Darcy & Elizabeth (14 page)

Mercy Twice Blessed

Although Darcy did not believe himself without fault (in that all God's creatures were inherently flawed), he had rarely found personal shortcomings grave enough to necessitate correction. Due to his elevated station and the resultant lack of reproach, he had once been quite arrogant. He admitted that freely. That arrogance had caused Elizabeth to spurn his first proposal of marriage. Although still impenetrably grave at social indiscretions, he had purged superciliousness from his character as compleatly and expeditiously as humanly possible in order to win her. Now that his single failing had been corrected and Elizabeth was his, the agonizing months between her first refusal and her eventual acceptance of his hand were recalled as only a slight misunderstanding between lovers. That now conquered, conceit had been his single folly. (His penitence for intemperate behaviour as a lusty youth once had caused him much private grief—now it rarely came to mind.) When he thought of himself impersonally, he knew that he was a loving husband, considerate brother, and now, devoted father.

Few men could call themselves more altruistic, benevolent, charitable, fair, high-minded, righteous, hospitable, just, and kind. He had practiced each and every virtue until perfected. He was Master of his Realm and all who inhabited it. Nothing in or of his life proposed his honour anything other than exemplary.

However, lasciviously eyeing the newly voluminous globes of the mother of his children might pass to do just that.

As it happened, Mr. Darcy, owner of nothing if not his own will, victim of a self-imposed banishment from his wife's comforting arms, found himself prodigiously aroused (to a vexatious degree) by Mrs. Darcy's maternally enhanced…maternal enhancements. As closely guarded as were Mr. Darcy's private perturbations, it was altogether mortifying to him that he was unable to comport himself in a manner befitting his station towards his own wife. As time and libido soldiered on, he was quite powerless to remember that his comely wife and her charming bosom were no longer solely for his delectation. To be driven by desire to have his wife once again was one thing, to be consumed by the need to bury his face between the mysterious, sweet-smelling crevice between her breasts was quite another. Lectures to himself, prayers, exercise—all were for naught. His every desire for her had congealed into this single lust. His notoriously stern will was losing ground and he knew not how to stanch the tide. As he had absolutely no domination over his thoughts, he strove mightily to constrain his conduct.

In this he was marginally successful. Never was he more charged with restraint than those evenings taken in a small upstairs sitting-room that had long been a favourite sanctuary of theirs when taking solitary evenings together. If company was in the house, they welcomed them in one of the grand rooms meant for that purpose. This room too was exquisite, but much more informal. Just as Elizabeth had longed to have a portrait of their family to hang in the portrait gallery, it had been her particular design that they would continue to betake their evenings here as their number increased. Darcy was wholly of the same mind—or at least he had been when that prospect only included their growing brood of children. It was an entirely different matter when their snug happiness constantly included the personification of his heart's yearning blatantly adorning his wife.

Indeed, if one were unaware of the underpinnings of the scene, nothing would seem at all amiss. The family sat about a typical evening seemingly in beatific calm. Mr. Darcy carefully perused his paper. Mrs. Darcy attended to her embroidery in between loving gazes upon the babies slumbering at her feet—Mrs. Littlepage softly snoring from her perch in the chimney corner. Upon occasion, Elizabeth would fuss with the dainty lace fichu that she carefully draped over her shoulders, resituating it and retying the loose knot to obscure her over-flowing bosom. Each time she made that readjustment Mr. Darcy would glance in her direction, then, with great care, turn the page of his paper. Next he would exhibit a fit of vexation over the paper's seeming uncooperativeness, rattling it until it was smoothed to his satisfaction. He did this with such frequency and vigour that a footman inquired if he should require Goodwin. No, Mr. Darcy said, he most certainly did not need Goodwin to re-press his paper, and he shook his head once (but soundly) at the notion.

Seemingly unaware of her husband's discomposure, Mrs. Darcy set aside her handwork, leapt from her chair, and strode with impatient, broad strides across the room to rearrange the fire-screen. The footman gasped at this outrage against his office and hurried to assist her. The poor man then retook his station looking terribly perplexed. Mrs. Darcy, however, just as purposefully strode back to her seat and picked up her embroidery. With each and every step, her bosom bobbed, thereby revealing beneath the translucent lace the fleshly hue of her breasts. (The thought had occurred to Darcy that it may well have been that blessed lace stole that was the sole culprit for inflaming his desire for her so injudiciously.) Regardless, Mrs. Darcy could not cross the room (and she appeared to be crossing the room a perturbing number of times) adorned by that infernally thin lacy mantle, without Mr. Darcy imagining her without it. Then, of course, he thought of kissing her neck and further undraping—whereupon he was driven either to view the dark of night from the window or to be banished entirely from the room lest his…adoration be evident to all.

Not that Elizabeth flaunted herself or her voluptuous figure. He fully admitted that it was quite to the contrary.

When abed, she wore a modest button-front night-dress which was not at all plain, but a lovely pink
peau de soie
, elaborately embroidered, the neck tied with tasselled cords. It was a fetchingly demure gown. However, he had little opportunity to admire it. For when one or the other of her infants were not nursing, Elizabeth fell fast asleep. So deep and peaceful was her slumber, he could not bring himself to wake her. It
was
important she get her rest. And when she was about, she alternated from day to day between but two frocks. He had asked if the dressmaker would be working something up for her, but her expression intimated she somehow saw that inquiry a criticism. He truly did not mean offence, but those two dresses were beastly tight—she really should have more done up. But he dared not venture another comment lest she take it as a reproach. Far too often these days, his dear Lizzy took the mildest of observations with ill-humour. He could not fathom what could be the matter. He was doing all he could to leave her in peace.

He thought that the culprit responsible for his unseemly appetence for her bosom was merely her fichu. In truth, that was merely a convenient scapegoat. Like most scapegoats, it did not insist that he inquire more deeply of his motives. Had he, the notion might have occurred to him that he was obsessed with her bosom for the single reason that it was not that more intimate part of her body—the part that he was not to corrupt.

As Darcy was unrehearsed in the politesse of motherhood, he had been of the belief that the fires of lust that burnt with ferocity were only his own. He was certain that Elizabeth's attention was far too compromised by her babies to entertain thoughts of a carnal nature. Yet he could not forget that she had gone to the considerable trouble of indicating to him that she still wanted him as a husband. It still caused him a palpable pain that in his heated state he had taken her without due caution. Indeed, abstinence even then had subjected him to such a state of arousal that their encounter was very nearly over before it had begun. The brevity of their amour left him barely sated, but it would have been beastly to be at her again so soon. He withdrew from her that day of the opinion that, save for his unquenched libido, all was well and good—only to be faced with the unforgiving evidence that he had caused her great harm. At the time she had given no sign, made no word of discomfort. Although she had insisted to the surgeon that she was quite well, she had sat in her tub for half a day and walked in strange little mincing steps thereafter.

What had transpired upon that one occasion was a troubling recollection, for she clearly had done that for him alone. She had given herself to him solely to relieve his carnal cravings and then suffered from that generosity. Were there any doubt of her leanings, it was dispelled when she made no more overtures. It should have been no astonishment. Enduring a constitution enfeebled by childbirth, her recuperation was compromised by two infants on compleatly different feeding schedules. He had seen it with his horses. He had once had a mare that had foaled twins and she became so thin and weak they were forced to hand-feed both foals.

Beyond small notice of a certain amount of fretting and manoeuvring over whether or not Mrs. Darcy would or would not employ a wet-nurse, one would have supposed Mrs. Darcy's husband would have remained indifferent to, or outright oblivious of, the entire commotion. Initially, he may well have been neutral. He was not, however, oblivious. He had dared not interject into an issue of which he had no part. Yet he came to be powerfully grateful that she had acquiesced. At least his Lizzy had not lost her health, much less her bloom. He thanked God above that she relented and allowed for a wet-nurse to assist her. Would that she would allow a second!

“Pray, just how long does human suckling last?” he silently mused.

His best guess was not months, but years, and that was not a comfort.

Another worry plagued him. Either entirely incited by sensual contemplations or merely spurred on by them, an odd caprice had overtaken him. He had begun to find any excuse to lean over her, pass by her in a narrow doorway, anything—just to catch her scent. And, most unforgivably, with absolutely no remorse he had stood gazing at her through the crack of the door whilst she bathed.

Both the act and the lack of remorse bid him know that he had sunk to near depravity. He was ashamed every time he did—which was often. To remedy this final insult to his probity, he alternately fenced to exhaustion and prayed for forgiveness. Yet his desire for her was not quashed. But with every slash of his foil, with every bend of his knee he recalled those heartless, merciless, uncompromising glimpses of seduction—the nape of her neck, the sweep of her hair—and, God help him, the very act of pulling the pins loosing her tresses into an unfathomable cascade of mahogany whorls. Was it any wonder he was driven mad with desire? Was God testing him or torturing him, he knew not. What he did know was that if he could not find release soon, he just might run mad.

It did not take many evenings such as these for the notion of their connection being forever altered, which had worried Darcy to distraction, slowly but deliberately to begin to crumble. Perhaps it was his inborn noblesse that resurfaced, eventually weaning him from self-flagellation. Perhaps it was that the round of ladies coming to visit Elizabeth allowed him at last to escape to the outdoors, which cleared his mind for some sorely needed objectivity. Regardless, those self-condemnatory thoughts began to be trespassed by others—equally well-ordered and especially practical. He bethought every moment since his return, this time to better advantage. He relived their initial post-natal coming together and considered that perhaps that encounter had not been entirely ill-conceived, but as he had first thought, just a bit premature. Certainly they would eventually consort together again as man and wife, would they not? That would be necessary if they were to have more children. Did not all but an unfortunate few married couples go on to have more children? Elizabeth had endured a successful labour and those fears for her that had once dogged him so relentlessly could be put to rest. She had made it clear that she wanted more children. Moreover, as the children grew, her time would be less monopolised. Perhaps they might even regain some shred of their previous love life. It might not be as…enthusiastic as it had once been—after all, she
was
a mother. Certainly a man with his discipline could be discreet in his ardour. Moreover, he would be circumspect in expressing it.

He would promise anything, go anywhere, and endure any strife to be able to love her as he had once again. And if, in time, motherhood bid that she did not return his passion in equal measure, he would bear that too.

Enough Is Enough

Whilst her husband skulked about in general denial that he was lusting after her voluptuous figure, Elizabeth remained totally insensible of it. Not only was she oblivious to his stalking her, she laboured under quite the opposite misapprehension.

Although she knew it to be the ideal, Elizabeth had never envied Jane's willowy shape. She was self-possessed enough to be compleatly accepting of her own as more Rubenesque. (And had it not pleased her, her shapeliness had seemed to please Darcy.) Curves, however, were one thing—outright portliness was quite another. It was quite clear to her that pregnancy's injustice took its sweet time in taking leave. The babies were getting larger every day, but she was not getting smaller with equal haste. Indeed, she felt nothing less than a bloated cow and looked upon her immense mammary appurtenances with, if not disdain, at least annoyance. She supposed their size merely represented the magnitude of the task they had been handed, but that did not mollify her pride. Other mothers nursed and remained quite svelte. She felt as if someone had played a cruel trick upon her and was convinced that her figure resembled nothing if not the forward mast of a battleship. Upon occasion a frown overspread her countenance that was quite persistent.

“Dowager Darcy,” she pronounced and shook her head in dismay. “Dowdy Dowager Darcy.”

Dowdy Dowager Darcy's husband was entirely unwitting that she believed herself decidedly less than fetching, busy as he was endeavouring mightily at every moment to keep from ravishing her. Hence, he was heedless of his husbandly obligation of reassuring her that her desirability had not waned. In that absence, her imagination continued to foster the notion that her figure was objectionable. Had she taken a peek in her cheval looking-glass, she would have concluded that she was much on the mend, but she had remained disinclined to take uncensored measure of her own pregnancy-ravaged form. The one thing that she could not avoid seeing was the size of her bosom. She had hoped that it would improve, but it remained so prominent that the extent of her midriff was unknown to her and she supposed it had not shrunk to any degree either. Much desiring to remain uninformed of just how ill she looked, the very nature of her toilette altered.

Where once she had cavorted in her tub wearing nothing more than a few suds, she reverted to the dressing-gown draped baths of her youth. The occasional delight of slipping into her husband's tub for him to sponge her back was but a distant memory. Since the birth of her children what baths she took were but perfunctory. She meant to relieve herself of the odour of sour milk and that left little time for a luxuriating soak. Where once she rarely wore a cap in their chambers, it became part of her daily wear, for she found it quite convenient to stow bedraggled ear-locks (which had become favourite baby hand-holds and hence, always straggling when loose). Devoid of jewellery, spit-cloth over her shoulder, she saw quite clearly that she was becoming an ill-favoured drudge. But save abandoning her motherly duties, she knew not how to forestall what looked to be her inevitable decline.

Elizabeth Darcy was not mirthlessly inclined. Indeed, she was known to be blessed with a keen mind, frank tongue, and a quick, but not cutting, wit. Through more than one or two entanglements from judgemental lapses, she had become a fairly wise woman as well. Such pessimism was most atypical of her. She despised self-pity in others and abhorred it of herself. Hence, upon this occasion, one must assume that it was not necessarily hers to control but born of those dark forces which are a woman's plight. To her merit, she could often be shrewd in her assessment of situations and those who peopled them. But, as is often the case, objectivity of her own straits was not always at hand. Therefore, her ill-spirits were not deigned by her as such. They were taken as accurate and true. As would be expected, a misconception such as the one under which she laboured could not be improved by fair appraisal for so long as it remains undiscovered.

Moreover, not unlike most persons who were inherently open and artless, she could not make her mind think other than forthrightly. She had used her every wile, called forth all her cunning just to lure her husband to their romantic tryst in the glen. It was her conclusion that because she had invited him to join her there, the next move was his to take. She may not own a fraction of the pride he held, but she certainly had her share. She would not go again to him, he must come to her.

That self-sufficiency was put daily to the test. Evenings were her most interminable trial. In the day, Darcy might see to his accounts or take interviews with his employees. (Without fail, his daily duties included a visit to the stables where he made a point of inspecting Boots to assess her foaling—which invariably cost him a bit of temper.) But come the night they all sat in what had once been her second-favourite room in the house. Darcy sat in his chair reading the paper, Cressida curled at his feet. Each time he turned the page he reached out and gave the dog a pet. Of late, Elizabeth had become ever more jealous of that enfeebled dog. Mr. Darcy's dog certainly received more attention upon those hours than Mr. Darcy's wife. If that slight was not insult enough, he had taken to striding about the room in a most indecorous fashion. Upon these perambulations, his usual costume was a pair of buff-coloured moleskin breeches and his favourite riding boots. As was his habit, the tops of the boots were folded just below the knee, this particular habit accentuating the muscularity of his thighs. Not since their courtship had she occasion to despise the fashionable tautness of masculine trousers, for a man like her husband they left very little to imagine (or recollect—and her memory was then quite her adversary). Was that not injury enough, she knew that he was well aware of that peculiarity of her libido that endowed his boots (or rather his boots when containing his legs) with an aphrodisiacal quality; still he leapt from his chair and pranced the length of the room in the most provocative fashion. If she had not known his nature as well as she did, she might have accused him of deliberately incendiary behaviour.

An alteration of their daily mode had begun when Elizabeth was well enough for ladies to begin to call. That he gave himself leave to escape for hours upon end when it was he who held their most eagre interest remained one of her most prominent vexations. When it was announced that he was not about, looks were exchanged and great understanding professed, but it was all quite insincere. Everyone knew it was, indeed, an escape. He sought respite from the unrelenting temptation of his wife, but she saw it as outright desertion—just when she most needed his encouragement to endure what she must on behalf of their station and deserved the sympathy for weathering it. She had no doubt that he felt he had been entrapped with her. It was clear by the half-cornered expression that occasionally overspread his countenance when she found reason to brush against him. And she had (to slight contrition) begun to brush against him upon every opportunity. She told herself that she did so only to ascertain any alteration in his expression, but in truth, it was not. As exceedingly indecorous as it was to contemplate, she was sorely tempted to reach out and caress him.

“That, no doubt, would alter his expression,” she sniffed to herself.

As closely (if surreptitiously) as she eyed his privates, she was certain that upon occasion she detected certain convexities particular to the tumescence of arousal. As closely schooled as she had been in various levels of excitement (and, it must be admitted, the sheer amplitude) of the Master's Unruly Member, that was something he could not entirely hide from her. Despite this noticeable priapism, he neither invited her attentions nor approached her. In her heart, she knew that he awaited her to again propose intimacy, but she steadfastly clung to her demand that, this time, he come to her. Still smarting from certain undeniable physical failings, she knew that was both an excuse and an evasion.

An ugly conviction overswept her. At one time the thought of her husband not attending her would have been unthinkable—but no more. Upon those occasions her time was her own, he did not join her. It was as if the life they had once enjoyed was no longer. She feared that they had embarked upon a different road—one where they walked side by side, but not hand in hand. It made her heart ache to think of it.

So she did not.

She saw herself making a life with her children, scurrying from one to the other, rarely allowing Nurse any duties at all. It was as if the hollow in her heart called out for relief and she could only imbue it with the substituted passion of a maternal nature. That may have been keen, but it was not, however…him.

As time marched on and time between the babies' feedings grew, cradles and infant paraphernalia gradually made their way into the morning-parlour. Elizabeth's own disposition had a tendency towards one particular evil of indulgence for her babies beyond those proprietary, and that involved proximity. For convention demanded the nursery be situated on the top floor of the mansion-house, nanny, under-nurse, nurseryman all with adjoining rooms. Mrs. Darcy, however, took her own counsel on that custom like all others—if not actually defying it, at the very least bending it into her own. With them installed across the corridor, she then began to go to the babies to nurse, rather than the reverse. If she had an ulterior motive for this rearrangement, it remained unspoken. A half-dozen se'nnights after their birth even she knew that rekindled amatory rites were in order. Some sort of odd standoff had been reached—each awaiting the other to open sexual negotiations. Her patience, however, was wearing thin.

Their bedroom privacy restored had not the result she intended. At odd times in the late afternoon, she began to find her husband face down across the bed, still booted, often wearing his frock-coat as if he had just fallen over in a dead faint. But that was ridiculous, he would not swoon. But so deeply did he sleep, she would have to shake his shoulder to rouse him. She was wholly unwitting that before he had begun to take to the saddle daily, he had recompensed his lack of sleep by taking forty-winks here and there. Now he had not that chance and the weeks of sleep deprivation had begun to tell upon his vigour. Having no idea how little sleep he was managing each night, how much fencing he was engaging in, and the incalculable strain that his inflamed virilité were subjecting him to, Elizabeth was sorely bewildered. She knew that unavoidable alterations came to a marriage, but the ones that she was witnessing were wildly beyond her expectations. Clearly, something was amiss. The longer their romantic impasse continued the more it became evident to her from whence it sprang.

She was not amused, nor was she particularly sympathetic. Indeed, the longer the little seed of jealousy festered in the confines of her bosom, the more deadly it became.