Love Calls Again

by Lucianne Elsworth

  "Now family will be arriving from all over, expecting a funeral unless you stop them in haste. I have heard dear Richard must have come back from France. I wish to see him before I go, so do not detain him. Send an express to Matlock, though. I do not wish my brother here. I do not know how many notes Ponsonby sent out."

  "If there is any other way I can help…" Darcy started.

  "Well, I need Mr Collins. I expressly asked for him. He is in Hertfordshire and his carriage broke down. If you could fetch him tomorrow…"

  Darcy froze. Hertfordshire. "Of course," he managed to say.

  "There, you see, Mama. Fitzwilliam will see to it. Everything will be settled."

  The following day, late in the afternoon, Darcy and Anne were alone in the library. Ultimately, Darcy found it very hard to find a moment on his own away from her, a moment of solitude. This short journey to Hertfordshire would do him good, although he knew perfectly well there was no real need for him to fetch the parson personally. Any servant would have sufficed…

  "Mama is not well. I can see it in her countenance."

  "I shall talk to the Doctor before I leave. He would be able to be more specific as to what to expect."

  "She is not recovered from her cold, yet. Do you think she will die? I do not want her to."

  "Of course you do not," he said soothingly. Yet recollections of her unexpected responsiveness to his attentions made him tense, and he abandoned the tender tone of his treatment.

  "I did not want to worry Mama. But how can you go to Hertfordshire and bring Mr Collins back if you have to go to Pemberley yourself tomorrow?"

  "It is only fifty miles. And then again, I am not going to Pemberley. The case is off. Postponed. I received an express from my lawyer this morning."

  "Postponed? How odd. Mama had a note from him this morning as well. He was concerned about her but he had to be away to Derbyshire. He was arguing a case for a tenant from the north before the Crown Court later this week. You said it was a tenant case, did you not?"

  "Well, that is it. My lawyer will see to it. He decided to go to Pemberley himself and then back to London with him without me."

  "Then 'tis not postponed?"

  The blood rose in Darcy's face, "No. But my going is."

  She went silent again. In the library Darcy selected a book and began reading while Anne played with her laces.

  "Is it not Hertfordshire Miss Bennet's home?"

  "I do not know. It was some years ago. But she might be married now," he said without raising his eyes from his book.

  "No, she never got married."

  He did not answer back.

  "What are you reading?"

  "Oh, a history."

  "Why?"

  "I do not know. Because I was bored," he said beginning to lose patience. Why would she not leave him alone?

  "You used to read poetry," she said dreamily. "I should very much like if you read some to me."

  Unable to contain himself any more, he got to his feet and dropped the stupid book. It was impossible to concentrate on reading with Anne insinuating to him. What did she mean with this tone of conversation? Since when had she noticed his taste in books? Poetry, indeed! He no longer had place for poetry in his life.

  "I need some air." He went to the window and opened it and leaned out into the cold.

  "Darcy! Close the window. It is freezing! You shall catch your death."

  Now she is behaving like my mother. Catch my death. Indeed.

  It was not possible for him to die. He was dead. He had been dead for years. Then it occurred to him that she might die. People did. Young, healthy people, did. Anne was not healthy. Yes, she might die, and set him free. Perchance if she got with child… Goodness! He could not believe he had had such an awful thought.

  Anne saw him looking at her.

  "Darcy?"

  Darcy felt terrible remorse. He walked to her and touched her head in a tender gesture. "Poor Anne," he said. "I shall never be able to open a window without worrying you."

  When Fitzwilliam Darcy got into the Master's bedchamber at Rosings that night, he made a discovery of the most unsettling nature. The lock that had always forbidden him from entering the Mistress's bedchamber through the adjoining door had been removed. On noticing it, Darcy could scarcely find the courage to draw near the door.

  What was the meaning of all this? Certainly he knew the meaning, yet he refused to comply. Suddenly his wife was trying to seduce him. He could not help feeling remorse at the moment of stupid weakness which had led him to hug her while riding to Rosings.

  It had been compassion, pure compassion. Could she not tell the difference? Apparently she could not. Or she was reluctant to do so. All that talking about poetry. And her sudden interest in his health (it had been the first time Anne had not complained of some pain or other). Lord! How could he have been so careless?

  Uppermost in his mind was now how he would manage to untangle himself from the web he himself had laid. For the only moment in which Darcy had considered the possibility of bedding his wife had been with the purpose of getting an heir for Pemberley. But then again, if she had died in a miscarriage, the burden of her death would be hanging over him, and he had not been willing to carry one weight more on his shoulders.

  No, he would not bed Anne for a Kingdom. Anyway, he doubted his own ability to… hmm… pay the necessary compliments to her. Besides she was too old to bear a child, almost six and thirty, not to mention her abhorrence to gravity. No, their time has passed. Perchance if she had done this on their wedding night…

  He went into the dressing room, and he heard his valet preparing his hot bath. Oh, how much he needed one! On letting his body slip into the tub, he sighed heavily and allowed the pleasure of the warm water to envelop him, while his valet carried the heavy buckets to rinse his hair. He remained there, lingering in the bath until he felt a bit cold. In being handed over his robe he noticed a strange look upon the face of his valet.

  "Is anything the matter, Ponsonby?"

  "Nay, sir. Does the Master or the MISTRESS need anything?"

  All the blood drained from Darcy's face, and his whole body, save one part which went intriguingly flat, went rigid. There was no need for the manservant to add a word. He had been in Darcy's service long enough to know that Mr and Mrs Darcy had never slept together. So, the man's question meant only one thing. Mrs Darcy was in the Master's bed chamber. Or worse. She might be in his bed.

  What to do? He could not simply get into bed and perform his duty, not with grey, mousy, flat Anne.

  Neither could he ask her what she wanted. It would be ungentlemanly of him, let alone rude.

  A crazy idea suddenly flashed his mind. Would it be feasible to make love to one woman, thinking of another? He thought he could extinguish the candles, and ask her to wear some rose perfume. Then he could close his eyes and see what happened.

  His valet was still waiting for his answer.

  "Yes. Could you, please, bring some roses from the green house? And put them in a vase on the bed table. Ah, and some orange squash."

  "Of course, sir."

  When Darcy stepped into the bedchamber he found his wife (thanks goodness still dressed), standing in the doorway, staring at him.

  He was a vision for her eyes. His tall, slim figure looked so very alluring in the scarce concealment of his robe (she knew he was not wearing anything underneath). His bare feet she had seldom seen a long time ago, when they were still children. His neck was for her to admire, and under the robe she could guess at the hair on his chest.

  "Come in, Anne. You are most… welcome," he said rather gravely and uninviting. As he sat on his bed, he continued to dry his damp hair with a towel.

  "I was not informed you were in your toilet," she began apologetically, her eyes firmly stuck to the floor. "I did not mean to intrude."

  "Not at all. I understand a wife has a right to her husband's sleeping quarters." He said in resignation.

  She tilte
d her head and smiled. Indeed.

  She did not say a word, but kept staring at her husband, a certain part of his body below the waist becoming the object of her attention. Soft waves of excitement began to envelop her as she witnessed how his movements displayed the firmness of the muscles of his thighs, and she felt an urgent need to run to him and disrobe him to see what he concealed under the silky gown. Still, she kept her distance, and waited for him to continue with the conversation.

  Darcy took for granted that she was not there for his arts as a conversationalist. She was obviously looking for more active exertions. "Are you going to have your bath now? Or do you wish to… talk first?" Lord, let her go and spare me this…

  She took a deep breath and looked around. "I think I shall have my bath. Can I come later to… talk with you? I…"

  Good Lord, this will be difficult. Pray, make her change her mind, make her… "Of course," he cut her short. "I shall be waiting."

  Anne's heart began to race, her eyes sparkled with excitement. "I shall not be long." Suddenly she felt young and beautiful, and healthy. She wheeled around and almost ran into her chamber.

  "Anne?"

  "Yes?"

  "Can you wear some rose water for me?"

  "Rose water?"

  "Yes, in your hair. I find rose water…"

  "I will." And she disappeared behind the door.

  There was a knock at his door, and the manservant entered with the orange squash and the roses. To a signal from Darcy, he handed his master the first and placed the latter on the bed table before exiting the room.

  Darcy blew out all the candles, took off his robe and climbed into his bed. He was terribly nervous. Would his little trick work? He prayed it would, otherwise he would find himself in a terrible predicament.

  Alone in his bed, and in the silence of the house he could hear Anne in her preparation for her bath. The crisping sound of the wood burning in the fireplace, and the penetrating scent emanating from the roses, began to elicit sweet memories of Elizabeth atop the bed in his house in London. He could picture her, gently purring his name as he caressed her body, kissing her lips once, twice, until he lost count. Ever so slowly, he felt the blood abandoning his brain and concentrating in his loins. Yes, he could almost see her. Round, white breasts corolled with perfect, pert nipples, soft, hot skin, such very inviting lips and her gentle rippling under his weight. Goodness that was working! His pride was almost the size of a mast. He felt it with his hand and grabbed it to feel the result.

  On closing his eyes, Elizabeth was back with him. Yes, she was atop him, and he was nuzzling his face against her bosom as she went up and down on his shaft. It was deliriously delicious.

  "Lizzy, my love," he muttered to no one. Such was his blissful fancy, that he quickly forgot he was waiting for his wife. The scent of the roses was the greatest aphrodisiac he could have ever thought of, and his vivid imagination, together with his persistent grip on his manhood would soon take him to the point of no return.

  Just then Anne opened the adjoining door. She was holding an oil lamp, making her look like a ghostly apparition, gently glowing as she walked into the room. Startled, Darcy squinted at her.

  "Anne!"

  Anne looked at him with round, amazed eyes. What she was beholding disabled all her courageous enthusiasm. "What is that?" she asked in alarm, the conspicuous bulk between his legs that had not been there on occasion of her inspection of his groins, but that now could be easily perceived under the pristine sheets, evidently disturbing her sensibilities.

  Darcy followed her eyes to the part of his body that had caused such frightful reaction in his wife. Was he abnormal? "'Tis… me," he tried to explain. It was a difficult thing to describe to a lady.

  "You?"

  Was she not expecting this? Lord, perhaps she did mean she wished to talk!"Yes, 'tis only me."

  Anne could not tear her eyes from the surprising size of his ardour. "I… I… I came to tell you that… something unexpected happened. I cannot… talk with you tonight. I am sorry."

  Darcy could see she was not feeling well, and judging from the direction of her gaze it soon dawned on him the real cause for her affliction. In fact her complexion was paler than usual, which was saying a lot. He could not believe his luck. "Are you unwell?"

  He wrapped the sheet around him and, throwing the excess of the cloth over his shoulder, he rose from bed and walked up to her, looking very much like a Roman in his toga.

  Anne's eyes were still focused on his prominent swell she was sure was still pointing at her from under the sheet.

  "Indeed I am… will you pardon me? May be we can talk in the morning?" she said hesitantly stepping slowly back.

  "Yes, of course."

  "I thank you," she said in haste, not sure what she was thankful for. "Good night."

  "Good night."

  She was gone.

  Darcy, if a bit puzzled, was incredibly relieved. His wife's unexpected reticence for more intimacy could not have been more timely.

  He went up to his bed and sank into it. As he dropped his head onto the pillow, he sighed "Oh, that was close! Dear God. Thank you," he prayed in earnest. "Thank you."

  The next morning, Darcy was readying things to travel to Hertfordshire when he received an express apprising him of the nuptials of his cousin, Mr Edward Ellison. On reading the name of the bride, his heart sank. He knew there was no point in his going to Hertfordshire any longer. The parson would have to travel by post. The real inducement had lain in the possibility, the remote possibility of seeing Miss Bennet. The mere thought of stepping on the same soil she was constantly walking on, had been incredibly exciting. He had never, not one day, stopped thinking of her. But now, Miss Bennet must be in London, at her sister's wedding. He had been invited to go too, but under the present circumstances it would be impossible to attend it.

  He was talking to the groom to cancel his trip, when Anne interrupted him. "There is no need for you to go to Hertfordshire, now." Then, sniffing profoundly she announced, "Mama is dead."

  Nineteen

  —

  The Voice in the Gazebo

  Georgiana Darcy opened the letter with trembling hands. She had recognised it to be a mourning card, and it bore the De Bourgh's seal. She had also noticed that her name had been written by her brother's hand, so she was reassured that he was in good health.

  On reading the news of Lady Catherine's demise, Georgiana sighed. She had, against her better judgement and good disposition, wished it was her sister in law the one who had passed away, simply because the wicked little lady was the source of her brother's misery, in Georgiana's own estimation.

  Her brother implored her not to pass the intelligence of Lady Catherine's death to young Edward. He did not wish to spoil his happiness, more so, knowing that the couple intended to travel to Italy to tour the continent now that it was available again. So, Georgiana was to pass the news discreetly to her aunt and uncle, together with both his and Anne's wish to spare the newly-weds from an interruption of their present felicity.

  In his interest of looking after the happiness of his cousin, however, Darcy had omitted to mention that Anne had fallen into a deep state of sadness since her mother's death, and refused to be nourished or take medicines. Her health had deteriorated in a matter of days and was now suffering from a severe case of cold, which promised to return her malady with all its force.

  Indeed, scarcely had Lady Catherine been buried in the church under the altar, when Anne fell inexorably ill, the doctor fearing the worst destiny for her, too.

  In a matter of weeks her complexion had lost absolutely all signs of life and, although Darcy had almost never abandoned her bedchamber, he did not remember the last time she had opened her eyes or talked to him.

  ~•~

  Scarcely had Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived in London from his frustrated trip to Hertfordshire, when the news reached him in his quarters. Two letters, both of them dated only a day before his hasty depa
rture to Longbourn, had failed to reach him in time. One of them apprised him both of his cousin Edward's sudden marriage and his new cousin's name: Catherine Bennet, now Mrs Edward Fitzwilliam Ellison. That meant that Elizabeth must be either still in London, or back in Longbourn by then. The other letter was a mourning card sent at a blind guess by Darcy. His aunt's demise had coincided with the joyful event of the wedding in the family. Hence, the funeral of the grand lady had passed almost inadvertently to society, for the papers were apprised of her decease only after the burial had already taken place, and was attended only by the male members of the family after the wedding breakfast had passed, to avoid the necessary mourning black gowns which would have ruined the occasion.

  So, everybody had been at the wedding while Fitzwilliam was at Longbourn. Such bad timing could only have happened to him. Damn luck! Why on earth had he been so hasty! If only he had gone directly to his parent's home, he would have met Elizabeth.

  After visiting his mother to apprise her of his safe return from the continent, Fitzwilliam immediately wrote a letter to his cousin Darcy to express his condolences. He meant to travel to Kent, and present his condolences to his cousin Anne, too; so not long after his mother had had enough of his presence, he mounted his horse again and was off to Kent.

  But before that, he paid a short visit to the Gardiners. Perhaps Elizabeth was still with them.

  "Colonel Fitzwilliam! How good of you to call on us!"

  "Mrs Gardiner, Edward! I am glad to see you are well. Pray, how are the children?"

  "They are fine. I thank you. Young Edward is already thirteen. And the little ones are no longer little."

  "And how is Miss Margaret?"

  "Our daughter turns sixteen, this year, Colonel."

  "Sixteen? Goodness! She is not longer a child. I still remember her in the park when…"

  "Yes! She used to…" The recollection was inevitable but nonetheless awkward. The girl used to be Elizabeth and Richard's chaperone, always going with them to the park and staying in the parlour reading a book while Richard 'entertained' Elizabeth.