by Jennifer Joy
If only she had more time! If only Father had used the time he had better. Then he would not hand her future to Mr. Darcy on a silver platter. Oh, why had he made an offer right when her father was most tempted to accept it? The nerve of him!
It appeased Elizabeth’s heart to cast the blame on Mr. Darcy’s broad, elegantly dressed shoulders, but she must attempt to be rational. She needed her wits about her if she had any hope of escaping unattached to a man she had only just met.
There were worse fates, she supposed. He was handsome … wealthy … and had offered for her just when such an offer would tempt most ladies.
Once again, suspicion curbed her optimism. Why? Why now? Why her? What was wrong with him?
He would just have to find another wife. She was of age. She was the master of her own destiny. There had to be another way.
She would convince her father to change his mind. He had imbibed three bottles of medicine, meant to last several weeks, in mere days. He was not thinking rationally under the influence of the draught. That was it! Father was drunk. He would have full possession of his senses on the morrow. She would approach him then. And she would have a plan ready when she did.
Pacing the length of her bedchamber floor, Elizabeth considered her options. She could find respectable work as a governess. She loved children, and her uncle Gardiner had many connections with good families through his trade. That was her best prospect.
A tendril of unruly hair fell over her shoulder. Running her fingers down the satin lock, she considered the price her thick waves would fetch. She dropped her hair, letting it fall down the length of her back to her hips. It would grow back. She would not miss it for long.
What price could be put on freedom? On love? Happiness?
Elizabeth wound her hair into a bun, shoving pins into it and begrudging the bleak future contrived upon her by the man who was supposed to protect her interests. Be he intoxicated or not, it still stung.
She would find another way. She had promised to see to the needs of her mother and sisters, and she would honor her word. But she would do it her way. Without Mr. Darcy.
Dropping to her bed, Elizabeth fell back against the covers and smacked her fist against the mattress.
Mr. Darcy was handsome and wealthy, but she did not love him. He did not love her. Without love, what was the point of marriage? Why attach yourself permanently to another unless you craved their company day in and day out? She did not even know if she liked Mr. Darcy.
And what of affection? Elizabeth shivered. She refused to believe her first kiss would be a forced one. What else would Mr. Darcy force her to do? She was not a missish maiden. She knew what a husband expected of his wife — an heir and a spare.
She would not give in. She would fight for herself when her own father would not.
“Lizzy?” Jane’s sweet voice startled Elizabeth.
Sitting up and smoothing her hair, Elizabeth noticed how the shadows had shifted across the walls. How long had she been in her room?
Jane sat beside her, concern etched across her lovely features. “Are you well? You were pummeling the mattress.”
“Fighting against fate,” mumbled Elizabeth.
“Since when do you believe in fate?” Jane asked, wrapping her arm around Elizabeth. “Even when things do not go as you wish, you always make the best of it.”
She was right, drat it all. Elizabeth believed she was the master of her own happiness. When life gave her sour grapes, she made wine.
Elizabeth tried to rejoice in her sister’s joy as Jane described how they had chanced upon Mr. Bingley in Meryton. It was difficult when her own prospects were so easily cast aside. Nor did Elizabeth offer an explanation when Jane mentioned how the gentleman had been in an incredible hurry. Their father’s secret was not hers to reveal yet, and Jane’s happiness was too lovely to ruin. Mr. Bingley had spared her a smile and a promise to call the following day.
But Jane’s reminder gave Elizabeth courage. She would turn her dire situation around. She welcomed the challenge.
Father’s illness was nothing more than a challenge. And she would conquer it.
She would speak with him in the morning.
It turned out that fighting an illness was as effective as throwing blows at the air … or pummeling one’s mattress. Father’s consumption attacked with full force that night, so that nobody in the household could remain ignorant of its presence.
Mother’s nerves confined her to the fainting couch where Kitty attended to her, nearly sending their poor mother into a frenzy every time Kitty coughed.
Mary, not knowing how to comfort anyone, took to her book of sermons when she was not praying.
Jane soothed and placated. Her attentions were required by everyone, and she saw to them without complaint as only Jane could. It pained Elizabeth to see her beautiful sister appear haggard by the following morning.
Mr. Collins practically rubbed his hands together, and Elizabeth hated him more than she mourned her circumstances.
Elizabeth had slept little. Wrestling with her conscience had taken up a good part of the night. She refused to feel selfish for believing her own happiness important, but she possessed more altruism than she had believed herself to have, and it tormented her.
Perhaps her lack of rest was to blame for her impulsiveness. Or, perhaps, it was Elizabeth’s resentment toward her father’s vulturous cousin. Perhaps it was her own denial of the reality of her new circumstances. Father had not been inebriated when he had accepted Mr. Darcy’s offer, nor had he shown any inclination of allowing her to provide for her family’s needs in her own way.
Driven by rebellion, justified rage, a need for redemption — there were too many unsavory traits from which to pick — Elizabeth had snapped in the drawing room where her family had gathered with Mr. Collins.
“There is an appalling lack of shelves at Longbourn, but I am certain my esteemed patroness Lady Catherine de Burgh will generously bestow her opinion on how best to alter the closets. Her ladyship condescends often to share her views with Charlotte and myself, and I daresay she would not hold back from showing her kindness to you when she learns my poor cousin is on his deathbed.”
Is it any wonder Elizabeth’s blood boiled at his insensitive greed? She spoke without thought. “If you are so eager to take possession of Longbourn, why do you not spare yourself the trouble of the wait and move in immediately? I daresay Mr. Darcy’s estate is large enough to house all of us, so we need not be an inconvenience to you.”
She realized her mistake as soon as her mother’s eyes lit up like fireworks. “You are engaged? And to Mr. Darcy, no less? Oh, you dear, dear child! We are saved! You knew about this, Mr. Bennet? Why did you not tell me before? Here I have been overcome by nerves when I did not need to worry at all! Is it not the best news?”
Father had not corrected her. His chuckle made Elizabeth go numb.
Finally, he met her gaze directly. His eyes brimmed with gratitude. “Our Lizzy has come to the rescue, and I am thankful to possess such a sensible daughter who is always true to her word. Mr. Darcy offered for her, and he has graciously (and if I might add, quite generously) included the rest of you in his provisions.”
There was a collective sigh of relief, and a mind-numbing, flattering speech delivered by Mr. Collins about Mr. Darcy’s connection to his imperious patroness.
Elizabeth cursed her spite while she endured the endless praise and compliments of her mother, who proclaimed herself the happiest woman in the kingdom to have such a dutiful, clever daughter.
It was enough to make Elizabeth want to scream. More than once, she cursed her temper. She wished she was the sort of person who could go back on her word. Others did it easily enough. Why could she not? Father praised her for it, but his every compliment stabbed at Elizabeth’s back. His betrayal could not have been more complete.
News of her father’s consumption spread as quickly as news of Elizabeth’s engagement to Mr. Darcy, and the kitchen f
illed with remedies and concoctions well-meaning neighbors, old friends, and sympathetic tenants left for him. Nobody offered anything to ease the weight in Elizabeth’s heart nor the hazy mist fogging her mind. They assumed she must be delighted with her good fortune.
Days passed in a bitter blur, replete with quashing commendation and the burden of her family’s expectations. Before Elizabeth could be courted properly, she stood beside the groom to sign her name beside his in the marriage register. For the last time, she signed: Elizabeth Bennet.
She was Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy now.
Chapter 10
The vows echoed in Darcy's mind. Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?
He had said, “I do.”
When the minister recited the wedding vows, Darcy repeated them.
I, Fitzwilliam Darcy, take thee, Elizabeth Bennet, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.
He had a wife.
Darcy looked across the carriage at her. The ring his mother had worn with great pride graced Elizabeth’s finger now. The clear blue of the aquamarine stone had been his mother’s favorite color. He could not see it with Elizabeth’s fist clenched on her lap, but he remembered how easily the ring had slid down her finger.
He had not seen much of her over the past week. It had taken all of his time to acquire the proper license and draw up the contracts to Mr. Bennet’s satisfaction. Elizabeth had been more subdued than Darcy had supposed she would be. She had not yet thanked him for coming to her aid, but Darcy was not so necessitous as to require her to. He understood her silence to be a sign of her gratitude.
She stared through the rain-fogged glass, her cheeks in high color. She really was very pleasant to contemplate. Her lips were as plump and red as ripe strawberries. He looked forward to her conversation now that they were alone.
Pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket, Darcy cleared the glass for her.
Turning away from the view, Elizabeth looked instead at him with the same scrutiny with which she had appraised him in Longbourn’s drawing room the day he had offered marriage. It was not the appreciative look he had expected.
“We are married now,” she said, her eyes lingering on the black opal in his cravat before traveling up to meet his with a resolute glare.
Her look pierced him with displeasure. The curvy lips he had appreciated a moment ago pressed together so firmly, they turned white. Her nostrils flared. She was angry.
“Yes,” Darcy said tentatively, covering the opal with his hand. Somber colors were frowned upon at wedding ceremonies, but he needed the reminder it gave him. He wished Georgie could have been there. She would have offered him some insight. She might have explained why his wife seethed with indignation.
What did Elizabeth have to be angry about? He had swept her out of a hopeless plight. She had fulfilled her promise to her father and had nothing more over which to worry. While Darcy did not expect her to be overjoyed, he thought she ought to at least be relieved.
When, after several minutes, Elizabeth showed no signs of casting her ire aside, Darcy took a deep breath and asked, “Is something troubling you?”
“We are married.”
He had thought that quite obvious. “Yes.”
“I did not want to marry without love.”
Frustration fluttered within Darcy. If she did not want to marry, then why had she gone through with it? Why complain now that the deed was done? “And yet you married me. You repeated the vows just as I did.”
She scrunched her face and huffed, “Yes, I did,” with so much scorn, Darcy became quite offended.
“Why did you go through with it, then?” he asked.
She blinked, sighing deeply. "I said I would do it, and I will not go back on my word. I would have disappointed myself and my sisters … and I could not have lived with the guilt." Under her breath, she added, "Blast my quick temper and infernal tongue."
Darcy knew better than to smile, but her spicy wording and the reassurance that his choice had indeed been a wise one offered too great a relief to go completely unappreciated. Elizabeth was a lady of her word. Of course, he had known as much. Had he not witnessed her dealings with her selfish father?
He felt her eyes on him, putting an end to his musings.
"I do not even know what to call you. Mr. Darcy?” She shook her head. “No, that is too formal. Husband?" She wrinkled her nose, mumbling, "No, that is too obvious." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Fitzwilliam," she said slowly, nodding as her eyebrow arched and her lips curled sardonically. “Yes, ‘Fitzwilliam’ will do perfectly when we quarrel. I rather fancy the name right now.”
Her humorous remark contrasted so boldly with the tension in the carriage, Darcy guffawed. "My mother used to call me Fitzwilliam when she was cross with me. It did not happen often." He trusted it would not happen often in his marriage either.
Elizabeth folded her arms. "I am not your mother."
Darcy’s grin faded. "No, you are not," he mumbled, struck by how distinct the two women were and wishing his mother were still alive. He had not been alone with his wife for a quarter of an hour and, already, he needed the guidance of his matron. He could not be certain, but he began to sense that Elizabeth’s anger was somehow directed at him. He could not fathom why.
"It hardly bodes well for us to quarrel on our wedding day. What shall I call you then?" Elizabeth asked.
Finally, she spoke sense. He answered, "Pray call me William."
It occurred to Darcy that he ought to ask how she preferred for him to address her, but she did not give him the opportunity.
"Very well, then, William. Are you a man of your word? Will you love me or is ours to be a cold, disinterested union?" Elizabeth uncrossed her arms, leaning forward and bracing herself with her hands against the edge of the cushion. She looked as if she would pounce on him if he replied unsatisfactorily.
Her anticipation increased his anxiety while her doubt, once again, injured his pride.
“I always honor my word," he said.
“Forgive me for expressing disbelief, but how can you be so certain? Is it not better to fall in love before committing to a permanent union?”
“There was no time. I required a wife, and you required a provider.”
"Why did you marry?" she asked.
"I had to."
"Without love?"
Darcy rubbed his hand over his face. "I will provide everything you need."
"Then, it is settled, for I need nothing more than to be cherished, to be of account in an equal union. Now that we are forevermore attached, I should think it is quite obvious that I will look to you to satisfy my needs … as you call them."
Where had all the air gone? Darcy pulled at his cravat, but relief was not his to find.
Why could she not ask for gowns and jewels as most ladies would?
He knew the answer as soon as the question crossed his mind. Elizabeth was not like most ladies. He would not have chosen her otherwise.
She bunched her eyebrows together. "Why would you deny yourself love?"
He patted the creases of his cravat until he found the opal. He could not tell her the whole truth yet. How he had been so preoccupied caring for his sister, he had not had time. How he feared he would never be as happy as his parents had once been. How he had failed so badly to keep his family together, all he had now was Anne, and he would die before he lost her too. How he longed to return to how things were when he had a family.
It was too much. It was too soon.
Spinning the opal between his fingers, Darcy weighed his words cautiously. "It is not th
at I deny myself, but that I do not wish to love again so soon after losing someone very dear to me."
Her eyes searched him, but he had said enough.
After enough time had passed for Darcy to begin to hope Elizabeth’s questions had come to an end, she asked, "Why have you not married before now?”
“I have not had time,” he repeated.
“Lack of time was not a concern to you when you made an offer for me to my father.” Her words dripped with sarcasm.
There being no question, and Darcy not much liking her trail of thought, he did not reply.
But Elizabeth was not content with his silence. More directly, she asked, “Why marry now?”
It was definitely not the time to mention an heir, nor could Darcy speak of Little Anne with so much vitriol in the carriage.
“As I told you, I was in want of a wife.”
She scoffed. "If you cannot conjure a better reply than that, then perhaps you can satisfy my curiosity on another point."
Darcy clenched his jaw and peered out of the window. Why were they not yet in London?
"Why me?" she asked.
He locked eyes with her. “Almost from the moment we met, I was impressed with the strength of your character. Even under adversity, you proved yourself loyal and trustworthy … an estimation I am now beginning to doubt.”
Darcy waited for her snappy wit to counter with some comment about how he would not have mistaken her character had he taken the time to court her properly.
He was not prepared to watch Elizabeth’s bravado deflate.
Softly, she said, “You are a much more accomplished judge of character than I am. We have been acquainted for the same amount of time, and I know nothing about you.”
She looked so fragile against the thick squabs, Darcy regretted his retort.
“Do not underestimate your understanding. Bingley thought your assessment of me rather accurate.” When she did not look appeased, Darcy added, “A person whose opinion I trust implicitly spoke favorably of you. It is easier to see proof of the qualities one knows to look for than to discover them without a map."