Darcy & Elizabeth (5 page)

“I can ride,” she insisted, anticipating him contending otherwise.

She began pulling on the breeches, the legs of which were unspeakably uncooperative. He suggested himself of the opposite opinion of both her readiness to ride by herself and the necessity of her donning the breeches by pulling them from the feet that she was just beginning to fit down the narrow leg passages. The yank was far more abrupt than she liked and she almost said as much, but he had tossed the garment aside and then swept her up in his arms before she could utter a sound. In one motion he plopped her sideways upon Blackjack's saddle. He managed this with such economy of motion that she was still stuttering “But, but…” when he pulled himself behind her and gave Blackjack his heel.

“Boots…” she began, pointing behind them.

“Leave them,” he demanded.

“No,” said she, “my horse.”

“She will follow,” he assured her.

He dug his heels into Blackjack, demanding him into a canter, then bethought the situation and slowed him to a walk, clearly in a quandary whether speed or comfort held greater import.

As they got on fast to Pemberley House, she clung to his shirt. So tight was her grasp, she feared she might rend the fine linen. She was in no particular state of alarm, therefore she could not account for her own discomposure. Gradually, the realisation from whence it sprang occurred to her. He in his shirt and in great dismay, she across the saddle in front of him was the same attitude in which they took leave of the inn after her long-past kidnapping at the hands of the villainous Tom Reed. It was disconcerting for that to be brought to her mind just then and she wondered if he recalled it as well.

They headed directly towards the courtyard, but public exposure of their little adventure was clearly something they most fervently did not wish to endure. Before she could bid him to find a more discreet entrance, he anticipated her, turning Blackjack towards the postern at the rear of the house (with Boots trailing loyally behind). When they gained the entrance archway shielding the steps, he leapt to the ground and held out his arms. Perhaps he had done just that at the end of that long-passed ride—she did not recall. But upon alighting from a horse on every mundane occasion, he had not drawn her down quite as tenderly as he did then.

Once upon the ground, she anticipated manoeuvring the steps under her own power. Again he thought otherwise. And again he swept her into her arms and with extraordinary purposefulness, took the steps two at a time. She was still a bit humiliated and would have preferred a less dramatic entrance.

“Pray, husband,” she begged, “I am not so unwell as all this…”

Unthwarted, he did not alter from his hurried pace until they reached her bedchamber. Quite unceremoniously, he kicked back the door.

“Hannah!” he commanded.

Aware that her mistress was from her bed and the house, Hannah had kept a worried eye out for her return. She did not need to hear the commotion to be fast on their heels. Hence, when Darcy turned and called for her, they met—causing Hannah to come to a near skidding halt.

“Good. Good,” he pronounced, then said, “Mrs. Darcy is unwell. See that the surgeon is called.”

At last, Elizabeth's interjection was heard, “I am quite well. I do
not
need to be seen.”

This too, was a repetition that recalled events that neither would have wanted to be brought to mind. Still, she insisted that all was well.

“'Tis merely a small regression,” she insisted. “I need only to rest to repair fully.”

She had finally made a statement with which he could at least partially agree.

“Yes, Lizzy. You do need your rest. Pray, is there anything than I can do to relieve your present suffering?”

She shook her head. However, he did not await an answer before he snapped his fingers at Hannah, who then hurried off to see that the doctor was indeed called. Once the maid had withdrawn, they could speak more plainly.

“It was unwise, I fear,” he said.

As he had not specified “it,” Elizabeth was left to wonder which of the various activities she had just undertaken was the one to which he referred. Any that he might have specified might not have found argument from her, for she had again begun to cramp. In fortune, she was by then beneath the bed-clothes and any unseemliness her body committed would remain between her and the maid.

She had been so caught up in denying her indisposition whilst simultaneously being thoroughly embarrassed by it that the extent of Darcy's dismay had been lost to her. Only then did she become aware that his countenance betokened throes of uncommon anxiety. Clearly he was not acting, as he often did, as her overseer, but seemed what was for him highly alarmed. It was only to her veteran eyes that it was discernible as such. (Anyone else would have thought him only in a bit of ill-humour.) Hence, she repressed her ever-increasing pique at his officiousness and lent him all due allowance.

“I have been done no great harm. I shall be
fine
,” she assured him, patting the top of his hand, which rested proprietarily upon the bed next to her.

His gaze suggested that he was
not
particularly reassured. “May I safely leave it to yourself to determine…?”

“I
promise
,” she did, in fact, promise him.

He smiled gamely, but did not leave her until the surgeon arrived some two hours later and offered similar sentiments. Mr. Upchurch stood over Elizabeth whilst Darcy looked on, hence the good doctor was unable to be more explicit with the couple than to inquire if Elizabeth had undertaken any unusual activities of late.

“She went out
upon
horseback
,” Darcy accused.

“Did she now?” the surgeon said mildly. “Now we mustn't do that for a while longer, shall we, Mrs. Darcy?”

Having become quite familiar with Mr. Upchurch over the years, Elizabeth understood that the man suspected that her horse may not have been the only thing she had been astride. She blushed so profoundly that she felt it spread from her cheeks and down her throat and then invade her décolletage. His wife's reaction did not escape Darcy's notice. Her chagrin contaminated his composure, but to a far less discernible degree.

The expression of contrition upon his countenance very nearly made her laugh. He looked like a child caught with his hand in the sugar bowl. Wisely, she overcame that inclination. Her merriment, however, was not lost upon him and he managed to alter his aspect into his particular version of punctiliousness.

“I shall be much more circumspect,” she solemnly promised Mr. Upchurch.

The surgeon left forthwith. Indeed, he left with such haste it was unclear whether it was owing to Mr. Darcy's dour countenance or his own embarrassment over having to allude to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's possibly premature connubial connection. Either way, he was out the door and down the hall so quickly that he almost tripped over their aging wolfhound Cressida upon his way.

Darcy and Elizabeth both heard Cressida whimper and Darcy walked to the door and looked out.

“She is uninjured?” Elizabeth inquired.

When he turned, he nodded his head and walked back to the side of her bed.

He said, “Cressida looks to be quite well. But, Lizzy, the question is, are you truly uninjured?”

As he said this, his countenance almost crumbled and he turned from her. Alarmed, she half rose. He heard and turned about once more.

“Do not. Do not, please,” he said, urging her to lie back.

In that brief moment, he had regained his composure. The happiness she had felt just that afternoon had now been usurped by self-reproach. She had selfishly pressed them to return to their previous intimacy. He was exposed not only to unseemly female emissions, but to profound apprehension.

The request was spoken with a level voice, but his eyes pled, “Promise me that you will see to your own well-being with greater resolve.”

“I do promise,” she said, then commenced to add a proviso. “But…”

“No,” he said. “Please, no.”

He looked away and began again, “Lizzy, my love, I have been far too deeply concerned for you to be soon at peace…”

She took his hand, but spoke no more. As much as she would have liked, there were no words to beguile him from his disquiet that day or for many days thence.

What Lengths Love Knows

From the very beginning, the throes of love in which Darcy found himself over Elizabeth had little to do with comeliness and everything to do with allure.

Although she was known as quite a country beauty, she had not the classic oval-faced, long-necked handsomeness of her sister Jane. Indeed, she was quick to assert Jane to be twice as handsome and thrice as good. Hence, she may have harboured some conceit of her own cleverness, but she believed her aspect quite unextraordinary. Her husband would not have disagreed that she was superior to most in wit and information. However, as he had been held in thrall of her physical charms for some time, he thought them nothing less than exceptional. Because his nature did not lend itself to expansivity, these sentiments remained largely unexpressed. It had been only in their most private moments that he would speak rapturously of the fineness of her eyes and the turn of her countenance (not infrequently would his delineation of her charms wander into those phrases lauding attributes not normally employed in polite company). These flights of linguistics were infrequent even before his away to Belgium. Since his return to hearth and home and the arrival of new ones in their bed, he had little time to speak to Elizabeth in confidence at all, much less give her an accounting of how very much motherhood had improved her handsomeness. Yet he was quite beside himself in admiration.

***

It was a muggy night, so damp Darcy's night-shirt stuck to his skin. He had thrown back the bed-clothes with disgust and had automatically reached out for Elizabeth. Her cool skin was always a comfort.

But she was not there.

It came to him then that she would be tending to one or the other of the infants. At that moment, even that usually sublime image was not a consolation to him. Restless, he turned upon his side and propped upon an elbow so as to gaze out upon the tree limbs that swayed beyond the railing of the balcony. The wide double doors had been thrown open in a futile attempt to entice a cool breeze inside. Maddeningly, rather than come in, the wind stubbornly whirled about outside, enticing the drapes out through the doorway where they noisily flailed about. So blustery and oppressively humid was it, he wondered if a storm was brewing.

It was then that he saw Elizabeth.

She was leaning against the railing, her night-dress pirouetting about her ankles as if dancing with the wind. As it whipped about, the thin gauze of her gown alternately caressed her body and then capered away—revealing and then concealing her womanly curves. It was a voluptuous sight—one that beguiled him from the bed.

Bare-footed, he padded out the door and came quietly behind her. She did not give a start when he put his hands upon her hips. Rather, she reached behind and placed her hands upon the sides of his thighs and leaned back against him. It would have been difficult to determine whether she rolled her head to the side, hence inviting him to kiss her upon her neck, or whether he initiated it by drawing her hair to one side. Regardless, he kissed her there whilst his hands instinctively embarked upon an exploration of her torso. Through the rushing of the wind a sough was heard; whether it came from her, from him, or simply from the trees, he was uncertain. Or he was until she began a slow undulation against him and he heard the same sound once again—this time he felt it as it escaped from the back of his throat. She continued to writhe, and as she did what had begun as a near sigh turned guttural. He felt his body pervaded by an unparalleled hunger for her—hunger that announced itself by a substantial tightening in his loins. So profound was his need that he turned her about far more brusquely than he intended. If she was displeased, it was unapparent other than the impish look she gave him as he drew her near. Her hand slid to his manhood and, rather than stroke him, she clasped it appreciatively. His heart was beating so feverishly in his chest that he could hear it in his ears.

“Darcy?”

Elizabeth was shaking his shoulder.

She repeated, “Darcy? I beg you forgive me, but I cannot sleep whilst you make that noise.”

Suddenly, he opened his eyes, blinking furiously in the dark, endeavouring to make sense of it. When he realised that he had been dreaming, he instinctively put his hand over his groin lest the specific nature of his dream be evident to her. That he was beneath the bed-clothes, in his night-shirt, and in the dark did not come immediately to mind.

“Yes,” he said, rolling onto his stomach in embarrassment. “Yes, of course. I shall do my best.”

“I do apologise,” she said. “It is imperative that I sleep when I can.” Then she asked with concern, “Are you unwell?”

Whether from the weather or his dream, perspiration had plastered his hair to his forehead.

“It is only these insufferable bed-clothes,” said he, attempting to relieve himself of them without turning over.

“Return to your sleep, Lizzy.” said he, “All is well.”

There was a time when the discovery of his arousal would have delighted her. He no longer dared to expose her to such lustfulness. Even he had heard the tales old women told of what befell a nursing mother if frightened. It was said she might lose her milk. He could not risk that. He murmured his apologies for disturbing her and waited to hear the deep respirations of her sleep before closing his own eyes again.

In retrospect, he realised he had been inexcusably smug to think that he could share a bed with her and resist his husbandly urges, which was imperative, of course. She would be unwell for some time.

With the same meticulousness that he employed in all his endeavours, he had worked it out in detail so as to keep any inappropriate inclinations at a minimum. When they kissed, he allowed himself only close-lipped chasteness. (Under no circumstances was he to relax his guard against the soft warmth of her lips.) A far greater dilemma (one that would not be withstood whatsoever if the kissing business was not held at bay) was to lie next to her each night. After the initial exhilaration of his return had cooled, he had inquired as to the nursing duties necessitating separate sleeping arrangements. Never, in all of their marriage, had they been under the same roof and slept apart. After a brief exploration of the other's true wishes, it was determined that neither was disposed to forgo such intimate communion—even with such strong grounds against it.

There were hurdles to overcome. In order not to fall victim to his passion, his regimen was alternately to cling to the far edge of the mattress and to imagine at any moment the gnomish spectre of Mrs. Littlepage sitting between them with a baby in each arm. His sleep was negligible, but he managed to keep from disturbing Elizabeth's. Once came the dawn, there were fewer wrinkles to avoid, for if she were awake, she was nursing and if she was not, he would steal from their bed so as not to ruin her sleep.

Although he had thought out his every move with precision, sitting in his dressing-chamber waiting for Goodwin to ready him for his morning shave, it was of particular mortification to realise how tempted he was to resort to that activity particular to pubescent boys to relieve the palpable pain in his genitals. Now it became clear that even in his sleep, his desire for his wife was ungovernable.

Regrettably, the rest of the day lay before him with unrelenting temptation.

To never again leave her side had been his initial compulsion and was honoured for weeks. It was only time and the aching in his vitals that bid him otherwise. He would have been quite happy to ride out each morning to engage solely in manly pursuits, eschewing such a female-dominated climate altogether. He could have made himself quite busy, not to return until supper was waiting. His temptation then would have been halved.

But he could not. Elizabeth had asked him to remain near her. He could never deny her anything—most certainly not himself. Therefore, he gathered his considerable dignity and reminded himself that he had endured war, pestilence, and a month on an ill-gaited horse—he certainly had the wherewithal to regulate his daily routine as he had the nights. But alas.

The stark light of day did not diminish his yearnings. He found himself watching Elizabeth surreptitiously whilst she nursed. The loving gazes she bestowed upon their gurgling young ones as they took their nourishment from her, the babies' fingers tangling happily in errant strands of her hair—it was a display of pure, angelic bliss, so beautiful it made his heart ache. If she saw him there, she encouraged him to come close. Thither went he to her side, but knew he was a clumsy outsider to such a gentle scene. Moreover, despite the sublimity he witnessed, the moment the children were taken from her arms and the room vacant of unwanted eyes, he felt the irresistible need to leap upon her fecund form, tear her gown from her luscious body and use every means within his power to impregnate her with another child.

Such a letch was an abomination unto the Lord, and of no help in his present situation, either.

The treasured miniature that had accompanied and comforted him upon his treacherous sojourn on the Continent was once again his constant companion. He drew a loving thumb across Elizabeth's likeness and pondered the conundrum he faced. For he would have paid any sum to exchange that tiny visage for her true aspect once again—and he dared not. Her very countenance before him was a cruel taunt when he could not go to her—to brush the curls from her neck and press his lips to the warm indention just below her ravishing little ear—and from thence to the luscious treasures below. As it was, he spent half his time in miserable semi-arousal—and hiding it like some randy schoolboy behind whatever waist-high furniture was at hand.

The mercy she had shown him by enticing him to take her in so bucolic an assignation, and in so fetching a manner, was one of unparalleled generosity. Its ghastly ending was truly a disappointment. But he had certainly not been disgusted. Its single evil was to recall to him events that he had hoped were long-embedded in their past. The moment he saw her blood, his alarm, the panic, the sheer terror of that ancient event gripped him like a serpent's fang.

So firmly had he endeavoured to bury the memory, it was if it had occurred in another life.

It had been late one autumn, weeks before she had been expected to deliver their first child, when Elizabeth went into labour. It had begun in customary order, but as time wore on, hour after agonizing hour, no progress was made. The surgeon told them that the baby was not only quite large, but breech. With her usual pluck, she had endured a horrific labour. She had refused to cry out in her pain lest Darcy hear her—and he had pled for her to do just that. Servants covered their ears, Goodwin had been laid helpless, Fitzwilliam fled, and only Charles Bingley, Darcy's friend and Jane's husband, remained in the house to comfort Jane. And comfort her he did, for the outcome was grievous indeed. The baby was stillborn and Elizabeth was left clinging to life.

After the baby had been taken from her, Elizabeth had lain still as death. Darcy dismissed everyone from the room and had cleansed her himself, knowing even then the unseemliness of his insisting on such duty. Jane was witting, but others in the household were unaware of it save Hannah. She had been the single other person who witnessed his tender ministrations (she undertook the conservatorship of that private hour as a sacred trust). Yet it had been a fortnight before Elizabeth again opened her eyes. When she did, her husband was the first image she saw, for he had shepherded her care more devotedly than Jane. It fell to him to tell her that the baby was dead, and it was he who cried with her for hours after.

Upon that occasion long past, when Elizabeth's milk had come, it was despised, a heartless reminder of what was not to be. It was a trial for him not to recall that when he saw her now. Perhaps that is why the vision of her nursing now tugged so decidedly at his heart. Quite unreasonably, all of the heartbreak, all her pain, Darcy had concluded, fell to him. His own imposing bearing (and his inordinate conceit of pride for it) bid him be wracked with guilt for fathering a child too large for her to deliver. She was not petite, but she was fine-boned. He, who prided himself upon being well-schooled in the nature of breeding—he, above all others—should have anticipated the dangers.

As it had the last time, it had fallen to her again to indicate when her body was sufficiently recovered from her lying-in. The morning she came beneath his window on Boots, she told him unequivocally that she was prepared once again to engage in those amorous acts that led to her confinement in the first place. Granted, when that time was nigh at hand, Mr. Darcy was in such a state of sexual deprivation, coaxing of mind or member was quite unnecessary. It was maddeningly brief, but still a delight.

It was also clearly premature.

Elizabeth had been entirely mistaken in the supposition that his fastidiousness had been offended by her unexpected discharge. Had her mortification not clouded her judgement, she would have realised that. He had never been repulsed by the monthly evidence of her fecundity nor did he abhor the evidence of childbirth. She was, however, compleatly unaware that he alone had cleansed her body after the stillbirth. The blood was merely a reminder of how very close he once came to losing her. His reticent disposition always resurfaced in times of trial. Hence, he could in no way explain what terror took hold of him that day or why.

One of the many blessings their newborns bestowed upon him as a father had been to relieve him at last of his long-held fear for a safe delivery. Still, he wondered if the twins had been but one, how large might they have been? That old bugaboo would occasionally seize him—that the children he sired were too large for his dearest Lizzy to bear. He endeavoured to remind himself of that with which they were blessed and fervently prayed that if they were gifted with more children, all would be well.

When upon the heels of their abridged tryst he curtailed further advances towards marital fulfilment, she wholly misunderstood. He merely wanted to give her all the time she needed to recover. They must not rush her. All the planets would soon align, abolishing misapprehensions and misgivings. They would once again laugh together beneath the bed-clothes until frolicsome inclinations fell quiet, suffocated by a passion that had found no boundaries. He hoped.