But it was too late. A line had been crossed and his passion was too great to be denied. He tried, God knows he tried, but her pain was inevitable as he took his pleasure.
He collapsed onto her. His physical satisfaction momentarily overruling the screaming awareness that he had hurt her. Lifting finally, the self-recrimination threatened to buckle him yet again as he noted the tears leaking from her tightly closed eyes.
“Oh my God, Elizabeth! I… Please, look at me! I am so sorry! Beloved, I love you! I did not mean to…”
“Please stop, William! It is not your fault. Believe me! It is me, all me. I just… cannot feel… nothing is normal anymore!” And her sobs burst forth as a damn. She clutched him, shaking violently as she wept.
Darcy rolled to his back, embracing her tightly as she cried, baffled and deeply disturbed. She slept finally, clinging to him, and no other words were exchanged. He lay awake for long hours afterwards, his own tears silently shed, thinking furiously and questioning without any answers forthcoming.
The two weeks that followed were terrible beyond the initial weeks fretting over Michael. The baby flourished under the diligent ministrations of devoted parents, loving nannies, and spellbound brother. He was temperamental, as they were coming to expect was his natural disposition, but also jolly and extremely healthy. Any cause for sincere anxiety as to his wellbeing was nonexistent.
Yet Lizzy refused to concede.
Darcy watched his wife immerse herself in the children and the Manor to a greater degree than prior. From sunrise to well after sunset she was constantly on the move. Suddenly, Alexander’s birthday and Christmas became vitally important to prepare for, although she never mentioned their anniversary. Darcy was wounded and the gulf widened as her preoccupation prevented her from sparing him any time.
The fragile claim on her health wavered further as she gradually lost the weight she had regained. She was clearly exhausted: pale and tremulous. Her emotions continued to fluctuate crazily, outbursts of tears and ire randomly occurring with no apparent cause, but primarily she seemed to sink into a daze of gloom.
Nothing Darcy said or did reached through to her, although he persisted in trying. Any overtures for affection were spurned, vigorously. Attempts to discuss their anniversary were ignored. It was as if he were invisible.
Alexander’s second birthday was celebrated with an elaborate party. Dozens of Derbyshire friends partook of the fun, their children the honored guests as playmates to Alexander. Lizzy was a buzzing bee in her desire to provide for her guests and her son. At times, her behavior crossed into frenetic with shrill laughter and addled sentences. Every last person noted her altered appearance and fragility with concern.
Yet somehow she managed to hold herself together until it was over. Visibly shaking, she bid her last good-bye to Harriet Vernor, sagging against the door as soon as it was closed. Darcy reached for her, but she snapped at him and pushed him away. He watched helplessly as she climbed the stairs.
“Dearest, you need to come to bed.” Darcy pleaded that night, entering the nursery where Lizzy sat beside the cradle.
“I want to make sure he is asleep,” she countered, eyes centered on the slumbering Michael.
“He is asleep. As is Alexander. I read with him until he fell asleep. I barely managed to read one sentence without him interrupting to talk about his party. His enthusiasm is as intense as yesterday and he will likely be up at the crack of dawn to play with all his new toys. Poor Miss Lisa.” He chuckled, vainly attempting to lighten the mood. “Maybe it is just as well I have no business plans tomorrow so I can devote some time to manning the castle with the new set of tin Spartans and Mongols. He would not rest until he testing the catapults for himself.” He laughed again, sincerely this time as the thrill of this birthday with his son displaced the melancholy. “I confess I am as anxious as Alexander. Sharing the joys of presents with a child is superior to anything I can imagine. Goodness knows he has enough gifts to keep us occupied for hours!”
He paused, realizing that Lizzy was not listening. She stared at Michael, no expression on her face, eyes dulled and drooping. Darcy’s insides clenched painful, as they always did when he encountered her obvious affliction and decline, but lately he had noticed other emotions rising: anger, frustration, impatience, and, most frightening of all, a horrid sense of detachment and grief, as if something precious had died.
He sighed, closing his eyes briefly and offering a silent prayer. “Come, Elizabeth, take my hand.”
She did, listlessly rising and walking to his side. She stood by the bed complacently as he removed her robe, strong hands stroking over the silky skin of her arms. He cupped her face, lifting it to meet his eyes. “Please, beloved, tell me what is troubling you? I am so worried for you.” His soft voice, brimming with concerned agony, brought tears to her eyes.
“I do not know,” she whispered. “I am so tired… all the time tired.”
“I keep encouraging you to rest, do I not? You must not push yourself so, my heart. Relinquish the chores to Mrs. Hanford and others. Let us help you! Please, Elizabeth, heed my advice.”
In an instant her eyes were angry. “Oh yes! Mr. Darcy who knows what is best for everyone! Must you control the entire world, William? Tell everyone what to do?”
Darcy paled, stepping back a pace in utter shock. But Lizzy followed, her face enraged, finger stabbing him in the breastbone. “I do not need you to tell me how to be a mother! I am a good mother, an excellent mother! My babies need me, not a servant! Stop… just stop… ordering me…”
Her voice was shrill and body shaking as her eyes welled with angry tears. It was her wildest outburst yet and Darcy had never felt so cold.
“Elizabeth Darcy, listen to me.” He spoke in his authoritative voice, normally more than adequate to quell any adversary. “You are irrational and raving. Calm yourself and let me help you. Try to be reasonable!”
But his words were cut short by a stunning slap to his left cheek. He gasped, recoiling as his hand rose to cover the sting. It was not so much the pain, although his wife did have a strong arm, but the mind-numbing astonishment of what she had done.
Lizzy instantaneously crumbled in remorse. Hands covered her mouth as an anguished moan escaped. “Oh God! William, please forgive…”
“I shall be in my study if the children have need of me,” he icily intoned, eyes dead as he pivoted and left the room, slamming the door behind.
Lizzy stood paralyzed for a long time, eventually releasing a wail of sheer animal intensity, her heart breaking asunder as the world spun and swirled. She whirled about, frantic for anything to relieve the twisted emotions ripping through her mind. Lunging toward the balcony, she only thought of escape and punishment for the sufferings caused by her words and deeds.
She halted abruptly at the railing, wheezing and crying. She grabbed onto the freezing stone in a white knuckled grip, staring at the cobbled stones of the walkway far below. Oblivion from the pain called, but some small kernel of sanity beckoned. Perhaps it was the frigid cold restoring a hint of clarity. Perhaps it was a guardian angel stopping her steps. Whatever the case, she fell to her knees, sobbing until there were no tears remaining, only then finding the strength to stumble to the lonely, cold bed.
Chapter Six
Healing a Great Love
Alexander, in the innocence and unawareness of a two-year-old, was oblivious to the tension and chasm between his parents. George was more observant and he was shaken to the core by what he witnessed.
For the month of November, and much of October, he had been busy attending to his duties at the Matlock hospital and throughout the surrounding communities. It was the time of year for influenza and injuries sustained from the cold weather or wet conditions. Several days in a row would pass before he returned to the Manor, often for no longer than it took to bathe and sleep a day before leaving again.
His intermittent interactions when able to relax at home had hinted to a strain between t
he two, but he had thought it no more than what would be expected with two young children, one who was quite demanding. Darcy’s natural reticence and intense urge for privacy did not always foster blunt communication, even as close as they now were. There were many topics Darcy did not hesitate to discuss with his uncle, but his marriage, which he perceived as sacred and solely his responsibility to deal with, was not one of them. George respected this, and aside from the gentle teasing that brought him such pleasure as Darcy persisted in flushing and stammering when the playful topics were tendered, he avoided broaching anything too intimate. Of course, until now there had been no need, since his niece and nephew appeared to possess a relationship uncommon in its intensity and felicity.
Thus, due to his busy schedule and faith in their relationship, George had remained ignorant as to the seriousness of Lizzy’s status. A catastrophe in Chesterfield calling for emergency assistance had kept him away for Alexander’s birthday and the week following. Upon his return to Pemberley, the exhausted physician was flabbergasted by what he discovered.
Without hesitation, Dr. Darcy decided to take action, even at the risk of offending his proud nephew. However, he first dealt with Lizzy. Her predicament was at a critical level and needed direct, immediate intervention.
As a physician, he diagnosed Lizzy’s illness instantly, recognizing it as a rare infirmity seen from time to time after the birth of a child. No one knew the cause, although speculation was rife. Most judged it a failing in the mother, if they acknowledged it at all, but George did not ascribe to that philosophy. He had observed dozens of decent, loving women succumb to bizarre, uncontrollable emotional breakdowns after birth and did not believe it an inherent flaw in their character.
He was circumspect in his approach with Elizabeth, partly because it was necessary to ascertain the scope of her condition but also because he understood how fragile her emotions. One wrong move and the essential trust would be gone. Fortunately, he was immensely skilled and within a couple of casual conversations over tea, she broke down. The seeming irreparable rift between she and her husband, who now rarely entered any room she was in and spent nearly every hour in the library or his study, acted as a strange catalyst toward candor. While on the one hand she sunk deeper into her misery, she also admitted to a serious problem.
As guilty as George felt for not noting the sickness consuming his beloved niece, it was fortuitous. A month or even a week previous, Lizzy would probably not have listened to anything he said, despite his mastery in persuasion. The dire situation she now found herself in—with a beloved spouse who was disengaged—and her weariness remained all that propelled her to embrace anything the good doctor recommended.
George enlisted the services of the relieved Mrs. Hanford, Mrs. Reynolds, and Marguerite, all of whom had observed the drama with heavy hearts. Thankful to be proactive in the matter, they gleefully took orders from Dr. Darcy. Finally they could be firm-handed, bossy actually, as they had not felt the liberty to do under Mr. Darcy’s confusing requests and Lizzy’s stubborn commands. There were several tonics and strong teas concocted by Dr. Darcy as a beginning treatment. Her diet was tightly stipulated, specific foods requested of the kitchen staff and demanded to be consumed whether Lizzy wished for them or not. Rest was requisite; long daily naps to be followed by walks in the brisk air as often as feasible. Personal hygiene was stressed. Last, but not least, was the forced abdication of her self-imposed obligations.
This latter was the hardest to enforce. A careful balance of assuming tasks while watching closely for negative effects was imperative; one step too fast could lead to an emotional backslide, but the determined group of caretakers were diligent.
The final and equally important aspect of her recovery to the old Lizzy they all adored was the presence of a certain man vital to her ultimate happiness.
Darcy, however, had isolated himself. He practically lived in the lower rooms, most nights falling asleep on his study’s sofa after working to a state of collapse. Occasionally he slept in their bed, waiting until long after she was asleep, but usually he mounted the stairs only to head directly into his dressing room or to visit Alexander. His only joy was in those hours he spent playing with his eldest son. Michael he rarely laid eyes on, tiptoeing in at the deepest hours of the night to gaze upon the child he felt such a mixture of emotions for. His heart swelled with love when gazing upon his child’s perfection, but weeks of detachment rendered it nearly impossible to bond with the baby as he had Alexander. To his profound shame, he perceived a growing hostility toward the innocent babe, illogically blaming him for the cause of his marriage falling apart.
For a week he held hope that she would apologize for her actions or simply express her love and that she missed him. Every knock on the door or tread heard in the hallway caused his heart to leap painfully, but it was never Elizabeth. When they did encounter each other she refused to meet his eyes and exited the room as soon as possible. Twice he saw her duck into a chamber clearly not where she intended to go for the express purpose of eluding him. Each incident was as a nail in the coffin of their union and his grief was overwhelming.
In addition to the sadness and shame was an increasing self-loathing. Darcy was a man capable and brave who did not shrink from the troubles of life. Rarely had he encountered problems that were unfixable or at least unable to be controlled. Courage and straightforwardness were character traits innate to his being, yet in this instance he was utterly at a loss as to what to do, as all his efforts thus far had been futile. Dimly he recognized that his damnable pride prevented asking for advice. Yet, until Elizabeth, he had never revealed his soul to another, admitted his frailties, or confided personal matters. This reality compounded his hopelessness and indecisiveness.
Worse yet was the fear lodged deep within his bones. Fear of what she might say if he spoke to her again, fear of the future, fear of his lost control, fear that there was no remedy, fear that he was weak, fear that he was a failure. It was a terror so engulfing that he withdrew, denying the facts and cowardly hiding away as he had never done in his entire life while the negative emotions ate him alive.
Thus it was a paler, thinner Darcy that George found staring into the white landscape outside his study window one afternoon about a week before Christmas. His face was ravaged with whiskers of at least three days growth, cravat loosened, and hair mussed by nervous hands. Dull eyes turned to the sympathetic smile of his uncle as George took the chair across.
Darcy cleared his throat, attempting to reinstate the guise of a man in control, and smiled faintly. “Forgive me, Uncle. I did not hear you enter. What have you been up to these days? Is the hospital lessening its demands on you?”
“I have not been to the hospital for nearly three weeks now.”
“Oh, I was not aware. You come and go so frequently that I lose track of your schedule. Since you are home perhaps we can play a game or two of billiards tonight. It has been a while since I thrashed you.”
“I am delighted to hear you jesting, my boy. Tells me not all is lost, although you look as if you have been dragged behind an unfriendly horse. Has Samuel forgotten how to shave you?”
Darcy reached to his chin, honestly startled. “Well, work has kept me busy.” He waved vaguely toward the nearly empty desk and then shrugged. “I was attempting to write a letter to Georgiana, but the snow distracted.” He sighed and turned again to the view outside the window. “I do miss her.”
“Yes, it is a shame. She would be a stabilizing, comforting presence to be sure. She will be home in the spring. I am positive she is hardly missing you, caught up in the whirl of fêtes and Italian social life.” Darcy nodded absently, George watching his face as he continued. “I encountered Mr. Gerald Vernor the other day while visiting the apothecary shop in Lambton. He asked about you, Elizabeth, and the baby. Of course I told him you were all well, but we know that is not the truth of it, agreed?”
Darcy glanced up sharply. “What do you mean? Is something amiss
with Michael?” The stab of fear was acute, his eyes penetrating George’s face.
“Do not be purposefully obtuse, William. Have you learned nothing of me yet? I am a notorious busybody, to be sure, but I also adore my family. Additionally, I am a rather remarkable diagnostician, although in this case I regretfully made assumptions I should not have. Elizabeth is ill. Surely you have gleaned this yourself?”
Darcy’s alarm escalated, choking off his air supply. His face paled and eyes widened. “Ill? What do you mean ill? She works too hard, as I have given up chastising for, and does not eat as she should, but she is not ill. You are exaggerating.” He stated the last firmly, denial decisive.
“It is not necessarily an illness of the body, or at least not in the way you presume. She is suffering from a melancholia we see in women after birth. It is mysterious, and affects the mind primarily, which in turn has an effect on the body, but has been recognized by physicians since Hippocrates. Some speculate it is entirely spiritual, a weakness of the psyche, but I do not agree. I am not a researcher, but I found the lectures by physiologic chemists such as Saunders and Babington fascinating…”
“Uncle, what are you babbling about?”
“I am trying to explain Elizabeth’s condition, William. You need to understand this, and I am certain your intellect capable of grasping the science.”
“My wife is not ill.” He declared stubbornly, rising with a burst of anger to begin pacing about the room, fingers flickering. “She is… unhappy. I will admit to that, as much as it pains me to do so. Two children so soon is obviously too much for her. I should have been more… responsible. Not so demanding. It is my fault she feels as she does. Her… hatred toward me”—he swallowed, hands rifling through his hair—“is understandable. In time the pressures will ease… in time. Then, perhaps, she will not… she may learn to love… me again as she did. I can wait. But she cannot be ill! No, she… no, I will not allow it…”
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