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

by Joana Starnes

  “Again, please.”

  “Again?” For some reason, my voice cracked. What was I, a boy of thirteen?

  “Again.”

  I did not simply swallow that time. I gulped. How could I kiss her the way I longed to, the way I had dreamed of for months? Did she not understand a mere touch between us was fraught with danger? But once again I moved closer, my heart wavering between fear and desire. My eyes held her gaze until mine strayed downward. I could see her breasts quickening as she grew breathless. I turned my head to place my lips upon hers, drew nearer, and then hesitated, lost in the warmth of her sweet breath on my cheek. My heart began to thunder in my ears like that of a drummer calling his troops to battle. Perhaps if I closed my eyes. I did so and at last allowed myself to touch her mouth with mine, only to find her lips parting, her hands rashly upon my face, pulling me down, down, down. Before I knew what had taken place, I felt myself surrendering. I reached for Elizabeth and pulled her into my arms. The sensation of her skin touching mine and the feeling of her body within my hands made me wild. Hungrily, I roamed over her cheeks with my kisses, to her little ears, and finally down to her exquisite neck. I wanted her and no force on Earth could stop my craving! When, at last, we parted slightly, I took no more than a moment to breathe and leaned forward to kiss her again.

  Imagine my surprise when my wife disengaged herself from my embrace and rose, her pink cheeks the only sign of provocation. “Now that was a proper kiss. Goodnight, Fitzwilliam.” With that, she left me, my senses feverish and my brain a rattle of discomposure.

  * * *

  Before retiring, I needed air. I dreaded the thought of sleep, knowing it would prove futile. Sheffield fetched me a heated whiskey mixed with honey, herbs, and spices, and after whistling for my dogs’ company, I stepped outdoors and descended the stone steps. I sipped the warm drink and gazed up at the cold night sky. Numberless stars greeted me, but the new moon only produced a sliver of light. I walked down the measure of lawn to the lake where the hounds satisfied their thirst, provoking subsequent ripples to shimmer outward. I thought of the years ahead circling round and round much like the undulating water. How could I live with Elizabeth the rest of my life and not truly live with her?

  Fear for her safety had been my sole concern. I had not considered how difficult the years would be—not only for me but for her as well. Could I do it? Did I possess the strength of character? Doubts swirled about me while I stood there searching for solutions. What choice did I have? Better to live in privation than to lose her.

  I glanced at the windows on the upper floors and noted that her chamber was dark. It now would be safe to take my repose. The taste of Elizabeth lingered on my lips, and I knew that slumber would not be my friend. I determined to retrieve the tedious lawbook I had found the night before in the library. In truth, I might as well order an entire set placed in my room. Years of endless nights waited like great, hungry vultures.

  I had dismissed Sheffield for the night when he delivered my drink, but he had left a single candle burning in my chamber. After discarding my clothes on the floor, I suddenly felt fagged. Perhaps, sleep would descend. I dropped the law book onto the table and pulled back the counterpane. That was when I saw her. How had I failed to notice her lying in my bed when I entered the room? Shadows filled the room, but was I that preoccupied?

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, dear,” she answered.

  “Wh—why are you here?”

  “Another necessity if I am to remain at Pemberley.”

  “Elizabeth, I will not—”

  “And I have not asked you to do so.”

  “Then why are you in my bed?”

  “I have slept beside you since the first night of our marriage, and I confess I slept very well, indeed. Since we have occupied separate beds, I have failed to sleep soundly. I need my sleep, Fitzwilliam. We shall have to share this bed.” Her voice was matter-of-fact in tone, as though she were discussing what to serve for dinner.

  “Why must you insist on torturing me?” I pleaded.

  “I have no desire to torture you, dearest. I love you,” she said, her voice soft and sweet, “but I also love my slumber. Now, lie down and go to sleep.”

  I turned away. “I shall be on the couch in the library if I am needed.”

  She sat up and caught my hand, leaning toward me, her loveliness more than apparent in the gown she wore. “I need you, Fitzwilliam. Stay, I beg you. I cannot sleep well without you beside me.”

  “And I cannot sleep at all with you beside me.” My voice had now grown quite deep and husky.

  “Please,” she said. “I do not want to leave you, but—”

  I knew I could not refuse her, but with a great blustery show of impatience, I extinguished the candle and crawled into bed. Before I reclined, however, I would make one thing clear.

  “Elizabeth, do not think you can continue to add demands by threatening to leave each time you do not get your way. Enough is enough.”

  “Yes, dear,” she whispered, lying on her side to face me.

  I turned over, leaving my back to her. I spent some time wrestling the covers until I had settled, all the while thinking a monk’s life would be easier than mine. At least, the good brothers were not required to sleep with temptation!

  Elizabeth sighed and moved about on the bed. Each time she did, her scent washed over me. At length, she stilled, and I closed my eyes, praying to be overcome by sleep. Silence ensued for some time. I startled when I felt the touch of her hand on my shoulder.

  “Did I surprise you?”

  “No,” I said in a defiant manner.

  “I just have a question: Who told you I would die if I gave birth again? The doctor or the midwife?”

  I knit my brows together and turned over on my back. “I did not need to be told, Elizabeth. I could see for myself.”

  “And so, no one made the pronouncement?”

  “Well . . . no . . . but—”

  “Because neither the doctor, the midwife, Jane, nor anyone else warned me of the mortal danger giving birth to another child would cause. Could it be that you have assumed more peril than really exists?”

  “That is utterly false! You have forgotten how you suffered, how you had to fight to live.”

  My eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and I could see her smile.

  “Not true, my love.” Her voice softened. “But the memory fades as I recall the joy I experienced when the pain was over, and Will was placed in my arms.”

  “You were never more beautiful,” I whispered.

  “And I never loved you more.”

  “How could you love me? I did that to you.”

  “You did not act alone. I remember being quite willing . . . in truth, more than willing.”

  I sighed. There was no winning an argument with the woman, and we were drifting into conversation that had an unsettling effect upon me. Once again, I turned my back to her. She remained quiet for some time. And then, just as I felt my eyelids growing slightly heavy, I heard her voice again.

  “Fitzwilliam, are you awake?”

  “Yes,” I said grudgingly.

  “Did I ever tell you that I learned more about the marriage bed from my mother’s housekeeper than I ever did from my mother?”

  What the dickens was she talking about? I fumed silently.

  “Hill told Jane and I what we needed to know about the wedding night, and she also educated us regarding childbirth. She said most daughters were shaped like their mothers.”

  I almost snorted aloud. Elizabeth’s beautiful figure looked nothing like her mother’s!

  “She said if a mother has narrow hips, oft-times her daughter will, and each will struggle more in childbirth. Hill said Jane’s birth was long and difficult, and my mother declared she would never go through that again. As we know, she gave birth four more times, and Hill said each birth became easier. She said with practice a woman’s body seems to perfect the skill.”

  Could t
hat be possible? I wondered. No, that was simply the unschooled word of an old servant, and she, most likely, told that tale to reassure her young charges. It was not the word of a doctor. I would not encourage Elizabeth by giving credence to her statement. I remained silent.

  “Fitzwilliam, are you listening?”

  I grunted.

  “There is another fact we should consider: we were married over a year before I became with child. Do you recall that I had begun to worry since Jane was ready to give birth on her first anniversary?” When I did not answer, she continued. “Perchance, I am not as fertile as most women.”

  Oh, how my wife could conjure up arguments! Whether she had a child once a year or once a decade, the danger remained.

  “When you place all these facts together—my mother’s history, my fertility or lack thereof, the fact that I am feeding Will and plausibly protected against conception, and the actual truth that neither the doctor nor midwife said it was dangerous for me to have another child—its seems that we are denying ourselves comfort and pleasure without need.”

  I heard her words, but my mind was set on Elizabeth’s protection, and I would not countenance arguments against it. I began to breathe evenly, feigning sleep.

  “Dearest? Are you awake?”

  I could feel her drawing near me, sitting up in the bed to peer over my shoulder. I continued my deception until she sighed and lay back down.

  “What a pity you are asleep when I am making such good sense,” she fumed softly. I smiled in my false sleep. Oh, but she was adorable! Whether she made sense or not.

  And then, I felt her move close beside me. I held my breath when she placed her back up against mine. We had often slept in that manner when she was heavy with child, but now I knew her figure to be more than pleasurable. The very touch of her body against mine made me tremble, and oh, how I wanted to turn and take her in my arms. But I would not. I would allow her to sleep next to me and take comfort from the warmth our bodies created while I lay awake and silently debated her contentions through the night.

  What was it St. Paul said? Something about it being better to marry than burn? I wondered what he would say about burning while married.

  * * *

  “There you are!” Elizabeth exclaims, sweeping into the bedchamber. “I have been searching for you, dearest. You must come down and see the bouquet I have placed in your study. The chrysanthemums are simply glorious!” She kisses my cheek and begins retying my neck cloth. “How was your visit with the doctor? Did all go well? Is your heart behaving?”

  “Not when you are near.” I place my arms around her and draw her close.

  “Now, Fitzwilliam, tell me what the doctor said.”

  “Nothing of importance, just his usual grumping about.”

  “But are you well enough for our celebration?”

  “What celebration?” I give her a quizzical look.

  Playfully, she pats my chest. “You know perfectly well what celebration. Our fiftieth-wedding remembrance.”

  I groan. “I fail to see why we must invite the entire family to revel over a private memory. After all, you and I are the ones who married.”

  “Yes, but our marriage affected all of our family. Besides, we are too old for revelling. Let us enjoy watching the younger generation dance.”

  “Elizabeth Darcy, you will never grow too old to dance with me.” Stiffly, I bow before her and kiss her hand.

  She laughs. “And you will never grow old enough to enjoy dancing.”

  I nod. “True, but for you I will dance as long as these feet will move.”

  “Let me reward you for such a gallant offer by assuring you that we must lead only the first dance, and then we may take our place on the side. Will that make you smile?”

  “Without a doubt.” I reach for my cane and follow my lovely wife down the hall to the stairs, her tinkling laugh calling to me all the way. When she reaches the landing below, she flashes those fine eyes of hers in my direction.

  “You seem uncommonly cheerful today, Fitzwilliam. Did the doctor give you a new tonic?”

  “If I am pleased, it is not due to some vile tonic. ’Tis because I saw you among the flowers from my window, and it gave me pleasure. Elizabeth, you are still as lovely as a girl.”

  She pulled a face. “Oh, how you talk foolishness. Either your sight grows dimmer or you have something in your eye.”

  I shake my head. “You are wrong, my darling. In my eye, you will find naught but love.”

  * * *

  But, you say, what about the problem between you all those years ago? Did you truly live happily as brother and sister for half a century?

  Hardly.

  In truth, I confess the problem dissolved the very morning after Elizabeth had plied me with her arguments the night before. I awoke to find her asleep in my arms, my face buried in her fragrant hair, our bodies entwined as closely as two people so in love could entwine and remain asleep. I could say nature took its course, but that would reflect poorly on my character. Instead, I shall say that I lay awake for much of that night, poring over the truth of Elizabeth’s reasoning and . . . Elizabeth won.

  And, you ask, did she give birth again?

  Naturally.

  Our second son was not born until—let me think, how long was it—at least three or four years later. I am profoundly grateful to say the delivery was unremarkable other than Thomas inherited my wife’s fine eyes and, in my opinion, is the handsomest of our four sons.

  Now as to the grandchildren and great-grands, you must ask my wife. I cannot begin to recall how many there are, but believe me, when they all come, they fill Pemberley.

  Elizabeth says each one of them is perfect. I acknowledge they are handsome and bright. And I can affirm that they all possess an unusually keen intelligence. I begin to chuckle. Elizabeth does not agree with me on this, but I take credit for their intellect. In fact, it is a pet theory of mine, and someday, I may write a book about it. When they were babes, I never cooed at one of them.

  Award-winning writer Jan Hahn is the author of four Austen-inspired novels. She studied music at the University of Texas but discovered her true love was a combination of journalism and literature. Her first book, An Arranged Marriage, was published in 2011, followed by The Journey, The Secret Betrothal, and A Peculiar Connection. She agrees with Mr. Darcy’s words in Pride and Prejudice: “A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.” She is a member of the Jane Austen Society of North America, lives in Texas, has five children and a gaggle of gorgeous grandchildren.

  Hot for Teacher

  Sara Angelini

  “She is tolerable: but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

  Mr. Darcy to Mr. Bingley, Chapter III.

  Back in Black

  Christ Almighty, Bingley! Is there any friction at all between your two brain cells?” I could not contain my anger as I paced the narrow path behind my desk. “You hired George Wickham?”

  “He said he knew you!” Charles Bingley, my earnest vice-principal, exclaimed defensively.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Because he was qualified and because I distinctly recall that you told me—and I quote—‘Just hire someone with a pulse before September first or we’re in trouble.’” He crossed his arms over his chest, his cheeks ruddy with anger. No doubt he was right. He had an uncanny memory for my less diplomatic moments.

  I shook my head, too furious to lay out my personal problems for Bingley’s entertainment. Instead I sat at my desk, uncapped a pen, and furiously scribbled on my blotter, avoiding his stare.

  “And the art teacher? Ms. Brunhilda?” I growled. “What exemplary talent does she possess—aside from having a pulse—that would qualify her as our art instructor?”

  “Elizabeth Bennet is a fully credentialed art instructor with a master’s degree in fine arts. What more do you need to teach a sixth grader how to draw an orange?”

&nbs
p; “And I suppose she must have a degree in hypnosis? How else would she have passed muster with a résumé that lists Play-Doh as an artistic medium?”

  “If you think you can do a better job hiring on short notice, then you are welcome to it. Until then . . . kiss my ass.” Bingley turned and strode out of my office, the glass window rattling as he slammed the door.

  I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes. George Wickham. The very name made me want to spit. I have known George Wickham most of my life, and while I could never put my finger on why, he made my skin crawl. He’d never done anything terrible—he’d never murdered anyone, or stolen over a hundred dollars, or slept with his own mother—but something about him was just . . . off. Like when you stand at the top of a skyscraper. You can’t see that it’s swaying in the wind, but your gut tells you that things aren’t normal. That’s the way I always feel around George.

  And I’ve had plenty experience with George. We have the same father.

  * * *

  Like always, the first day of classes began with an assembly in the auditorium where Bingley gave one of his rousing rah-rah-let’s-go-Dukes! speeches. I watched as he high-fived the football captain and then low-fived the wheel-chair bound equipment manager in the same, fluid motion. I should give him more credit, for he really is an engaging man, but I had still not forgiven him for his thoughtless staff hires.

  My new art teacher was straight out of the politically incorrect stereotypes handbook. She wore horn-rimmed glasses that slid down her nose and her hair was piled in a careless heap on the top of her head, held in place, I suppose, by mesmerism and the paintbrush stabbed through it. Her sweater resembled an oversized potholder, both in texture and cleanliness, and broken fabric loops frayed out in a sort of holistic, handicraft aura.