The Strange Marriage of Anne de Bourgh

by Skylar Hamilton Burris

  He was far too pleased with himself. This would not do.

  "You are too clever by half, Mr. Darcy," she said, as she stopped and turned. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him firmly and squarely on the mouth.

  He actually stumbled back. Mr. Darcy looked not just surprised, but outright astonished.

  Elizabeth, regretting her audacity, lowered her head. He had challenged her, and she had acted according to her competitive spirit. In so doing, however, she had usurped from him his masculine prerogative, and she was now sure she had offended him.

  Abashed, she raised her head to apologize, only to feel his hot breath upon her mouth. He pressed his lips to hers. Elizabeth’s kiss had merely been a means of inflicting a playful punishment, her way of rebuking him for his self-assurance. She had not truly experienced it, but to Mr. Darcy, it must have been as the first drop of water to a parched man.

  The passion of his response surprised and excited her. As his soft but determined lips claimed her own, he ignited within her an entirely new feeling. Elizabeth was not accustomed to feeling her body tremble, except when she was taken with a fever, and the sensation had certainly never before been accompanied with such a deliriously delicious tingling. She was almost frightened, but instead of giving into that fear, she surrendered to the pleasure of the moment.

  At length, he withdrew his mouth from hers, but now he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. She rested her head on his chest, and murmured, "For a moment, I thought you were angry with me for kissing you first."

  "I presume that misconception has been corrected."

  "It has been," she replied, raising her fine eyes to his own, which twinkled with the hint of a smile. "In the best way imaginable."

  “I am gratified to know I can give you pleasure,” Mr. Darcy said just before he looked up at the sky.

  Elizabeth’s eyes followed his, and she saw that the clouds had darkened dramatically, but she did not care. Let the floodgates of heaven shake loose their restraints. Let the rains pour forth. Not even a torrent could dampen her spirit today.

  THE END

  Let Not the Sun Go Down

  Three months after the Darcys’ wedding…

  Elizabeth Darcy ran her fingertips along the top of the mahogany wood. “Must you leave today?” she asked, her hand gliding from the desktop to her husband’s shoulder, and then trailing to the back of his neck, where she toyed with his dark curls.

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “I am afraid, so my love.” He reached behind himself to clasp the hand that was caressing him and brought it to his lips. Opening his eyes, he rose from his wine red chair. He closed a drawer, locked it, and deposited the key in his pocket. Behind him loomed the new bookcases he had insisted on having installed all around his study as an annex to the now full Pemberley library. “These matters cannot wait.”

  "When will you be returning?"

  "As soon as my business is concluded. I will be gone no more than two weeks, I assure you."

  "I will miss you," she said, unhappily anticipating the lonely days ahead. Georgiana would be a pleasant enough companion, but Elizabeth would still yearn for the meeting of minds that characterized her marriage to Mr. Darcy.

  "And I you," he replied, leaning to kiss her. When she responded eagerly to the pressure of his lips, he drew back. "Elizabeth, I am already late, and I shall by no means find my way out of this house if you return my kiss like that."

  "Oh, I am so very sorry, Mr. Darcy," she answered with feigned contrition. "Please, do kiss me farewell again, and I promise to respond as coldly as possible."

  He laughed. "No, dear. I do not think you could ever be capable of frigidity, even if you were to try very hard. Therefore I will not risk another kiss." He bowed and walked away, but she followed him to the door of the study, and so he allowed himself to touch her lips with his own one last time before hurrying to his awaiting carriage.

  *

  The following weekend, as Elizabeth was taking a tour of the grounds to determine what additions Pemberley might require, she encountered one of her husband’s tenants. Holding his hat abashedly in his hands, he addressed himself to her. "Mrs. Darcy?"

  "Yes," she answered, surprised to be thus approached.

  “I’m Mr. Warren, your lordship’s tenant?”

  Elizabeth smiled lightly. “My husband is not a lord, Mr. Warren.”

  “Well, yes… suppose I knew that. Is Mr. Darcy at home?"

  "No, I am afraid he is away on business and may not return until next Saturday. If you have come to pay the rent, you may see his steward."

  "You see, that's just the thing, madam. I cannot pay the rent. I had hoped to speak with Mr. Darcy in person. He is a good man, a very good man, and if I could just speak to him, I know he would understand." The farmer blinked as though attempting to fight back tears.

  "Mr. Warren, whatever is the matter?"

  Looking down as though to control his emotions, he began to toy with the rim of his hat. "My sister is very ill. Her husband cannot possibly afford to give her the care that she needs. I have sent her the last shilling in my pocket, that she may be well. I will earn it back again in a month. I will be able to pay Mr. Darcy then."

  "I do not doubt," responded Elizabeth with warm reassurance, "that when Mr. Darcy knows your extenuating circumstances, he will offer you a reprieve."

  "But that's just the thing," replied Mr. Warren. "The wheels are set in motion, you see. You are quite right; if only Mr. Darcy knew of my circumstance, I am certain he would show mercy. I fear, however, that because he is away, I shall be evicted this very week by his steward. Mr. Dawson is a very rigid man. He has told me no exceptions. None at all. I must have the rent tomorrow."

  "I will see what I can do, Mr. Warren," she told him.

  "Thank you, madam," replied the farmer, grinning wildly, "Thank you so very much." He bowed hurriedly and then he scurried back down the lane.

  *

  The following morning, Elizabeth was determined to see Mr. Darcy's steward. After arriving at his cottage, she placed a handful of notes on Mr. Dawson's desk. "Will that be enough to satisfy Mr. Warren's rent?" she asked. If the man was so rigid as to insist on a by-the-book eviction, she would circumvent his legalism.

  The steward glanced at the notes suspiciously. "Yes," he said.

  "If I pay, are the terms satisfied?" she asked. “He will not be evicted today?”

  "It makes no legal difference, Mrs. Darcy, who pays the rent, as long as it is paid, but have you discussed this with Mr. Darcy?"

  "I have not had the opportunity."

  “I was under the impression that he wanted the eviction to take place.”

  “I cannot imagine that.”

  “I am his steward, Mrs. Darcy. You are his wife.”

  Elizabeth was perturbed by his words. Certainly she knew her own husband better than this man.

  Her countenance must have spoken her annoyance, because Mr. Dawson lowered his eyes. “Pardon me.” He shuffled the notes together and then opened a locked box, where he placed them. The box also contained a ledger, but he made no notation within it.

  "Aren't you going to record that payment?" she asked.

  "Indeed, madam," he replied, though he made no movement to do so. “Where did you get the money? It is not from Mr. Darcy, I assume, if you have not discussed the matter with him."

  "He gave me the money before he left, as a gift to buy a new dress for the upcoming ball, but I will be more than satisfied to wear an old one if these funds can be put to better use."

  Elizabeth parted from Mr. Dawson's company, wondering why his eyes followed her so warily as she went.

  *

  As Elizabeth walked home from the steward's cottage, she smiled. She was not the sort of woman to congratulate herself on her own generosity; nevertheless, she could not help but feel satisfied. The old Christian adage, that it is better to give than to receive, had proven itself to Elizabeth time and time again. Consequently, when
Mrs. Reynolds told her that Mr. Darcy had returned from Cheshire early, she hastened to his study to convey her news.

  His countenance brightened upon her entrance, and he ceased looking through the stack of accumulated letters he held in his hand, although he did not set them down. She kissed him warmly but briefly and began to relay her story, telling him with eagerness how and why she had paid the farmer's rent. “Mr. Dawson, in his rigidity, would have evicted the man, but I prevented that from occurring.”

  She was so preoccupied with her tale, that she did not observe how his expression altered as she spoke. She had anticipated that, at worst, he would be endearingly ruffled by her initiative-taking venture. She was shocked, therefore, when he responded with actual anger.

  "How dare you, Elizabeth!" exclaimed Mr. Darcy. "How dare you presume to interfere in my affairs, without my consent and indeed against my will!"

  Elizabeth stepped aside and grasped the back of his chair for support. "Fitzwilliam," she said, "Mr. Warren was desperate, and I thought you would not return until next week."

  "Mr. Warren has been delinquent in his rent on more than one occasion, and on more than one occasion I have forgiven him. When for the fifth time in a year his rent was not forthcoming, I paid a call to him on his farm. That land, Elizabeth, is as lush and fertile as any in Derbyshire, but he has let it go to waste. It did not take long for me to ascertain that he squanders both his time and income on drink and gambling and who knows what other perverse habits. Whatever story he may have told you, his debauchery is the real reason for his inability to pay."

  He smacked the stack of letters hard against his desk, and they scattered over the wood, a sea of beige paper and red wax seals. He straightened his waistcoat as thought to mask the angry action. "Now, this whole matter would never be so urgent," he continued, "were it not also for the fact that I was approached by a very deserving man who desires to rent from me. At the time, I had nothing to offer him. Although he was raised as a farmer, he has since been forced to seek other work in Lambton, and he desires nothing more than to return to the land. He and his family are presently crowded within a tiny apartment, and his active children have no fields in which to roam. As Mr. Warren has leased that property, I cannot reasonably evict him until he defaults on the rent. I had forgiven him previous failures, but once I had purer knowledge of his character, I forewarned him that should he default again, he would have to leave. I saw no reason to expect he would pay, and so I had hoped to have him off my land today. Yet you have prevented me."

  "Fitzwilliam, I am sorry; I did not know—"

  "—Of course you did not know! You did not even trouble to consult me." As he spoke, a new emotion mingled with his anger. To his wife, it sounded very much like pain. "Had you respected me, Elizabeth, you never would have assumed that I could entrust my affairs to an unjustly rigid steward who would unkindly evict a worthy tenant. You should not have interfered."

  When she did not reply, he shook his head and marched from the room. She stood there looking at the jumbled pile of unattended letters. Women were called the weaker sex, but Elizabeth thought it was men who were inexplicably sensitive. They had a hundred little sore spots scattered throughout their egos, and you could prod one without even trying.

  At length, Elizabeth sat down in her husband’s chair. As she straightened his scattered letters into a neat stack, she assured herself that her intentions had been honorable. It was not long, however, before further reflection inspired her to admit that, because she trusted him, she should also have trusted his steward.

  Elizabeth Darcy had her moments of pride, but she was not naturally a proud woman. Therefore, she was able to confess to herself that her actions—however well-meaning—had injured Mr. Darcy by making her regard for him appear less than it actually was.

  She had now taken that first, awful step of self-admission, but there was a grimmer task at hand. How was she to make amends? In the three months since their wedding day, a cross word had never passed between them, and she was not sure how best to proceed.

  Nevertheless, Elizabeth rose to seek out her husband, anxious for an immediate reconciliation. Yet he was nowhere to be found. "Mrs. Reynolds," she asked the housekeeper, "have you seen Mr. Darcy?"

  "Yes, madam. He asked me to tell you he has gone to Lambton on an errand of business, and that he will not return until this evening."

  Elizabeth was disheartened by the reply, but she supposed Mr. Darcy needed time to calm his disappointment. He was a passionate man, and such a trait must inevitably have its disadvantages, although until now, she had experienced only its more agreeable effects.

  *

  When Mr. Darcy returned late that evening, Elizabeth approached him in the hall. "Should I have the cook set out dinner for you?" she asked. "We can talk while you eat."

  "I have already eaten," he replied. His face was stern, but his tone was only indifferent, and that was even worse. He reached into his pocket and removed a bundle of notes, which he held out to her.

  She took them uncertainly. "What is this?" she asked.

  "Your money. My steward returned it to me. He never officially acknowledged its receipt. He waited to consult me."

  "Fitzwilliam, we need to talk—"

  He held up a hand to stop her words. "No, Elizabeth," he said. "Not tonight. I might say something I will later regret." With that, he began to walk past her.

  She called after him, "Then when?"

  He paused. He seemed reluctant to answer, but he forced himself to set a time. "Come to my chamber tomorrow morning. We'll talk then."

  "Then you will not be staying with me tonight?" she asked.

  "No. Not tonight," he said, and walked deep into the shadows of Pemberley.

  *

  Mrs. Darcy had been angered by her husband's rebuff, but she was still zealous to end the feud. She was at his door at daybreak the next morning. She reached for the doorknob, and then she stopped. She knew it was too early. He must still be sleeping. She began to turn anyway when the door opened suddenly.

  "Elizabeth," said Mr. Darcy, somewhat surprised. "How long have you been here?"

  She was relieved to hear that his voice was no longer apathetic. "Not long," she answered.

  He swung wide the door and extended his arm in a gesture of invitation. She passed by and sat down by the fire he had lit that morning as he took a chair across from her.

  Elizabeth held her hands anxiously in her lap, unsure of how to begin. She observed that Mr. Darcy's bed was still made-up, as though it had never even been touched. Eventually she said, "I meant well."

  "Of course you did, my love," he answered.

  She had not expected such softness in his voice, not after the previous night. "Then why were you so very angry?" she asked.

  "Because even though you once vowed to honour and obey me, yesterday you did neither. The obedience I can do without, provided your rebellion is good-natured. But the honour-"

  "-I should have trusted you, Fitzwilliam, and I am sorry to have offended you, but you must understand my position. I did not know all the facts."

  "Nor did my steward, and yet he awaited my judgment."

  "Men are different."

  "They are certainly less complicated."

  "I don't know about that. I've had a hard time reading you these past eighteen hours."

  "Have you, Elizabeth?"

  "Yes, I have. However, I comprehend, at least, that I managed to injure you, and I do not intend to do so again. I may have shown you less honour than I feel for you, but I do feel it, Fitzwilliam. I respect you because you are worthy of respect."

  The fire’s flames flickered, dancing with the many shades that made up the mosaic of Mr. Darcy’s eyes. Emotions waltzed together there too, love and hurt and tenderness. "I am sorry, Elizabeth," he said, "if I was too severe with you yesterday. I should have expressed my displeasure without raising my voice."

  "Yes, you should have,” she agreed. “You also should have been
willing to talk to me about it, instead of walking away. It was petty of you to seek to punish me by avoiding me."

  He placed two fingers against his cheek and studied her. "If I appeared to be avoiding you, it was only because I wanted to discipline my emotions before broaching the subject a second time.” His hand fell to the arm of his chair. He watched his own fingertips as they traced the lines of the wood. “You are very dear to me, Elizabeth. I did not want to risk saying something unjust, and I was unfortunately in no mood to be rational. I am positively sorry, my love, that it took me so long to master my anger."

  Elizabeth smiled in silent acceptance of his apology. He peered up and caught her expression. Then he looked down again and began to bend the graceful fingers of his left hand one by one against his right hand. "So," he said finally, "I presume we are finished?"

  "Finished?" Elizabeth asked anxiously, misunderstanding his question.

  The movements of his fingers ceased. "I mean with our fight."

  She laughed with relief. "Yes, I suppose we are. At least, I have nothing to add."

  "Then what do we do next? What does one do after resolving a marital dispute?"

  "I presume we should reconcile," she suggested.

  "What, here or in your bedchamber?"

  Elizabeth was vaguely irked by the sudden suggestion, which followed too fast on the heels of his apology. Yet when she looked at him, she saw in his eyes that he was laughing at her. She had taught him how to tease, and now he was going to teach her to regret the fact.

  "Ah," she said at last, "You were only teasing."

  "Half teasing," he clarified, and rose from his chair. He came and kneeled beside hers. He took her hand in his and held it to his cheek before turning his face to kiss it. "I love you, Elizabeth," he said. "Promise me we will never quarrel again."

  "Fitzwilliam, you know I only make promises I am certain I can keep."