“In London, you were pulling me into darkened rooms and trying to get inside my trousers,” he hissed. “I said that you should take a lover, didn’t I? But perhaps you already had. Perhaps you married me with some other man’s bastard in your belly—”
“That doesn’t even make sense. We have been married for too long. If I had already been increasing, I should be the size of a house by now.”
“Fine, then,” he said. “I’m asleep all the time. You could easily be spreading your legs for all of Derbyshire.” He roared the last words.
She flinched from him.
Darcy glared at her. “Tell me who, then.”
“Stop it,” she said. “You know how devoted I am to you. You know I would never—”
“Is it you, Richard?” Darcy bellowed, throwing his head back. “How long have you been here? Have you been tupping my wife for sport because I’ve not been man enough to do it myself?”
The door burst open and Colonel Fitzwilliam was inside now. “For God’s sake, Darcy, your wife is breeding, now pull yourself together and—”
“You’re the one who told me to marry her.” Darcy pointed at the colonel. “Were you with her then? Has this all been some mad scheme between the two of you? What? Are you after my money? Take it, then. Take whatever you want. Take the whore and go, the both of you. Just leave me my laudanum.”
Elizabeth was starting to cry. “That is the last time you will call me that word, Mr. Darcy,” she said. And even though she was crying, she was pleased that her voice was strong and cold. “I have been faithful to you. Don’t you dare say otherwise.”
“Get out,” he said to her. “Leave.”
She lifted her chin. “You would turn your wife and unborn child out of your home? Into the snow?”
“It’s not my child,” said Darcy.
She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Darcy was thirsty.
He drank water and it did nothing to slake his thirst, because he didn’t thirst for water, but for laudanum, but for opium, and he was in agony, and no one would save him.
Now, he was shaking at the thought of another man’s hands on Elizabeth. He had taken her virtue, all those years ago, and somehow he had grown attached to the idea that he was the only man to ever have touched her. To have kissed her. To have been inside her.
A dream swam at the edge of his memory, of her bare skin splayed out in front of him…
But no, he had not been able to achieve an erection in years. There was no possible way that he had fathered a child—
“Are you going to let her go?” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice was quiet and scornful.
Darcy turned to look at his cousin, who seemed to have materialized out of the shadows. “I thought I told you to get out.”
“You called Georgiana a whore too, didn’t you?”
Darcy’s nostrils flared. “What does that have to do with anything that’s happening now? Why do you insist on bringing her up?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed mirthlessly. “Never mind, Darcy. Your wife is packing up her belongings. She has asked me to escort her away from you, back to her sister’s home in Netherfield. I have agreed. I don’t think she should be anywhere near you at the moment.”
Darcy sneered. “It is only what I asked of her, isn’t it? For her to leave? You take her away, then. Both of you go. It is your child, isn’t it?”
“I won’t even dignify that with an answer,” said his cousin and stalked out of the room. He didn’t shut the door after himself.
Darcy was free.
He ran out of the room, mad with his desire. He knew that he had left a bit of laudanum in his study, and if he could just get there…
Dashing down the steps, he came face to face with Elizabeth, who was ascending the steps and speaking to the housekeeper about what should be done in her absence.
The housekeeper’s eyes widened at the sight of him.
Darcy realized that he was practically naked. He hadn’t shaved in days. He was sweaty and smelly. He felt ashamed of himself.
If Elizabeth had slept with another man, could he blame her? Whatever would she want with him? He froze there, staring at her, and she looked so beautiful that he wanted to cry. He wanted to sob like a child, because if she left him, if she left him…
A memory surfaced from the depths of his mind. His sister, Georgiana, all those years ago, tears streaming down her cheeks as he lit into her, calling her terrible names, screaming at her.
And then she’d left. She’d gone through the doors and disappeared on her horse, and Darcy had never seen her again.
Dear God, it was all happening again, wasn’t it?
And why shouldn’t it? He wasn’t a man. He was a dog. He was worse than George Wickham. He was pathetic and wicked and he didn’t deserve a woman like Elizabeth.
But still, the words ripped out of him. “Not in the snow.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. She had already been staring at him. Both she and the housekeeper had.
“I won’t chase another pregnant woman out of this house to her death,” said Darcy. He pointed at her. “Not in the snow.” And then he threw himself into his study, where he found the bottle of laudanum where he had hidden it. He uncapped it greedily.
The liquid slid down his throat like a sweet, sweet balm. He groaned softly and slid to the floor, clutching at the bottle. Now everything would be all right. He had the laudanum, and that was all that mattered.
* * *
Elizabeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam were gone in the matter of a week, as soon as the snow was melted enough to allow safe passage.
Neither of them attempted to take his laudanum from him, and for that, Darcy was grateful. He slept most of the week away anyway. He slept away her departure. He awoke in the darkness, and she was gone.
And that was as it should be. After all, he had done enough to hurt her.
When he thought of all the ways that he had destroyed that woman, he was ashamed.
So ashamed, in fact, that even the opium was not the solace it had once been. He would drink, but he would not be shuttled away to pleasant warm dreams of goodness and light, but to dark places of torment. He knew he deserved it.
Time passed.
How much time, he couldn’t say, but the snows stopped and the air grew warm and Darcy was cocooned in a hole of laudanum and guilt and regret.
One day, he went into the bedroom that had been Elizabeth’s, and he lay down on her bed, and he stared at the ceiling.
He thought about his dead sister and the wreck of his life that he’d wrought, and he hated himself.
He thought about Elizabeth and the way she had looked at him with all that adoration, and he missed her so acutely that he wanted to die.
Abruptly, making love to her came back to him.
Not all at once. Bits and pieces of it. Elizabeth’s cries as he’d had his fingers on her. Then her hoarse voice. I want you now.
He sat up straight, horrified.
What had he been thinking? Dear Lord, could he have possibly thought Elizabeth would lie with another man? She had been his. She had been devoted to him. When no other sane person would be devoted to him, she had loved him. She would never…
“It is my child,” he breathed.
Well, that was it, then. No more laudanum. He was going to have to pull himself together. Maybe, if he could get off the dreadful stuff, he could somehow convince her to come back, along with their babe. Maybe…
It lasted an hour, and then he was making excuses and pouring more of the stuff down his throat.
When he awoke from his stupor later, he realized that he was not going to be able to do this on his own.
He instructed his servants to pack up his trunk for a journey. He would set out in the morning, he told them.
And then he had more laudanum and went to sleep.
But when morning came, he could not rouse himself from his bed.
Elizabeth had not wanted to leave.
Slinking back to her elder sister’s home, pregnant and pitiful, it wasn’t a triumph, but rather a defeat. She had married. She had left this place and gone on to be mistress of her own estate. And Pemberley was a grand estate, even if it had been left in disrepair for a number of years. She had done much to bring it back to its former splendor.
No, she had not wanted to leave.
But she could not stay with Darcy, not in the state that he was in. Not when he had called her a whore twice and not when he had growled at her to get out of his house.
It would have been too much for her pride to have given in.
There were some things that were not to be borne, even from Fitzwilliam Darcy, however much she loved him.
And that was the hell of it all, the sheer infernal agony of it. She did still love him. She knew that he suffered because of his dependency, and she knew that he would regret everything that he had said and done if he were in his right mind. It was not her Darcy who behaved so, but the demon Darcy that had been twisted by opium.
In some ways, though, it all came to the same thing.
Arriving at Netherfield was not a pleasant experience, whatever the case. Of course Jane welcomed her with open arms, but Bingley was stiff with her. Nancy was not overly demonstrative either, even though she was happily planning her nuptials with Mr. Martin, who had not cared a whit for any scandal caused by Elizabeth’s wanton behavior and still wanted to make her his wife.
The children were delighted to see her. They had missed her terribly. Elizabeth had missed them too.
It was all rather dreadful, though, truth be told. Here she was, back in disgrace from her husband, and the gossip had barely cooled on their marriage to begin with. Also, she was with child, and Elizabeth was worried. Would Darcy not give up his mad idea that the child was not his? Would he deny his own son or daughter?
What if she bore the Darcy heir, and Darcy would not claim him?
On the other hand, if Darcy continued in the manner he was with the laudanum, it was perhaps best that the child never become acquainted with his father. She would tell her little boy or girl stories of her father’s bravery. In keeping with his own practice, she would make them up entirely. Darcy lied enough as it was. He would not mind.
The worst of it all was that she simply missed him.
She knew she could not go back to him, and that all was spoiled between them.
For a long time, she had wanted nothing more than him, and she had been willing to do anything to have him. Now, however, she could not have him at all, because he was not worthy of her.
And she realized now, that back then, back when she was calling on Miss de Bourgh or chasing him to Rosings, it hadn’t been just Darcy she was chasing, but herself. Some hidden, brave part of herself that awoken on the deck of a pirate ship, a part of her that scorned propriety and sought out fire.
She had not saved Darcy, but she had saved herself.
And she would need that hidden part of herself now. She would need all her strength.
* * *
It took a long time for Darcy to make his way to the Fitzwilliam country home. Not because the journey itself was especially arduous, but because he kept sleeping in late at every inn where he took rest and then having very few daylight hours to travel.
But eventually, he arrived at last.
Colonel Fitzwilliam met him in the drive as he tumbled out of his carriage. “You look dreadful.”
“I feel dreadful,” said Darcy.
“As you should.”
“Oh, yes, I owe you an apology. A host of apologies. But I’ve not come for that, I’m afraid. I’ve come for help.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam smirked. “It’s about time.”
And thus began the hell again.
Days bled into nights, and he screamed and swore and sweat and begged, and called everyone in the household all manner of horrible names. He vomited and smashed his hands bloody against doors and tore out handfuls of his own hair. He was convinced he had made a mistake. He could not get free of the laudanum. There was no way he could do such a thing. He could not live without it.
Surely, he thought over and over, surely it was the only thing on earth or the sea or in the heavens that he truly loved.
And then he would think of Elizabeth, and he would know it wasn’t true.
“Elizabeth,” he would whisper in those moments. “I love Elizabeth.”
And their child. He had thought he would never marry, never sire an heir. He had thought the opium had stolen that from him. But Elizabeth had weaned him from the stuff long enough to make a miracle happen, and he had spit in her face for it.
She would probably never forgive him.
She shouldn’t forgive him.
And yet, he had to go to her and beg for her forgiveness anyway. Because even if she couldn’t absolve him, he owed it to her to tell her that he had wronged her. And he must spend every hour of every moment for the rest of his life trying to make it right by her.
So, he fought on.
Days passed and then weeks and then months.
Two months on, he felt strong again. He wanted to go to her then, but Colonel Fitzwilliam wouldn’t allow it. He said that Darcy needed more time to be sure he was free of the dependency. And besides, Darcy wasn’t strong, no matter how he felt. He was skin and bone. He had not been eating properly or taking care of himself in a very long time.
So, it was months and months more before Darcy left the Fitzwilliam home. But eventually, he did. He took a roundabout way to Hertfordshire, passing by his sister’s grave.
He had never visited it.
He got out of his coach and he walked through fields of tall grass until he found the headstone. She was buried with his parents. By avoiding her grave, he had avoided theirs as well.
At the sight of all of his family there, in the ground, he was overcome.
He fell to his knees.
He cried.
He had been crying a lot since coming off the opium. It was embarrassing, but it seemed that he had been using the drug to blunt his emotions for a long time. Now, he had years of pent-up tears that needed to come out. At least no one could see him here, weeping like an old woman over the graves.
He choked out unintelligible apologies. For not carrying on the family line, for bringing shame to the Darcy name, for the way he had treated Georgiana, for nearly losing all of his inheritance, for possibly letting the Darcy heir slip away.
When he was done, there was no response except the wind in the trees.
And yet, he felt lighter somehow.
He continued on his way to Hertfordshire, to Netherfield, where he would apologize again, this time to his living bride.
* * *
“Darcy,” said Mr. Bingley, shaking his hand. “It’s been too long.”
“That it has,” said Darcy, regarding his old friend. He felt as if he had known Bingley in some other life. “How are your, er, your sisters?”
“Oh, Mrs. Hurst just had, dear me, her fourth little one, and Mrs. Halloway—Caroline, you knew her as—had twins last January.”
“So, they are happy,” said Darcy.
“Oh, quite,” said Bingley.
“Good,” said Darcy.
“Good,” said Bingley.
They were silent.
Darcy looked around the drawing room. He was waiting for Elizabeth to come down. Someone had been sent to fetch her, and he was simply waiting here with Bingley.
“You look, er, well,” said Bingley.
Darcy laughed wearily. “You do not need to exaggerate, old friend. I’m quite aware that I am not at my best. But I will be. And I must see my wife. Could you send someone to check on her?”
Bingley stood up. “I shall do exactly that,” he said, and strode out of the room.
Darcy was left alone for nearly a quarter of an hour. He supposed Bingley had simply been looking for
an excuse to get away from him. He was probably cross, Darcy supposed. Since his marriage to Elizabeth had not been strictly proper, there had likely been some affect on her family members. Darcy should have apologized to Bingley. He should apologize to everyone.
When someone did enter the room, it was not Bingley nor Elizabeth, but rather Bingley’s wife, Elizabeth’s sister, Jane.
Darcy stood. “Mrs. Bingley.”
“Mr. Darcy,” she said. “I’m afraid that Mrs. Darcy does not wish to see you.”
Darcy winced. “All right. I suppose that’s fair. I can see why she would not wish that. I have a letter.” He felt inside his pocket and drew it out. He had written it in case Elizabeth wanted nothing more to do with him. He handed the letter over. “Would you give this to her?”
Mrs. Bingley took the letter gingerly. “I think you ought to go.”
Darcy nodded. “Indeed. I apologize for having trespassed on your time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Elizabeth stood up from the fire place in the drawing room, a scrap of paper in her hand. It was covered in very familiar, very even handwriting. “Where did this come from?” her voice was shaking.
It was not easy to keep her emotions in check these days. It was not easy to do anything. Elizabeth was the size of a ship, and she could hardly do anything without her huge belly getting in the way of everything.
“What?” said her sister Jane.
“This is a letter,” said Elizabeth. “In Mr. Darcy’s handwriting. How did it come to be lying on the floor near the fireplace in here?”
Jane flinched. “Oh, dear. I had not realized that I had not got all of it into the fire.”
“Jane! He wrote me a letter? You burned it?”
“He is horrid, Lizzy. He does not deserve you. He has done nothing but villainous, awful things since you met him.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Not all villainous things.”
“What good has he possibly wrought?”
“He showed me that I mattered,” said Elizabeth.
“Oh, Lizzy, don’t be ridiculous. You have always mattered to me. You know that I love you—”
The Dread Mr. Darcy Page 20