by Jennifer Joy
“Out of sorts?”
Pinching her lips and flaring her nostrils, Mrs. Fischer propped her fists on her hips. “She is angry. And from what I gather, she is angry at you. Who can blame her when she has to hear about the family she married into from the maid when her own husband ought to have told her?”
Darcy squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples. “Where is she?” he asked.
“Wearing a path in the carpet in your study.”
Darcy took to the stairs, alternately lamenting his hesitancy to confide in Elizabeth and her impatient curiosity with each step. He had no right to be cross with her, but he had meant to tell her that day.
Unfortunately, intentions counted for absolutely nothing. Would that he had spoken sooner! He knew his disadvantage. He was entering a battlefield on low ground.
Stopping in front of the door, Darcy braced himself and stepped inside.
The air stirred around Elizabeth like a storm. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks in high color. She looked behind him and waved for the footman standing in the hall to enter the room. Darcy had not seen him.
The footman — the same he had sent to the bookshop with Elizabeth — would not look up from the floor.
The muscles around Darcy’s neck knotted. He crossed the room to his desk, leaning against it to better observe his wife and the abject footman. “What happened?” he asked.
Charging over to him, Elizabeth said, “Your footman is under the impression you would act unjustly toward him. He insists he will lose his position when all he did was what I bid.”
The footman looked up then, and Darcy observed the effort with which the young man lowered his shoulders and met his master’s eyes. “Mr. Wickham was there, Mr. Darcy. I swear on my life I did not see him, or I never would have departed from Mrs. Darcy’s side. Not even for a moment.”
Darcy’s heart pounded in his ears. This was worse than he had thought.
Again, Elizabeth insisted, “He ought not to be punished for what was beyond his control. Mr. Wickham was there, but he hid himself so cleverly, nobody could have known of his presence.”
Darcy pressed his eyes closed and massaged his temples. “What did he say?”
“I will tell you everything, but please reassure this young man that his position is secured.” Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest.
Lord, she was stubborn. How could she demand such a thing when Darcy had not yet judged whether her request was reasonable or not?
He crossed his arms, mirroring her stance. He could be stubborn, too. And he had the advantage of rational thought on his side. He was the master of his household. He knew them far better than Elizabeth did. She would not win this argument. “You would undermine my authority in the household my family has maintained for generations in front of a servant?”
She leaned forward, meeting his eyes directly and lifting her chin. “You would turn my concern for one in your household into an attack against your character? You dare assign me such a destructive motive when we have not been wed a week? You know nothing of me.”
Darcy felt he did not know her at all at that moment. Looking past her, he told the footman, “We will discuss the matter later. Close the door behind you.”
Thus dismissed, the footman left Darcy to face the furious female alone.
Elizabeth eyed him warily, her nostrils flared and her arms still in front of her. “If you are going to strike me, you could at least have the decency to leave the door open. Why hide?”
“What?” Had Darcy not already been leaning against his desk, he would have stumbled back.
Her arms loosened and her glare wavered. “You are not given to a violent temper?”
He was tempted to do something to release his growing vexation, but he would not lay a finger on Elizabeth. Especially now! “No! I have never struck a woman in my life, nor do I intend to start.”
“Oh.”
That was it? She had accused him of one of the worst evils and all she had to say was oh! And this aside from her earlier accusations of drunkenness and immorality. Did she think him a monster? He was nothing like Wickham!
Crossing her arms again, she said, “What am I supposed to think when you do everything possible to avoid answering my questions? You do not speak of your family. You say nothing about your reasons for marrying, and yet I have heard others claim you would never marry for anything but love. Yes, you heard that right. I have been reduced to asking questions of the servants behind your back and sneaking around the house to learn what I can from the unoccupied rooms. I do not understand why I am here, and if you have any kindness at all for me, you would explain why you had to marry, why you chose me, and how we plan to make the best of this mess we are in … which I must add has been entirely of your creation. Leave it to my father to stick me with the most complicated man in Christendom, and I hate how you can be both maddening and intriguing. I wish I could dislike you completely, but I find I cannot.”
Darcy tightened his arms over his chest to keep from strangling his bride … and from laughing.
Elizabeth was honest, he would give her that. And tenacious. And, right now, he wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her until she felt safe with him. He wanted to give her reasons to like him.
Blast! How did she do it? Seconds before, she had put him at his wit’s end, and now… He wanted to believe her, but he had known the manipulations of others. He could not give in.
Still, it was to Elizabeth’s favor that she felt as he did. Once again, circumstances revealed another point they held in common. Trust had to be won, and neither of them trusted the other fully. How could they? Trust took time. Time they did not have.
She accused him of being complicated. He could say the same of her.
Drained of all indignation, Darcy took Elizabeth by the elbow and led her to the couch. The fire had been lit. Leave it to Mrs. Fischer to ensure a more comfortable environment in which his wife could stew.
Taking a deep breath, he said, “You are intelligent, and I will not insult you by implying I do not have another motive for hastening into marriage as I did. I do not wish to be difficult or secretive. I hate secrets.”
“And yet, you have so many of them,” she said bluntly.
“By necessity.”
“You do not trust me.”
“As you clearly do not yet trust me, or else why would you believe me capable of striking you?”
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Fair enough, though I have to wonder why you made an offer for me when you have secrets worth hiding. What I wish to understand is where I fit in. Why me? What do you want from me?”
Darcy sorted the facts he could reveal and those which had best remain concealed. Elizabeth was intelligent, and he did not doubt her ability to discern the truth with one slip up from him … or anyone else. What else had she learned from the servants? What had Wickham said?
As if she had the ability to read Darcy’s mind — and, thus, disconcert him further — she said, “Very well. Curiosity and a lack of patience have always been flaws of mine, and I see that you are bent on instilling me with the qualities. You say you hate secrets, Fitzwilliam, and so I will speak plainly. I have no secrets. You have had the advantage of inquiring about me of my friends and observing me with my family. I think that was what you were doing at the Meryton Assembly, were you not? I could not fathom why you would ask about my relatives in Derbyshire when they are in trade or service, or why you should inquire if I liked children. But I have learned enough about you to know you do not make decisions lightly or act on whims. You knew what you were up to, and I played right into your hand. You have used me badly.”
Used her? The resemblance of her words to those in Mrs. Reynolds’ letter made Darcy’s mouth go dry.
Elizabeth continued, “You clearly have the advantage over me, but while I will lay my complaints bare, I must be fair. You are honest … that is, when you deem to speak. If you were to offer a reasonable explanation, I would be incli
ned to believe you. It is my inclination to make the most of adversity, to soften life’s dark moments with humor and the often stubborn hope that with enough determination, I can turn any difficulty into a challenge over which I will come out the victor. Unless you prove unworthy, I aim to win your trust. Your respect. Your love. I cannot settle for less.”
Darcy’s silence was justified, but she made him feel like a brute. He was not the villain in this story. That was Wickham. She had nearly made him forget.
“What did Wickham say?” Darcy asked.
“He suspects you married to cover over something you are hiding. He told me he means to discover what it is.”
Darcy dropped his head into his hands. No, no, no. This could not be. If anything happened to that precious babe…. He pressed the opal against his chest, the clasp cutting against his skin. Darcy’s heart lodged in his throat, making it difficult to breathe.
He felt Elizabeth’s hand touch his shoulder, smelled the lavender in her hair.
He jerked away.
“William, please talk to me. Let me help you.”
“You have helped quite enough already.”
“If only you had told me—”
“I told you to stay away from him. I told you he was dangerous, only you did not listen.” If Elizabeth had put Anne in danger, Darcy would never forgive her.
Elizabeth pinched her lips closed.
“Tell me everything that happened,” he said coolly.
Chapter 21
Nothing worked. Elizabeth had blamed Fitzwilliam’s reticence on her own bitter display before, but she had gone out of her way to control her frustration, and he still would not talk.
She meticulously relayed every detail of her trip to Hatchards. She took pride that she did a thorough job of it lest Fitzwilliam find something to disapprove of again. The man was so stubborn! Why did he constantly refuse her? Did he believe her incapable of being of any assistance?
Then again, he had told her that Mr. Wickham was dangerous, to stay away. But she had been curious. What else was she supposed to do when her own husband did not trust her enough to offer any explanation? She had married him, had she not? Did that not merit more trust?
Elizabeth poured on the details, talking enough for both of them and hoping some of her excess would rub off on Fitzwilliam.
When she finally reached the end of her narration, wherein she described Mr. Wickham’s serpent-like departure, William tugged his hand through his hair and folded his arms over his chest. He was upset. At her. Again. She simply could not win.
Were she more dramatic, she would have thrown her hands toward the heavens and sighed loudly in exasperation. But she was done with dramatics. She crossed her arms and held her breath.
Fitzwilliam inhaled, his lips open to speak, and Elizabeth braced herself, already preparing several quick retorts. She would accept some of the blame for not heeding his warning, but not all of the fault was hers, and she would make certain (nicely) that he knew it.
“He never would have approached you had I been there, and for that I apologize,” William said.
Elizabeth blinked. “What?” Another apology? She raised her hand before he repeated the words again. “No, I heard. It is just that I was expecting a reproof.”
“You were armed for battle, were you?”
She did rather feel like a battered warrior. “Well … yes.”
William considered her. “If love is a battlefield, you are headstrong enough to win.”
Taking courage in his compliment (she hoped it was a compliment), she advanced. “As are you. Unless we join forces, we waste precious energy we could better use to fight your secret foe.”
His golden green eyes moved over her face. Elizabeth did not know what William searched for, but she prayed he would find it in her. How could they ever get along if they did not take a leap of faith and trust each other?
She regretted her earlier remark. William would never hurt her intentionally. He was far too responsible. Only, she had felt so angry, so frustrated, so trapped.
“What have you found out about me and my family?” he asked.
Elizabeth tried to contain her groan. Her and her big mouth. Not only was the footman in danger of losing his position because of her, but she had now put Evelyn at risk. It would not take much effort for William to discern her main source of information. And, she did not fail to notice how smoothly he had changed the subject.
“Mostly good things,” she said, purposely vague.
“Such as?”
He would find out sooner or later anyway, and as disgusted as Elizabeth was with secrets, she became more determined than ever to keep nothing from him. She would be an open book. “I learned that your mother and father were a lovely couple. I should have liked to have known them.”
William swallowed hard, looking away from her to the flickering flames in the fireplace. “What else?” he asked.
She spoke softly. The topic was clearly a painful one. “I learned how gentle and elegant Lady Anne was; how all the ladies mimicked her gowns. Your father loved her deeply. It was difficult for him when she died, but his attachment to your sister was strong enough to keep him going.”
William nodded, his gaze still fixed on the fire, unblinking. “And so it was. He lived for my mother. When she was gone, a part of him died along with her.”
Elizabeth could not imagine anything more romantic — to live for another. She craved such a love. But the sadness in William’s voice forced her to see how such a union, torn apart by death, had affected their son.
Reaching over, she placed her hand on top of his. “You loved them dearly, too. I am sorry,” she said.
He blinked, looking down at their hands. For a moment, Elizabeth considered pulling her hand away. But he did not flinch, and so she did not move either. His warmth was comforting.
He asked, “What did you learn about my sister?”
“That she was as lovely as your mother.” Elizabeth bit her lips together, dreading that he should ask for more. Which, of course, he did. There was an urgency about him that overcame her reluctance.
She continued, “She married Mr. Wickham, and then she returned to the one safe place she knew — to you — when she fell ill with consumption. She died months later.”
“Three months ago next Sunday,” he whispered.
Elizabeth’s heart stilled. “What?” She shook her head, not wanting William to have to repeat himself when her question was prompted by disbelief, not poor hearing. “So soon?”
He fiddled with the opal in his cravat again. He was in mourning for his sister. He had married while he was in mourning.
While gentlemen were known to carry on with their lives much sooner than society allowed women to after a death in the close family, Elizabeth sensed that William’s grief had not yet dulled. His emotions were fresh and raw. Had his need to marry been spurred by an emptiness he could not fill? If that was the case, why did he not let her close? Would he ever let her into his heart?
“Why did you marry me?” she asked. She needed to know.
He turned his hand over, squeezing her fingers against his palm. His jaw clenched, and she could see the battle engaged in his mind. He did not want to tell her, but Elizabeth trusted he would. Otherwise, why the struggle?
She bit her tongue and held her breath, trying not to lose her patience as she had before.
She waited. And waited.
Finally, he spoke. “When I asked you if you liked children…” he started.
Elizabeth could have filled his sentence in a dozen ways — …it is because I run an orphanage. I have an abundance of nieces and nephews I adore. I love children and want a family of my own. I have a child of my own. I am a widower. My mistress left me a child… — before he finally did.
“…it is because I have a child at Pemberley. A child nobody, not even the servants here, know about.”
A secret child. Elizabeth did not want to believe it. William had kept a mistr
ess.
“You married me to cover an indiscretion?” she asked, to be certain.
“Yes.”
Disappointment washed over Elizabeth, but she refused to let it carry her away. She focused on the silver lining, blurred as it was by tears she would not shed for a man she could never bring herself to love completely. It was all she had. She had read too many novels and scandal sheets to be ignorant of the habits of most gentlemen with the means to indulge their fancies. She never should have assumed her husband was any different.
Shoving the woe-is-me dramatics from her mind, Elizabeth doggedly concentrated on the good.
Good … good … what was good? It was not so easy to find, but Elizabeth stuck with it. If not for William’s sake, but for her own. And the baby’s.
The baby.
What kind of a man raised his mistress’ offspring? Honor. Yes, that was a very good quality. Most gentlemen cast their unwanted children off, leaving the poor innocents without a protector or a helper in the world. William’s honor in caring for his illegitimate child was worthy of a degree of respect. He was responsible.
Responsible. That was good. Another excellent trait. It was not a quality Elizabeth was accustomed to observing in her own home. Perhaps that was its appeal. It calmed the bile churning in her stomach and loosened the knot in her throat (at least it had until she thought about it.)
She had to think of the child.
Whatever William’s faults, Elizabeth did not have it in her to punish an innocent child for his or her father’s poor choices. She knew all too well what that felt like, and she could not be the cause of it.
Taking a deep breath, she met William’s eyes. “Why are we tarrying in London, then, when we ought to return to the child? Am I correct to assume the baby resides at Pemberley?”