“Oh!” the three youngest Bennet girls cried.
“Yes, he told me that his love made it difficult for his spirit to depart this—”
“We have arrived,” Elizabeth interrupted.
“But we haven’t arrived!” said Kitty. “I do not even see the gate!”
Tugging her hand free from Darcy’s, Elizabeth rapped her knuckles on the ceiling of the carriage. As the conveyance came to a stop, she climbed over Mary, pushed open the door, and tumbled from the carriage, just barely managing to land on two feet. She heard the exclamations behind her, but focused on the sound of her boots as they crunched through the three inches of snow that had fallen the night before.
Only when she felt a hand on her shoulder did she stop.
“Do not make me turn and face you,” she whispered, blinking rapidly. She found this only had the effect of making her tears flow faster.
“Very well,” he said, pulling her gently backwards so that he could wrap his arm around her waist.
When he rested his chin on her head, she began to sob. For how long, she could not have said, though when she finally caught her breath, her fingers were numb with cold.
She turned in Darcy’s arms so that she stared at his chest. “I do not hear my mother or sisters, and since I cannot imagine them remaining silent through such a display, I assume the carriage has left us behind.”
“Yes,” he said, his breath warm against the top of her head. “I told them to go on without us. We are no more than a quarter of a mile from the Lodge, and I have it on good authority that you are an excellent walker.”
“Elizabeth Bennet was an excellent walker,” she said. “I am Elizabeth Bennet no longer.”
The words seemed to echo in the near silence of the deserted lane. When nearly a minute passed without a response from him, she forced herself to look up. His face was as frozen as their surroundings.
“If you would be so good as to wait here,” he said, dropping his arms and stepping away, “I will go to the Lodge and tell the driver to send back the carriage.”
His voice felt colder than the air. She squeezed her eyes shut, wondering briefly how her body was able to produce tears so soon after having shed so many. When she finally managed to compose herself, she saw that he had not left but instead stood a few feet from her, his head bowed.
“Please do not be angry with me,” she whispered.
“Angry with you?” He glanced at her. “You are grieving, and I, in turn, behave like a spoilt child. Please do not be angry with me, Elizabeth.”
She held out her hand, and he took it, raising it to his chest.
“I did not mean to suggest,” she said, “that I am unhappy to be your wife.”
“You are unhappy, which is only natural and right in such circumstances.”
She brought her free hand to his shoulder. “You have been the truest of friends. How you put up with my unceasing orders, my mother’s fits, or my sisters’ antics, I do not know.”
“Your requests allowed me to be of use, which is all that I wanted. As for your mother and sisters, I am in fact glad of their displays; they are less painful to behold than your equanimity.” He looked away. “I spent this last week wishing that you would grieve. You were so quiet, so composed, that I knew not what to do. Had you broken down in tears or torn at your hair or screamed and railed, I would have known how to comfort you—or so I told myself.”
“Well,” she said, dropping her hands and turning away, “today I have jumped from a carriage and thrown a fit. You must feel relieved now that you have been able to calm your hysterical wife and behave with the kind of chivalry expected of you.”
“No, I do not feel relieved,” he said, taking her by the arm and guiding her down the road to Purvis Lodge. “I hope, though, that lashing out at me has improved your mood somewhat.”
“Unfortunately, no,” she said, glancing up at him.
“And yet I see the makings of a smile.”
“A trick of the light,” she said, her lips curving upward.
“Naturally,” he replied, matching her expression.
As they walked down the lane, she let herself enjoy the beauty of the frozen landscape for the first time since her father’s death. Until now, all scenery had been either invisible to her or, even worse, a painful reminder of what she had lost. In this moment, however, with the sound of her husband’s footsteps next to hers, she could not help but notice the glistening of sunlight on the icy trees or the sharp smell of pine in the air.
Then she remembered where they were headed.
“Could we not turn around?” she asked, stopping as the house came into view.
Darcy walked a step past her before he realized that she was not moving along side of him. “And go where?”
“Anywhere.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Paris, then?”
“Well, that is farther than I was expecting, but very well. Of course, Napoleon may not approve.”
“Ah, yes. Edinburgh? I have been told there are many intellectual pursuits to be had there.”
“Perhaps,” she said, smiling, “though it will be even colder there than here.”
“Bath may be warmer.”
“Yes, but it has grown ugly, or so I have been told.”
“There is always London,” he said, his voice losing its playfulness.
“We will brave London together soon enough.” She squeezed his hand, knowing he thought of his sister. “I suppose there is nothing to do but face my mother. I feel ashamed,” she admitted, her voice falling.
“You must not concern yourself with her comments,” he said, pulling her close.
“Oh, it is not that. Or, perhaps it is in part, but what I really mean is that I am ashamed of myself, for lately I have thought—” She shook her head. “It is too terrible a thing to say.”
“I will not think less of you, Elizabeth.”
“I find myself wondering if I would be half as heartbroken if she had been the one to die.”
“You feel a different kind of affection for your mother than your father. That is only natural.”
“I suppose,” she said, looking toward the house. “How can you not be vexed with her? You have purchased a home for her so that she may be comfortable, and yet she complains.”
“My motives are not entirely selfless. I am making no sacrifice other than money—and that I can spare easily—to see her happily settled. Hertfordshire is not, after all, an easy distance from Pemberley. It will be Bingley and your sister who will take on the more difficult task of seeing to her daily happiness.”
“She would not wish to leave the neighborhood. Her sister is here, and she will have as many opportunities as she pleases to note that Charlotte Lucas—rather, Collins—is letting Longbourn fall into disrepair. In any case, she will be happier near Jane and Bingley, though whether they will be happy residing near her…Oh, I should not be so unkind to her. She, too, is grieving. It is too easy for me to assume that she does not feel as I do.”
“Perhaps she does not,” Darcy replied quietly. “She loves your father in her way, and you love him in yours.”
“Yes, and I can hardly chide her for her silliness when I have let grief make me cold and cruel.”
“You are too severe in your judgement of your behavior.”
“Am I? I have not been a very good daughter or sister these past days. And do not lay the blame at grief’s feet, for Jane has been grieving, too, and she has been as good and kind as always.” Elizabeth then glanced up at Darcy. “She has also been a much better wife to her husband.”
“I can say without question that you have been the best wife I have ever married.”
She smiled at his quip. “That is not much of a compliment, but I will happily accept it.”
“It is, in fact, the highest of compliments, for I would marry no one who did not meet my exacting standards. Now, come along, wife without equal, for your mother and sisters will wonder what has become of us. We will
have as good a dinner as may be expected in so dreary a place as Purvis Lodge. The meal will, at the very least, be of short duration, as I have no wish for you and your family to travel back to Longbourn in the dark.”
As they resumed their trek to the house, Elizabeth said, “I will not be returning to Longbourn tonight.”
Darcy stopped suddenly. “Are you certain?”
She took her her husband’s hand. “Do come along, sir, for as you noted, we should not keep my mother and sisters waiting.”
*
He leaned against the doorjamb, watching her for almost a minute before she noticed him.
“I should apologize,” he said, when she started in surprise, “for failing to make my presence known.”
Sitting on the bed, her hair plaited and her feet bare, she appeared more vulnerable than he had ever seen her.
“Yes, you should apologize,” she said, arching a brow.
He smiled at the return of his Elizabeth.
Then she looked down at her hands. “I felt much braver on our wedding night.”
He took two halting steps into her room. “There is no need—”
Before he could finish, she jumped up and threw her arms about him.
“Elizabeth,” he said, drawing back slightly so that he could see her face, “come to bed—to sleep,” he added, smiling as he watched the blush creep across her cheeks. “We need not do anything else, not tonight.”
She bit her bottom lip, and he found himself regretting his words.
“But you have been very patient,” she said, looking away.
“Obligation, as admirable a quality as I find it in other realms of life, is no aphrodisiac.”
“Neither, I suppose, is a grieving wife,” she said, sighing.
“Come to bed,” he said again, this time taking her by the arm. “We will sleep and be all the better for it.”
She looked to the door separating their rooms. “Perhaps it would be best if we slept apart. I have been a restless sleeper recently.”
“Oh, no,” he said, nudging her toward the doorway. “I know what you are about, Elizabeth Darcy, and you will not get away with it.”
“Whatever can you mean?” she said, digging her heels into the carpet, which did very little to stop him from pulling her along. “I am attempting to be considerate.”
“You promised, in the music room of Netherfield, that you would be a snoring wife, and I intend to find out if you are true to your word.”
Laughing, she gave up the fight and allowed herself to be ushered into his room. He closed the door behind them, and they stood facing each other in the dim firelight.
“Well,” he said, looking to the bed.
“Yes,” she replied, following his gaze. She went to the mattress and pulled back the blankets. Just as she was about to climb in, she looked back at him. “Do you sleep on this side?”
“I sleep in the middle,” he said without thinking.
“Not tonight, or I shall jab you with my elbow. I am a territorial sleeper, as well as a loud one.”
“You do know how to make the prospect of sleeping with you alluring.”
“I believe this was your idea,” she replied, climbing into bed.
Catching sight of her calf as she arranged the blankets, he took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was attempting to comfort her, nothing more.
A few minutes later, he needed no such reminder. She lay next to him, sniffling quietly.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, daring to move his hand from his side to her shoulder.
“I am sorry to keep you awake,” she said, curling into a fetal position. “At night, when I can think of nothing else, I remember how I did not say goodbye to him.”
He reached out to embrace her, but then changed his mind and touched a tentative hand to her back. “Shhh,” he murmured, thinking it to be the most ineffectual thing he could have said—except that she rolled over quite suddenly and buried her face against his nightshirt.
“He might have been lying there in pain,” she sobbed against him, “wondering where I was, why I was not there for him in that last hour, when he needed me most, and—”
“He never doubted your love for him, of that I am certain,” he said, pulling her tight against him.
“Why did I not go up to him before we left? Why? Why did I let Mama convince me to leave without saying goodbye?”
He stroked her hair. “Elizabeth.”
“Jane was there. She had not left yet. Why was I in such a rush to leave? Why?”
Realizing there was nothing he could say to calm her, he reverted to making shushing sounds, hoping that he would, at the very least, keep himself composed.
He failed even at that.
After an indeterminate amount of time, her breathing slowed, and she reached up to touch his face.
“You are crying,” she whispered.
He rolled onto his back and said gruffly, “Do you need anything? Water? Wine?”
“Oh, God, I am so sorry, Fitzwilliam, I—”
“Please, no apologies,” he said. “You take on too much blame, Elizabeth.”
“I cannot help it.”
“Then let me help you,” he said, turning back to his side. He fumbled for her hands in the dark. “You must not blame yourself for leaving when you did. Perhaps it is my fault, perhaps I hurried you, or—”
“No, no, I do not blame you,” she said. “I do not even blame myself, truly! I do regret my decision, though. I will always regret not being there for him.”
“That is absurd,” he said, unable to stop himself.
She tried to pull her hands from his. “Those are harsh words!”
“I do not mean to hurt you with them,” he said, holding fast, “but you must know that it is senseless to regret what amounts to a sliver of a moment in a man’s life.”
“They were his last moments!”
“And why should they be more important than all the other ones that came before? Besides, why must you assume his last thoughts of you were dark? Perhaps he remembered the happiness of his life. Did I ever tell you that I saw his sketches of you? His drawings, in his study, I saw them and knew immediately how much he loved you. For over twenty years, you brought joy to his life. You must think on that.”
“But what if—” she said in a small voice.
“No. No what ifs. Neither of us knows what his last thoughts were, nor does any of your family who were there with him. Only he and God are aware of what passed through his mind before he died.” Darcy waited for her protests, but she remained silent. Feeling emboldened, he added, “What we do know is that he had a happy existence—and that your presence helped make it so. Given that, there is no reason to suppose that his last thoughts were anything but contented ones.”
Still she said nothing, and when he heard her even breaths, he wondered if she had finally succumbed to sleep. But then she whispered, “Was it this difficult for you when your father died?”
“Yes. No.” He sighed. “My mother’s death was perhaps the most difficult experience of my life; I was young, and she had always been so open with her love that, when she passed away, I felt cold, bereft. My father’s death was difficult for me, too, but for different reasons. I loved and admired him, but our relationship was not always easy. He was not a warm man. There were times when I wondered if his unwillingness to show affection reflected his disappointment in me. Now I know that he simply found it difficult to express himself.”
“How did you come to realize that?”
“Pemberley,” he said, smiling in the dark. “I know every nook and cranny of the house; I can name all of the tenants, their children, even their pets and livestock; I could walk the land blindfolded, and if my steward, solicitor, and housekeeper disappeared tomorrow, I could run the place myself. These skills are not innate, and truth be told, some of them are not even in tune with my disposition. My father loved and respected me enough to teach me.”
She slid closer to him
. “He treated you as his equal.”
“Yes! That is it exactly,” he said, wrapping her in his arms. “It took me several years after his death to understand that respect is, in many ways, the greatest form of love one man can show another. As a boy, I harbored a great deal of jealousy for George Wickham. No one could make Father laugh like George; I certainly never did. When George made some thoughtless remark or flirted openly with one of the maids, Father said nothing, yet if I made even the smallest misstep, I heard of it immediately. He would spend an entire afternoon fishing with George, while I was told to remain indoors and study Latin. When we did spend time together, we rode about the estate, so that he could drill me on the names of the grasses, crops, and livestock we encountered. Perhaps he could have shown me more affection, but that was not his way. In the end, though, he gave me Pemberley—not simply the rights to it, but the means to care for it.”
He stopped, realizing how long he had been speaking. “Forgive me. I did not mean to ramble on about such things, especially not at a time like this.”
“Oh, I think times like this—when we are in the dark and can see so little of what we need to see—are ideal for such conversations. Perhaps it is only in the dark that can we truly be ourselves.”
“That is a pretty sentiment—but I do not believe it. Without light, there is no truth.”
She laughed softly. “Are you actually about to start a philosophical argument with me? Now? In bed?”
“Did you not just say that these were the ideal moments for such—”
She swatted at his chest. “Contentious man. Your motives are quite transparent: you are simply trying to distract me from my grief.”
“Is it working?”
“Of course,” she said, leaning forward to place a kiss on his throat.
He sucked in a breath before gently disentangling himself from her. “Your method of distraction is a great deal more potent.”
“Not so very potent, if you are able to resist.” She sighed. “You are determined to wait.”
He pushed himself up so that he could lean back against the headboard. “I am. May I be entirely frank with you?”
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 27
