Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy: The Last Man in the World (13 page)

The
steward's eyebrows shot up, but he quickly resumed his normal expression.
"That would no doubt be well received, madam."

"Would
you consider that an adequate deterrent? I am concerned whether old Mr. Bridges
can work his land by himself."

"A
valid point, madam. I think it would do very well indeed."

"If
you would be so kind, I would like to be kept abreast of the developments in
this case."

Mr.
Dunstan nodded. "If you have time tomorrow, I will let you know the
outcome."

"Thank
you." She would certainly have time tomorrow; time was all she had. Any
distraction would be welcome.

That
night, as exhaustion overtook her, she lay down beside Darcy and fell into a
sleep of disturbing dreams. In one dream, she was adrift in a small boat with a
leak in the bottom. She could do nothing but watch the water creep in to become
deeper and deeper, until she was soaked to the skin. She awoke to find the
sensation was true; there was a salty wetness on her face, and her nightdress,
damp where her body touched her husband's, clung to her. She thought at first
she must have been crying in her sleep, but then she realized the moisture had
a different source. Darcy's body was beaded with perspiration, the sheets
around him soaked. Torn between desperate hope and fear, Elizabeth laid her
hand against his forehead. His fever had broken.

She
returned to her own bed for the first time since his accident, while Ferguson
stayed with Darcy. Her first thought when she awoke, refreshed by uninterrupted
sleep, was for her husband, and she immediately rang for Lucy, who brought the
welcome news that his fever had not returned, and he had taken a little broth
earlier. Eager to see him, she hurried through her toilette, making Lucy laugh
at her impatience.

When
she arrived at his room, he was asleep again. Taking her accustomed seat beside
his bed, she noticed his cheeks no longer had the heightened colour of the
previous days, and his breathing was easier. She smiled, thinking of the future
they would share together.

One
time when she glanced up from her embroidery, she found him looking at her, his
eyes clear once again. She reached out to take his hand, but he did not respond
to her gentle pressure.

"Elizabeth."
His voice was gravelly.

"It
is good to see you looking better, Fitzwilliam."

"Why
are you here?"

Her
smile slipped. "To be with you, of course."

He
turned his head away, staring up at the ceiling. "I want nothing of
you."

A
chill ran through her. Surely he could not mean it, not after all the
handholding and whispered intimacies of the last few days? She had been so
certain he felt as she did, that all their troubles were in the past. Had it
just been his fever and the laudanum speaking? Her skin burnt at the thought of
it.

She
swallowed hard. "You wish me to leave?"

"Yes.
Begone, and trouble me no more." There was a cold implacability in his
expression she remembered from the days after their quarrel, one she had hoped
never to see again.

She
had forgotten that his ill-fated ride had begun after another disagreement with
her, this time over Jane. Apparently, he had not. Stricken, she stood,
straightening her skirt before picking up her embroidery. "Should you wish
to see me, you need only send word, and I will be happy to attend you."

He
said nothing, and she turned to go, but not before noticing Ferguson's
sympathetic look. No doubt he was sorry for her, but not so sorry that everyone
in the household would not be aware within hours that her husband had dismissed
her. She gathered what remained of her dignity and made her way to the
adjoining door. She glanced back once at Darcy, the twisted expression on his
face only accentuating his pallor. "My best wishes for your recovery,
sir."

She
closed the door blindly behind her and stumbled across the sitting room to the
safety of her own bedroom, where she could give way to the luxury of tears.

Elizabeth
went down to dinner with high colour in her cheeks, wondering how many of the
servants knew she had been banned from her husband's bedside. She would have to
accustom herself to the humiliation of it; anyone who was not aware of it
already would discover it soon enough. Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam gave
no sign of any change in her situation, but perhaps they were just being kind.
She managed to choke down only a few bites during a meal which seemed to last
for hours, and fortunately no one showed surprise when she excused herself as
soon as it was over.

Her
mortification could not still her concern for her husband's health. If only her
disgrace had the power to stop her from caring for him! But it was not to be.
It was understandable enough why he would reject her overtures now; she had
rejected his in the past. Finally, exhausted with the struggle of not knowing,
she asked Lucy to have Ferguson wait upon her. She could ask him about Darcy's
well-being; he could have no doubts as to why she could not find out for
herself.

She
had never known one could feel pain through every inch of one's being, but now
it became her familiar companion. Was this how Darcy had felt after their
argument? If so, it was no surprise he wanted nothing to do with her any
longer.

She
resumed her tenant visits, giving purpose to her days which otherwise would be
full of useless self-reproach. With Mr. Dunstan's advice, she expanded the
circle of families she visited, and became a familiar figure among the cottages
as she brought food to the ailing and the invalids. She was received by them
with gratitude. The word of her judgment regarding Jack Bridges had spread, and
with it the esteem in which they held her. When she spoke with the people of
Pemberley, especially the children, sometimes she could forget her grief for a
few minutes, but never for long.

Back
at Pemberley House, she threw herself into the task of becoming the best
possible mistress of Pemberley. If she could not have Darcy's love, she would
do her best to satisfy him in that regard. She learned the names and habits of
the plants in the hothouses and took over arranging flowers throughout the
house, planned meals in conjunction with the cook, and spent hours practicing
on the pianoforte as she had heard Georgiana do.

She
played in the evenings for Colonel Fitzwilliam and Georgiana; it was easier
than conversing with them. She grimly rode Pandora each day, accompanied by a
stable hand, finding her earlier panic in riding now returning with Darcy's
absence. But he had wanted her to learn to ride, and ride she would. If she
enjoyed none of it, there was nothing to be done for it.

She
found no pleasure in anything.

Her
only ray of hope was that less than a fortnight remained until the Gardiners
were due to arrive. Although her first thought was to disguise any troubles
from them, on reflection she had decided she would tell her aunt everything, in
hopes she might have some wisdom to impart. She had nothing left to lose.

From
Ferguson's reports she knew that Darcy continued his slow recovery. For several
days he relapsed into fever, and Elizabeth found herself once again unable to
sleep at night for worry, even though he was no longer hers to lose.

Elizabeth
was practicing her music when Colonel Fitzwilliam strode into the room. She had
successfully avoided being alone with him until now, given how Darcy had
responded to his presence at his last visit. A cosy tete-a-tete while she
played was not in her plans, so she closed the pianoforte and asked him the
question most on her mind. "How does my husband?"

"He
continues to improve slowly."

"I
am glad to hear it."

He
lowered himself into a chair and put his legs out in front of him. "I have
spent a great deal of time at my cousin's bedside with little to do apart from
reflection. I have been wondering why a woman who never left her husband's side
during his illness would suddenly absent herself when he starts to recover. I
confess I am exceedingly puzzled."

Of
course her behaviour must look odd if he had not heard the household gossip.
She chose her words with care; she did not want him to think too ill of her.
"I promised to love, honour, and obey my husband. I believe this would
fall under 'obey'."

"Do
you mean to suggest he told you to stay away? I do not believe it."

"I
have said all I am prepared to say on this subject." She made a show of
choosing a new sheet of music.

"Then
I shall ask my cousin himself. Good day, madam."

"No!"
She rose to her feet and took a step toward him. "Please do not tell him
you spoke to me."

Her
panic must have communicated itself to him, for he stopped, regarding her with
bewilderment. "My dear Elizabeth, there is no cause for alarm. You have
said nothing he could object to, and he is a fair man."

She
could not tell him of Darcy's suspicions about them. She searched frantically
for an explanation which would not discredit her completely.

But
there was no point. It could not make matters any worse if the colonel
disapproved of her. "My husband suspects me of preferring the attention of
other men. If he knew we had spoken alone, he would be angry with me."

There
was a long, humiliating silence, and finally she looked away. His voice, when
it finally came, was carefully neutral. "Is there any truth to his
suspicions?"

She
rounded on him. "No, of course not!" Her anger leached away as
quickly as it had come. Defeated, she said, "As I was unable to convince
my husband of it, I doubt I can convince you. But now you are answered; please
do not question me further."

"This
makes no sense."

"If
you will excuse me, Colonel." She slipped out of the room before he could
say anything further.

The
next day brought a letter from Jane. Elizabeth's eyes misted at her sister's
familiar handwriting, although the address was written ill. She
held the letter
in her hands as if it somehow contained an essence of Jane.

Somewhere
there were people who still loved her. Soon, too, she would see the Gardiners.

Finally
she opened it, determined to read it slowly and savour every word.

Dearest
Lizzy,

Something
has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of
alarming you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to
poor Lydia. I do not know if you were aware she was spending the summer with
her friend Mrs. Forster in Brighton, so she could continue to enjoy the company
of the officers in the regiment who had gone thither from Meryton. An express
came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel
Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers.
Imagine our surprise! To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected.
I am very, very sorry. But I am willing to hope for the best. Our poor mother
is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. They were off Saturday night about
twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight.
The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within
ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia
left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude,
for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to
make it out, but I hardly know what I have written.

Elizabeth
hardly knew what to think. Lydia eloped? Surely she could not be so foolish, so
careless with the reputation of her family. It would hurt all their sisters'
chance of marriage, undoing all the good her own marriage had done to the
Bennet family name. Foolish, foolish girl!

Darcy
would be furious at this scandal touching him. It would confirm his every
prejudice against her family. The heat of shame rushed through her. How could
she ever tell him?

She
was still debating the question the following day when an express arrived for
her. She snatched at the letter on the silver tray, expecting it to be further
news from Longbourn. But the writing was not Jane's neat script but a hurried,
uneven hand.

Dear
Lizzy,

Is
this not a marvellous joke? I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise. I venture
you did not think when you left Longbourn that I should be the next of your
sisters to marry! Just think--I will now go before Jane!

Elizabeth
shut her eyes. Lydia had always been heedless, but she would never have thought
her sister would sink so low. What had her father been thinking, to allow Lydia
to go to Brighton?

But
I must stop now, for my dearest Wickham has a question he must ask you.

Lydia.

Wickham?
Surely he could not have been the one to elope with Lydia.

Poor
Lydia--bound for life to a man who could not be trusted, whose lies had cost
Elizabeth so dearly, the man her husband so detested. It could not be worse;
Darcy would never let her see her family again.

The
letter continued in a man's clear handwriting.

My
dear Elizabeth,

I
hope I may take the liberty to address you so informally, now that we are to be
sister and brother. I am sure you have already heard the tale of our elopement.
Sadly, your dear sister and I are not yet in Scotland, but still in London,
held back by an unfortunate shortage of funds. There are many demands in the
life of an officer. I cannot in good conscience proceed to wed while
outstanding debts of honour await me, and without proper means to support a
wife. So, dear Elizabeth, I appeal to your generous nature. I believe twelve
thousand pounds would be sufficient to settle my debts and to purchase a
position in keeping with my married state. I hope you will communicate with me
at the direction below so we may resolve this obstacle between our-selves with
expediency.