Darcy watched her for a moment in silence, completely at a loss to what her activity and posture could portend. He stood, as though to approach her, but he did not know how to interpret her downcast gaze, her silence, her departure from his side, and did not go further, unsure of himself. Thinking her sympathetic to the gentleman’s cause, he responded to her silence with indignation. “That scoundrel will never cross any threshold of mine!”
“I understand,” she replied softly and a disconcerting silence engulfed the room and strained the companionable tranquillity that had earlier pervaded. Neglected memories of Elizabeth’s past chastisement of his character rose vividly in Darcy’s mind, as did memories of her once passionate defence of Wickham’s interests. With something like desperation Darcy bade her comprehend. “You cannot be angry with me? You must comprehend this is not some foolish resentment. Surely, you understand me?”
Elizabeth turned at last; she was before him in a moment, his hands grasped determinedly within her own. George Wickham and all the unpleasant circumstances surrounding his marriage to Lydia was a topic they never discussed, and she felt it must be now or it should become a great weighty encumbrance upon their confidences. “I would consider myself fortunate to never see that man again, although he be my poor sister’s husband. To have brought him back into your life will always be my regret,” she replied quietly.
“Why should you feel regret? Any blame lies squarely with Wickham, with his wilfully dishonourable behaviour. What blame have you or even Lydia, who was but sixteen and whose age must allow her the same clemency as did Georgiana’s? You did not bring him into my life. He has always been there and by my own father’s wishes was a very present part. We have nothing to be ashamed of; only Wickham need be ashamed.”
“Nevertheless, I am so sorry. For now you are married to sisters he will never stop coming to you for some service, never stop attempting to abuse of your purse and your influence.”
“No, he will not. We can only hope, for your sister’s sake, that he will come for some honourable assistance and not succour from debt and deprivation.”
“In the face of such a letter, how can I not be again painfully reminded of all the mortification you have borne for my sake?”
“Have you not borne the same for mine at the hands of my aunt?”
“What is a little insolence from a person who was nothing to me? Whereas you have willingly aligned yourself to the person who betrayed your family’s long generosity, the person you most abhor. You know it is not the same. I will not have you pretend it is to appease my shame concerning all the circumstances surrounding that marriage. The topic has been far too painful to discuss; you have never allowed me to truly thank you for all you did.”
“Elizabeth, I have never wished for your gratitude,” he began, but she halted him, raising his hands and holding them against her breast.
“What you did for Lydia inspired far more than merely my gratitude. You neither have allowed me to tell you how profoundly I admired your generosity of spirit; how proud of you when I learnt of what you had done and comprehended that in a cause of honour and compassion you had acted with such alacrity and liberality, such goodness, exercised such forbearance to persuade and bribe a man whose very name it is painful for you to speak, that you might save a foolish, reckless girl who was nothing to you.”
“I only did what I thought correct to rectify actions abetted by my own obstinate silence. I do not deserve such praise,” he replied, entirely discomfited by what he felt undeserved commendation, for he knew there had been that as well in his motivation and actions which had been entirely selfish.
She lifted her hand and caressed his cheek. “I could not believe then that you would renew your addresses to me, just when I understood it was what I desired. Brother-in-law to the man you most abhor. It seemed impossible, and yet here we are.”
“I should bear much more than Wickham’s insolence and shamelessness for your sake, Elizabeth. I should bear so much more for the joy of having you as my wife.”
In that quietly passionate declaration Elizabeth comprehended as she had never fully comprehended before all she was to him, understood fully what it signified when this reserved, sometimes imperious man declared to her in the privacy of their rooms plainly and without adornment, “I love you.” She doubted how to make him comprehend that her regard, though not as long established, was certainly now of equal force; she wondered if he understood all she would willingly bear for his sake.
Chapter 9
Afternoon Interlude
A December snow had been falling lightly since the earliest morning hours; Mr. Darcy sealed the correspondence that had taken him the better part of the morning to complete and went in search of his wife. The task promised to be a difficult one, for since arriving at Pemberley Elizabeth’s curiosity could not be satisfied and she was constantly, alone or accompanied—by her husband, her new sister, or the housekeeper—in one corner of the house or another. She was determined to learn as much as she could as quickly as she could that she might with time contribute to the continued good running of the household and estate, that she might prove an active and caring mistress.
On days when the weather would allow, she was all about the park. Darcy had known Elizabeth to be a great walker, known her fondness for solitary walks, but he was surprised how undaunted she was by distance or cold or gentle rain. Only the worst of weather seemed able to keep her indoors and away from her daily walks through Pemberley’s many gardens and lanes, and a dry, clear day saw her venture out far and long. She would return from her daily walks—sometimes undertaken alone, sometimes accompanied by him—blooming with vigour and health and good cheer and he came to comprehend how essential they were to her happiness.
This noontime as Darcy looked in all the conventional rooms to no avail, he began to grow impatient until, passing the closed doors of the yellow parlour used in the hot summer months, a footman generously alleviated his master by indicating his quarry would be found within. Mr. Darcy was momentarily embarrassed by his transparency, but it lasted only as long as it took to open the door and reveal Elizabeth standing at a window watching the snowfall.
As the door closed behind him, Darcy approached his wife. She heard his soft footsteps and turned into the room with a welcoming smile. He could not fathom it, but even in relative stillness she was all vitality. He bowed formerly. “Good day, Mrs. Darcy.”
Elizabeth tilted her head with an unspoken incredulity. Albeit all the increase in understanding and intimacy between them since they married there remained about her husband a reserve and formality that could not be easily broken. It amused her and disquieted her at once, for it struck her as peculiar that even now, when they were alone, he should bow so politely to her. But his voice, so tender in tone, was like a caress. These thoughts ran quickly through her mind as he made his way across the room and came to her side. She stepped close to him and wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her hands against the small of his back and moved them up its length; she leaned into his body and rested fully against him, her face lifted towards his.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, savouring the pleasure of her body against his strong frame.
“You have been very difficult to locate. What are you doing in this cold room that is never used but in the warm days of summer? Hiding?”
“I am not yet desirous of hiding from you,” she replied playfully. “But should the time come I shall have many options. Daily I am discovering secret corners and rooms of the house.”
Darcy smiled in response. He smiled, he thought, a good deal now, for he experienced such an intoxicating levity in her presence and life had never felt so full. It was as though a quiet revolution were occurring within his decidedly regulated person and he felt within himself a slow unleashing of the restrained, reserved manner he had cultivated with such care. He had not realized how measured had become so many of his relationships, how much he had withdrawn into himself ov
er the years, always cautious and untrusting of the intentions of others. But he felt it keenly now as he sometimes struggled to equal her trusting sincerity.
“Why are you here?” he insisted.
“I am remembering when I came to see the house last summer with my aunt and uncle. I stood at this very window and admired the park in all its summer lushness. When we became engaged I teased Jane and told her I had begun to love you when I saw your beautiful grounds here at Pemberley. I think perhaps there was some truth in that teasing avowal after all.”
“How so?” he inquired evenly, singularly gratified by her unbending forthrightness. He could never have borne empty flattery from his own wife. There was no artifice, no artful compliments from her, she was all frankness, and it was a balm from years upon years of an overbearing deference bestowed upon him from as long as he could recall. Even when he was just a boy that cared for nothing but fishing for trout his every word had been considered a treatise. Her affectionately teasing manner and her candour were in equal measure liberating and exhilarating. He wondered if she had ever in her life knowingly spoken a falsehood or expressed a sentiment untrue to her heart.
“The letter you wrote me after your first proposal taught me that I had misjudged you, but I did not begin to understand you until I saw Pemberley. My aunt had said that Mrs. Reynolds gave you a flaming character, but in truth, she illuminated my continued misapprehensions, Pemberley did as well. When I came here on that summer day I reflected for the first time on all the good and evil it was in your power to do, of all who depended upon your good judgement and liberality. Now I am your wife and I begin to truly appreciate all that Pemberley is beyond the fine house and grounds, I feel it so keenly, how mistakenly I judged you. I had thought you just a proud, idle, selfish man. How prejudiced against you I was. How determined to see nothing of good in your manner or your principles.”
“We both recollect, I am sure, how difficult I made it for you to judge me more kindly.”
“True enough,” she replied, gazing at him with a determined, probing inquiry.
“Why do you look at me so, Eliza?”
“As I have been standing at this window I have been reflecting upon many things. My life has been so modest and almost entirely untroubled. You have seen what my life has been; you comprehend what my family is. There remains so much I do not know of what your life has been. You rarely speak of it. What was it like to be a small boy, an only child in so vast a house? Was it lonely? How did you become just as you are, Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
He lifted his hand and gently caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. Her skin was so soft, smooth as silk, and he found it a disarming, sensuous delight to feel it under his touch. “I care not to expound upon the past when you are in my arms.”
Elizabeth was troubled afresh by his reticence. He was every day more unguarded in his affections, declared himself with such warmth, but there was so much of which he never spoke with any clarity or length, offering only superficial explanations and vague descriptions. “Darling,” she replied in protestation, for she wished simply to know him better. “What has your life been?”
Unconsciously she lifted her hand as she spoke and ran her fingers softly through the hair at the nape of his neck. It was but a small, gentle touch, but there had been something in her manner since he entered the room which had been so alluring that the simple gesture exhilarated him to the quick and sent a flood of desire coursing through him. He pulled her closer and held her fast in his arms, warmly, demandingly. “Eliza, you captivating, wonderful creature,” he declared quietly. “Your smallest touch delights me, thrills me. What does it matter what my life has been? What it is now is all that concerns me. I care only for this moment, for this enchanting woman I hold in my arms. Be mine, Eliza; come upstairs and let me love you.”
He stilled the moment he spoke the words, for Mr. Darcy was not wont to allow his passions to run away with him. He had done that but once—driven to it by desire for the same woman he now held so closely to his heart—and the results had been exactly contrary to his wishes. Whilst it was incontrovertible that in the soft glow of candlelight they loved with unabashed ardour, he had never loved her in the clear light of the afternoon sun. She was so warm and charming and delightful at this moment, so soft and yielding in his arms, so intoxicatingly vibrant that passion would once again command his regulation.
When he had been a young man he had resolved, for reasons not strictly moral, to remain chaste, to lay with no woman who was not his wife. He was no prude, had not been a cold, unfeeling young man and the resolution had been at times difficult to maintain. Indeed, he had gone with his cousin Edward to the establishment of Madame Lévesque with every intention of abandoning his personal vow. Edward had bade him most persuasively. “There are no complications at Madame Lévesque’s and a gentleman may enjoy himself with complete impunity and discretion.” And yet, the peculiar atmosphere of circumspect hedonism had immediately repulsed him. When he had been so blithely presented une fille fraîche, sans tache, vierge as though being offered no more than a glass of wine or a finely prepared partridge, his native moral rectitude instructed his actions and he abandoned the establishment, his vow intact, feeling equal parts disgust and mortification.
Now he was married to a woman he loved deeply and desired intensely, he felt himself insatiable. Her every touch, her every impertinent pronouncement, her every warm smile seemed to rouse his desire. Though he had most fortuitously found in her a passion in glad answer to his own, he had not abandoned his restraint altogether. Yet from the very moment he had walked into the room earlier and she had turned to him with that inexplicable vitality flowing from her and she had run her hands up his back so provocatively, he had wanted only to take her immediately to their bed, to indulge in all the rightful pleasures of wedded love.
“At this very moment?” she returned, quietly, her heart all at once racing.
He searched her face. There was no hesitancy therein, only the warmest of affections, and answering desire. “There has been no false modesty between us; I will not begin it now. I wish to take you to our bed at this very moment to enjoy your sweet, unabashed embraces, if you will.”
Colour rose to warm Elizabeth’s cheeks, but she neither turned away nor demurred. When they had married she had certainly not anticipated that the intimacies of the marriage bed would prove unwelcome, but she had been surprised by the keenness of the pleasure, by the stirring nearness, by the intensity of the passion they had together discovered.
“I will,” she affirmed.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Such, to her mind, peculiar gravity could only be answered with an ample, mischievous smile. “Pray, do explain, my darling husband, how is it possible that when I first made your acquaintance I found nothing you did or said charming, and now I find everything you say or do entirely so?”
She had spoken teasingly, playfully, but his answer was earnest. “Then you did not like me; fortunate man that I am, now you love me as I have long loved you, body and soul.”
“Oh, I do,” she whispered, suddenly all atremble in his embrace. “I do.”
When later that afternoon they were sitting in the parlor having tea, Georgiana could not decipher her brother’s mood. He was resolutely silent, but he had an air of complete and utter satisfaction. “You are unusually quiet, brother. Is anything amiss?”
“Oh, do not be alarmed, Georgiana,” Elizabeth replied on her husband’s behalf. “Your brother is surely very pleased with himself at the moment for some hijinks or other he has accomplished this afternoon and you know when he is very pleased with himself he enjoys simply sitting quietly indulging the satisfaction.” Elizabeth turned towards Darcy as she spoke; her eyes were alight with mirth. He chuckled quietly in response.
Georgiana listened to the remark with confusion. She had never heard her brother addressed with such sport and lightness as she so often heard Elizabeth addressing him. She would have been ala
rmed if not for the happy expression upon his mien. Indeed, they looked at one another with such an evident delight she felt a trespasser upon their intimacy. She blushed for she had not yet learnt to observe the affection between them with entire composure. Certainly their manner was in all ways proper and modest before her, and yet the warmth between them illuminated for her a new manner of being. She did not have examples amongst her family and small circle of acquaintances of such an easy, affectionate manner. This was something Elizabeth had brought to them, and Georgiana began to comprehend it was something to wish for, was no small part of her brother’s love for his wife.
“Georgiana, do not concern yourself with my wife’s teasing,” Darcy commanded. “Will you not play for us? I am in a very fine humor, and a little music would suit me exactly.”
Georgiana was not a young lady who ever gainsaid her brother; she made her way directly to the instrument. As she looked through her music to select what to play for him, she observed as he patted the space next to him on the settee. Elizabeth immediately rose and went to sit at his side. He took Elizabeth’s hand into his own, kissed it and without releasing it brought their hands to rest between them, ready to listen to her play. Georgiana’s young heart filled with gratitude towards Elizabeth for the happiness she had so manifestly brought her brother.
She chose a Mozart sonata. It was a difficult piece she struggled with, but she thought the first movement in particular would suit her brother’s mood and she wanted nothing more than to contribute to his present happiness.
Chapter 10
A Pledge
It was a cold, crisp morning and Elizabeth sat in her sitting room composing a letter to her sister Jane. The following day would bring the arrival of the Gardiners and their children for a stay of a fortnight and Elizabeth was filled with happy anticipation of the amiable family party that would form her first Christmas season as a wife. Only Jane herself could have been more welcomed. With the Gardiners there was not only a natural affinity of temperaments, but there was the added sentiment of gratitude for having brought her into Derbyshire the past summer, without which visit she would not have her present good fortune.
To Teach the Admiring Multitude Page 8
