Do You Love Me

by Laura Moretti

  “You have only to be concerned with your own welfare – and mine, I suppose. Whereas before you were responsible for so many souls.”

  “Yes.”

  His wife sat up and he studied her for a moment – her brown hair escaping the confines of her nightcap, the faltering light of the candle playing on her skin.

  “These are not unpleasant thoughts. But still – you seem troubled?”

  “Ah, but there comes the complexity of the human soul, Elizabeth. Because when I take pleasure in a new endeavor – or appreciate a happy turn of events, here, with you – I feel that horrible guilt again. How dare I enjoy anything, after such a failure? After selling the family estate? Lord Harden, in my situation, put a bullet in his head… And he was not the only one. I do not tend that way, of course – I do not feel the slightest inclination to end my life – but – should I? Ought I feel more wretched?”

  “Yes, suicide is obviously the best way to rebuild the Darcy family’s fortunes,” Elizabeth said wryly.

  He gave a short laugh. “An excellent point.”

  “But…” She studied him with concern. “Have you really considered it? I thought you were happy.”

  “I am,” he answered, without thinking.

  Strange how something could be a lie and a truth altogether. There were moments where everything felt so right – when she was sleeping in his arms, when they shared a laugh at breakfast and she gave him that smile he thought she kept just for him. When they talked – when he made money – she seemed so proud – like it was important. Yes, on those occasions he believed that everything was right with the word – his heart soaring – before he remembered that it was all a façade, that he had lost everything and that his wife did not really love him.

  “Our children’s children,” Elizabeth whispered, after a while. “When they learn of the family history, they will not think of you as the man responsible for the loss of Pemberley. They will not have known Pemberley – to be blunt, they will not care. What they will see is the man who could have given up in the midst of a terrible crisis – but who did not – the one who made difficult decisions, held forth, and started it all again.”

  “That is a very encouraging perspective on the whole matter,” Darcy commented, with some amusement, “and you certainly play the role of the comforting wife very efficiently.”

  “I aim to please.”

  It was said laughingly, of course, but those words cut him deep. Was that what she was doing in this marriage that he had more or less imposed on her?

  It was not that Elizabeth had to accept his proposal after her return to Pemberley – a return that he had asked of her – although – Mrs. Reynolds had certainly made clear her thoughts on the situation. Still Darcy knew Elizabeth would never have married him without respect or affection – after all they had gone through together, there was certainly a strong camaraderie, a feeling of kinship on her part – and he provided protection and financial security, of course.

  But he could not forget her previous reluctance, or the fear in her eyes when he had climbed the stairs to see her, the morning after his proposal.

  She seemed happy with him though – she was happy, he was sure of it – she was not one to pretend – but then she had a happy character.

  That was why he could not speak of the depth of his feelings for her. He could not willingly manufacture a situation where she had to lie.

  He imagined her, forced to profess some sort of love in return for his romantic overtures – made to dissemble – how awful it would be, to see the fire in her gaze dim with awkwardness and embarrassment – to make some declaration of passion to have it insincerely, uncomfortably returned – or even worse, not returned at all?

  “You had so much worry in your life, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth suddenly said in the dark, surprising him – he thought she had fallen asleep. “I know that losing your family’s estate was a nightmare coming true. But the way I see it… There was this high wave of darkness, engulfing the country. It is receding now… and look – here we are, on the shore, miraculously unscathed. There has been pain and fear and death, but somehow, yes, miraculously, it hardly touched us. And you and me now – we have a home, and hope… and some money,” she added with a light laugh, before adding more seriously. “It could have been so much worse.”

  There was a silence, before she continued, “Sometimes I close my eyes, and I cannot believe we have made it this far.” She rose to a sitting position again, and kissed him with great tenderness – he was taken by surprise, and certainly not displeased. “I know it is in your character,” she whispered gently, “but… Please, do not see shadows where there are none.”

  He thought about her words all night.

  ∞∞∞

  The situation resolved itself after Darcy’s stay in London.

  He left for three weeks, for what could not be called anything else than a business trip. Lady Catherine De Bourgh, his Matlock uncle and cousins would have been horrified by such an appellation, Darcy thought with dark amusement. But Lady Catherine was dead, Rosings had been sold in so many pieces and Anne had been shipped off to an elderly cousin with what was left of the money.

  And London… London was vibrating with energy. The world had changed, again, Darcy thought, riding in the noisy streets in direction of the Gardiner’s house.

  People were throwing themselves in work – expanding novel commercial routes, trying unknown techniques. The continent had found a certain sort of peace – after the Napoleonic wars and what some people said amounted to more than five million dead, everywhere now humans wanted to build, to eat, to create – to live life to the fullest. England was humming; new ships with new flags arrived from new and distant shores bringing unheard merchandise and businesses; it was, in a way, exhilarating – and he was part of it, Darcy thought, leading his horse through the crowds, studying the new stores, the new facades – the new faces. He was part of that wave, of that time, the future wide and open in front of him – when he arrived at the Gardiners’ door, he breathed in deeply – the experience was not that pleasant, London air being as polluted as it ever was…

  … But it did not matter, because but for the first time in years, he felt free.

  ∞∞∞

  Darcy went to see Bingley, who had lost a big part of his fortune, but not all – and who of course felt as optimistic as ever in his chances to regain the rest. Amelia had not changed either. Before visiting, Darcy had the cynical thought that Mrs. Bingley’s love for her husband might have diminished at the same rate his riches melted, but such was not the case. Amelia seemed as fond of her spouse as ever, and as eager to mingle with “good society” – the fact that the definition of “good society” was rapidly changing did not seem to bother her – or maybe the changes were paradoxically too deep for her to realize their extent.

  ∞∞∞

  Darcy’s business finally concluded to everyone satisfaction, and more. Mr. Gardiner’s advice and hospitality had been invaluable, but the new investments in Montréal had been Darcy’s idea, and they were doing very well – so well in fact that Darcy would come home telling Elizabeth that their fortunes had changed significantly for the better.

  They would not make any alteration to their lifestyle, not yet – but they would be safer than they had been since their union, and if things steadily continued to improve at that rate, they could even consider, in a few years, getting a fashionable apartment in London and reenter society – whatever society would look like then. New families, new customs – to be honest he did not care that much – five weeks was a long time away from Elizabeth – he only wanted to return.

  It was at this point that the coach was attacked.

  ∞∞∞

  Ironic, really. Nothing had happened to Darcy a year ago, at the height of violence and insecurity, even with drunk, hostile soldiers on his land. But now that the roads were getting safe again, that security was slowly but indisputably reestablished – that is when it ha
ppened – certainly the divinities of fate must be bored, and amuse themselves as they could.

  Darcy had been traveling for five days – it was cold outside – very cold – have you ever experimented Scottish nights with a biting wind, dear reader? Darcy stopped in Irvine, where he paid a quick visit to an old friend.

  The town was not far from the seaside, roughly forty miles from home; brigands had been spotted on the northern road, so once his visit was over, Darcy gave up his rented horse and chose to travel in a mail coach for the last part of the trip. Safety in numbers, they said – although the innkeeper swore there was no danger, and that the militia was hunting the ruffians in the woods.

  It was a cloudy night. Darcy tried to doze off on the uncomfortable seat – the coach was not too crowded, and most of the passengers were already sleeping. In a few hours he would be in Glasgow. He imagined people huddled in their warm house, around the crackling fires – hearty soups simmering in kitchens – she was waiting for him – with some impatience he hoped – and the first shots rang out.

  Near Darcy, an elderly lady muffled a scream. The carriage came to a halt – the driver was arguing with men outside, “Out, everybody!” a harsh voice ordered. “No panic, good men and ladies! We just want the money and val’ables!” another one said – it could have ended there, everybody relieved of a few pounds, but richer of a story to tell – alas there was a hot head among the travelers. A young man jumped outside with a pistol – he discharged it – everything was just screams and blood after that.

  Later, the course of the events was difficult to recreate. There were eight attackers – the young hero did not successfully hurt even one of them, his pistol exploded in his hand – one of the men stabbed him in the throat. The driver thought that would be a really good opportunity to flee, so he whipped the horses – but most of the passengers were already out – there was an order to shoot – and then who knows how it happened, but somehow they were all in the forest, running. Darcy found himself protecting three women – the older lady, and a younger one with her daughter. He led them atop a stony hill and found a hiding place near a large rock and between two old, withered oaks.

  Soon their little group was joined by two other travelers, a thirteen-year old boy who had ridden outside the carriage, and an older merchant with whom Darcy had exchanged a few words during the trip. The danger was over, Darcy thought. There was no real reason for the brigands to look for them, especially as there had already been bloodshed – surely the ruffians were scared and scattered by now. So he told his fellow fugitives he would walk back to Irvine, and return with the militia, but it happened that the boy had a cousin living in a nearby village; he knew a shortcut, and volunteered to go.

  Darcy was armed. He had made a habit of carrying his pistol since that day near the beach, with Elizabeth and Georgiana. “I will protect you,” he assured his fellow travelers.

  It was a promise that soon became difficult to keep – it happened that there actually was a reason for the brigands to look for them. The young woman with the child had been huddling a heavy leather bag that whatever the danger, she seemed unwilling to leave behind – and it soon became apparent that there was a very considerable sum in it. She was a shopkeeper’s wife and for some irrational reason, had thought of transporting some of their precious earnings that way instead of using a banknote. But then, a lot of banks had failed recently, so maybe that was the explanation for her fear – anyway, some treason had been at work, because that bag, and that money, were clearly the target of the ruffians’ attack.

  And now they were looking for it.

  It was a long night. The sea was not far. They could hear the low sounds of the waves crashing on the cliffs – the muffled calls of the bandits searching the woods. Darcy had all the time in the world to think, and to realize how much of a fool he had been – maybe he was going to perish there, at the side of strangers, and his wife would never know how much he loved her. He thought he had been protecting her, but maybe it was his damn pride at work again – he just did not want to feel at her mercy – more than he already was.

  “We have a home and hope,” she had whispered in the night; they had so many brushes with peril, and, as she said, escaped it all – his misgivings seemed so ludicrous now. At least, if he were to die, he was leaving Elizabeth in a good situation. Georgiana was safe too, he had held his sister in his arms while he was in town, and…

  These thoughts were interrupted. The brigands’ voices were getting closer.

  The travelers discussed, in hurried whispers, the possibility of changing hiding places, but moving was risky too – and the boy could come back anytime with the militia. No, they would stay, they decided – wrongly, because a few minutes later the brigands were on them.

  Only four of them, fortunately. Darcy shot first, hoping to scare them away – the rest of the skirmish was lost in the night – he knew he had touched one – he struggled to reload his pistol in the dark – there were calls and new voices in the trees – the militia – more shots – shadows moving, screams – the merchant fell and called to Darcy to take his knife – Darcy grabbed it and struck blindly.

  ∞∞∞

  Elizabeth was aghast when she received the news.

  Most of the brigands had been apprehended, and three of them had managed to flee. Darcy had to stay a few days in Irvine, for the inquest – the merchant was dead, so were two of the attackers. In his letter, Darcy, she thought, had understated the incident – and she could not but tremble as she considered the peril he had survived.

  She was tired, too. Mr. Evans was out of town while Mrs. Evans was in the family way – in fact she was reaching the end of her confinement – it was not going well. There was pain and blood. Elizabeth’s friend was terrified – rightfully so, because the rate of mothers’ deaths in those circumstances was extremely high – they all knew it, but nobody really discussed it, not in polite society at least. The terrible danger of childbirth was one of the dark secrets looming under civilization’s veneer, only pierced sometimes by a dreadful story, whispered in ladies’ parlors – a tale of screams, fever, and interminable agony.

  For days, Elizabeth had been spending most of her time next door – she held her friend’s hand, tried to comfort her, and felt simultaneously completely useless and absolutely indispensable. There was not much sleep to be had. So yes, when she received Darcy’s letter her hands began to shake and she had to bite back tears.

  To hell with his game, she thought. To hell with his “not one word of love” nonsense… No, those were not ladylike thoughts, but when your friend is screaming in pain and there is nothing you can do, and you receive a missive stating that you very nearly lost everything, you are not ladylike in the confines of your own mind – yes, to blazes with Darcy’s little game of not saying what they felt – Elizabeth took the nearest paper and a pen,

  “My dearest husband,” she wrote, then expressed, without thinking, how worried she was, how much she had missed him, how much she just longed for him to be back. She signed her name, and put it in the tray for the post without a second thought – let him be angry, she thought, she did not care – to be honest she did not feel he would be really irritated – he would just ignore it maybe – well, that would not stop her, she was done with that senseless pretense.

  Life was too brief – then she returned to Mrs. Evans – the baby was coming, this time. The midwife was present, and grim.

  ∞∞∞

  Darcy’s hands were unsteady too when he tried to answer, on the narrow table of his dark room at the inn.

  “My dearest wife,” he wrote. He stopped – he was so nervous – since he read Elizabeth’s letter he was in a strange state, as if he was drunk – as if nothing was real – he felt almost sick. He crossed out his words – he wrote them again – he had to force himself not to cross out the sentence a second time – he was at loss as to what write next – months of restraining himself – years maybe! Every sentence would feel false,
even the truest sentiment. He would only open himself to mockery – she would laugh at him… Of course she would not, he reasoned, taking his head in his hands – those fears were irrational, mad, unworthy of either one of them – he finally wrote “I long to be in your arms,” but that was too much – he crumpled the paper and threw it into the fire – to instantly regret it.

  Fortunately for his sanity there was a knock on the door and he learnt that he was free to leave. The matter seemed entirely settled – so he did send a letter to Elizabeth, telling him, in one hurried sentence, that he was on his way.

  ∞∞∞

  He arrived when the evening was very advanced and the moon was high, finding only the servants in the house. A note was waiting for him, from Elizabeth, explaining the situation with Mrs. Evans. It should be resolved quickly, she wrote, one way or another – Mr. Evans had returned with his wife’s sister, and Elizabeth expected to be home soon – in fact she returned less than an hour after his own arrival.

  She had not slept for two nights – exhaustion was not strong enough a term. The baby had been born, a girl, very small, she had stopped breathing just after the birth, but the midwife’s ministrations had saved her. Mrs. Evans was alive – it was a miracle, again, and the doctor was cautiously optimistic – there was blood all over Elizabeth’s blue dress, but when she heard that Darcy had returned she did not even change – there were no fresh clothes for her in the Evans’ home anyway – she simply went home, hastily crossing both gardens in the night, walking as fast as she could, taken by a strange anxiety, almost a fever, to see him.