Her embarrassing disclosure seemed to have been borne of desperation. Had she reached out to him seeking his aide in escaping her husband? Why she approached him rather than her many paramours, lady-friends, and benefactors he could not imagine. Allowing a moment for reflection, he reasoned it out. No doubt their prior intimacy gave her leave to confide in him. Howgrave meant to stand for re-election. If such information became public, an unholy scandal would ensue.
At one time Howgrave had his sights upon becoming the Prime Minister. Of late, just keeping his seat in Parliament was a trial. With anarchy at hand, a great deal of power and money flew about. There was chaos enough in England. Voters would be difficult to lure even without the stench of marital disgrace.
Juliette’s overture left Darcy in a very precarious position. Law and society were at odds. It was a matter of class. Whereas a poor man would be gaoled for beating a horse, a gentleman could take a stick to his wife with compleat impunity. It had been his observation that if a man would take a cane to his wife, his scruples were compleatly compromised. Other malfeasances were certainly at work. Power was a true pestilence in the hands of those disposed to abuse it. He had seen that in his own home. Indeed, Smeads looked to have crowned himself feudal lord of his own little Pemberley fiefdom.
It was a quandary. Lady Howgrave had not asked for his service in furtherance of any design. She had issued a statement.
Their conversation the night of the Pemberley ball had left him annoyed. Unwittingly or not, her intimations had offended him. At the time he had set her remarks aside, attributing them to the worst sort of oblivion. She had led a pampered and narcissistic existence. In her vaunted circles, those who bore children hardly delighted in them. Juliette’s life had been dedicated to entertaining men who held no respect for their wives. What did she know of marital devotion or filial pride?
At this turn of self-righteousness, his conscience did not remain unbothered. He did not like to recall their connection, Granted, when he came to her, he was unmarried and unattached (and his loins ached with all the considerable heat of youth). She had been charming as well as beautiful, yet he did not seek her companionship. In truth, she had been no more than a receptacle to him. He sought only to soothe his fevered blood. It was never an affaire‘d amour. And if it was not, it was to be despised as unbefitting a gentleman—whatever his justification was at the time.
Such reminisces were abhorrent. He quitted thoughts of the impertinent past for those of the pertinent present.
He wanted to believe that Juliette’s sudden eruption over her husband’s misuse was but a ruse, born of the wiles of a woman bored by her husband and the shallowness that surrounded them. But he could not. Her disconsolation appeared to be quite genuine.
Regardless, if he was to trouble himself by a lady’s unhappiness, he would see to his wife first. Her dispiritness was far more alarming.
———
“Withdraw,” Elizabeth had urged.
He had been most unnerved by his wife’s sudden request. (As much as he wanted to oblige her in all ways, at that particular moment her wants were unattainable.) Their unions had always been anointed by compleat achievement. He had no greater pleasure than when they reached fulfilment together. However difficult, he would honour her wishes, mollified by the notion that given time, her opinion would alter. If she was too discomfited to chance another child just then, he understood compleatly. How best to go about it was not a conundrum.
The ways of love were many—and their union had always been a collaborative one.
Her desire to satisfy him had remained as it always had been. She stroked, nuzzled and drew from him his very marrow. Her methods left him compleatly fulfilled. (Indeed, there were sonnets devoted to such raptures.) What astonished him of late was that she did not care to be pleasured in return. His delectation had always been improved by bringing her to achievement (again and again and again, and, sometimes, again). Would she allow him to attend her properly, she could be brought to exquisite triumph without fear of falling with child.
Indeed, it was his particular gratification to stroke her to submission.
Closing his eyes, he imagined the journey his tongue would take, snaking down between her breasts, across her belly....
He sat up. Only then did he become witting that he had not only slipped halfway down his chair, he had a conspicuous bulge in the crotch of his breeches. In fortune, there was no one about to witness his embarrassment, for the impromptu reveille of his nether-regions was not easily conquered. As he struggled to do so, the possibility that Elizabeth faced a similar dilemma struck him. To be taken partially down the road to ultimate rapture only to be diverted onto another path might be unduly demanding upon her sensibilities as well. Perhaps she feared throwing all caution to the wind as did he. Concluding that she dared not trust her own passion was a more palatable thought than others, but not a true consolation. Yet, he would protect her from that which she abhorred. That was his duty.
Heaving himself upon her only to spill his seed into a lace handkerchief was an indignity he preferred not to endure. If Elizabeth did not care to give of herself wholly to him, he would just as well do without too.
Having sunk into what might have been accused of being a bout of self-pity; his unhappy thoughts were broken by the arrival of a servant carrying a tray. Upon it lay a letter. It had come by courier. This missive was also in Lady Henry Howgrave’s hand. It was not, however, further condolences. It’s message was implicit.
It read, “I must see you at your earliest possible convenience.”
Chapter 48
Unstrung
Physical congress and under what auspices they would take it did not burden Elizabeth Darcy just then. Her thoughts commanded her deeds, and her thoughts were unhelpful.
Having concluded that Darcy was witting that she stood in the Portrait Hall gazing longingly at their family’s likenesses and that such behaviour troubled him, Elizabeth ceased. Nonetheless, her most profound fear had not altered. She was transfixed with the notion that her memory of William’s happy face was fading. The more she endeavoured to imagine him, the hazier his countenance became to her. Of the mind that no one was aware of it, she silently, but persistently, fretted that she had not had his likeness committed to paint.
She had kept to one vow. Other than one tremulous moment, she had not wept, nor by any other means, appeared unduly bereaved in front of her family. Indeed, she continued to be uncommonly collected. She also began to spend an inordinate amount of time in her bath. There, she could lose herself in her dearest recollections without fear of observation. It was of the utmost importance that her continuing misery would not disturb others.
That recent predilection had come to Mr. Darcy’s attention. (Granted, he used the deplorable tactic of spying on her to obtain this information—he believed the ends justified the means.) It was urgent that her melancholy be addressed. However, he did not want to appear accusatory. They each had their way of contending with misfortune. (He took to the downs on Blackjack—which could be accused as simply avoidance.) To him, her method seemed to be harbouring the hurt, rather than conquering it.
When she had fallen into a black abyss of despair after the stillbirth, she had found solace in her bath. Consequently, he was not surprised that she did so once again. He had come into the bathing room and joined her then. Upon that occasion, as this, he did not mean to take liberties or to commiserate. In naked recumbence, he hoped they could share an intimacy of the heart; one that would contain certain filaments—mad and despairing thoughts—that threatened them both.
Now lost to an internal call, she did not hear him come in or his dressing gown drop to the floor. Startled, she did take notice when he slipped in behind her. She neither spoke nor looked upon him. However, she allowed herself to be engulfed by the length of his legs. The considerable displacement of water his body did disturb, sloshed onto the floor.
She leaned back against his bare chest. He
r soaked chemise lay flattened against her as if a second skin. The only thing dividing them was that—and a thousand sorrows.
She spoke, not mournfully, but something far worse. Without inflection, she said, “There are times that my very flesh aches.”
Determined to speak of what she dared not, he whispered in her ear, “It is a time-worn question—is it not? That it is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?”
As if she had not heard his words, she suddenly sat up, again losing water over the side of the tub.
“My children! Do I hear them?”
His arms hugged her to him as he soothed, “Hush, my love. They are safe. Listen, you can hear their laughter.”
Her body, which had tensed, gradually settled. He kissed her on her neck and ear. Then as he had done before, he took a sponge, dipped it in the water and drew it across her shoulders, squeezing water from it as he did. She neither revelled in, nor recoiled against, his ministrations. It was a submission. In time, she nestled against him and sighed. The sound was intoxicating. Ere he had a chance to improve on that, once again her attention was stolen by her imagination.
“Yes,” she called out. “Children, I shall come directly.”
She betook her robe about her and rose from their bath, thinking of nothing but her motherly urges. Indeed, as she left the room, the saturated tail of her robe drug behind her like a wet mop.
Darcy slid down into the water until it lapped at his chin; a small whiff of her scent was all she left him. It was just as well. Her body lying wet and slippery against his had inspirited him. Had they lingered together longer, the gods of lust might have overtaken him. His loins tingled even then. After a moment, he realised that the half-open door did not suggest her imminent return. So he stood, pausing only long enough for the excess water to cascade down his body ere he stepped from the copper tub himself.
Hannah observed her mistress leave her bath and quickly gave her a dry robe. Although Mrs. Darcy waved her away then, it piqued the maid’s pride to be privy to her lady’s privacy. Hannah gathered a chambermaid and hastened to the bathing-room to see to their duties. Hannah was rarely taken unawares by Mr. Darcy in Mrs. Darcy’s chambers, for he was often there. Therefore, when they gained the room just as Mr. Darcy stepped from the tub, it was not Hannah who shrieked.
In a trice, Hannah clamped a hand over the young chambermaid’s eyes lest the sight of Mr. Darcy in all his naked glory compromise the poor girl’s expectations in any of her future copulatory endeavours. Both of the women hastily turned their faces to the wall. Unperturbed by the encounter, Mr. Darcy was in his robe and on to his own dressing-room in less than a blink. The maids remained in place long after he had gone on his way.
Hannah had brothers and assured herself that she had been more startled than shocked. Still, she trembled as she went about wiping the wet floor and draining the bath water. She noticed the chambermaid stood yet with her face to the wall.
“Make haste, you hear me!” she told her urgently.
The young maid turned first one foot and then the other as if sneaking upon the tub and its water. When she finally reached the edge, she peered over the side.
Hannah hissed, “Get with it now. The gentleman has gone. Do you think he’ll rise again like Lazareth?”
“No’m,” said the maid, who was slow to retrench her thoughts. She marvelled, “Such a sword I have never imagined! If a lady canna’ be happy with that what is there for the rest of us?”
“Hush up!” Hannah insisted.
The door had not closed all the way behind the maids and Cressida crept into room for its warmth. First, however, the dog trotted to the water on the floor and began to drink. Hannah grabbed the dog and scooted her out the door before returning to her chores.
As they worked, Hannah said, “Everyone must learn for themselves that we have but today and must live for it or be lost forever. The master and mistress shall recall that when their sorrow is finally wore out.”
Chapter 49
Repair
The next morning, mist clung to the oaks and the eerie shrieks of peafowl could be heard in the distance. A lone figure moved stealthily between trees beside the path that wend its way down to the stables.
A way up the road stood a boy of perhaps fourteen, his face was quite solemn. He was Edward Hardin’s oldest son and newly promoted to stable duty. He nervously scratched his upper lip with his lower teeth. The expression he bore announced that he knew well that the office he held was of great import. He clutched the reins of a bay mare with both hands. The horse was saddled; its head hung low as it nipped at a tuffet of grass. When the figure approached, he recognised her. The horse nickered softly and the boy gave an awkward bow. Without a word spoken between them, the boy legged the rider onto the steed. Then with nary a heel to its flanks, the horse and rider cantered away. The boy watched as they crossed the bridge and headed towards the valley.
Dampness hung in the air, causing him to shudder. A storm loomed. It was good she wore her cape.
———
With a flick of Elizabeth’s crop, Boots began to a canter.
It did not escape her mind that her husband often took to the saddle when he wanted quiet to ponder his cares. That was not her reason, however. She wanted to escape from that which grieved her and was in want of privacy to do so. A wild gallop—the sort that Darcy always cautioned her against—was what she desired.
As her feet were bare, she feared giving a bit of heel to the mare’s flanks would be useless. However, with only a nudge, the horse began to run—welcoming a chance to stretch her stride. They raced with unschooled abandon, setting her heart aflutter. For a few moments, she was elated. As the horse began to pant, Elizabeth slowed her to a walk. Just below lay her favourite prospect. Crossing the bridge, she pointed the horse where the valley narrowed into a glen bordered by a rough coppice. She and her husband had spent many an afternoon there languishing in love’s embrace. Those carefree hours seemed several lifetimes past.
“Ah, to picnic in Eden once more,” she whispered.
In want of reclaiming those long lost days, she urged her horse towards the shelter of those recollections. She and her horse knew the way thither intimately.
The mist increased to a light rainfall. She was well-aware that riding in the rain was dangerous. The leather of the saddle and reins would play tricks on her. However, going where she chose in the manner she so chose, was an impertinent excitation. Whilst Darcy had always ridden wherever he pleased, he had insisted that she kept to the paths. His gentlemanly caution was both charming and an enormous perturbation. This morn, she did not want to be seen or confined. She did not care to meander beneath the tulip trees, but to embark on a mad sprint in the brambles, splash through the brook, and then ride up the hill to the ruins of the hunting tower.
Beneath her cape, Elizabeth wore nothing but her nightdress. Her feet were wet with dew and slipped in the stirrups. She gave them up altogether, the risk of being drug was too great. However, that was the only caution she heeded. Her escapade had suddenly elevated from mere excitation to risking life and limb. She reminded herself that, as a wife and mother, she owed it to her family to be more prudent.
First, she would take yonder hill.
Another flick and Boots began to labour up towards the crest of the rise. When they gained the top, she drew her to a stop and gazed at the mist-laden hillocks. The wind rushed under her sleeves giving her the fleeting sensation she had wings. Feasting upon the thrill, she tossed her cape back over her shoulders and urged Boots to begin their descent.
The reverse side of the hill was steep—far steeper than the incline. Rather than slowing, Boots gathered speed. Elizabeth drew back on the reins, but that only made Boots fling her head wildly about. As the mare plunged downward, her hooves skidded on the wet turf. Elizabeth tried to slow her. It was useless.
By the time they gained the bottom of the hill, Boots was unmanageable. Unused to having
her head, the horse bolted forward. It was all Elizabeth could do not to be thrown. As rain began to spatter harder, the horse ran madly towards the wood. Elizabeth’s cape twirled as if whirligig, every rotation tightening it about her neck. If her cape caught on a tree limb, she would be dashed to the ground. The more she attempted to restrain the mare, the more violently the horse ran. All she knew of how to gain control of a runaway horse fled her. The instinct to leap from the saddle was strong; however before she could decide to do it, a call rang out.
“Turn her to the side!”
Boots was running full out, but Elizabeth tugged on the right rein, turning her in a wide circle. By then Blackjack’s long stride overtook her. Darcy’s command notwithstanding, Elizabeth reached out for him. With one swift movement, he plucked her from her horse and onto his.
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