Chapter 4
THERE WERE NO WOMEN at the club. No soft hands to bandage up wounds or kiss away bruises. Just prodding fingers, men who laughed at deep cuts that needed stitching and broken noses that needed mending because they had seen their brethren endure much worse by French cannons. It was a type of military camaraderie that developed when the men involved were powerless to fix anything. Suck it up, bruva, and a hardy pat on the back was all the compassion they could offer a weary and unjust world.
So, when the Colonel walked away from the pit with a limp and a black eye, the only sympathy he found was in another round of drinks.
He hadn’t performed well tonight. His opponent was a young thing, quick and agile. He surprised the Colonel with a few jabs to the ribs that came from nowhere. The Colonel could feel something shift inside him, maybe a cracked or bruised rib. The pain was sharp, and the Colonel submitted to defeat shortly after that, being counted out with his back lying on the floor, his face up to the stars visible through the holes in the warehouse’s roof. For that count of ten, it was like he was lying in a bed, safe and comfortable with the cacophony of drunk and riled up men hooting around him, with the young lad circling him, blood on his knuckles and waiting with a left hook if the Colonel jumped up. This is my home now, he thought dizzyingly. He just lie there, taking in Darcy’s earlier conversation, realizing that he would be willing to lie here forever if it meant he’d not have to go through with the proposal.
He could still make out the din around him, but it all sounded muffled, as if he were being held underwater. The thudding of his own heart was loudest, beating against a possibly broken rib. And what a fine thought, for his heart wasn’t broken. He wasn’t silly enough to think it was. But that woman stole his capacity to breathe just as sure as his chest ached now; Lizzy unnerved him, stole his breath away. Maybe if he just continued to lie here after the count, long after all the revelers left, just slept here forever he could avoid it.
But the man playing referee, finished his count and two other men lifted the Colonel from the floor, arms flung over each man’s shoulders.
“Nice try, Colonel,” one said.
“Too hard to fight these younglings,” the other said.
They deposited the Colonel at a table and signaled for someone to bring him another drink.
To be fair, the lad was good, but not that good. The Colonel had been preoccupied, thinking of this mess. He would have to do it, would have to propose.
“Keep them coming,” the Colonel said to the barkeep. Yes, he would do it. Tonight, if he could manage getting back to Mayfair. That was the plan: He would propose to Georgiana, sire a dozen daughters who all insisted on playing the pianoforte, spend Darcy’s money, and leave the past in the past. Leave the blood at Waterloo, and his desires at Pemberley. He’d use that fat dowry to buy an estate far enough way to drown out the beating of his heart.
Georgiana sat perched on the bench in front of her pianoforte as she normally was almost every evening. Lizzy always thought she played masterfully, though expressionless. Her fingers fitted in the right spots, the songs sounded as they ought, but nothing of Georgiana remained in the music. One of Georgiana’s music tutors, a lanky man by the name of Grimm, had told her that the pianoforte was one of the few artistic expressions available to young ladies, and that a song well played would surely ensnare a suitor. Lizzy heard this as she sat embroidering during one of Georgiana’s lessons, and thought it to be a strange logic, as all the songs Georgiana played were written by men. Men’s music being used to ensnare other men. Happy thought, indeed.
“Georgie, what would you say to playing at a Christmastide musicale? You would be the star. We could add it to the festivities at the house party.”
“Oh, please no, Lizzy.”
“But it would just be us and our friends and family. No one to judge you. It will be good practice. It will be a good way for you to exhibit your talent”
Georgiana scoffed. “Why? Who will be there?”
“Just family and friends.”
“Then why must I be made an exhibition?”
“Georgie, I hate when you say it that way. You are not the exhibit. You are exhibiting your talents.”
“Who will be there?”
She sighed. “Darcy has a suitor in mind for you.”
“Who is he inviting? It’s not Lord Vastor’s son is it? He always smells of fish. I couldn’t bear it.”
“No,” Lizzy said. “He is one among whom you call family.”
Her hand clattered on the piano, hitting several keys at once.
“Wonderful,” Georgiana said. “It’s cousin Mortimer, isn’t it? That’s just like Darcy.”
“Georgie, really.”
“Never mind, Lizzy. I don’t need your advice or pity or whatever look that is on your face. You are not my brother.”
You are not my brother. One might expect Georgiana to say you are not my mother, but it was all too clear that Georgiana would never see Lizzy as mistress of Pemberley.
“No,” Lizzy said. “I am not your brother.”
“I don’t even know why we’re hosting this holiday at Pemberley. Everyone says the house isn’t the same. Why can’t we have a few days of privacy?”
“Georgiana, that’s really rather unkind. I’ve been working so hard on this holiday.”
“Yes, I know. We now own every holly bough in Derbyshire,” she said, standing up. “I’m heading up to bed while I’m still permitted to do so.”
“Very well,” Lizzy said, needing to get the last word in.
Lizzy tried not to take Georgiana’s jabs at her personally. She was at a rough age and having had a houseful of sisters, Lizzy knew misguided frustration when she saw it. Georgiana had barely survived her debut last year. She gave Lizzy such a hard time, refusing dress appointments and lessons with dancing masters. Lizzy suspected it was nerves, perhaps some lingering confusion or resentment from the Wickham affair. She tried to be patient with her, but in the end, Darcy handed her over to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who paid no mind to Georgiana’s tears and shoved her in front of the ton in time for the season.
This was still early in her marriage and Lizzy had confronted Darcy about the matter, more for herself than Georgiana. Lady Catherine saw this as a coup, as a point in her favor and Lizzy felt the defeat most keenly.
“Lizzy, honestly, does it matter?” Darcy had asked her.
“It does matter,” she tried explaining.
“I didn’t marry you for your ability to launch a debutante or navigate a ballroom.”
“Why did you marry me?”
Lizzy remembered the way Darcy looked at her, startled and disturbed. As if the answer to the question was most grave.
Chapter 5
THE HOUSE HAD SETTLED for the evening, but Lizzy put on a cloak and walked out into the garden in front of their Mayfair home. Everything was slick and wet, the snow on the ground sparkly against the bright moonlight. It looked reflective and deep like a misty lake first thing in the morning. It reminded her a bit of the lake outside of Pemberley. She spent her spring mornings walking past the water, and on more maudlin mornings she’d stare off into the lake wondering what might rise from its murky depths.
She could hear a distance crunch, the sound of someone walking on icy snow. She could just make out the shadows, was about to turn to go back inside, when she heard him.
“Oh, Molly, dear, you're young and tender,
And when I'm away, you won't surrender,
But hold out like an ancient Roman,
And I'll make you an honest woman.
Love, farewell!”
She recognized his voice, a rich baritone she had heard in her own music room when he was forced to sing duets with Georgiana. But, she wouldn’t have recognized him otherwise. As he came closer, the oil lamp in the square revealed his face bearing bruises and marks, blood encrusted the bottom of his lip and cheek. He stopped a moment and looked straight up at the sky, as if looking
for something. The north star, perhaps, or a constellation. He swayed slightly on his feet and took a big breath.
The juxtaposition was too much. He was at once dirty and vile, yet she knew that face, knew his manners to be gentlemanly despite the bawdy song and the bloody lip. He looked positively feral. Yet, it was him. It was still the man who she walked through Rosings with, who always made the fourth at cards or danced with poor Mary at Pemberley’s pathetic parties. But the mud, the split lip, the blackened eye, these things were also true. Also him.
The notion sent a shiver through her. Is this how the widows got to see him? With stubble on his jaw, his face unguarded by pretense. Who was he just now? She was strangely thrilled by the thought. Of someone dangerous and rough but who she knew she was safe with, who had kissed her fingers with soft gentlemanly ease. And this you’re sending to Georgiana?, she thought. What a waste. But a waste of what? Lizzy hardly knew herself. Her nights, when Darcy was home at least, were spent flat on her back with her eyes closed shut.
Was this a facet of him, this blood and guts side? Was this how he had survived the war? To claw his way back from the edge of death, from Napoleon, from the muddy fields of Waterloo all to come back to this—the ton’s annoying laughter and waltzing in ballrooms and a fine arrangement with one’s own ward and a fat dowry?
She pitied him. And yet felt something akin. They both could be in the dead center of a ballroom, but would always remain outside. They would always be looking in, not quite understanding how those fools could continue dancing.
She saw it then. He was in pain. The bruises and limp a tangible clue to what was happening inside. How selfish she was. Darcy was giving him a great opportunity and she didn’t want him to have it. All because of her own feelings— a little walk in Rosings, a fumbling conversation once had when she indulged in too much champagne at a dull ball. She couldn’t take this from him, this chance at happiness.
He continued towards the front door and finally saw her. They locked eyes for one long silent moment. She noticed the bruise on his lip was still fresh, a cut still wet and glistening red. She wanted to take his hand and squeeze it, feel its warmth and let him feel her warmth in return, a sliver of understanding. But all she could manage was saying, “You’ll bleed all over the carpet.”
Anyone but her, he thought. But of course, it would be her. The last six months were filled with nothing but rotten war, rotten weather, rotten luck. Why should tonight be any different?
“We were expecting you for dinner,” she said, as he finished his ascent up the staircase.
“As you can see, I’m not quite ready for company.”
“Oh,” she said, as if she just realized. “Good lord, you’re soused, aren’t you?” The s’s lingering in the air.
“Nothing like some liquid courage to propose to one’s own ward.”
She winced, and said, “Darcy would hate you if he saw you thus. Come inside,” and she moved aside to let him pass.
“Did you know about this plan of his?” he asked.
“I found out this afternoon. He had mentioned he had someone in mind. I thought he meant cousin Mortimer.”
He laughed. “So did I.”
“Did you come to see Georgiana? Now?” She whispered.
“That was the plan. In fact, I plan on making this the worst proposal in history.”
A laugh escaped Lizzy, like a sharp bark. “I feel like I’ve already won such a contest.”
He smiled, but didn’t laugh.
She led him to the parlour and pointed him to a chair by the fire. Instead, he walked to the decanter of brandy and poured himself a glass.
Lizzy took her cloak off and looked at him, a silent command for him to remove his overcoat. He handed it to her, and she placed both on a chair. When she turned around, she looked at him a moment. He could feel her taking in his face, the bruise on his jaw, the stubble on his cheeks.
“You can’t marry her,” she blurted out. They locked eyes with one another, and she hastily added, “not like this.” This was a confirmation. She also didn’t want him so close, yet hearing her say this made him want to be closer still.
The Colonel circled her, his gaze pinned her to the very spot she stood on the carpet.
“Why not? You don’t have a problem with marriage, do you, Lizzy?” he was practically purring, the way he said her name coming out in a low growl.
“Why would you say that?”
“You have a perfect little romance of a marriage. What a tidy little storybook love you live.”
Her mouth dropped open. She was genuinely befuddled. “What exactly in my story did you find romantic? Was the plot, ‘Proud and haughty man marries an amiable beauty socially beneath him’? Or perhaps it was, ‘Obstinate headstrong girl gets swept up in gratitude for rich man doing her sister a good turn’? Where’s the romance in that?” she scoffed. “If anything, it always seemed more like some high-handed social commentary to me.”
“There you are,” the Colonel laughed and cocked his head at her. “You know, I see you sometimes. The real you, not this great society lady you purport to be. You peek out every so often on the edge of ballrooms, prowling around the rim like a great trapped cat. At least you have the wide-open space of Pemberley to stalk in. I’m sure that wealth must be a comfort.” He took another swig of brandy.
“This is what you think of me?” She was genuinely affronted. She realized he may be well into his cups, but she had thought him to be a friend. “You think me to be some social climber? That life has gotten any easier at Pemberley? You were there for all my failures and you were there for my disappointments.” A memory eased through her mind, of how the Colonel himself had held her hand when she had cried in the garden after a disastrous dinner.
“Wealth is a comfort, or so I’ve been told. By your own husband, in fact, who wants to give me a large dowry and a child bride to boot.” He threw himself in the chair by the fireplace. The flames illuminated one side of his face, while the other lay in the shadows.
“It’s not enough, though, is it? The wealth isn’t enough, so you try to fill it with things—parties, dresses, babies,” he scoffed. “Or a pert little wife you have no clue how to satisfy.”
Lizzy could feel the blush envelope her cheeks. Words failed her for no one talked to her like this. No one spoke of such things. No one saw her as he did. It was as though he looked right through her dress to her skin, his words laying her bare and trembling.
He watched Lizzy shake her head, as if dazed by his words.
“If something were wrong, you would tell us, wouldn’t you?” she asked.
He leaned back in the chair. “Nothing is wrong, dearest.” The endearment escaped his lips before he could stop it.
“You know, my husband doesn’t always say a great deal, but he wants you to be happy. I’m sure if there were anything in the way, um, a problem financially or a debt of some sort, well, I’m sure he would be willing to help you manage that.”
He shut his eyes. Christ, now she thought him some gambler or worse.
“Thank you, Lizzy. I think I know my cousin better than most.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Better than his wife, I suppose.”
He looked at her. There was unguarded disgust on her face and something more; a question there. Christ, she knew! That bloody idiot was barely married a few years, and his wife already knew he was having an affair.
“I will not answer that,” he said, looking down into his drink.
“I may not be one of these great society ladies,” she said, rolling her eyes at the words he used earlier. “But, I do have a few merits of my own. I’m a good listener. I am here for you. I thought the two of us, well, I thought we had a rapport. I sometimes think we are cut from the same cloth. I thought you considered me a friend.”
He flinched at this. She was blind. Completely, utterly, foolishly blind.
“Please leave, Lizzy.”
The room felt like it was spinning around hi
m, like everything was too close. Her most of all. She is a married woman. She is married to your cousin.
She turned to leave but stopped in front of the fireplace.
“You can’t marry her,” she whispered. “I know it’s a selfish thing to say, but –” she let the words hang in the air.
“I know,” he said in return.
Chapter 6
THE NEXT MORNING AT breakfast, Lizzy filled the silence at the table by filling her plate at the sideboard. She had never eaten so much toast in her life and was on a fourth cup of tea.
Darcy sat at the head of the table, going through his post. A letter had only just arrived from his man of business and he chuckled to himself as he read it.
Georgiana was seated next to him, scowling at her plumb cake. He had already told her that yes, she would in fact exhibit herself at a mini-musicale at the holiday in Pemberley and then praised Lizzy for the idea.
“I suppose Lizzy will purchase a new pianoforte especially for the occasion,” Georgiana hissed. “Perhaps you will have it especially made to match your holiday décor.”
“Perhaps I shall,” Lizzy spat, not able to stop herself. This girl reduced her to such a stooping level. She felt she was back at home at Longbourn fighting with Kitty or Lydia. The only difference was that at home, she was always the favorite, winning almost every argument when Papa was in the room. Here, she always lost whenever Darcy was about.
As if to prove the point, Darcy added, “That may be a bit exorbitant, even for Lizzy.” Georgiana smiled at this jab at Lizzy, counting a point for herself no doubt. “But perhaps Lizzy can purchase a new dress for you. Something special for the musicale. Georgie always looks well in green, wouldn’t you say, Colonel?”
The Colonel’s eyes widened at his plate, where he had been staring for the past several minutes. He hadn’t even looked at Lizzy all morning. He shook his head briefly, as if in disbelief, then finally added, “Of course,” and smiled at Georgiana. She seemed oblivious to what was happening or what any of this banter meant and was instead paging through a magazine.
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