“Please,” she said, sitting up beside him. “After all, the darkness…”
“Yes,” he said, smiling. Then, after a pause, he said, “Our marriage has not begun as I would have wished.”
She said nothing, but he could feel her stiffen beside him.
“What I mean to say,” he continued, “is that I want our wedding night to be ours. Our wedding day may have already passed, but we may still claim a night for ourselves, and tonight you are still grieving. That is how it should be.”
“And what if I am still grieving tomorrow night, and the night after that, and the night after that?”
“I can be patient.”
“I do not know,” she whispered, “if I will ever stop grieving.”
“You will always miss your father, but surely there will come a time when you can think on him without feeling such sadness.”
“I suppose,” she replied, though she did not sound convinced. Then she said, after a long pause, “Have you considered the idea that, er, consummating our marriage might, in fact, be the best way to…”
“To what? To make you forget? To help you heal?” He laughed softly.
“Very well,” she said, turning away and burrowing under the covers. “If you think it is such a ridiculous notion, I will not trouble you further.”
“Come now,” he said, leaning down so that he could brush his lips against her hair. “I meant no insult. It is only…”
She turned over to face him, and even in the dark, he could see her eyes shining up at him.
“I have tried such methods of forgetting,” he admitted finally. “They were ineffectual.”
She sat up. “Do you mean to say—”
“Yes.” He looked away. “It is not something one discusses with one’s wife.”
“Why ever not?” Her voice contained equal parts amusement and annoyance. “Do I not have some right to know? After all, you would not consider it wrong to ask me about my past exploits. So I will tell you: I am untouched. There, now fairness dictates that you must explain yourself.”
He laughed. “I hardly think fairness pertains to our situation. For one thing, such a conversation is improper.”
“You choose an convenient moment to hide behind propriety.”
“For another,” he continued, “it is hardly fair for you to tell me something I already know in exchange for information that you lack.”
“And just how do you know that I have had no dalliances? Do I seem the sort of young lady who follows every rule of society without fail?”
“You seem the sort of young lady who has sense and would do nothing to hurt her family. An unmarried woman who carries on in such a way could cause a great deal of trouble for herself and those around her.” He fell silent, thinking suddenly of his sister. “Of course, I do not suppose that all such young ladies are cognizant of their behavior, and the men in these cases are certainly to blame, for they should know better.”
Though she said nothing, he thought she understood him, for she took his hand and brought it to her lips.
Finally, he said, “Perhaps it is unfair, my keeping quiet about my past actions, but I am not proud of what I have done. Oh, it is common enough, even expected, I suppose. It is easy enough to tell oneself that these other women are of a different sort, that they expect and even require such advances—and they do, for how else are they to make their living?” He shook his head. “I cannot believe I am having such a conversation with you.”
“Yes, I suppose prostitution is not the most common topic one discusses in bed with one’s grieving wife.”
They glanced at each other before dissolving into laughter.
“Well,” she said when they managed to stop laughing, “I suppose you have won, for I cannot imagine doing anything except sleeping now.”
“Yes, lapsing into absurdity was my strategy all along.”
“You have made me feel a great deal better,” she said as they settled next to each other, both of them lying on their backs. “I only wish…”
He reached for her hand. “We will find the right time, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, of course. Though perhaps it is not so much about time as it is place. Purvis Lodge will always remind me of this strange and terrible week.”
He remembered her kneeling on the floor of her room, picking up hair pins. “Yes, this place has been tainted for me, as well.”
“I want to go to Pemberley,” she said suddenly.
“And I want for us to go there, but…” He paused and thought of the excuses he was about to make. Her mother and sisters needed help moving their belongings to the Lodge, but had not Bingley offered to assist with that? London and the Matlock family awaited them—but not until after Sophia’s wedding, which was still six weeks away.
“Five days time,” he said, finally. “We will leave two days from now, so as to give your family some warning, and it will take us three days of travel, considering the state of the roads.”
He could hear the joy and promise in her voice as she said, “Five days time.”
Chapter Eighteen
Bennet Lodge: Wednesday, January 15
My Dear Mrs. Darcy,
Oh, Lizzy, how grand your new name sounds! I write to assure you that you must not concern yourself on my account. Though your departure appeared hasty to some, I am your mother and do not see evil where others do. Mrs Darcy you may now be, but my Lizzy you remain, and Lizzy always was the most disobliging to my nerves. You are not unlike your dear departed father, and so I am inclined to be forgiving.
Jane and Charles—he is a son to me now, so I feel I may claim such familiarity—have been taking prodigious care of us all. Your sister Mary wishes me to remind you of your promise to send her some books from Pemberley’s library, though I wish you would not, for her eyes have got all squinty, and I do not know how I shall get her married. I hope you will not forget your sisters now that you are Mrs. Darcy. If you could only invite them to Town when you go, I am certain Kitty and Lydia may find husbands before the summer (though of Lydia’s prospects I am more cheerful, for she is well on her way to securing her own happiness).
Your loving mother,
F.B.
*
Netherfield: Saturday, January 18
Darcy,
Received word of your arrival. Very glad to hear you encountered no trouble on the roads, etc. Forgive the brevity of the letter, but then you always did complain that you could not read my writing.
C.B.
P.S.—Since I have left so much space on the page, Jane has asked to use it so that she may spare you the cost of an additional letter. I have a charmingly economical wife, do I not? Oh, and do remind me—did you think wheat or rye best suited the upper fields? Steward says wheat, but he makes such a muddle of his explanation that I must look to you. Now I have left little room for Jane, after all. She will send word to her sister on a separate sheet of paper, after all.
*
Netherfield: Saturday, January 18
Dearest Elizabeth,
I wanted only to assure you that we are all well, and our spirits, though still a bit low, have improved a great deal, especially on hearing of your safe arrival. While I look forward to reading your descriptions of Pemberley, as I have been told by more than one source that it is one of the most beautiful places in all of England, I hope not to receive a letter from you for many days to come, for I think you must spend your time acquainting yourself with your new home. I have found Netherfield, a place I knew before I became mistress, to contain more mysteries than I had expected, so I believe that Pemberley, unknown to you as it is, will take up a great deal of your time.
There is some talk of joining you in Town this Season; any plan that brings me closer to you is a welcome one. I must admit, however, to feeling uneasy about leaving Hertfordshire in the near future. Mama, though as affectionate a mother as one could wish, seems rather too grieved to monitor Kitty and Lydia’s education. I failed to recognize the exten
t to which our dear father guided our younger sisters; he seemed always occupied with other affairs. Yet the activities our sisters once attempted in his presence (albeit reluctantly) to improve their minds and character, such as reading and letter-writing, have altogether stopped. Kitty spends most of her day wandering the tangled grounds of Purvis Lodge (no one, aside from Mama, has taken to calling it Bennet Lodge), and Lydia goes into Meryton to visit Mrs. Philips far too frequently for my taste. Our aunt is a merry woman, and a dear one, too; yet she so regularly invites officers to tea and supper, that I cannot but wonder at Lydia’s motivations for visiting almost daily.
My, what an unpleasant tone this letter has taken! You must not be alarmed—either by our sisters’ behavior (for surely, after so many changes in their lives, it is to be expected that they, too, should be altered) or by my unwarranted severity on them. Our sisters are, at least, in good health; Mary, being much the same as always, I have not mentioned, but she is well and sends her love. Given how very happy Bingley has made me, I certainly have no cause for complaint. I wish only that I might see you—if not in London this spring, then surely at Pemberley this summer, for your dear husband has already extended a warm invitation to visit.
Your loving sister,
J.B.
*
Grosvenor Square: Monday, January 20
Dearest Brother,
How happy I was to receive your latest, and please thank Mrs. Darcy for her letter, as well. My uncle does not think it best, at the present time, for me to engage in correspondence with my new sister, and I feel obliged to follow his direction in this matter, as I would not want to embarrass him in front of the footman who posts my letters. My only regrets in obeying are that you shall likely become angry and that I will be unable to send directly to your wife my sincerest condolences on the loss of a beloved father. I am grateful that you are with her at such a terrible time, for I know firsthand how good a friend you are to those who mourn. When I think back on our own father’s death, I wonder now that I did not then recognize how much I depended on you. Who, in turn, did you have to comfort you? No one, I think, and for that, I am sorry.
To happier matters, though: how wonderful that you have returned to Pemberley! There is no more magical place in the winter than the frozen pond behind the grove of birches and oaks near the drive. Surely you know the one I mean. I never did tell you that I used to sneak down to the pond some winter mornings when the nursery maid—how terrible, I have forgotten her name, but she was the one who remained with us only for a year—was in bed with a cold. There was nothing I loved better that winter than watching the wind blow the snow from the branches of the fir trees. How the flakes shimmered in the sunlight! I was certain I had found a fairyland. As much as I enjoy the bustle of town, I do miss the utter silence of that hidden pond in winter. Do take Mrs. Darcy there, for I think she will find it as beautiful as I did, and I can think of no better balm for the wounds of grief than love (which she has in abundance) and magic.
I have kept busy in town, and am enjoying myself immensely. Each day brings some new pursuit, and I have had the pleasure of attending the newest exhibitions, plays, and lectures at the Museum. I must admit, though, that perhaps my favorite pastime has become—do not despise me for this, Fitzwilliam—attending dinner parties. Yes, it is true: I actually enjoy those gatherings you hate so very much. Yet I have had the pleasure of meeting so many new people, tasting all the newest recipes from the Continent, and even on occasion dancing—which I am sure you will not mind, as I only dance with my cousins or perhaps one of the old viscounts or earls our uncle so often likes to invite to Matlock House.
I only wish Anne might be here with me, for I think the company, music, and food would all do here a world of good. But Aunt Catherine has departed for Rosings. My cousins and I almost convinced her to allow Anne to remain, but she developed a cough, and Aunt Catherine—well, you know her views on colds. Still, I have found Sophia—Lady Sheffield as we all call her whenever we first see her; she adores the title—to be an amusing companion, and Richard has become so very dear to me. I never knew him to be so witty and generous, but then I was a child when last I spent any appreciable time with him. Now, though not perhaps as grown up as I should be, I am better able to understand his good qualities. Isabella and Grantley remain as they always were, but I have enjoyed spending an hour each morning with their little son Charlie, who has begun to walk and make sounds that may one day become intelligible to more than my uncle, who believes already that his grandson has the makings of a parliamentarian.
I look forward to seeing you and meeting your Mrs. Darcy in the coming months. Until then, be content with the knowledge that I am, aside from the pain our separation causes us both, quite happy.
Your affectionate sister,
Georgiana
*
St. James’s Street: Wednesday, January 22
Fitz,
I have it on good authority that you are ensconced at Pemberley. When my brother heard this news, he expressed grave concern, for (as he put it) what is there for a man to do in the G_d forsaken country in the middle of the G_d forsaken winter? Then he remembered the pair of guns he purchased and supposed you must be engaged in sport. I told him that you likely were engaged in sport, though of a fairer sort.
Now, before you chide me for such as vulgar opening to my letter, I must say that I have had a terrible week, and that most of my companions have been grizzled generals who are far more profane than I, for though I may ignore social niceties, they continually ignore my requests to be returned to the field. They find it amazing that an earl’s son would prefer the wilds of Spain to the drawing rooms of London, but then they, too, are sons of peers who have spent their days attempting to find glory in their glasses and honor in the arms of their mistresses.
It goes without saying that you must burn this letter posthaste.
These past few months have made me realize that you and I are not so dissimilar as we used to think. Though I cannot regret my decision to tell Father of Georgiana’s near escape, I do understand how such a decision on my part may have caused you pain. The fact of the matter is, you and I are both more solicitous of our family than they, perhaps, are of us. Ah, that is not exactly what I meant to write; there is more bitterness there than prudent, and in any case, it is unfair to suggest that Georgiana has an ounce of selfishness in her. And yet, I think she did not, until this incident, understand how her actions might impact your own. The same is true of my sister, whose desire for a grand wedding is tapping the family’s coffers in such a way that I will not be able to pursue a project that I had hoped to convince my father to fund.
I believe I told you many months ago of my plan to provide inexpensive lodging to former soldiers. The state of the regular soldier, once released from duty, is deplorable; I find myself ashamed to wear an officer’s uniform when I so often confront, in the streets of London, men who might have served under me, now reduced to begging. Such an undertaking is more than my current income will allow. Even if I scrimped and saved—and G-d knows I am not good at that—I would not have the capital necessary to begin such a venture.
You will think I am writing you for money. Do not worry, Fitz; this is no appeal for support—at least not of the financial kind. It is only that I received just yesterday my father’s letter indicating that he could not—or would not—at this time provide the funds I had hoped he would. And so I am writing you, perhaps to make amends, for now that I, too, have been slighted by my father, I suppose we have some kinship.
Perhaps you have done me a favor, marrying so unexpectedly. Do you supposed Aunt Catherine would look on my suit toward cousin Anne with some interest now that her favorite nephew has deserted her?
As I said, burn this letter posthaste. I am half drunk and exhausted.
Yours,
R.F.
*
With Elizabeth at his side, Darcy saw Pemberley anew. He had grown up with the snow-capped evergreens tha
t towered over the drive from the main road to the house, yet never had they looked so enchanting until he had heard Elizabeth exclaim over their beauty. Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper he loved like an old aunt, seemed suddenly younger and livelier as she told Elizabeth stories of the house that she had never, in fact, shared with him. He had always been proud of his library, but with Elizabeth ensconced in one of the large, cushy armchairs, he thought he might never want to leave the room. Well, except at night when his bedroom—and hers—became his favorite rooms in the house.
Indeed, he would never again think of his own chambers without remembering their true wedding night. They had decided, during one of the many interminable hours spent in the carriage, that she would come to him—but only when absolutely ready. He had not dared to hope that she would make the journey from her room to his on their first night in residence at Pemberley. After all, they had been on the road for three long days; surely she would be too exhausted, too uncomfortable, too uncertain.
Yet the door had opened, and she had crossed the threshold wearing a silk nightgown and an arch smile. How still he had been, even as she climbed up to sit next to him. For a long moment, they did not speak, did not touch. And then, just when he had been about to assure her that it did not have to be tonight, she turned to kiss him.
“Have you ever wondered,” she whispered against his lips, “if all this waiting will cause you to be disappointed? Reality may fall short of your expectations.”
“Absolutely not,” he growled, pulling her astride him and running his hands along her bare legs.
Laughing, she started to say something else, but he kissed her—for though there was no greater devotee of her wit than Fitzwilliam Darcy, he felt it was high time to show his appreciation for her many other fine qualities.
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 28