Darcy & Elizabeth (15 page)

The Inquiring Mind of Mrs. Darcy

As often occurs when two parties are at odds, when they do begin discourse the topic is not the true issue. As Elizabeth Darcy suspected, what was of great aggravation to her husband did not begin nor did it end with so simple a matter as a fence-jumping stallion. Her supposition, however, was a bit far afield of truth as well. Her misapprehension lay unchallenged for the length of what was to become a very discomfiting conversation.

***

When in the course of time those very human events that were once regarded as miraculous gradually transmute to the merely mundane, thoughts occasionally wander to occurrences which, at the time, seemed insignificant. A heart unburdened by concerns of life and limb betimes recollects those episodes with a clarity unbeneficial to any of the parties involved. Such was the case of Elizabeth's late-pregnancy audience with a personage in London to learn of her husband's fate upon yonder shores. The information came not in letter form, but by way of a woman whose knowledge of Darcy and his doings was not only pertinent but, insofar as yesteryear, scandalously intimate. When her heart was torn by near-hysterical fear for Darcy's life, such an acquaintanceship seemed quite insignificant. At the time, all Elizabeth cared to know was that her beloved was alive and unharmed. It was only with the continuing lack of imperilment to his well-being that her equanimity was eventually restored. But that very calm allowed her to wonder had his virtue remained as unscathed as his constitution.

It only took one particularly trying afternoon with a nattering group of gentlewomen (fresh from the season and rife with London's latest gossip) for her to have had quite enough of intimations and insinuations. If she heard one more female inquire “What could possibly have kept Mr. Darcy so long away?” she thought she might just slap the inquisitor forcefully enough to spin her a full rotation. Her husband had, so far as she was aware, always lived in a way to despise slander. If she could not put the speculation to an end once and for all, she intended to have him answer a few inquiries of her own. Therefore, no sooner had the last carriage betaken its occupants away, Elizabeth set out upon her mission.

She did not have to venture far. She found her husband once again prone across their bed, sound asleep in late afternoon. Upon this occasion, either he or Goodwin had ridded him of his coat. His boots, however, still bore enough dirt for Elizabeth to know that he had not taken a stop in the dusting room, and therefore Goodwin's intervention was unlikely. Doubtless, he had come the way of the postern steps. Although there was a time when she had erroneously mistaken Bingley's philandering as her husband's, she had never questioned his faithfulness again. Nor did she believe that his odd behaviour necessarily pointed to any deceit on his part then. His strange conduct and her general pique conspired to bid her fear that he was in the grip of some sort of waywardness of heart. If he was, the time had come to find out the truth at whatever the cost.

With great purpose, she crossed the room and demanded, “Darcy!”

He stirred but little.

Seeing far greater measures were necessary, she crawled atop the bed next to him and delivered a firm shake of his shoulder.

“Darcy!” she said more firmly.

That did its duty. He half-rolled upon his back, muttering, “What is it?”

“What is it?” she said, far more loudly than she intended. “What
is
it?”

By then, he was fully awake, but clearly unwitting of her meaning. His hair was flat upon one side and the bed-clothes had left several red creases across his cheek.

“I fear I have fallen asleep,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Asleep?
Asleep?
” she was well aware that shrillness was overtaking her.

“Yes.”

“We
must
talk.”

“
Must
we?”

The specific tone of this question was not appreciated, but she chose to ignore it. He lay upon his back, alternately squinting and blinking, desperately trying to clear both his head and his vision. As if fearing he would flee, she drew up her skirt and straddled him, exacting from him what she sought—his full attention.

She repeated, “We must talk.”

He nodded once, but looked to be a bit confused.

“There is something of which I must inquire.”

He nodded once again.

She settled herself across his mid-section. His hands settled upon her thighs, thus instilling in her the possibility of the conversation going errant. Still, she persevered.

“Whilst you were abroad,” she began, “I, of course, had no word from you.”

“This is true,” he said sadly.

He answered with genuine regret, but the expression that then overspread his countenance suggested that he was curious as to why this topic was at that moment so urgent as to wake him from a dead sleep.

Regardless, he said, “As I have explained, I wrote as often as I could…the war…the quarantine.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “there was but one message that found its way to me. It alone was the single word that I received. Only through it did I learn that you were not dead.”

She almost began to sniffle at the recollection of those dark days of not knowing, but stopt herself. The letter that she received had not been in his hand at all, but another's.

Instinctively, he patted her reassuringly and then allowed his hands to slide to the narrowing of her waist (a narrowing that she was wholly unaware had re-emerged). She did not, at that moment, want comfort from him. She wanted an answer to the question that had become her constant companion.

“Pray, do you know how I came to have that message?”

“The post?” he answered reasonably.

“I was asked to travel to London to obtain word of you.”

“In your condition? Lizzy! Whatever were you thinking? Was there no one to keep you from such madness?”

“I am disinclined to be chastised by a person who believes the proper channel for a missive to his wife would be through the benefices of a former lover.”

He blinked several times as if he did not hear her.

“You hear what you please. Do not propose to me you cannot hear me now.”

He heard her perfectly. They both knew that. His partial deafness had troubled him little in recent weeks. It was abating with each passing day and was only resurrected for his convenience. He heard everything that he wished to hear. He most certainly did not want to be a party to the conversation before him, but he had little choice. His face crimsoned and he closed his eyes at the vision he undoubtedly had of that particular meeting.

For a capricious reason that suited Elizabeth, obtaining some sort of reaction from his usual detachment proved satisfactory. Regrettably, the nature of his response suggested to her that the meeting with his old lover was less than benign. When she had met Juliette Clisson in the middle of a park in the middle of London, she had feared for Darcy so fervently, she cared little for what their connection might have been before his marriage to her. Now that he was very much alive and well and between her legs, she did not prefer benightedness, she demanded satisfaction.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Surely jealousy has not spurred this inquiry?” he queried, altering the subject quite artlessly.

“Nay! Never! That is beside the point. You have not answered me.”

“You will have to make a more specific inquiry.”

He had the infuriating beginnings of a smile and she wanted dearly to smack him across his smirk. Because for the second time in one day, she was nearly moved to violence, she bethought the matter. Perhaps she was just a bit jealous. But that
was
beside the point. She may well have had reason to be.

“Pray, would you care to offer the particulars of conspiring with Mademoiselle Clisson for delivery of a letter to
me
?”

Hearing her speak Juliette's name was exceedingly discombobulating, thus any part of mirth that was tempting his countenance evaporated.

“I had no idea,” said he.

“You had no idea of what, pray may I ask?” clearly, her ill-temper was not abating.

As that was a disputatious inquiry, he chose not to address it immediately.

“It was but a coincidence. I happened upon the lady, Mademoiselle Clisson, at my cousin's home,” he explained.

He did not make the mistake of calling Juliette by her Christian name, but Elizabeth raised a cynical eyebrow at his employment of the term
lady
. He, however, persevered.

“She and her party were to sail for London the next day. I was desperate to get word to you. In my haste—in my desperation to reach you—I asked if she might post a letter for me when she arrived. I had no idea that a meeting between you would come to pass. The letter…I believe in the letter, I explained the circumstances…. Did I not?”

It fell to Elizabeth to explain to him that Juliette had been compelled to destroy the letter when their vessel was boarded by the French authorities. The insult to Elizabeth, however, was still just as keen.

“I was never able to read your words, but only to hear them through her. And, of course, from her, how eagerly she comforted you.”

At last it was out, what had been plaguing her of the entire episode. It was not the insult to decorum, it was not the discomfort of the trip to town, nor was it the sheer humiliation of sitting in a public park whilst great with child. Nor was it taking a meeting with an exquisitely lovely woman from his past who called him “
Darcee
.” It was not one thing—it was
all
too much. A weep of the unbecoming sort threatened her and she was angered at the thought of exposing the depth of her hurt. She attempted to rise from imprisoning him, but she could not do that either, for he would not release her. He grasped her elbows firmly.

“Lizzy,” said he, “please do not…”

She began to struggle to leave him and he kept his hold on her arms to keep her there. A small tussle ensued as she writhed to remove herself from atop him and he, just as determinedly, clung to her, endeavouring with his considerable might to continue their discourse.

“Lizzy!” he said once again, this time more firmly.

She immediately stopt her struggle—but not because of his exclamation.

Another, more insistent outcry had come to her attention. Indeed, she had become quite cognizant that the genital tumescence (of which she had of late held office of monitor) had reasserted itself. It had reasserted itself in more profound attitude than of her recent memory. The timing of its resurrection, however, was regrettable. She silently announced that to him by ceasing to move about and sitting soundly upon his hips—thereupon issuing him a glare of reproach. Because his passion had not flowered without his notice, he comprehended the grounds for glower immediately. He was somewhat flummoxed, however, over why she was thus offended. There was never a time when she was in such an attitude as she was then that amorousness did not ensue. It only belatedly occurred to him that the nature of their discourse was unlike any other accompanying those past amatory episodes. So thoroughly was he transported, the thought that her wifely instincts might not have remained keen, however, was never once entertained.

Under the continuation of her ill-humoured demeanour, as dearly as he would have liked, he dared not to take liberties with her person. This was a wise choice.

“So,” she announced.

The finality of her utterance did nothing to mend his discombobulation. The tightening in his groin was undeniable evidence of his compleat loss of self-discipline. Hence, he saw no reason to deny his passion for her. She, however, sounded for all the world like a scolding nurse—as if he (or at least his member) were the errant child. If she were to sit upon him in such a manner (not to speak of gyrating about), he absolved himself of all blame for the resulting genital reflex.

“So,” he ventured, smiling happily—certain whatever her pique, she would relent.

She, however, did not. And, steadfastly holding her accusatory manner, inquired, “I am but to speak the name and your ardour returns?”

Her sarcasm was not undetectable.

“Speak the name?” he repeated dumbly.

“Of your former lover,” she said tightly. “I credit your honour that she is indeed only a former lover still.”

That explanation brought his attention from the painful throb in his loins. He then did allow her to draw away, but followed her as she fell upon her back, he then lying over her. He bid her to return his gaze, but she would not look directly upon him. Undeterred, he propped himself upon his elbows and cupped her face in his hands so she had no alternative. Initially, she refused, but when she acquiesced, he detected her every injury, her every resentment. In one fell swoop, he realised the enormity of his folly in believing that the sheer boundlessness and ferocity of their love could ever wane.

He kissed her tenderly upon her forehead—if she had supposed that kiss a fatherly one, she would have been egregiously mistaken. Indeed, the next was upon her lips, the very ones that were quivering with indignation. He kissed her more tenderly and lingeringly than he had in recent memory. Beneath him, he could feel her body begin to relax, all resistance draining away. Those passionate longings that she had suppressed broke free at last, causing a conspicuous rosy hue to creep up her throat.

Observing this, he admitted, “I have been a fool.”

However true, in not specifying in just what manner he had engaged in witlessness, he erred. In fortune, he immediately recognised his blunder.

“Please forgive me,” he said, “for I have been insensible of what misapprehension I visited upon you through my single-mindedness. I sought only to reach you and never imagined what the outcome might have been. Forgive me, dearest Lizzy. The only comfort I was afforded was to have found a means to you.”