Mr Darcy's Second Chance

by Gillian Smith

  "For me?" she asked. She smiled and sat, setting Jane on her lap. "How do you feel? Better?"

  "I feel less bad." He answered. A headache came back, and they had to stay another day in Keighley. It was very frustrating because they could have been already in Pemberley if not his illness.

  "Good."

  "No, not good. Just less bad."

  She furrowed her forehead not quite understanding that. He grinned and reached for her hand. He propped his boots up on a wooden stool and let their entwined fingers rest on his thigh, enjoying the light wind on his face, coming trough the open window. It was definitely less bad.

  *~~*~~*

  It seemed odd to say he hadn't talked with a woman in eleven years but he almost hadn't. Not really talked. He had exchanged pieces of information, he had filled a silence, and he had talked to but he had seldom talked with a woman.

  He and Anne used to talk about everything. When they were five, they'd snuck up to the hayloft, stripped naked and discussed the difference between Methodists and Presbyterians. When they were nine, they'd sat on the limb of the maple tree in his courtyard and agreed to kiss each other, just to see what all the fuss was about. Not much, they concluded at the time, later to improve their opinion. At eleven, she'd persuaded him not to run away and join the circus, pointing out that he'd miss dinner. And when they were fifteen, they'd been bent over their books in Darcy's library, studying, when he'd suddenly asked Anne if she loved him. "How could I not?" she'd replied calmly and returned to her Latin verbs without batting an eye.

  Everything changed after their child came to the world. Anne was ill so long and she never really recovered. The poison which infected her body infected also her mind.

  There was nothing remarkable about the story of Elizabeth's life except that it was hers and that he wanted to hear it. She didn't discuss Mr. Daniels, but he didn't expect her to. It was her memories of her childhood, of her family, four sisters, sarcastic father, and hysterical mother. That interested him the most and kept them talking late into the night.

  As the hours passed, shoes were discarded and top buttons loosened until they were as comfortable as two people could be and still be decent.

  "So did you get caught?" he asked, leaning back on the sofa and crossing his long legs casually at the ankle. "Throwing rotten apples?"

  "No. Kitty did, but she was too ashamed to admit her apples had hit no one and mine had. It caught our neighbour right in the back of his head and I ducked back behind the tree, so when he turned around, all he saw was Kitty standing in the orchard with apples in her hands. I admitted it was me eventually but Kitty wanted to take the blame on herself knowing that my mother would punish me for it. And because my parents couldn't determinate whose apple hit sir Williams, my father dropped it. But I think he suspected it was me though." She smiled sadly, looking past him and into distant memory. "That does not seem like so long ago."

  "You loved your family very much. Why did you reject my offer to take you to them? They would be happy to see their new nice and granddaughter."

  "No," she answered quickly. "They would not. They all were certain I was making a mistake agreeing to marry Mr. Daniels. My father was disappointed with me and my mother got angry because she wished for her youngest daughter to get married first. It didn't matter that she was too young."

  "But they are still your family and love you and what if-"

  "No," she interrupted him. "We have to live with what is, not what if."

  She said we instead of I. Did she mean him too? His arm was resting on the top of the sofa and he rubbed his fingertips over the rich upholstery as he worried his lips, choosing his words carefully.

  "Is that what you think I do?" he finally asked, careful not to let anger creep into his voice. "That I refuse to admit that what has happened cannot be changed? That I run from the responsibilities, from the presents, still thinking what if I could save my son? What if I could help Anne? What if I could be a better brother for Georgiana?"

  She turned to him surprised by his words and put her hand over his. "That is not-"

  "Don't you think I know that I failed? I know," he said, rage boiling dangerously inside him. "I know it but it isn't that simple."

  "I know-"

  "No, you don't know. He was my son, Elizabeth - my baby boy. I raised him and nothing was more important than he was. I always told him that. But he died because I failed as a parent and as a husband who didn't want to admit that his wife needed help. I failed her. And I failed Georgie. She is like a daughter to me. I raised her as such. She trusted me when I said to her Anne will be fine. But I fell asleep and now Anne is dead. And my unborn daughter. Georgie's nice. Everything will be all right. It won't be all right, Elizabeth. My only son is gone. My father, my mother, my wife, and my baby are all dead. And the last person who has left, hate me. It will never, ever be all right ever again. Don't tell me you know, Elizabeth, because you do not understand."

  Suddenly, there was silence, and he swallowed angrily, clenching and releasing his teeth and embarrassed at himself.

  "You are correct, Mr. Darcy, I cannot know how it feels to lose a child," she said evenly. "But I know how it feels to lose everyone else."

  He leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers and keeping his eyes jammed shut until the urge to cry passed. He'd already raised his voice. The last thing he intended to do was sob in front of her.

  "Forgive me," he muttered eventually. "You didn't deserve that."

  "I did not mean to upset you. I only meant-" She trailed off, rubbing her hand over his back as she tried to smooth out the pain.

  "I know what you meant." He swallowed again, turning his head to look at her. He smirked unenthusiastically. "Aren't I just a laugh a minute? Say the word and I can arrange an annulment."

  She put her hand on his cheek, stroking her thumb over his skin. "Please don't do that. Don't pull away. I see you hurting and I am not sure how to help. You have been so kind to me-"

  "Snapping at you. Yes, very kind," he interrupted.

  "And to my daughter," she continued, smoothing his curly hair back from his temple. "You are so lonely. When I ask if you are all right, you seem surprised, as though no one has asked you that in a very long time. You are so eager to be cared for. Eager to be loved."

  Caught off-guard, he wet his lips and asked, "Do you love me? No, never mind," he amended quickly. "With all, that's happened in the last week, what an awful question. Never mind."

  Her hand left his face and smoothed her blue skirt anxiously. "I-I don't know what I feel right now. I know I am not Anne-"

  "I don't expect you to be Anne. I don't, Elizabeth," he said earnestly.

  "I do care that you are hurting. I would like-" She stopped, sliding her lower lip between her teeth. "I would like to lessen that if I can."

  He was still slouched forward on the sofa, elbows on his knees, with his head turned toward her. "Do you? Do you love me?"

  "I will," she answered softly.

  "You will what?" he asked, not understanding.

  "I will love you."

  "I will let you."

  To his surprise, Elizabeth stood and with deliberate care unfastened the buttons on the front of her dress, watching her fingers instead of him. One button hole was tight and she worked at it vigorously until she got it undone. She pushed the fabric back from her shoulders, down over her hips and draped the dress over the opposite end of the sofa and undid the waist of her petticoat.

  "Elizabeth," he whispered, almost thoughtfully, "I think we were talking about two different kinds of love."

  She paused, looking self-conscious. "Should I stop?"

  "Under no circumstances," he responded in the same soft voice. She let the flounced petticoat fall to the floor so a pile of white material. He should step out and let her undress privately but he was fascinated. Except for stumbling onto Elizabeth in her bedroom that night at Daniel's estate, he'd never seen a woman undressing. Undressed,
yes, but not undressing and propriety be damned - he wasn't about to leave or look away unless she told him to. Normally, there would be more layers, a corset cover, or a few more petticoats, and pantalets and he was sorry there weren't since that meant he couldn't watch her take them off.

  Staring at her like a hungry wolf must have been embarrassing because her fingers only produced more knots in the laces of her whalebone corset.

  "Let me," he finally offered. "Do I just untie it?" he asked. She nodded and turned around, letting him work the tight laces loose until she could slip off the stiff, bonded fabric. "You don't have to do this," he reminded her. "I won't push you. The baby... the birth... Is it too soon?"

  "I do not think so but I have never had a baby before. Many women have a child every year, so it must be all right, I would think." She turned around, looking at him uncertainly, as though he might know.

  "Why don't we go slowly?" he suggested, standing up. "We can always stop. All right?"

  "All right," she whispered, letting him lead her toward the big bed.

  "You will tell me if you're scared, if I hurt you?"

  She nodded again, and he did too like they'd reached some binding contractual agreement.

  He stopped beside the bed, looking down at her, an unpleasant thought taking root where passion should have been. She would love him physically. She was his wife, and it was the correct thing to do. Elizabeth liked knowing and doing the right thing. He'd learned that about her already. Whether it was conjugating a verb or consummating a marriage, she liked to follow the rules. She would please him in bed, give him children, run his house, and meet his every need and he would never be sure if it was because she wanted to or because she was obligated.

  She paused, then exhaled and unfastened the buttons of his shirtfront. He let her strip it, leaving him bare-chested, watching her. He didn't move to touch or kiss her, and after a few seconds, she looked away, embarrassed and awkward.

  "Mr. Darcy, you can just say if this is not what you want. If you are still unwell. Or if I am doing something wrong. When you asked me to marry you and on the road that day, I thought… Please tell me what you want because I am confused."

  "Forgive me. I think I'm confused about what I want." He raised his hand, outlining her cheek with his fingertip. "I think that may be the problem."

  "Just tell me."

  He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her to sit facing him. "There is something I want to know. Something I want to ask you first."

  "What is it?"

  He took her hand, toying with it as he asked deliberately, "If there were no vows. No marriage. No potential of a baby. And no sin," he said, trying to get her potential objections. "And no consequences or expectations. If it was just us, a man and a woman, would you want this?"

  She was watching him intently for some clue how to proceed and he saw her blink in surprise.

  "Would you be with me only because you wanted to?" he asked, boiling his question down to a single sentence.

  "I, I-" she started uncertainly. "I do not know how to answer because that is not the case. We are married. We could have a child. Fornication is a sin. There are other factors."

  "But if there were no other factors, Elizabeth," he demanded.

  "But there are, Mr. Darcy," she insisted. "For a woman, regardless of what she wants, there are always other factors."

  "You told me that if Mr. Daniels was dead, you would not want to marry again."

  "I did say that. And you offered me some kind advice which I have tried to obey."

  "That advice was about…" He paused and looked at her firmly. "About choosing to follow a man worth following."

  Her voice softened, "Yes."

  "All right," he said after a moment, his tone matching hers. "You are correct. There are always other factors. You cannot answer me and I should never have asked you to."

  She took a slow breath, her breasts rising and falling underneath her white chemise. He smoothed his thumb across her palm. "Relax," he whispered. "We aren't off to the greatest start, are we?"

  "At marriage or at, at this? At your type of love?"

  "Yes," he replied and earned a dutiful smile.

  He kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger against the cool skin and leaned down resting his cheek against hers. She shifted closer and he felt her hand on his bare forearm. "It is a quest, you said. The beginning of an adventure," she whispered.

  He slid one hand across the fabric covering her back and then let his fingers caress her neck and slide through her silky hair. "I wonder what we'll discover?"

  She didn't respond verbally but her lips touched his jaw and made their way diagonally down his neck, each kiss sending sparks to his spine. He exhaled and closed his eyes.

  "I cannot separate the other things I feel, friendship, gratitude, duty, to say what I would want if I felt none of those things," she explained, her lips close to his ear, her breath making the tiny hairs stand at attention. "But, if I may consider them, to be close to my husband, to please him, to have another child, my answer would be yes, I think."

  He slid his lips along her jaw and to her mouth. As they kissed, he felt the last of the tension draining from his body as well as hers. Something built inside of him and instead of pulling back he just let the flow of it carry him along the way the tide carried a raft away from shore and out to sea.

  He laid her back on the bed, untying the ribbon at the neck of her chemise and watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. He touched her through the fabric, tracing the slope and peak of her breast. Slowly, he slipped the thin cloth aside and cupped her breast with his palm, letting his fingers mould to the yielding flesh. She inhaled, and he glanced up to make sure he wasn't hurting her. He had no experience with breasts serving a practical purpose.

  "Elizabeth?"

  "Fine," she murmured, pulling her shoulders back as he stroked her nipple. "It’s fine. The baby will need to eat soon," she added, explaining the drop of milk that appeared.

  He lowered his head, pressing his tongue flat against her nipple and then licking lightly rather than sucking. Elizabeth's breath caught again, and she shifted and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder as he switched breasts.

  "Nice. Soft. Sweet," he mumbled, running one hand down her hip and then back up her thigh. His fingers whispered against her skin, tracing invisible electric paths. She raised her hips so he could push her chemise up, being a perfectly compliant bedmate. Nightgowns generally went up, not off, preserving modesty but she pulled hers over her head, leaving her body bare before him. Blankets covered her from the waist down and only his hands and mouth and chest covered her from the waist up. Several candles were lit, so he could see her clearly. She didn't ask him to get up and blow them off.

  "Fine?" he whispered, pausing, his face over hers.

  "Fine," she answered softly.

  "Elizabeth, I can count on one hand the number of women I've ever kissed," he admitted quietly. "I married Anne when I was seventeen. There has been no one since. Not really. And Anne was - she differed greatly from you."

  "Am I doing something wrong?"

  "No. Not a thing. Close your eyes. Try to relax," he told her, trailing his hand slowly down her stomach and under the covers. "I don't want to distress you but I don't want to hurt you, either. If this isn't all right, just say."

  She didn't say, so his fingers drifted downward, through the soft patch of hair and to the delicate skin beneath. "Spread your legs," he whispered huskily, and she did, turning her head to the side and clutching a handful of the blanket in her fist. Her breathing changed as he touched her, stroking lightly. "It's all good," he assured her, watching as she gritted her teeth, keeping her eyes tightly closed. Her mouth moved, making silent vowel sounds and her thighs trembled. He explored with one finger, then two, and heard her gasp.

  "Hurt?"

  "No," she said, her breaths coming a little quicker. "I will tell you if it hurts."

  Not completely conv
inced, he stopped, and she opened her eyes, caressing his face.

  "Like this, or turn over?" she asked.

  He stared at her, taking a few seconds to figure out what she proposed. Did he want her on her back or on her hands and knees? It wasn't a choice he'd been offered before.

  "Like this. You do aim to please," he commented as she shifted under him, positioning herself and putting her hands above her head. "I'm not holding you down. You need not be still, Elizabeth."

  She lowered her arms, stroking his shoulders and raising her mouth to his earlobe, which he'd never realised had so many nerve endings.

  "Well, please try to be reasonably still," he amended, feeling a little tipsy. "Somewhere between playing dead and having an epileptic fit."

  To his surprise, she laughed, and so did he.

  Chapter 4

  “Such is the inconsistency of real love,

  That it is always awake to suspicion,

  However unreasonable;

  Always requiring new assurances

  From the object of its interest.”

  - Ann Radcliffe

  It was nearly dusk when they finally arrived at Pemberley. In the white glow of the fool moon, Darcy helped Elizabeth, who was holding the baby, out of the carriage.

  He turned around and paused in front of the huge main door, a feeling of dread covering him. Sometimes travelling was much easier than arriving. Going had an optimistic, purposeful feel to it, whereas being required facing reality.

  When he opened the door, the house would be empty. Edward would not come running to greet him. He would not find Anne at her knitting, nor would he discover his sister at the pianoforte. That chapter of his life had ended and when he opened the front door, the page would turn and a new chapter would begin.

  Elizabeth waited, holding the sleeping Jane against her shoulder, watching him.