Mr. Darcy's Promise

by Jeanna Ellsworth

  She laughed gaily, some part of her relieved that the conversation had turned back to more familiar ground. “Well, there are seven. One yellow, three black with a white spot on their heads, and three brownish-red ones. Do you have any ideas?” She was deeply pleased by how quickly William had taken a liking to the chicks and especially liked that he wanted to name them.

  “You can pick the names of all of them but one. That last one, the yellow one, who struggled so hard, I want to name her. Do we know if they are male or female?”

  “I have heard of being able to sex them this early but I would not know how. Usually we knew for sure when they started cock-a-doodle-doing around four months old. And as you have waited so patiently for their birth, I cannot claim the honor of naming them all. I insist that you christen at least three of them.”

  He laughed softly at the improvement in her mood. He would do anything to please her: name chickens, dirty his clothes . . . even if he had to burn Wickham’s letter and banish it from his mind. Perhaps that would be best. Could he dismiss all his feelings of jealousy? Yes, perhaps putting it behind his was best. He would take this chance to win her heart. Yes, he would burn the letter.

  Elizabeth noticed William’s gaze shifted away from her again. What was it that troubled him so? The silence was thick again and she desperately wanted to see him smile. “William? Does Pemberley have a wide tree swing under a cedar tree?”

  He was startled out of his thoughts by the question. “No, not under a cedar tree. There is a child’s swing under the poplar tree by the maze. Why do you ask?”

  She looked thoughtful. “Maybe we could find a good place to put one. Maybe one by the river.”

  “Consider it done. We shall start looking for the perfect spot tomorrow!” He smiled at her. If a tree swing would make her happy then he would do it. At least he had a task and a mission. And he knew he excelled at accomplishing tasks he set his mind to. “May I enquire why it needs to be a cedar tree?”

  Elizabeth wasn’t quite ready to tell him she had been dreaming of him and their baby since their wedding day. “I have my reasons, but a lady must not reveal all her secrets,” she said loftily, and was rewarded by the sight of his smiling eyes.

  “Are there some secrets you would be willing to tell?” he said with a smirk on his face. She was teasing him again, and it felt like balm to his heart.

  She let out a laugh. “Perhaps! But you know that you must earn them. I cannot give away all my mystery so early in our marriage.”

  He laughed as well, and gazed back at the chicks. He owed them a debt of gratitude for drawing them back together. “Well then, I need to inform you that I have my secrets too. I know what I will name the yellow one and I might remind you that you gave me permission to do so. You may not change the name since the right to do so has already been claimed. I may assert my husbandly authority on this matter, Mrs. Darcy.” His eyes challenged her to defy his false brevity.

  “Is the name, or the reason for the name, the secret?” She eyed him suspiciously.

  “Oh, in time you shall know both, but for now I will only tell you why I am naming her the name I chose. That chick is incredibly strong as well as strong-willed. It is beautiful and graceful. It seems to chirp the loudest too. Oh, and it is unique in that it captured my heart the first time I saw it.” He smiled, absurdly proud of his own ability to make a riddle about the chickens.

  Elizabeth let out a hearty laugh and shook her head at him. “You are not going to name it after me, are you?” She saw the shock in his eyes. “You are?”

  He had hoped that his riddle would stump her a little longer than that. He would need to work harder at a game of wits with Elizabeth. “How did you guess?” Her laughter had sealed the tear in his heart. He reached for her hand and placed a gentle kiss on it. “Was it the part where I described her as beautiful?” His voice had grown deeper.

  Her heart skipped a beat at hearing his deep, gentle voice. She was quite attracted to him at the moment but she continued to tease him. “Oh no, I caught on from the very beginning when you said it was strong-willed. Do not forget that you called me stubborn right before you threw me in the mud. I am afraid I recall that more than all your pretty compliments, William,” she teased, lifting her chin.

  “Then I must remind you that it is you who deemed your so-called stubbornness, my dear Elizabeth, and not me!”

  “Well then,” Elizabeth said, pretending to ignore his assertion. “I must punish you by making your namesake the clumsy brown one. After all, you have twice dropped me. Once in the water, and once in the mud. And although you claim it was an accident, I am afraid that he shall be deemed Fitz.”

  He didn’t care if she named all of them after him. He would gladly accept a flock of Fitzwilliams for one kiss from those impertinent lips. He picked up her hand and kissed the tender flesh of the inside of her wrist. “Lizzy.”

  She looked up at him. “Yes?” Her breath had caught in her throat. Is he going to kiss me again?

  “That is the name of the chicken.” He smiled at her, and then, at the sight of her rueful grin in return, took her hand to lead her back to the house.

  Chapter 10

  W

  hat a tease! Elizabeth could not stop her heart from giving a traitorous flutter. If only he knew what such a kiss on her wrist did to her! Would he always affect her so? She inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm her breathing, but it was of no use. He had completely unraveled her self-composure. But what would he say when he asked why she was blushing so? Her entire body ached to hold him, to kiss him again, but he either did not— or would not— notice her unspoken desire.

  Good heavens! If she only knew how badly I wanted to take her in my arms! But he could not. Time, he reminded himself again, must be his mantra. Care as she might for him (and he was certain, now, that she did, at least a little), her unwillingness to mention last night’s kiss was a sign of the need to wait a little longer. Although his body protested that he had already heavily taxed his resources of patience before they had first kissed. How would he manage to moderate his desires? His lips moved in silent prayer. Dear God, please grant me all the patience I need for her sake. He ended the prayer with a soft, rueful laugh, remembering his old governess’ adage. “You should never pray for patience, Fitzwilliam, or you may find yourself in the midst of opportunities to test that very resolve.”

  He stepped inside the entryway, glad for the moment that it was too late for the servants to be about. “Are you certain that the chicks will be warm enough outside in the barn?”

  Elizabeth’s head turned, startled, and she swallowed. Such a question should be simple; indeed, three months ago, she would have laughed at the notion that it would be difficult to answer. But circumstances were so very distracting. Her wrist still tingled, and the heat that had formerly lingered on her lips yesterday now swallowed up all of her torso. “Yes,” she said after a long, telling moment. “I think it is warm enough tonight.”

  He would need to carefully guard his thoughts against their tendency to wander. Such small indulgences like the sound of her laughter or a round of teasing repartee would do nothing but bring him to crave more. He would need to constrain himself to lighter topics. “Tomorrow you and I shall have to discover the best site for your swing,” he said. He dared not look at her lest he would take her into his arms. If he saw those perfect lips again tonight or that saucy eyebrow he might just take her and not let her go.

  “So long as it is no great trial. But I think it will bring me a great deal of pleasure on days when I cannot go out walking.” His familiar scent filled the air, and she could feel her blush deepen. She could not avoid flashes of her recurring dream. For a moment, it almost seemed that she could feel his hands around her waist. “Excuse me,” she murmured after a moment. “I should retire. I suddenly feel exhausted.” She took a few hasty steps away, moving towards the stairs. Darcy, fortunately, only nodded, and Elizabeth mounted the stairs, feeling an immediate improvement
in her composure as she put distance between them.

  Darcy watched her step nimbly up the stairs. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulder, the chignon finally working loose after several hours in the barn. A few stray curls tumbled down against her neck, and Elizabeth brushed impatiently at them. How many times had he done the same, and felt the smoothness of her cheek against his hand? He shook his head quickly. He had work that needed to be done, but he had spent more of the day lost in his own turmoil than in his actual tasks. It was too late, he decided. He should go to bed. Fatigue was a friend to neither self-control nor patience, and if he was going to spend the morning with Elizabeth he would need plenty of both.

  Martin was waiting patiently in his room, having busied himself with rearranging Darcy’s belongings. His books had been neatly stacked near the window, while the suit he had worn earlier was already perfectly brushed without a hint of dust. “Good evening, Martin,” Darcy said with a warm smile. Martin raised one eyebrow in surprise.

  “Good evening, sir.” Martin looked Darcy over: it was a skill that all valets learned, the ability to seize up the master’s mood in one quick glance. Much better. This morning, Darcy’s eyes had not only been bloodshot but the skin surrounding them was tight. And, of course, it was rare and worrisome to see Darcy holed up in his study. It was clear, though, from one look that something in his face had eased. “And how was your day, sir? Better then it started, perhaps?”

  “It did get better, thank you.” Darcy turned and began to unbutton his waistcoat. He took another deep breath.

  Martin took the waistcoat and hung it up before he spoke again. “Sir, the Autumn Festival is in three days. Has Mr. Bingley ever responded to your letter about your missing pocketwatch?”

  Darcy frowned as he unfastened his cufflinks. “It seems no one has found it at Netherfield. He is investigating the local shops that buy jewelry and the sort to see if anyone has tried to pawn it. I know nothing more than that.” He waved off Martin’s expression of concern. “I am not worried. I am certain that it has merely been mislaid.” He shrugged out of his shirt. “A greater concern is more immediate. Do you know what dress Mrs. Darcy is planning to wear to the festival?” Martin and Serafina would most likely coordinate their clothing.

  “Yes, sir. According to Serafina she will be wearing the green and gold gown.”

  “Ah.” Darcy frowned at the mirror. “I was hoping she would wear her new white ball gown with the red embroidery, although I suppose it is hardly suitable for the festival.” There was a ruby bracelet that had been in the Darcy family for several generations, and he had long thought it would perfectly suit Elizabeth’s slim wrists.

  “Indeed, sir. Would you like me to suggest it anyway?”

  “No, no. I just was hoping to give her a piece of jewelry that matched it.” He would find another occasion to present it to Elizabeth. “Martin, has Serafina said anything about how Mrs. Darcy has fared in the last day or two?” Beyond Martin’s exemplary skills at dressing and maintaining fabric, he also had a talent for extracting and delivering valuable information; unhappiness among the servants, something that needed his attention, that sort of thing. But the thing Mr. Darcy needed most right now was a little help in the area of Elizabeth’s heart. Had she confided in Serafina?

  Martin had never craved gossip, but there was a certain amount of knowledge that he felt necessary to his job. A valet, Martin had reasoned, should know things his master should know. Consequently, he spent much of his spare time discussing the events and goings on in the household, and excusing it as a job necessity. After all, the Darcy family was his family as well. He had come close— just once— to marrying outside of this life, and had almost left his post here. Although the lady in question had long since married elsewhere, Martin had thought of her often of late. There was a certain warmth and liveliness that she shared with Mrs. Darcy. More than anything, Martin wanted to see Darcy made happy by this marriage. He cleared his throat. “Serafina does prize Mrs. Darcy’s privacy, sir, but she does share her concerns. I do know that those spells of dizziness and double vision have stopped altogether.”

  Darcy’s brow furrowed up. Double vision? He knew that he should have insisted on her being examined by a physician after her fall. He felt another pang at the idea that he would have no information from Serafina. It was perhaps unfair, but in these circumstances he wanted to make certain that she was happy. Perhaps, he reasoned, if he spoke personally with Serafina, she would disclose what he needed. More selfishly, he needed to hear if Elizabeth cared for him. He needed to know if her heart raced like his does every time they touch. He needed to hear that the kiss was wanted and enjoyed. He needed to know if she loved him yet like he did her. He needed to know if her opinions of him had changed. He needed to know if he had given her enough time or if she needed more. He needed a lot. He sighed, his body needed to hold her and show her all he felt for her, to tell her how much she meant to him, to tell her how much . . . he needed her, just her. And what he really needed was to hear it from Elizabeth, not her maid. No, his needs were not all that simple.

  Martin brought him his dressing gown. “Do you need anything else sir?”

  Darcy let out a rueful laugh. “Yes . . . but nothing you can help me with, I am afraid.”

  *****

  The next morning, Elizabeth rang for Serafina. This morning was going to be spent with her husband looking for the perfect spot for a swing: but not just any swing, their swing. The swing that she had dreamed about so often since marrying her husband. The swing that at first had alarmed her but now she relished it. The swing that kept getting better each time she dreamed about it.

  As she waited for Serafina, she remembered the talk they had shared last night. Elizabeth hadn’t had an opportunity to tell her about the kiss since it had happened, and by the evening had been quite anxious to tell her about it.

  “It finally happened!” she exclaimed with a wide smile. “And it was so natural, Serafina!”

  “And what exactly happened, madam?” Serafina sent her a knowing look. “I have heard of feeding the chickens, walks together, rolling in the mud, falling in streams . . . what exactly has happened now?” Serafina had to suppress a smile. She knew very well what had happened, but wanted to hear all the details from her mistress.

  Elizabeth blushed. “He kissed me. Or perhaps I kissed him. I do not know, but it was so gentle!” The color in her cheeks flushed scarlet. “Well, at first it was. After that, I must confess that we both were overcome and shared more than a few gentle kisses.”

  Serafina’s answering look was warm. “I am so glad to hear it.” She finished unbuttoning Elizabeth’s petticoat and lowered it to allow Elizabeth to step out. She glanced over at the wardrobe where the silk nightdress lay, still unworn. “Perhaps we should wear the new nightdress tonight?” She stepped over, opening the doors and holding up the shimmering length of fabric in front of Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth felt her cheeks grow warmer, if such a thing were possible. Would Mr. Darcy come to her tonight? She was not yet prepared to imagine what might happen next, but after experiencing the stirring emotions, she was curious; perhaps even a little hopeful. It would not be long, would it?

  And yet . . . she recalled how he had not kissed her in the barn when she thought he would. Why was he holding back? Everything had been perfect: private and warm, intimate and special to the two of them. Something had to be troubling him still. What was it?

  “Not tonight,” she said in response to Serafina. She set down the garnet cross that she had been holding in her hands. “I do not know why exactly, but I feel certain that Mr. Darcy does not entirely share my feelings. I have been pondering it all day. I do not know if he regrets our kiss, or if he has been consumed with worry over the fire, but he has been cold and distant all day. Tonight, I—” she halted, gazing down at the nightdress. “I convinced myself that he was just busy with the aftermath of the fire. But I saw desire in his eyes again tonight, yet he did not kiss m
e again. I am afraid that I have married an enigma, Serafina, and I have not yet succeeded in puzzling him out.” She laughed briefly to hide her own worry.

  Serafina did not laugh at her mistress’ wit. Martin had told her privately that the master was very distraught this morning, and indeed, the few maids that saw him reported that he rarely spoke, and ate very little. “When exactly did this kiss happen, madam?”

  “Last night. I confess that I behaved shamefully,” Elizabeth said, still teasing her. “After he came in from the fire, I threw propriety to the wind and kissed my own husband!”

  Serafina’s frown deepened. “You mentioned him being cold and distant all day, but yet you are laughing and blushing. Have things improved?”

  Elizabeth grew silent for a moment, thinking back to the time they had spent watching the chicks hatch. “I think so,” she said slowly. “We spent tonight together in the barn— very romantic, I know,” she said in response to Serafina’s glance, “but I did feel a connection between us. I had thought, I admit, that he might discard propriety as well and kiss me again, but all he did was kiss my wrist.” In truth, she thought, that simple action had unraveled her.

  Serafina nodded firmly. “Well then, I know one thing, madam. A man who smells what is for dinner cannot help himself but to eat the food. It will not be long before that nightdress will be needed.” She took it back up, folding it neatly back into a square before she replaced it in between the sheets of muslin in the wardrobe.

  Elizabeth laughed again at the memory of Serafina’s certainty last night. Perhaps, after all, hunger was the best metaphor that any of them could have used. She would never have dreamed that she would have enjoyed being a waiting meal, but now the very idea was thrilling.