Love Calls Again

by Lucianne Elsworth

  "Papa, I promised Colonel Fitzwilliam I would be his wife. I love him, very much. If you, my dear father, will not give me permission to marry him, I shall be miserable, yet I shall insist upon keeping with my word given to him. I wish to be married to Colonel Fitzwilliam as soon as possible."

  Mr Bennet heard her attentively, then said, quite heartbroken: "Are you aware of what you are saying, Lizzy?"

  "Indeed I am. If you were aware of the depth of my affections, you would not expose me to public disdain by forcing me to act in an imprudent manner. Yet, dear father, had I no choice I am resolved to act in that manner which, in my own opinion, constitutes my happiness."

  Mr Bennet made no answer. Much as his daughter's behaviour astonished and vexed him, Mr Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject. Yet, he was not convinced, his apprehension based on Elizabeth's previous demeanour. His unwillingness to see her tied to a loveless marriage was telling him that things should be taken slowly. He knew his favourite daughter was not the kind of woman whose heart could be so easily won. Much as he wished the colonel were indeed Elizabeth's perfect match, he feared her attraction for the gentleman stemmed in an endeavour to leave Mr Darcy's painful memory behind. Heartbreak was hardly a reason to get married.

  "In that case, a mere three months will be of no consequence." He affectionately took her hand and continued. "Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. If anything, time can only make true love grow even stronger. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable unless you truly esteemed your husband – unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about."

  Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply.

  "Indeed, you are mistaken. Colonel Fitzwilliam is my choice. My affections are not the work of a day. His affections, especially, have being gradually growing since the very first day of our acquaintance, and have endured the test of many months of suspense. I know I shall run out of words to describe his many good qualities. Father, pray give me your consent to marry him at once."

  But all her efforts went for naught, for she failed to conquer her father's incredulity.

  "No, Lizzy. Trust me in this. I am loath to hand you over a man you do not truly love, and the only way to know if you do, for certain, is letting time go by. If your affections for the colonel are real, then there is no need to fear a bad outcome from a long engagement. After all, one can scarcely call a three-month engagement long."

  "Very well, papa. I have nothing else to say."

  "Good. There is a good girl. When is your fiancé to be expected here? Is he not coming for the Christmas season? I had hoped to make an announcement on Twelfth Night."

  "No, papa, I am afraid some unfortunate situation has arisen in his family, and he is to attend to it. Uncle Gardiner sends you this note from the Colonel."

  "Very well. You can go now. I shall see what this young man has to say."

  He dismissed his daughter and, sitting in his tall arm chair, read the note from Colonel Fitzwilliam. As he did so his eyes widened and a look of true concern clouded his visage.

  "So, Mr Darcy is coming," he said to himself. "Good Lord, this makes things even worse."

  ~•~

  Mr Darcy left Lady Catherine and went to the library, where he claimed a glass of brandy. To his chagrin, Fitzwilliam was there to spoil his appetite for it.

  "I would not do it if I were you." Fitzwilliam warned him.

  "What would you have me do?"

  "What about your duty?" he commanded.

  Darcy was on the verge of losing composure. "Fitzwilliam, I dare say I have already done my duty. I have married Anne as the likes of you had expected me to do."

  "Do not include me in old women's deeds. Far be it from me to act in such a manner. But Darcy. Why do you not comply with this little detail? After all, it is only natural! You must produce an heir, and you know it."

  "What am I? Some kind of thoroughbred stallion?" He immediately regretted his rude words. Fitzwilliam was trying to be kind. "I am sorry. I did not mean it. Unfortunately, as regards child bearing…" he made a pause so long that Fitzwilliam believed he would not go on talking. Darcy was obviously struggling with his thoughts to find words to confess Fitzwilliam his predicament. Suddenly he blurted out: "'Tis not entirely up to me. Believe me; much as I wish to, it still takes two for the enterprise."

  "What exactly does that mean?"

  "I need that brandy. You must excuse me, Fitzwilliam."

  After a long silence, Darcy opened his heart to his cousin once more. Clutching his glass of brandy with both hands he claimed his customary position in front of a window and stared into the distance. Then he spoke.

  "I fear my life is a long gallery of rejections my friend. First Miss Bennet refused my hand in marriage. My whole life went to pieces with that." He went on with certain discomfort. "And then my wife."

  "Do you mean she has refused you your marital rights?"

  He nodded in frank acquiescence. "I must confess I have never felt attracted to Anne in any way. To be frank, I am almost relieved not to have been compelled to display affection that I do not feel."

  The colonel chuckled at this disclosure. He pictured his cousin trying to perform his marital duties with Anne, and he felt really sorry for him.

  "The only thing that pains me is that Pemberley will depend on Georgiana to bear an heir. I have always dreamt of my own children, especially after I met…"

  The Colonel stopped him half way. "Darcy, it will not do. You must stop this. It is pointless."

  Darcy dropped his shoulders in a defeated gesture. "I know. I thank you for listening to me anyway. I have been denied even a shoulder to cry on until you came, my friend. I am most thankful for that."

  The colonel's eyes drifted over to the window, deliberately averting his gaze from Darcy's. "You must stop drinking, too," he said, staring into the air, while he was holding a glass of brandy in his hand himself. He stood up, and walking to the fireplace, placed the glass on the mantel piece and turned to look at his cousin again. "It will be worse in the long run and you know it."

  There was a light rap at the door, and Georgiana entered the room after she was summoned in.

  "Where is Anne?" she inquired.

  "She went upstairs, Georgie. She felt a little indisposed," answered her brother.

  "Should I go to her?"

  "Oh no! There is no need. She will be well enough to join us in a short while, I am sure," her brother maintained firmly.

  Fitzwilliam quickly offered a distraction. "Why do you not play something for us at the pianoforte? I believe you have been practising some Christmas carols of late. Can we hear you now?"

  "As long as you accompany me with your singing," said the girl to her cousin.

  "That is settled then," Fitzwilliam said lovingly. He placed his hand on the small of her back and led her to the music room. Darcy followed behind.

  After a tolerable evening listening to Georgiana playing the pianoforte, Fitzwilliam and Darcy retired to the library again, leaving Georgiana to herself for a while. Neither Anne nor Lady Catherine had showed up ever since their argument.

  In reality, Darcy did not plan to make of this excursion to Kent a long visit. He barely tolerated his wife's company, let alone his aunt's. Besides, ever since he had been invited to the Twelfth Night ball, he had dreamt of seeing Elizabeth Bennet again.

  "Darcy, I am afraid I shall be leaving Kent soon. I shall not be able to accompany you to Netherfield Park as planned," his cousin announced.

  "I am sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to spending Twelfth Night with you and my good friend Bingley. Can you not possibly change your plans?"

  Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. It was unfortunate that the very place his cousin would inv
ite him was the very one the Colonel wished he could avoid most. Darcy was of a mind to escape his family's company to visit his friend Bingley at Netherfield Park, too close to Longbourn for the Colonel's state of mind. "What about Georgie? Why not take her with you."

  "Bingley is holding a ball. Georgiana will have to stay here. 'Tis only for a few days. I intend to return with her to London by the end of next week."

  The Colonel, unbeknownst to Darcy, had already declined the invitation. He longed for solitude to be able to clarify his thoughts and the place where his true loyalties rested. Least of all he wished to be confronted with Elizabeth. He was at odds on what to do. He knew she was to be at Longbourn by that time. Should he accompany Darcy, he would be compelled to face her and his cousin sooner than he would wish to.

  "I am afraid you shall have to make do without me this time. I have some business to attend to in Matlock. I shall see you again in London in a week."

  So, when the two cousins took their leave from Rosings on the 3rd of January, the Colonel hastily parted towards Matlock, where he was sure he would find some peace of mind to be able to sort out his dilemma. Little did he know the twists that awaited him with his return.

  Darcy for his part was of quite a different disposition. He could not wait to arrive at Netherfield and see Elizabeth Bennet at least from some distance. With such a prospect, Darcy would be ready to endure yet another five days in his wife's company. Mind you, he had never meant to break his marriage vows, but to be able to catch a short glimpse of Miss Elizabeth Bennet's fine eyes was all he could wish for Christmas.

  [Author's note: Christmas season in Regency times lasted 12 days, beginning the 25th of December and finishing on the 5th of January with Twelfth Night celebration.]

  Ten

  —

  Twelfth Night

  On his arrival at Netherfield Park, Darcy was received with the warmest of greetings. A ball had been prepared to celebrate Twelfth Night, and Bingley was his usual self – the happiest of men. He had received news of his good friend coming to his home only that morning by an express sent from Kent. His beautiful wife's countenance glowed with contentment, knowing only too well that Mr Darcy's presence would double her husband's happiness during the festivities.

  Jane Bingley had never been exceedingly demanding a woman. She had been born to lay back and think of England. Still, she had always hoped to marry for love, and when her nuptials to Charles Bingley were celebrated, she had thought herself deeply in love. But now, after a few months her wedding night had passed, Jane Bennet Bingley felt that something was amiss in her married life.

  For her wedding night had been the most anticipated moment in her life. Jane had never showed any bit of passion, yet, very much like her sister Elizabeth, she had no water running through her veins. Promises of unrelenting, ardent love had been laid at her door by the enamoured demeanour of her young betrothed. So much so, that the whole line of matrons, judging from Bingley's behaviour during courtship, had pronounced her exceedingly fortunate. For it was a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of such an enamoured husband, would be soon with child, with all the pleasures that going in such pursuit entailed.

  Unfortunately for Mrs Bingley, her husband was the clumsiest lover ever. Not only did he not have the least idea how to make his wife conceive, but neither did he take the trouble to inquire about the process. So, divested of all the necessary information, and armed only with his rather small instrument of pleasure, a trembling Charles Bingley entered the Mistress's bedchamber unsure of what he should do once in it.

  Jane was waiting for him atop the bed, just as she had been instructed by Mrs Bennet. As the bedchamber was in utter darkness, she only discerned the shadowy figure of a man dressed in his nightshirt approaching her bed as the faint moonlight filtering through the glass window reflected on it.

  Not a sound.

  Charles (she figured out the man was Charles, though she could not tell for sure to this day) was standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed and remained so for quite some time until Jane shyly asked him if he was coming to bed. He nodded emphatically and climbed in beside her. They remained for rather a long, silent period, until again Jane, thirsting for a little more action, or conversation for that matter, asked Charles a rather inviting question.

  "Charles," her voice in a quivering hush. "Will you not kiss me?"

  Charles Bingley must have misunderstood his wife, for immediately after her request for a proper kiss, he did kiss her, yet not where she would have found it most pleasurable. Beginning with her hands, he then applied feathered kisses on her forehead, on her cheeks… never on the lips. He endeavoured not to touch her more than it was necessary, lest she should feel embarrassed. Unfortunately, Jane wished to be embarrassed, ardently so.

  Suddenly he seemed to remember the exertion that had taken him to her bedchamber, and in much the same clumsy manner in which he had climbed into her bed, he climbed onto her. Jane's body went extremely tense, and for a moment she felt wildly aroused. Unfortunately, his passion barely endured the few minutes that took him go through her maidenhood and plant his seed. In that accomplishment, however, he contented himself with raising the hem of her nightshirt, and without much ceremony proceeding to fulfil the marital duty, much in his own hurried manner he was so proud of. This done, he rose from the bed, and expressing his thankfulness for her generous co operation, left her alone.

  If on losing her maidenhood, Jane had expected to feel anything, she had thought it would be pain, fatigue, perchance longing, ardour and the like. Yet none of these were part of her present feelings.

  Jane felt merely nauseous.

  To her dismay, the whole process – kissing her hands, forehead, cheeks and entering her womanhood in all his ineptness, was repeated upon the second night of their married life, and since then his nocturnal visits had not been much different. Many a time Jane wondered whether all connubial practices merely entailed such short, distasteful encounters, for she had often heard tales of raptures and flutters during the process of getting with child. Was she not to experience them?

  Notwithstanding her severe sexual frustration, Charles was still very dear to her. But ever since the first time, she had found her husband's mating customs more and more unpleasant, though he visited her in her bedchamber regularly enough.

  On seeing her husband's good humour over Mr Darcy's visit, Jane Bingley's courage rose. She wondered whether men talk about such intimate themes with their friends. Perchance Mr Darcy would talk to him, much in the manner she used to talk with her sister, and offer him some counsel. After all, they were both married. However, the man was very stiff and serious; she reckoned her wishes would come to naught. How much she long for her confidences with Lizzy! But her sister was still a maiden, hence unable to console her in married women's matters. If only Elizabeth would marry someone soon!

  Darcy was assigned his usual room where bitter-sweet memories of his failed romantic dealings with Elizabeth filled his soul and washed his beaten-up heart. The next day, the 5th of January, after he woke up, his first thought had been Elizabeth. She continued haunting him everywhere he went. Yet, the possibility of an encounter with her, even now when he was absolutely certain that she was completely prohibited to him, sent little shivers through his body, and at moments he found it difficult to breathe. He was helplessly hooked on the exhilarating anxiety, the unfulfilled expectation held by those who love in vain. Butterflies in his belly or a bee in his bonnet, either case presented Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire with a completely different demeanour. He was going to see her.

  I am going to see her.

  After penning a brief note to Rosings for his family to acknowledge his arrival in safety, he made his way downstairs into the library where, clutching a book in one hand and in spite of his cousin's severe admonition against it, he sank into one of his favourite, yet nastier of recently acquired habits: drinking spirits.

  It was under the influence of
these that Darcy had decided to follow the custom of wearing a mask at the Twelfth Night ball. There were several of these for the guests to choose from, and he picked one that covered mainly his visage, but left the rest of his handsome features for the guests to discern. The rest of the day continued uneventfully while Darcy persevered in emptying Bingley's brandy decanter until he could take no more. He was thus entertained when dusk announced that the guests would be arriving soon to partake in the festivities.

  As he headed for his bedchamber with considerable difficulty, he noticed that climbing the stairs was taking him longer than usual. It occurred to him that somehow, the distance between his bedchamber and the foot of the stairs had been altered. He stopped for a while to count the steps when a much dejected Phillips passed him by on his way to his master's bedchamber.

  "Phillips," he called out.

  "Yes, sir?" the man asked a little surprised. He wondered whether Mr Darcy's personal manservant knew his master was in need of assistance.

  "Phillips, how many shteps in the shtairs?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Mr Darcy recollected himself and endeavoured to speak correctly. "In the stairs. How many steps."

  "Nine and twenty, sir."

  "Are you poshitive?" Darcy surveyed the stair doubtfully.

  "Indeed, sir."

  "Come, let ush count them."

  Phillips looked at his addresser's face in utter amazement. He could count, yet he was too much busy to endeavour such an enterprise with a whole house to oversee. Yet Mr Darcy, was of a mind to solve the mystery of the excess of steps, and holding tightly to the servant's clothes, he jumped down two steps counting: "One, two…" Seeing that the stiff servant hesitated to follow him, he commanded him. "Phillips, come now. Count with me."

  "Should we not start from upstairs, sir?" the manservant observed innocently.

  Darcy shook his head. "Nay, too many shteps."

  Hence they commenced half way until they reached the bottom.

  "Thirteen," they said in unison when they reached the last step.