She shivered and felt cold despite the heat of the late afternoon. He placed his jacket about her shoulders, but she did not seem to notice and continued to tremble.
His fear for her mental state was threatening to overwhelm him, but he did not know how to deal with her withdrawal. Now, the physician was questioning him about Mrs. Darcy's obvious shock, but Darcy had no answer. Dr. Welles suggested he take her someplace calm and comforting. “She most probably needs sleep more than anything,” he advised.
Lizzy was in a daze. As long as she had Phillips to fixate on, the horror nipping at her consciousness was kept at bay. She was truly concerned for the footman, Phillips being a frequent companion since Darcy insisted the burliest footman in his employ guarded her whenever she ventured beyond Pemberley Manor. Nonetheless, honest solicitude notwithstanding, a small portion of her brain recognized what she was doing. She absolutely forbade her thoughts to stray beyond the man hurting behind the door. This willful regulation had carried her through the agonizing carriage ride and for the first thirty minutes at the hospital, but the discipline was slipping rapidly.
The periodic pains to her abdomen, which she knew on some level were ominous, continued. Her tailbone ached, feet throbbed, and legs hurt. The vision of her heart's existence with a gun pointed at his body repeatedly danced before her eyes. The images of sightless eyes staring in violent death with blood pooling refused to go away.
Primarily, though, it was him.
Victor.
His leering face. His insinuating words. His touch.
She hung her head, eyes closing in misery. She could still feel him, smell him, hear him. His blood and some other unmentionable bodily fluids stained her dress. Filthy, that is how she felt, but not from the mess all over her body.
She stared at her hands. Darcy had cleaned them thoroughly and tenderly, displaying his love through even that simple task. She had watched him in silence, the emptiness of her finger glaring at her accusingly. Then he had kissed her palms and started to say something, but she jerked away, leaving him standing by the basin in anxious perplexity.
She knew it was wrong. Foolish even. Yet she was plagued with the revolting sensations. She felt violated. He had touched her. Her skin crawled and goose pimples rose. The memory was repulsive and she bit her lip to prevent a whine from escaping. For the thousandth time, she shuddered, breathing deeply to avoid bursting into sobs, and wrenched her thoughts to Phillips.
Coherency was no longer an option. She walked in a cloud of pain and misery. Vaguely she heard voices: something about Phillips sleeping now and then about departing for the Sitwell mansion where she could bathe and rest. Darcy was there, naturally, lovingly guiding her to the carriage, but it was all a blur. Strangely, she noted that the carriage was immaculate. No evidence of Phillips's blood or the dirt from the ground. She remembered sitting here on the interminable ride into Staveley and staring with rapt interest at several leaves and pebbles which had fallen onto the seat and floor. Now they were gone and her mind experienced a leap of panic wondering what she would now focus her attention on.
She looked through a long tunnel with no light at the end. Weariness and physical discomfort ruled her, with perception distorted and sounds muted. Meaning was skewed, rationality altered. Someone was talking to her, but she could not recognize the voice. It was a man and now he held her hands, caressing gently with soft fingers and warm strength. It was pleasant but faintly disturbing as images flashed in her mind of hands touching her. Hands very different from these, rough and dirty with blunt fingers. Hands that took instead of giving. Hands that demanded and caressed with false intent. Hands that robbed her of something precious and vital to her heart and soul. Hands that stole her rings.
Her rings! She needed her rings! They were important to her, although she could not readily grasp why. And now here they were; golden glints of metal and sparkles of diamond and blue sapphire slipping over her knuckles. Large boned fingers that fluctuated from long and elegant to stubby and grimy touching her slender fingers and assaulting her precious rings.
“No!” she screamed, jerking away from the clawing hands of the thief and clutching her rings, the cool metal and hard gems digging into her palms. “You cannot take them! They are mine and I need them! No! No! No!”
“Elizabeth! Stop! Listen to me!” Darcy grabbed at her flailing arms but she screamed louder. Words now tumbled disjointedly from raving lips, her body nearly convulsing in a combined attempt to attack him and withdraw as far as possible. He had read somewhere that the cure for hysteria was to slap the person very hard, but he could not slap his wife. Instead, he fell to his knees before her thrashing body, moving in, heedless to the scratches she bestowed, and clamped her face firmly between his palms, wrenching her glazed eyes to his.
“Elizabeth, look at me,” he commanded in the coldest, most authoritative tone he could muster. She whined, fighting to withdraw but was no match for his strength. “Elizabeth Darcy, open your eyes and look at me!”
Tears were streaming down her face; the fight abruptly halting as all energy drained and she slumped, as if boneless, with a whimper. “Please,” she moaned and sobbed, “Please do not take my rings. Please do not touch me. Please do not hurt him, you cannot… hurt him… I need him, please. I… need… William, my… husband… I… need…”
“Elizabeth, look! It is me: William. I am here, my love. Focus! Hear my voice. I am here.”
Again and again, patiently and firmly he pleaded for her attention through her incoherent ramblings. Struggling had ceased, but her eyes remained dazed for several terrifying minutes. Darcy felt his panic rising, almost ready to instruct Mr. Anders to return to Staveley and Dr. Welles when she finally spoke the first lucid word.
“William?”
“Yes, Elizabeth, it is me! I am here, beloved. All is well, shhhh, hush now, my love,” he sobbed in relief.
Lizzy's hazy vision cleared and she saw finally that it was him. Her William. His loving gaze full of tenderness and profound distress for her, his face so near, his grip powerful, and his radiant heat all real and alive. She collapsed into his embrace, weeping and clutching his body with an iron grip. Now it was her who roved all over him with seeking and pressing hands and fingers.
He held her tightly, rocking and swaying with the movement of the carriage, smoothing her hair as she cried and clasped him. Slowly, very slowly, she began to calm and he felt his anxiety waning. He moved back onto the seat with her in his arms, still crying but more controlled, her trembling lessening slightly.
“It is over, beloved. We are safe now. You are with me and we are safe. Hush now.” Continually he reassured, murmuring endearments and love as she gradually quieted.
Releasing a massive shudder, she stiffened briefly then wilted against his shoulder with a prolonged groan. “He… touched me, William. I cannot erase it and I feel so, so… filthy!”
“We will be at the Sitwell's soon, love. You can bathe and sleep. I will not leave you and will hold you until you forget.” He bent to look into her eyes, finding that she still evaded his gaze. “Elizabeth, I love you. Will you please look at me?”
Haltingly, she lifted her eyes to his. Darcy with monumental devotion and care, smiling tenderly; Elizabeth with torment and shame. He cupped her cheek, caressing away her tears. “It is over, my heart. No need to fear. I love you.” He bent and brushed her lips fleetingly.
“He hurt me, William. I… hurt,” she whispered against his lips, Darcy withdrawing an inch to see her anguished eyes.
He frowned. “What? Where? Your bottom?”
She nodded, staring at him with intent fear. “Yes, a little. My legs and feet, too. And…” She swallowed, Darcy's alarm rising. “William,” she squeaked, tears filling her eyes yet again, “I am having pains, sometimes, in my belly.”
Darcy paled, heart constricting as if outwardly squeezed. “Oh God!” His hand instantly reached to cradle the small bulge of their son, so warm and soft. Elizabeth was trem
bling anew, lips quivering as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. His mind raced without coherent thought aside from the murderous wish to run back to Victor's corpse and fill it with a dozen more pistol holes.
The carriage halted at that moment, forestalling any further words. Darcy glanced up, realizing they were at Reniswahl Hall. As quickly as the panic rose with her words, he shoved it down, command naturally falling over his shoulders. Pressing his lips tight, he kissed her forehead and then fiercely stared into her troubled eyes.
“It will be fine, Elizabeth. I promise. Our son is fine.”
Briskly and with cool capability, he leapt from the carriage, scanning the front of the Hall. Rory and Julia Sitwell were descending the stairs with concern written all over their features. Darcy spared no time with pleasantries.
“Rory, Elizabeth needs a physician, now. She is having abdominal pains. Julia, I need a comfortable bed, hot water for bathing, and a clean nightgown.” He did not wait for an answer, turning to the carriage while Rory barked orders to a servant. Carrying Elizabeth in his arms, Darcy followed Julia to a large, airy bedchamber. A flurry of activity ensued, all the required items provided in record time while Darcy stood aside holding his numb wife, eyes never leaving her face.
“Mr. Darcy, the bath is ready and the physician should be on his way soon,” Julia said. “Can I help?”
“No, thank you, Julia. I will care for her and ring if I need assistance. Send the doctor the moment he arrives.”
Lizzy murmured a weary thank you, Julia squeezing her arm then hastily departing. Finally Darcy relinquished her onto a sofa and began removing her filthy clothing, tossing the garments in a far corner to be disposed of later.
“Beloved, tell me about the pains.”
“They started after I fell, when… he…” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply before resuming, “They are not overly painful and intermittent, but it scares me, William. The book said pains are not right until closer to the end.”
“It also said stress can bring on labor pains, Elizabeth. I remember that. Today assuredly qualifies.” He had most of her clothing off, only her chemise remaining. He held her gaze, speaking calmly as he untied the ribbons to her undergarment, “Do you feel any bleeding? Has the baby been moving?”
“No bleeding, I do not think, and he has been active. He is now.”
Darcy placed his hand over her bared belly, their child lazily flipping under his palm. Despite his fears and anxiety, he could not resist smiling. He bent for a kiss, caressing her gently. “He is strong, my love, and feels healthy and unperturbed.” He lifted his eyes with a smile, meeting Elizabeth's. She was watching him with a strange expression, pale and haunted. He frowned, rising hastily to clasp her chin with his fingers, studying her disturbed countenance. “What is it? Are you in pain now?”
She shook her head, staring. “I… William, do you still want… Are you repulsed by what he… his hands touching me? I feel so dirty and ashamed! I was so afraid he would kill you that I willingly went with him and then he… if I disgust you, I understand.” Her words were halted by a crushing and thorough kiss, Darcy's hands firm about her neck with thumbs stroking her cheeks. It only lasted a few seconds, ending with tender nibbles to her lower lip, Darcy breathing heavily.
His voice was husky with emotion when he spoke, eyes blazing with ardent love. “Elizabeth, I love you! Nothing that happened today was your fault. Nothing! As soon as you are well, I shall obliterate any memory of another's touch. I will remind you of my devotion on every inch of your skin, burning away any trace of him. I promise you this! In the meantime, let me wash away all evidence of today.”
Darcy bathed his wife head to toe with a touch gentle and loving, for the first time ever not becoming aroused by her nakedness. His only desire was to comfort. Stripped to the waist, he sat on a stool by the tub, soaping and scrubbing while she relaxed, nearly falling into a doze. They spoke little, although she did tell him the pains had ceased and there was clearly no bleeding.
The physician arrived just as Darcy placed his damp wife onto the bed. Allowing a maid to dress Lizzy in a nightgown of Julia's, Darcy explained the events of the day to the doctor and described her complaints. A complete exam showed all to be normal. The doctor's recommendation was for her to rest, staying immobile for a couple days at the least. Her bottom was bruised, which may cause some discomfort, but otherwise, he concluded, she was in remarkable health, all things considered.
“Mr. Darcy, I am fairly confident the pains were a result of the stress and shock, augmented by her reported frenzied activity and the fall probably irritating weakened muscles. She needs quiet and rest. The episode has emotionally disturbed her and she needs comforting. However, no activity for two days if the pains remain absent, longer if they resume. No activity, is this clear?” His penetrating gaze left no question as to his meaning.
Darcy flushed slightly, for the first time consciously aware of his improper state of dress. He stiffened, not sure he appreciated the insinuations, but nodded. “I understand.”
THEY TARRIED FOR THREE days in the company of the Sitwells. After a refreshing night's sleep in her husband's arms, Lizzy was nearly her old self. The pains did not return, although her rear end sported an amazingly colorful bruise that was exceedingly tender. She had sporadic nightmares, waking screaming or crying with Victor's face floating in her mind. Darcy was always there, soothing with caresses and kisses until she calmed and returned to sleep.
Julia Sitwell was a constant companion during the daylight hours. She and Lizzy actually delighted in their extended visit, spending hours reclining on comfortable chaises placed under shady trees alongside gently lapping ponds. Darcy hesitantly succumbed to the persuasion of his wife and joined Rory in a fox hunt, horseback riding, and numerous games of faro and billiards, the outcomes of the latter as he had anticipated. The planned excursion to Castleton, Peveril Castle, and Peak Cavern was cancelled, obviously, Darcy beginning to privately suspect a conspiracy to prevent his wife ever seeing the Peak District! Lizzy merely laughed at his theory, restating the fact that the Peaks were going nowhere. Her joy was in the security of their child, who continued to dance on her bladder and demand sustenance on a frequent basis, utterly unaware of the worry inflicted on his poor parents.
Phillips's fever raged uncontrollably for two days. The physician offered meager hope, the ability to counteract infections of this magnitude minimal. Darcy sent Mr. Anders to retrieve Mrs. Phillips and the children from Pemberley. Whether it was the excellent medical care, the love of family, or Phillips's own intestinal fortitude and sturdiness they would never know, but on the morning of the third day, his fever broke. Lizzy, who was forbidden to leave the confines of her bed and visit, cried with heartfelt relief. It was a slow recovery thereafter, but Phillips was fortunate. No bones were broken and the tissue healed without defect. In three weeks, he would be home and partially resuming his duties.
Darcy dealt with all the legal issues regarding the surviving bandits and the two dead ones. It was a routine process involving numerous questions but little else, the case being clear cut. Darcy flatly refused to allow Lizzy to be questioned and there was no need. The Darcy name alone was enough for the magistrate to inquire minimally and render harsh judgment, but the added testimony of Mr. Anders and Phillips left no doubt.
Faced with the doctor's proscription, Darcy was unable to make love to his wife until they returned to Pemberley, a decision Lizzy was none too happy about. She could not argue the logic in being cautious, but she was not pleased. Darcy feared her fragile emotional state far more than curbing his own desires. As in April, the thought of harming his wife or their unborn child was so horrendous that his personal lust was easily cooled. However, remembering Lizzy's verbalized assumption that he would be repulsed by her after Victor's disgusting caresses, he desperately longed to show her how wholly unfounded her apprehension. The balance allotted him the ability to embrace her, caress her body tenderly, kiss possessively,
and whisper words of adoration without becoming unduly aroused. In the end, these minor liberties probably allayed any residual horrors from her ordeal more proficiently than actually making love. Darcy's ceaseless fondling and devotion without physical gratification on his part was entirely selfless and effectively erased all residual memory of the thief's touch.
They were greeted on Pemberley's long avenue with a line of horse wagons, Duke Grafton's breeding mares having arrived an hour prior. Darcy hastily kissed Lizzy's cheek, abdicating her care into the steady competence of Mrs.
Reynolds, and disappeared to the stables. Lizzy would not see him until dinner that evening.
The warm familiarity and comfort of Pemberley surrounded and penetrated her very essence. They had only been gone a little over a week and Lizzy had not realized how much she missed the house. All afternoon, she simply walked from room to room, garden to garden, pausing for frequent respites at all her favorite places: Darcy's enormous leather chair in the library, the conservatory, the rose garden, the lily pond, Darcy's study, the terrace corner where they met almost a year ago and where he loved to kiss her as he said he should have done then, the nursery, and finally their bedchamber. She stood gazing out the window at the mountains, tranquility settling into her being, and she finally felt completely cleansed. All she needed now was for her husband to make love to her and all would be right.
Lizzy waited for Darcy in the parlor. She had bathed in jasmine, dressed in a new gown created by Madame Millicent which spectacularly accented her newly acquired curves while hiding her pregnancy. Her hair was lavishly coiffed and bejeweled, and she purposefully stood by the large window with the soft rays of sunset illuminating. The effect was as she anticipated. A freshly washed and elegantly dressed Darcy entered and stopped dead on the threshold, mouth dropping in awe and evidence of desire instantly apparent.
Loving Mr. Darcy Page 50
