth said with a smile.
We spent half an hour thus engaged with our son. My wife showed me how to tickle him under his chin and how to sit him on my knee so that he could look about the room, all the time taking care to support his back. She continued to urge me to talk to him, and so I told him of the last harvest reports, the two new colts born during my absence, and the plans to plant barley in the far meadow. I failed to see the point when I knew the child could not understand a word I said, but, I admit, the way he looked at me when I spoke made me smile. His gaze was extraordinary, as though he was attempting to define who I was. He studied every shade of my countenance. When I spoke to Elizabeth, the babe turned to watch her answer. He missed not a measure. I reconciled my son had uncommonly intelligent eyes, and my heart filled with fatherly pride. Perchance, Will and I would bond before I taught him to ride.
After the nurse retrieved Will and returned him to the nursery, Elizabeth took my hand and led me to sit beside her on the settee. The simple touch of her hand set my senses afire, and I braced myself not to answer in the manner her nearness provoked in me. Releasing her hand, I shifted so that additional space existed between us.
“Fitzwilliam, how can you declare we must never have another child?” She turned her head to the side and looked up at me with those eyes I adored. “Will is perfect.”
“He is,” I said, nodding. “Why should we tamper with perfection? Who is to say another child could equal Will’s excellence?”
She smiled. “Any child of ours will be perfect in our eyes even if he is born with protruding ears and a wart on his nose. You and I cannot help but think him or her beautiful.”
“With those defects, let us hope it would not be a girl.”
“See,” Elizabeth said, taking my hand in hers. “You do want more children.”
“Of course, I do, but not if I lose you in the process. No, my love, you cannot give birth again. I will not chance it.” I withdrew my hand.
She sighed. “And so, what are we to do? Shall I take a house in Town or move back to Longbourn and live with my parents?”
“Do not speak foolishness. Pemberley is your home. You will not live anywhere but here.”
“I see. So, you will be the one to move away. And in this new arrangement you propose, shall you take a mistress to warm your bed?”
I rose and stared at her. “Have you lost your mind? I would never be inconstant to you.”
She stood up and met my gaze. “Fitzwilliam, you are not yet one and thirty, and you propose to live like a monk until one of us dies. What a bleak future stretches before you—forty, perhaps even fifty years of being alone.” Crossing the room, she fingered the drapes, pulling them aside to stare out into the night.
I began to fume. I had not contemplated the actual amount of years that lie ahead, or the prospect of what it would entail. But I refused to be swayed by her dreary vision. “Neither of us needs to be alone. We are married and we will live together here or in Town. We will raise Will and find joy in dwelling under the same roof.”
“Like brother and sister?” She spoke so softly, I strained to hear her.
“No,” I said forcibly, “not brother and sister, but husband and wife. There is more to marriage, Elizabeth, than the bedchamber.”
She turned, a faint smile playing about her lips. “But what takes place in the bedchamber makes marriage so much more agreeable.”
I released my breath in a huff and began to bluster about to keep my passions in check. She purposefully was flirting with me, and every nerve in my body wished to answer in a similar manner. No, in truth, I wanted to do more than flirt. I wished for nothing more than to sw
eep her into my arms and carry her up to that bed with which she taunted me! Instead, I busied myself by building up the fire. I doubt those logs had ever been prodded and poked with more force than they received that night. When I finished, I observed that she had returned to the settee.
“This will not do,” she said, shaking her head, a serious expression upon her countenance. It was plain to see the flirtation had come to an end.
“What do you mean?”
“I am not content to remain in a marriage without affection. We shall have to part.”
My heart began to race. I could not live if she left me! I returned to the settee and sat down, positioning myself where I could face her. “Elizabeth, you cannot leave. I believe we can show some affection without danger. I have held your hand tonight, have I not?”
She nodded. “If I recall correctly, I held your hand, but you snatched it away. Besides, hand-holding is not near enough affection to satisfy me.”
“Elizabeth,” I began.
“I need to feel loved, Fitzwilliam.”
“You know I love you. I shall declare it from daybreak to dusk. Will that do?”
She frowned. “I enjoy hearing the words, but I still need more.”
“How much more?”
“I must be kissed daily.”
I drew back. “How can you ask me to do that? You know how your kisses affect me.” Now, why must my voice come forth as a whine?
“Then you must learn to control yourself. I must be kissed or I cannot—I will not—live with you.”
I swallowed. “Very well, but it cannot be the type of kiss that leads—”
“Kiss me, Fitzwilliam.” She leaned toward me.
I swallowed again, but slowly I leaned toward her, my eyes fixed upon her soft, plump lips, knowing full well how sweet they would taste. Perhaps, if I do it quickly. Thus, taking hold of her hands, I swiftly brushed her lips with mine and then pulled back. There, I had done it and lived to tell the tale. I opened my eyes to see her staring at me, obvious displeasure upon her countenance.
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 27