B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  Although she wanted most desperately to say these words to him, she could not. She must forego such sentiments. Her husband would not want his gallantry acknowledged. After placing a ribbon around the precious lock of hair, she laid it on top of the cotton handkerchief next to the silver box. He would see it and understand. The colour of the ribbon about William’s lock of hair was white.

  That night, she watched from the bed as Darcy went to douse the light. He stopped when he saw the lock of hair. He said nothing, but touched it tenderly with the back of his forefinger.

  She said, “Just when I think I cannot love you more, I am astonished once again.”

  Opening her arms, she bid him come. They did not make love, nor even whisper sweet tidings. They held one to the other and took whatever restive sleep they could.

  Chapter 45

  The Key

  The Darcys did not soon find comfort within the walls of Pemberley. For as others took their leave, another relation this way did come.

  Not without ado, Mrs. Bennet hurried from Hertfordshire to shine her light of comfort upon the aggrieved family. As she was the grandmother of the dead child, she knew her place was at the forefront of such rituals. She scurried to Pemberley as fast as she could gather the proper wardrobe. She arrived two days after the burial.

  The good lady could have salved her grief at home, but hers was the sort that liked to be fully admired. Having missed the interment, she did not sit in a window seat and daub at her tears. In truth, Mrs. Bennet disliked any event wherein her nerves and fits were not prominently featured. Therefore, as a rule, she suffered funerals of the immediate family better than those of mere friends. She wept copiously, lamented loudly, and beckoned for her salts whenever there was a lull in the wretchedness.

  After accepting his mother-in-law’s effusive condolences, Darcy bid Georgiana to play the pianoforte, specifying her selections not be melancholy. Elizabeth withstood Mrs. Bennet’s company more than an hour ere she was overtaken by a headache.

  Mrs. Bennet did not concede the advantage all that easily. Although Jane did her best, no one could stop her from what would be the apex of her exhibition. It was supper before there was a decent enough audience for her to threaten a swoon. She held it at bay until in the parlour that evening. When she finally did faint, it was no small back-of-the-hand-to-the-forehead capsizal. She keeled over with such élan as to twirl a full revolution before she upended herself into the arms of a burly footman. With all due respect (and gritted teeth), Mr. Darcy requested she keep to her chambers lest she make herself ill. Oftentimes sad tidings were too much for such fragile sensibilities as hers.

  When she protested such measures, he said, “As it is my duty to see to your well-being, Mrs. Bennet, I fear I must insist.”

  Snapping his fingers, two maids escorted her up the steps and stood monitor over her every need. Indeed, Mr. Darcy’s fear for her health was so great that he stationed a footman next to her chamber door to accompany her should she happen to wander about. Consigned out of sight, it was not long ere Mrs. Bennet bid farewell.

  Daintily daubing a tear from the corner of her eye, she said, “I hope you forgive my taking leave so soon, but I cannot bear umberous occasions for they remind me of your poor father’s passing.”

  Here she beckoned Hill to bring her salts and, prostrate with grief, she was carried up the steps of the coach and hoisted inside. Standing in the cloud of dust left by her mother’s departing equipage, Elizabeth managed to hide her dismay. Indeed, she bore the deprivation of her mother’s comfort exceedingly well.

  It was then that Elizabeth vowed to stanch her own weeping for good.

  If she did not, they might all run mad. For Elizabeth saw herself as the captain of a listing ship. If she lost her balance, everyone aboard would perish from sadness. As the last of their guests departed, she bid loving good-byes and told them their words were a comfort. Much of her time thenceforward was spent in the company of the twins.

  As he always did, Darcy found solace at the stables. When he went there, it was often to speak with the stableman, Edward Hardin. Sore hocks and brood mares occupied their conversation—a relief for both of them. In the succeeding days, Geoff gave up the nursery to follow his father. Indeed, Geoff’s mimicked his father’s every step. He especially liked to follow him to see the horses. The older he was, the more his carriage mocked Darcy’s. As she watched them stride down the path (Darcy taking shorter paces to allow for his son), Elizabeth felt the leadenness in her heart a bit relieved.

  It was Janie who seemed to suffer most for her brother’s death. This took Elizabeth by surprise. Of the twins, Janie was the happy-natured one. After his death she often crept up to little William’s bed, to suck her thumb and stroke his pillowcase.

  Each time Elizabeth discovered her there, she drew her on her lap and cooed, “We miss him too, my sweet.”

  Margaret queried, “Shall I keep her away, mistress, or leave her be?”

  “Allow her what consolation she needs,” Elizabeth said.

  She finally told Darcy whereby his daughter sought refuge.

  “Would that we all could do the same,” said he.

  Until then, their commiserations had been largely silent. Time had come for them to speak of their heretofore unspeakable sorrow. If she believed that she would be the agency whereby he would find sympathy, she was mistaken. Indeed, it was not Darcy’s tender feelings that remained unexplored, but hers.

  “I have not seen you weep since Mrs. Bennet took her leave, Lizzy,” he whispered in her ear. “I daresay you are not all that recovered.”

  If it was an accusation, it was kindly meant. Still, she demurred. His quiet insistence finally broke through the wall she had begun to construct about her.

  Pressing her fingertips to her forehead, she finally said, “I vowed not weep. Indeed, I shall not weep... for if I do, I fear I shall never stop.”

  In a single stroke, he cupped her chin and brought her head to his chest. She could hear his heart. It beat as did hers—the same wounded rhythm.

  She said, “Are we selfish to have wanted him longer?”

  Extending a forefinger, he waited for the tear that formed to drop so he could wipe it away. However, it did not fall.

  “We shall struggle onward,” said she.

  In the distance, the pianoforte erupted. It was not Georgiana’s melodious playing. There were but two notes. Black, white, black, white, black, white, over and over and over.

  Janie had found another way to express her grief.

  The notes were the sound of absent footfalls.

  Black, white, black, white, black, white. Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk...

  Knowing that the child must be contained lest she drive everyone mad, Elizabeth reluctantly withdrew from her husband’s embrace. At the door, she tarried.

  Looking back, she asked quite earnestly, “If death has a thousand doors, when our time is come, how shall we ever find him?”

  Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk....

  Chapter 46

  Unwound

  Friends, servants, cottagers, and kin were united in one belief.

  Happiness would once again reign in the House of Pemberley would the Darcys just conceive another child. Simple as that. Adieu to melancholy forever.

  The Master and Mistress, a couple of exceptional handsomeness and understanding, would have liked nothing more than to once again enjoy the delectation of three children capering before them and thereby insure the felicity of local bystanders and passing tourists. They were far too sensible to believe it would be that simple.

  In the same way their stillborn was not replaced by William, another baby could not replace him.

  The general populace were inclined to look to the bright side of misfortune. The Darcys may have lost a child, but two were alive. That was, on average, a tolerable ratio—even for persons of station. Mr. Darcy was quite fertile and his wife had proven herself to be an excellent brooder. She would soon be with c
hild again.

  Even good Lady Millhouse had her own opinion upon the matter. She believed all injuries were best healed by exercise. She insisted to Elizabeth that only through long rides upon the surrounding park and rededication of conjugal exertions would the Darcys repair.

  “You must fight any tendency to lowness! Melancholy does not make a fertile bed,” she boomed. “Go now on a hunt, for nothing is better for one’s constitution than fresh air and exercise.”

  Jane would give up her life before injuring her sister, but she offered advice as well.

  “Yes, dear Lizzy,” she insisted. “Another babe to hold in your arms shall help you mend, of this I am certain.”

  As if to cement that recommendation as right and true, Mrs. Bennet opposed such a notion out of hand. She submitted her admonition by post, for travel no longer agreed with her. (The four and twenty families of her acquaintance were much in need of hearing of her recent sojourn and Pemberley’s many additions and alterations). Her letters were many and their subject was always the same. She insisted that Elizabeth had done her duty. She could desist with further affection.

  “You have given Mr. Darcy a son. That is all that is required of you. If you continue to bear his children you shall lose what little is left of your bloom! I should not like to have a daughter looking old before her time. I must insist. You shall not have another child. Close your door to Mr. Darcy. He has his son and cannot complain.”

  The only bug in the honey pot of good will was the distant blat from a certain lady in Kent. Holding forth to a retinue of sycophants, Lady Catherine DeBourgh had what she believed was the last word on the matter. She concluded that the Darcy children were naturally doomed—tiny victims of the pollution of the Darcy line through the auspices of an unfortunate marriage.

  Whilst they encouraged the Darcys to produce another offspring, their friends dealt with another vexation on their behalf. It was a great perplexity for them to determine how best to provide succour to the Darcys’ wounded breasts in the meantime. Therefore, everyone avoided the subject of William. This arrangement was instituted without delay (or without the nicety of apprising the Darcys of it).

  As it was, Mr. Darcy’s reticence made him quite amenable to this policy of silence. Mrs. Darcy, however, was not like-minded. It would have been her particular pleasure to be able to speak of her dear William and delight in his memory. When she did, she was met with well-intentioned (and uncomfortable) silence. As she did not want to discomfit her acquaintances, she quieted herself of such reminisces.

  That allowed everyone to be of the uncomplicated view that the Darcys’ hearts were well on the mend. It was the general custom not to sacrifice present happy thoughts to a distant sorrow. It was only in the privacy of their chambers that Elizabeth dared venture a complaint.

  She told Darcy, “We did our friends an unnecessary evil when we erected a headstone for William’s grave. His memory is a great bother to them.”

  “Their intentions are well-meant,” said he.

  “Does it follow that they must be well-taken? I should not want our dear child to be a ghost, never spoken of again,”

  “Our minds are alike. Given that it would be impolitic to force this sort of discourse upon others, we must accept it.”

  The lack of conversation regarding her lost child was a regret second only to one other. Their procrastination meant that they had not engaged Moreland to take William’s likeness. Their family portrait was incomplete without him. Admittedly, it was a bit like picking at the scab on a wound, but not a day passed that Elizabeth did not stand before that once beloved portrait and decry it for what it lacked. Not a day passed that Darcy did not see her standing there. If she saw that she had been spied, she offered a cheery little smile, one meant to reassure him that all was well.

  That smile was of no such comfort. It was only one of many such mannerisms that were so fictitious that he was given to shiver. In company, when in every other way his lovely wife was the epitome of grace and charm, her countenance was chillingly placid. Behind her smile, her expression was wan. If he inquired if she were ill, she begged indigestion. It was all disturbingly false.

  Desperate to disrupt her alarming composure, he said, “Perchance, another child....”

  She turned away and he did not compleat his thought. He believed that the moment had slipped from his grasp. And along with it, was their chance to reconcile the point.

  In consequence of that conversation, Elizabeth realised that it would be best for everyone that she bore another child. Her husband, family, and friends would no longer be burdened by her gloom. Moreover, a new baby would divert Janie and Geoff (who often stood about as if they had been slapped by angels) and she would be much engaged with nurturing a new life. Her husband could abide in his study, wise in the knowledge that their happiness would never be torn asunder again.

  Had she conceived again directly, she might have taken her husband’s arm and gone thither into the future as it shone like a beacon before them. As it was, she did not. Her ability to look ahead with dispassion was lost.

  Therefore, beneath the connubial covers, apprehension took its toll.

  Lying with her husband had always been a singular pleasure, improved only by the knowledge that when he cast his seed within her, that a child might come of their union. What had once been a splendid apogee, she began to see as an act of ultimate violence. If a child was begat, the child may well die. The risk of conception was too dear. Still, she could not turn her husband away. Her love for him had not wavered.

  But, imbedded in a muddle of fear and grief, she did not allow herself to take pleasure in their amorous inclinations. She clasped his nightshirt and buried her face against his neck as he took her.

  Thus to her mind she did it for his sake. For her sake, and for the sake of a child she dared not to have, she urgently uttered one word to him as he crescendoed.

  “Withdraw! Pray, withdraw!”

  Chapter 47

  An Inconvenient Request

  It was late evening. The sun struck a crease across the opposing wall. Within that shaft of light stood his wife’s escritoire. It was of delicate design, quite suitable for a lady. That day its outline loomed ominously as it was heaped with several stacks of bereavement cards yet waiting to be read. The missives would no doubt contain sentiments that touched that part of their hearts that were still raw with grief. Nonetheless, Mr. Darcy felt it a duty to read each and every condolence. It was a small facilitation, one chore he was happy to spare Elizabeth.

  Setting aside her chair, he drew a taller one to her desk and began to sort through them. He opened those from friends; those from mere acquaintances he set aside. (It was difficult enough to read genuine words of sympathy; he refused to spend emotion upon those written by rote.) As he took each in hand, one arrested his attention. It was from the pen of the mistress of Howgrave Hall. He recognised Juliette’s hand immediately. At first he set it aside. Then, he retrieved it, but did not open it.

  Pensively, he flicked the card with the fingernail of his middle finger.

  Understandably, he had eschewed all thought of the ball at Howgrave Hall for it did nothing but remind him that he had not been home when the calamitous event beset them. However, the card stirred his memory. Those recollections came to him, not hastily, but as if waves lapping at the shore, one over the other. In his mind, what occurred that night at Howgrave Hall all moved as if in half-time.

  As he recalled it, he and Lady Howgrave stood at the top of the staircase. A footman bearing a note ascended. There was nothing particular about the footman. Perchance it was in the way the man walked, or the expression upon his countenance, Darcy could not say why, but he knew that the man bore a missive from Elizabeth. His own thoughts were lost to him. As the man handed him the letter, Lady Howgrave continued to speak. Darcy did not hear a word she said. Once he had the note and read it, he folded it neatly in half and placed it in a pocket in his waistcoat. He recalled little else betwee
n that moment and when he arrived at Pemberley.

  The odd sense of something left undone influenced him to open Juliette’s card. It contained nothing of note. Lady Howgrave extended sympathy upon their loss. Despite such brevity, it was enough to prod him into recalling the specific words she had uttered to him that night.

  She had said, “He beats me.”

  How could he have forgotten such an admission? As he bethought it, more than just her words came to mind. He also recalled her gaze. It was peculiar. Although she bore the same expression of barely contained ennui that she always had, something was amiss. Behind her impeccably powdered countenance lay something unrecognizable to him. As it came to him then, he determined that it looked remarkably akin to fear.

  The flood of tears that erupted from her that night had been forgotten. In Darcy’s mind, he had already made his away. It was possible that she had wept, but as that was uncertain to him, it did complicate his belief in her sincerity.