*~~*~~*
Elizabeth was waiting in the morning parlour for everyone returning from the cemetery. Georgiana stayed all they in her rooms, Jane was asleep in the nursery, so it was just Elizabeth in the big, empty room.
He hung his black coat on the rack, tossed his black hat on top ignoring the water that dripped off and collected in a half-moon on the floor. The rain had seeped into Darcy's boots, down his collar, and under his cuffs, making him feel like a cold, damp sheep. There was nothing more miserable than a funeral in the winter rain, but at least it wasn't as perverse as a funeral on a beautiful summer afternoon with birds singing and flowers blooming. If he could bury Anne in the sunshine, he could bury her mother in a downpour.
He let his suit coat fall from his shoulders and draped it over the bannister, not bothering to pick it up when it slipped off and crumpled to the floor. When Elizabeth came to greet him, he offered her his arm, and they climbed the steep staircase.
"How is Georgiana?" he asked.
"Upset. She didn't leave her rooms all day."
"She has lost so many people. Mother and father she never known. Ed, Anne and now aunt who raised her like her own daughter..."
"Your mother and father, your wife, your son, and your aunt," Elizabeth interrupted quietly, though he'd run out of things to say. "How are you?" she asked as they reached their chamber. It was mid-afternoon, an odd time to go to bed, but they couldn't think of anywhere else to go. "And I do not want to hear you say fine."
"I am…" he paused, trying to put it in words. "I am better than I should be. My father would say I am being strong for Georgiana, being a man, but I just don't feel- My aunt is dead. Anne's mother. I know I should feel more but I just don't. If anything, I feel frightened that I don't feel more. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I have been better than I should be." She helped him unbutton his shirt, stopping to examine the black armband on his sleeve. "This is pinned. Why is it pinned on instead of sewn? It will stick you."
"Everyone was busy. Lillian's upset. I didn't want to bother you," he explained, unbuttoning his cuffs and collar, stripping off the damp shirt, and starting on his breeches.
"Where is your undershirt? You are soaked to the skin. Why have you been standing in the rain without an undershirt?"
"I forgot," he lied, his teeth chattering. The goosebumps covered his chest, making the coarse hair stiffen and his nipples harden.
"Now you are shivering. I want you under the covers."
"I like a woman who knows what she wants," he responded, trying to muster the energy to sound sarcastic. She smiled. He told his brain to smile back, but the message didn't make it to his face.
"Stay with me?" he asked wearily, feeling like he was Atlas holding the world on his shoulders.
She nodded, brushing her lips over his chest as he sat on the edge of the bed. She laid cheek against him and he put his arms around his wife, holding her close, and exhaling for the first time in days. After a few seconds, her lashes brushed his skin as she opened her eyes, but didn't pull away.
He unfastened the back of her dress, then gathered it and her chemise and pulled them over her head. She had on slippers but she stepped out of them as he untied the waist of her petticoat, letting it fall to the floor.
She blushed and looked down, seeming awkward being undressed in front of him. The last time he'd seen her nude was the night he'd brought Georgiana home and there had been some changes, some expansions, since then.
He slid under the covers and held the blankets up as she joined him, moving slowly to accommodate her belly. Instead of rolling away so he could curl up to her back like he did as they slept, she faced him, stroking her fingertips over his cheekbones and looking at him sadly.
"I wish I could make this better for you, my love," she said softly.
"You can. You are."
Calmly, slowly, he moved his mouth to hers, blending their lips and then tongues. No sad eyes, polite words, and sympathetic expressions. No quiet sobs hid behind black-trimmed handkerchiefs. No formal processions, no wills, no estates, no condolences. There were only verbs. Love, lick, thrust, suck. Moan, murmur, embrace, surrender, worship.
Darcy kissed the bridge of her nose, the delicate velvet of her earlobes, her bottom lip, her eyelids, and the secret underside of her throat, feeling the ridges convulse as she swallowed.
He kissed the white skin of her upper arm where she was ticklish, the fragile dip in her collarbone, and the textured palm of her hand. Her hand curled against his cheek, fingertips trailing down the coarse shadow of stubble.
He kissed her breasts, which were swollen and sensitive, reacting to the slightest touch. He felt her fingers run over his scalp and grip his hair, holding him close. He kissed the arc of her belly and the backs of her knees, which were creased and lined with pale blue veins like rivers and valleys on a map. He kissed the insides of her thighs and her toes curled in anticipation, shifting restlessly against the sheets.
"I didn't know you were so beautiful," he murmured, finally feeling warm again. "How do I miss what's right under my nose?"
"You are generous. I think I am more under your chin," she answered gently, teasing.
"Rather have you under me," he said, then licked his lips, realising what he'd said and what he wanted. Needed. "Elizabeth, I shouldn't even ask…"
"It is fine, I think. I am just ungainly but I think we can."
"Humfrey won't mind?"
"He is asleep." She rolled to her hands and knees, arranged the pillow under her head and chest, and relaxed against it. "Rub my back?" she invited, shifting her legs apart.
He made a low sound in the back of his throat a blend of a growl and a sigh –which was universal to all males in any age or language. He started with her shoulders and rolled his thumbs down each side of her spine, kneading carefully. Over her bottom and slowly down the back of her thighs, to the tips of her toes and up again.
He leaned forward, so he covered her, supporting his weight on his hands and knees, wanting as much of his skin against hers as possible. Quicksand, he thought, watching his body disappearing into the depths of hers. He pushed a few strays strands of hair off her neck with his nose, then whispered in her ear, "I love you."
*~~*~~*
He woke alone in the big bed, curled into a ball on the centre of the mattress, arms clutching his chest. Elizabeth was gone, and the blankets had fallen to the floor, but the smell of their bodies together lingered on the rumpled sheets.
He scrambled up, pulled on the closest breeches and jogged down the steps two at a time. The dream he just had was still fresh in his memory, too fresh.
"Do you love me?" he demanded breathlessly, finding Elizabeth at the parlour. Jane was sitting on the floor, playing with the mixing bowls. "Do you?" he demanded. He ran his fingers through his wild hair. "Why did you marry me?"
"What is-"
"No, don't do that. Don't ask me what is wrong and don't soothe me. Do you love me?"
She put the book on the table.
"Of course I love you. Did you have a bad dream?"
"No, don't to that either. Don't answer out of duty. Don't say you do just because you're my wife or because I love you. Do you love me?"
"Yes, I love you."
"Are you telling the truth? Or are you just saying that because you think it's what you're supposed to say? If you didn't love me and I'd told you I loved you, would you answer you did or you didn't? You'd say you did, wouldn't you?"
She blinked and asked him to repeat the question.
"If you didn't love me and I wanted you to, and I loved you, and I was happy, would you tell me if you didn't love me and if you weren't happy?"
Elizabeth hesitated. "If I did not-"
"I knew it. You would not tell me."
She put her hands on the small of her back, massaging, and answered like he was trying her patience, "If I say I love you, you say I am lying. If I would say I did not love you… I do not think there is a right
answer."
"Do you love me?" he demanded again.
"Yes."
"See. I knew you would say that. Regardless of the truth, you would say you do."
She tilted her head to the side. "Then, am I supposed to say no?"
His empty stomach flip-flopped nervously. "You don't love me?"
"Oh, for God's sake, Mr. Darcy."
"For God's sake, what?" He huffed in displeasure. "You are just being difficult. Dif-fi-cult," he repeated, pronouncing each syllable. "Why did you marry me, then?"
"Because you asked me?" she suggested.
"Of course I asked you! I loved you! Did you expect me to just leave you in that mourning that faithless son-of-a-bitch?" He closed his mouth and looked around, wondering who'd just said that. "Why did that just happen, then? Upstairs? Why did you say yes? Good God, Elizabeth, in almost a year and a half, I don't think you've ever said no. You're eight months along and you still don't say no. Is that out of some misguided sense of duty? Because you think it's part of your job as my wife? Keep my house, have my children, warm my bed? Is that all you think I want?"
"I do not think you have any idea what you want."
He turned and stalked off angrily, reaching the front hall before he heard her call after him, "I cannot chase you, Fitzwilliam. Stop if you want me to catch up."
He stopped, hands on his hips. Her skirts swished slowly against the floor as she approached, walking around him so they faced each other.
"I married you because you were a good man and I wanted to go with you, wherever you were going."
"Well, now we've arrived, do you still want to be here?"
"Yes. I do."
He nodded thoughtfully as though considering that on several philosophical levels.
"I am such an idiot."
"You are a little dense sometimes, yes."
"All right then," he answered, following her back to the parlour where they left Jane alone.
"And I really love you, Mr. Darcy." She whispered to his ear when he leaned to their daughter.
*~~*~~*
Having been mistress of a small estate in Scotland for two years, Elizabeth was more than competent to handle Darcy's household but, of course, Darcy's household hadn't known that. She'd quickly had enough of "But that's not how Mrs. Darcy did it," which was code for "that's not how Mrs. Reynolds or Lillian do it." The seventh time Elizabeth had assigned a task and gotten that response, she'd stopped, turned, and icily informed the poor maid, "I am Mrs. Darcy."
And that, except for a constant stream of complaints from Lillian for the first year had been that.
So laundry was done on Thursday instead of Wednesday, and windows were washed on Monday morning instead of Friday afternoon since they were more likely to have guests during the week. Large purchases like the dressmaker or grocer were still charged to his accounts at the stores, but she instituted a ledger for household expenses. The silver chest gained a lock and the wine cellar became off-limits to the servants. Lillian had been furious at the implication she or her staff would steal but Darcy noticed he was spending much less on liquor, vegetables, and place settings.
Elizabeth had few friends. Even if she'd been accepted by polite society, she wasn't interested in spending her afternoons gossiping about who'd been seen with whom, and more importantly, what they'd been wearing. She liked science and literature and world events, topics seldom brought up at ladies' teas. He knew she was lonely, and Darcy told himself he tried to find time to spend with her, as much as he could.
The whole family was spending the afternoon at the library. He and Elizabeth read while Jane was toddling around, reaching for things she knew she wasn't supposed to touch, then looking to her father so he could tell her, "No-no, Jane."
"No-no, papa," Jane echoed, just checking, then moved on to the next item and continued the game.
Georgiana busied himself behind her sketch pad, scratching away. She had an artist's knack for drawing unobtrusively, for blending into the background. It wasn't until she took the pad off the easel and moved closer that Darcy realised Elizabeth was his sister's model, and several more seconds before she did.
"Oh, Georgie," she complained when she looked up. Over eight months along probably wasn't the way she wanted to be captured for posterity.
"Please be still, just for a moment," she requested, her hand crisscrossing the paper. It looked like random scribbling, but Darcy knew it wasn't. Every detail of the portrait was already in her head and she was just transferring it to paper. Suddenly, an image would appear, like an artist discovering human form hidden inside a block of cold marble.
Within a few minutes, she was finished, capturing Elizabeth in a series of stark black lines and smudges. The girl added a few finals marks, blurred an edge with her thumb, then thanked her and flipped to the next sheet and turned to Jane, one of her favourite subjects. She didn't hold still, but she didn't complain, either.
"Do we get to look at it?" Darcy asked, curious how his sister saw Elizabeth. She didn't capture a person so much as she captured the way she saw their soul.
Georgiana shook her head no, and no one pushed the issue.
"All right, I-" Elizabeth started and paused, putting her hand on her belly and inhaling.
"Are you all right?" Darcy asked, leaning toward her.
She nodded, slowly blowing out a breath. He glanced at the clock, checking the time, just in case. She'd had a few pains yesterday, but they were hours apart, and she said the baby was still too high to be coming soon. Despite what she insisted, he was sure the pains had something to do with them making love after the funeral last week.
"Elizabeth?" Georgiana asked, placing her sketchpad aside.
"It is all well." Seeing Georgie's face, she added, "The baby kicked. It surprised me. Do you want to feel?"
Miss Darcy hesitated, curious, but ill at ease. It wasn't something Anne would have encouraged or permitted. She looked to her brother, who nodded, urging her to go ahead. Instead of touching her, the girl just held out her hand like she expected to have it smacked. She took it, gently placed it on the side of Elizabeth's abdomen, and waited. The girl didn't move, but she looked everywhere except at her sister.
"No-no, papa?" Jane called from underneath his desk.
"No-no, Jane," he answered without shifting his gaze from the minor miracle occurring at the other end of the sofa.
"There. That is a kick," Elizabeth told her and Georgiana nodded and pulled her hand away, embarrassed.
"You're bigger. Then Anne," she said cautiously.
"I'm not sure that's what Elizabeth wants to hear right now, Georgie," Darcy interjected awkwardly. "This baby is closer to being born than… than the other."
Fifteen years old looked at Elizabeth as if she hadn't heard that, studying her with her blue eyes. "Do you know how she died?"
"Yes, your brother told me."
There was no response and Darcy thought the conversation was over. Two nods, five minutes, and a dozen words: that was a conversation with Georgiana.
"It's a sin," the girl finally added. "Lillian says she's in Hell."
"You cannot know that," Elizabeth answered calmly while Darcy was hesitating between shock and seething. "Only God can know the depths of her soul. Suicide, freely chosen, is a mortal sin but do you think she could choose? To understand what she was doing?"
Darcy squirmed uncomfortably. His wife was breaking both his cardinal rules. Say nothing that might upset Georgiana and don't mention Anne's illness.
"No," his sister answered after some consideration than just got up and left, leaving them to stare at the back of her head.
"I am going to fire her. No, kill her. I'm going to kill her," Darcy muttered under his breath. He was going to have a long, heated discussion with Lillian. "What was she thinking, telling her that? And you didn't help the matter."
"I answered what she asked."
"I would have answered her." Although Darcy had no idea what he would have said. He w
as the man. The head of his family. He should at least give the illusion of being in charge.
"She was not asking you."
That wasn't what Darcy had wished to hear. He saw Georgiana come out of her shell occasionally. As the months passed it happened more often, but it never happened with Darcy. With her brother, she was polite but as elusive as the fog. He wanted his Georgie, but he was realising he would not get that girl back. She was now talented, gentle, traumatised young woman who just resembled his sister.
Before a full-blown argument could kindle from Darcy's fear and dented pride, Georgiana reappeared.
"What about the baby?" She asked from the doorway, looking to Elizabeth for an answer. "Frances?"
"A child is an innocent," she responded. "Born or unborn, it is incapable of sin."
*~~*~~*
As always, Georgiana's bedroom door was closed, and she had to unlock it before she could answer her brother's soft knock.
"I was just looking in on you," Darcy said awkwardly. "I wanted to tell you goodnight."
"Goodnight." The girl answered politely. She kept one hand on the door, waiting to close it again.
"Georgie, I- I've cried too." Once that unmanly admission was out of his mouth, it was easier to add, "I've had nightmares. I still have them. About Anne, even about you. I've been afraid. The only man who's never afraid is a fool to realise what he has to lose. And a hero is just someone with nothing left to lose."
"Oh."
"I'm not ashamed of you for being either upset or crying. I've never been ashamed of you. You've always felt things more deeply than other people. That's a gift, not a weakness. I'm not what my father envisioned his son would be either, but he still loved me. He was still proud of me."
"I'm not what you envisioned?"
"Georgie, that's not what I meant. Our father had very high expectations… to..." He struggled for the right thing to say, trying to recover. "I love you, Georgie. You can't imagine how much. And I loved Anne. I still do. I was hiding in Elizabeth's estate for months because I was too afraid to come home. And I was hiding inside myself for months, just like you are, because I was too scared. I was scared to death to even let myself be afraid. It was safer to feel nothing, but you can't go through life like that."
Mr Darcy's Second Chance Page 14
