by Jan Hahn
“Another?”
I nodded my head more than I needed to. “Please.”
He smiled again, rising to fetch me another drink. “I suggest you sip this one.”
“I will.” I nodded and took a sip, and from somewhere, another unfortunate giggle escaped.
William rose and held out his hands to me. “Will you do me the honour of dancing with me, Mrs. Darcy?”
“I…yes, of course.” I could not help but smile. “But how shall we dance with just the two of us?”
“I wish to teach you something new called the waltz.” He led me to the wide, open portion of the vast room, and after nodding at the musicians, he took me in his arms.
“William!” I was surprised at his boldness in front of others.
“This dance allows a somewhat shocking position, but one I consider perfect for dancing with my wife.”
The most beautiful music I had heard in a long time began. The romantic nature of the waltz proved enchanting. It did not take me long to follow William’s lead, and I loved how the three-quarter rhythm provided perfect timing for the steps of the dance. Secure in his strong arms, I felt like a princess in a fairy tale. Round and round he whirled me until I began to laugh aloud.
“Where did you learn this?” I asked at the end of the song.
“At a ball in Bath. A couple who had honeymooned in Vienna introduced it. Evidently, it is fashionable in Austria.” He signalled the musicians to begin again, and they commenced into yet another song in the same tempo.
“Once upon a time, I do recall hearing you declare that you did not care for dancing.” I gave him an arch smile. “Then, you surprise me with a reel in Ireland and now the newest of steps.”
“It all depends upon my partner. I detested being forced to lead around every mother’s daughter seeking a husband. But now that you are my own darling wife, I find I tolerate dancing fairly well.”
Just then, I stepped wrong and fell against him. He caught me and helped me to regain my footing. When he suggested that we sit down, however, I did not object, for by that time, the room was spinning. I reached for my glass of sherry as he guided me to the sofa.
“I suggest, my dear, that you forego the sherry for water from now until we retire.”
“If you wish, but sherry tastes better,” I said, giggling again.
He smiled and whispered in my ear. “Elizabeth, if I drink because we cannot marry and you drink because we can, how shall we ever make this union work?”
I leaned my head back and smiled up at him. “Seems a hopeless task to me.”
“Nothing is hopeless,” he growled. “Come with me.”
You must believe me when I tell you…my husband made it work.
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As much as I found myself swept away by the enchantment of the night before—as exciting, enlightening, and somewhat surprising I found the marriage bed to be—awaking within my husband’s arms the following morning touched me so profoundly that I almost wept.
My head lay upon his chest. I took a breath and revelled anew in his delicious scent. My arm was thrown around his bare waist, and the warmth of his skin filled me with pleasure. He held me in a close embrace, his chin resting on my head. Oh, how I loved that man!
Stirring slightly, I raised my eyes to see whether he still slept. Instead, I was greeted with a smile.
“How long have you been awake?” I asked.
“Long enough to rejoice that I am not dreaming.”
“This is not a dream, is it?”
“It cannot be, for no dream feels as good as you.” He kissed my forehead, and I lowered my gaze, hoping he did not notice the mist in my eyes. Unfortunately, nothing escaped William.
He lifted my chin, and I saw his frown. “What is it, my love? What is wrong?”
“Nothing. I am simply overcome with happiness.”
“But you must not weep. Happiness does not create tears.”
“At times it does.” I raised myself enough to lean upon my elbow. “I wakened this morning feeling so safe, so wanted, so loved that I cannot find the words to convey what I mean. All I can say is that for the first time in more than a year, I feel as though I have come home. In your arms, I feel as though, at last, I am truly where I should be.”
“My only love, you are…you are exactly where you should be.”
He pulled me down into his embrace. We were content simply to hold each other for the longest time, marvelling at the unbelievable gift we had been granted in becoming man and wife.
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Our accommodations for the second night of our journey were not as fine by any means, but it mattered little to either of us. The food did not compare to our wedding night feast; no musicians with strings entertained us, and the bed was by no means as soft as the former night’s. I tell you the truth—we could have slept in a barn as long as we slept together. I no longer needed the wine bottle to calm my nerves, for William had proved a patient and generous lover, and I found that I took to his guidance with exceptional speed. Now that I had been introduced to the delights of married love, my eagerness almost matched his.
We found that we were compatible not only in bed but out of it as well. Upon reaching Pemberley, I undertook my duties as mistress of that great house as though I had been born there. At times, I was astonished anew at the fact that, but for Sir Linton’s interference, I might have come into the world in one of those bedchambers.
William fascinated me with all that he knew about the history of our home, and I spent countless hours listening and learning from him. Wishing me to be acquainted with an outline of his estate duties, he introduced the basic tasks he attended in running Pemberley.
In the weeks to come, I was surprised to learn that William not only owned the vast lands surrounding Pemberley and his townhouse in London, but he also possessed a home in Ramsgate.
“It is but a cottage,” he said. “My father bought it so Mother could enjoy the benefits of summers by the sea. I should like to take you there if you have not had your fill of the ocean.”
I smiled and kissed his cheek. “By the summer months, I am quite certain I shall be glad to visit the sea again.”
“And would you welcome another ocean voyage?”
I was surprised he made that suggestion. “Perhaps.”
“Do you recall how narrow the beds were on board The Falcon?”
“I do,” I said, wondering why he asked such a curious question.
He pulled me onto his lap and began running his finger along the neckline of my gown. “I rather think I would enjoy sharing one of those beds with you.”
I laughed and played with his curls. “Would you now? For how long?”
“Oh, we could begin with at least a hundred years.”
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We had resided at Pemberley as husband and wife for a little over a fortnight when William called me into his study one day. He said the post had come, and several letters in the stack were addressed to me. I recognized Jane’s script and that of Aunt Gardiner, but the third hand belonged to a stranger. Intrigued, I opened it to see Father Darcy’s signature, his writing obviously weak. He had dictated it to Father Rafferty as planned, but he made the effort to sign his name.
He hoped that we were married by the time his letter arrived, and his best wishes and prayers for our happiness made up most of the remainder.
You have filled my heart with joy that I never anticipated, Elizabeth. I am still amazed that I have fathered such a daughter.
Father Rafferty added a postscript wherein he stated that my father’s health declined daily. He doubted that he would live to see the new year. That statement saddened me, and I hastened to answer the letter.
Chapter Nineteen
After spending Christmas with Georgiana in London, we were to take her home with us to Pemberley the third week in January. I looked forward to our return because, although I enjoyed being in Town now that I was married, I still preferred country life in Derbyshire. Before we l
eft, however, I told my husband that I wished to call upon Miss Willoughby.
“I would prefer to send a message asking her to call upon you, instead,” he said. “Have you any objection?”
I agreed, of course, for I had dreaded returning to that dreary house belonging to the baronet. My aunt replied soon after receiving the note, indicating that she accepted my invitation with pleasure. She was to call on Thursday next, but to our surprise, the visit occurred sooner than expected.
Late one night in the early part of that same week, we had been listening to Georgiana play for us when we heard a knock at the door. My husband rose, curious as to who might call at such an hour. Instead of a caller, he was surprised to see that a message had been delivered.
“Georgiana,” William said, upon reading the note the servant had brought in. “Would you excuse Elizabeth and me? It is late, and I believe it is past time for you to retire.”
I was surprised at William’s statement, for he rarely directed his younger sister as to when to go to her chamber. Gradually, he had begun treating her more like the young woman she had become. She frowned but did not question him. Instead, she rose from her chair and bade us good night.
“William, whatever is the matter?” I asked upon Georgiana’s removal from the room.
He took my hand, assisting me to rise from the sofa. “I did not wish for my sister to hear the contents of this note, for they are quite alarming.”
My eyes widened, fearing that one of my family had fallen ill.
“It is from Miss Willoughby.”
“Miss Willoughby! At this time of night?”
“Sir Linton is dead.”
My mouth flew open, but I could not think of anything to say.
“Elizabeth, he fell from the second floor and broke his neck.”
“Oh!” I leaned against him, for I suddenly felt faint. “We must go to her.”
William shook his head, leading me back to the sofa. “I shall go alone. She requests my assistance.”
“Do you not think that my presence would comfort her?”
He rang the bell for the servant. “I would not have you witness the scene. Naturally, the constable has been called, and there is much confusion. I prefer that you wait here. Are you well enough for me to leave you?”
I nodded. “I am well, but I would rather go with you. I do not like the idea of my aunt being alone at such a time.”
“If she is willing, I shall bring her home with me.” He kissed my forehead and then strode from the room.
Thus, it came about that my uncle died the same unspeakable death that he had proclaimed for my mother in the falsehood he told my father all those years ago. I shuddered at the thought that he fulfilled his own horrid prophecy.
Suffering from shock and grief, Miss Willoughby remained with us for more than a week while William made arrangements to bury Sir Linton. He also assisted her in meeting with her brother’s attorneys. My husband’s kindness increased my admiration of his fine character, for he was more than considerate of my aunt’s state.
There were no male heirs to inherit the Willoughby property. In truth, none of the three Willoughby children had offspring other than my mother. Sir Linton’s will directed that his property, such as it was, be left to his sister. William and I knew that Aunt Eleanor could not be content living in that decaying townhouse, so we encouraged her to visit us at Pemberley, which she agreed to do later in the year.
“I have so longed to see Bridesgate again,” she said one day as we stirred our cups of tea while sitting in the small parlour.
“Then, you shall, for we are acquainted with its tenant, Admiral Denison.”
“I have not lived there since I was but a child.”
“I hope it will provoke memories of more pleasant times.”
She reached out and took my hand. “Each time I look upon your face, my dear, I remember pleasant days, for I see my sister. Your presence lifts my spirits in a manner I thought had died long ago.”
I was surprised at her words, for in my mind, I could still hear Sir Linton’s accusations that I had ruined his family. My aunt had declared his charges untrue, and I had vowed to rid myself of that memory. Life had taught me, however, that some vows are difficult to keep. Hateful words linger with a pain that is not easily forgotten.
“You look positively lovely. May I be so bold as to suggest that marriage suits you?”
My aunt’s statement startled me from my reflection, causing me to blush and smile. “I am more than content.”
“Then, do I assume correctly that you and Mr. Darcy have made a love match?”
I nodded. “We have.”
She reached for my hand. “Your mother would be so pleased!”
“Do you think so?”
“Without a doubt. At last, you wear the name to which you were born. May you enjoy a long life as mistress of Pemberley.”
Although Eleanor Willoughby and I were still strangers in many respects, little by little, I was beginning to feel that we were truly related, that here was someone to whom I actually belonged. Would she one day be as close to me as my Aunt Gardiner?
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Within a week of Aunt Eleanor’s departure from our townhouse, William announced that we would travel to Pemberley. I could not wait to return to Derbyshire. Although the mansion would be dressed in winter’s white by that time, I anticipated the warmth and loveliness I would find waiting within. The beauty of my new home was not all that called to me. I desired the tranquillity that soothed my soul each time I walked by Pemberley’s windows and viewed the prospect of the surrounding woods and groves. I could not grieve over Sir Linton’s death, yet I longed to escape all memory of its horror. I was eager to leave London behind.
Unfortunately, upon returning to Derbyshire, we were met with greetings even more grievous.
While we were in Town, a letter from Ireland had arrived at Pemberley stating that Father Darcy had died on the sixth day of December.
His passing was easy and peaceful, Father Rafferty wrote. Within the packet containing the message, the priest had included my father’s rosary. I held it in my hand, noting that most of the beads were worn thin from his years of prayers.
“He died on your birthday,” William said softly.
I raised my eyes to his. “He died on the same day that my mother died.”
We both grieved Peter Darcy’s loss in our own way. William thrust himself into the management of his estate, keeping himself busy throughout the day. I took long walks all over Pemberley’s extensive grounds. I longed to plunge into the wood, but it was still quite cold. Snowfall had been less than usual that winter, but a sharp wind often arose without warning. My husband had asked me not to wander off alone, and I obeyed.
I thought of my father’s life. I thought of how events and people had conspired to rob him of the love of a wife and family, yet they provided him with a purpose he evidently found fulfilling. I thought of the good he had done, and I was proud of him. Then, I began to think how cheated I felt not to have known him longer. My spirits lagged, and I found the same melancholy creeping back into my moods that had beset me for so long during the past year. I had thought it all behind me, but once again, life had taken a bitter turn. And yet, for some strange reason, I could not weep over my father’s passing.
William was as loving and compassionate as I knew he would be. That first night, upon reading the letter, he had held me in his strong, comforting arms all night long, for I could not sleep. He had gone out of his way to provide me with time alone so that I might grieve in private, cautioning Georgiana not to intrude when I departed the house for my sojourns in the garden. After the first few weeks, he offered distractions, such as rides through the countryside, visits with neighbours, or even an invitation for my family at Longbourn to come, but I refused all of his suggestions.
At length, one day, William walked into my sitting room, where I sat alone, staring out the window. He said nothing, but strode through the adjo
ining door into my chamber, returning within moments carrying my new fur-lined cloak and hat.
“Come, Elizabeth, let us go out.”
“I do not wish to call on anyone.”
“Then, we shall not see anyone, but you will leave the house. Look without; we are graced with one of those rare days in February. The sun shines, the snow melts, and, best of all, the wind has disappeared.”
I protested, but he would have none of it, insisting that I rise from my chair while he fastened my cloak securely. He donned his long coat and hat and ushered me out the door. I was surprised to see the phaeton harnessed and waiting in the drive, its big yellow wheels still bright and shining. When I asked him our destination, he refused to say.
Once we were securely seated and the fur rug wrapped around us, he flicked the reins, and we drove away from Pemberley. I could not help but recall our previous ride in that conveyance a year before. Much had changed since that occasion but not Mr. Darcy’s driving. Again, we careened down the road at a speed that robbed me of breath, and I was forced to cling to him for dear life. This time, however, I had not the slightest hesitation in hanging onto his arm.
When my husband turned up the path leading to Bridesgate Manor, I began to protest that I was in no mood to visit with Mrs. Denison or the admiral.
“That is good, for they are not at home. I have it on good authority that the family journeyed to Town on Tuesday last.”
“Then why are we here?”
He refused to answer my query but drove around the circular path that led to the back of the house. Servants, who were obviously acquainted with the master of Pemberley, held the horse while we climbed down from the phaeton. Mr. Darcy spoke briefly with the steward, who nodded and led us through the back garden. He pointed toward a slight incline some distance from the grounds and left us to my husband’s pursuit. I followed him quietly, having given up asking questions he would not answer. We walked through a stand of trees that opened upon a glade, containing a single gravestone.
