Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy: The Last Man in the World (15 page)

He
would have no difficulty finding a new bride, one who could be a real wife to
him and a better sister to Georgiana. The idea of another woman in her place,
lying in Darcy's arms at night, caused her eyes to swim with tears, but she
wanted him to find the happiness he deserved. She knew it would never be with
her.

It
would be no loss to her family; she was already lost to them. If anyone were to
miss her at all, it would be a few of the tenants who had come to depend upon her
visits, and perhaps Pandora. But Pandora would be sold to a new mistress; she
would not pine.

She
heard footsteps echoing in the empty hallways, and quickly put the bottle away,
fearing her thoughts would be evident. It was only a chambermaid carrying a
pile of linens, but she turned curiously at the sight of her mistress.
Elizabeth closed the cupboard and slowly made her way down the hall to her
rooms. It would have to wait until tomorrow night. She did not want any more
scandal to touch Darcy, so no one must suspect what she was about. Mrs.
Reynolds would guess when she found the laudanum bottle empty, but she would
keep the secret out of loyalty to the family.

Oddly,
Elizabeth felt lighter than she had before, and was able to drift to sleep
quickly.

When
she awoke, her mind remained clear as to what she must do. It was easier to
view the future when it was only a day long. She thought she might even take a
walk around the grounds after her tenant visits. She would need to be sure all
their needs were met today, since it would be her last chance.

Lucy
appeared with her accustomed tray of breakfast. Elizabeth waved it aside as
usual, but Lucy, with a tenacity quite unlike her, shook her head.

"Madam,
you must eat."

"Thank
you for your concern, Lucy. I am not hungry at the moment, but I will eat
something later."

"No,
madam, you must eat. "

"Not
now, Lucy." Elizabeth spoke more sharply than was her wont.

Red
flags appeared in the girl's cheeks, but she stood her ground. "Madam, if
you do not eat, I ... I will tell Mrs. Reynolds."

Elizabeth
almost laughed at what was clearly the worst threat Lucy could imagine.
"Lucy ... "

"Mrs.
Darcy, you have not had your courses these three months. You must eat."

For
a moment Elizabeth could not understand what she was speaking of. Surely it had
not been so long. She cast her mind back, but could not produce details. How
often had her courses come since she had been at Pemberley? Was it only the
once? It must have been, and she had been too preoccupied with her own
unhappiness to notice.

This
could not be happening. How could she raise a child when her husband barely
spoke to her? It would be a grim existence indeed. And what of her own plans?
Suddenly the decision was no longer wholly her own.

As
if from a great distance, she heard herself say, "Yes, of course, Lucy. I
promise you, I will eat."

Looking
mollified but distrustful, Lucy set the tray on the bedside table and poured
out the tea. Clearly she did not intend to leave until her mistress had eaten.
Elizabeth took a muffin and raised it to her mouth. It seemed tasteless, as
everything did these days, but she forced herself through the motions of
chewing and swallowing. She washed down the dryness with a swallow of bitter
tea. Seeing Lucy's eyes still upon her, she took another bite, then dropped the
remains on the delicate porcelain plate.

"Now
the bread and jam, madam."

When
had Lucy become so intransigent? Elizabeth sighed, then obediently spread the
jam on the bread. The sweetness made it a little more palatable, so she finished
it, then pushed the tray away. "Please, Lucy, no more."

"Very
well, madam. A little at a time. I know how ill you have been, and it should
pass soon, but you must keep up your strength."

Elizabeth
looked at her in confusion, then realized what she meant. Lucy thought she had
kept to her rooms because of her condition. It was almost amusing. No doubt it
was better to let her think that than to admit to her despair, especially if
she might be carrying the heir to Pemberley.

The
reality of it began to sink into her. She was trapped, doomed to live in a
world where the man she loved thought only ill of her. Not that she would see
him often, as he apparently planned to stay away, but he loved Pemberley too
much to absent himself permanently. Would he then expect her to go elsewhere,
taking her away from the few small roots she had planted there?

She
could not keep back the tears. Covering her eyes, she managed to say,
"That will be all, Lucy."

When
a footman brought her a letter a week later, Elizabeth's first impulse was to
tell him to take it away. The post had brought her nothing but pain, and she
saw no reason why that would change.

But
that would not be suitable for the Mistress of Pemberley, so she accepted the
letter. The direction was in the firm handwriting she remembered from the
letter Darcy sent her when they were engaged, but this would not be a love
note. She wished she had appreciated more the one he had written her then.

She
was half-afraid to break the seal, not knowing what instructions he might have
for her. She reminded herself he was neither unfair nor unkind; and, whatever
he had written, it could be no worse than what he had already said to her.
Still, she retreated to her bedroom to read it.

Madam,

We
have made substantial progress in our efforts here. Your sister has been
recovered, and is presently at your uncle's house in Cheapside. Mr.

Wickham
has agreed to abide by his promise; their wedding is scheduled for next week.
Th
ey will then travel into the north
where he will take up a post in the regulars. I will remain in London for the
ceremony and return to Pemberley at some point thereafter.

I
hope this intelligence will provide you some relief.

Elizabeth's
breath caught in her throat. It was so unexpected she hardly knew whether to
believe it. He must have been in contact with her family.

And
with Wickham! She could scarce credit it. She read the brief missive again,
pausing at the indication that he would be attending the wedding.

There
was no reason he would participate in an event he must find repugnant unless he
were somehow involved. Based on Wickham's earlier demands, she could only
assume some money must have changed hands.

Was
this why he had gone to London, to undertake this effort to bring about their
marriage? She could not imagine how he would endure the mortification of it.
She wanted, no, she longed to believe it was on her behalf. Two months ago,
before their quarrel, it would have been. Now it was more likely that he did it
to minimize the scandal. Still, his letter indicated he must care about her
state of mind at least to some degree. Otherwise he need not have troubled
himself to write. She reviewed the few lines again, searching for reason to
hope.

Perhaps
he regretted his harshness after his illness and wanted once more to establish
a civil relationship. The sheer relief that she might not have to live with his
enmity made her stomach lurch in an unpleasant way, and she rested her hand
over it. The baby. Perhaps that might please him, too.

Perhaps
it was not altogether hopeless.

She
crossed to the desk to pen a carefully worded letter of thanks.

Elizabeth
could not help but hope for a response to her letter, nor could she avoid
feelings of discouragement when one did not come. But she was still determined
to do her best to ensure a happier outcome than had seemed indicated prior to
Darcy's departure. She thought of him often, of his generosity and virtues, and
prayed that generosity would outweigh the resentful temper he had spoken of in
the long-ago days at Netherfield.

She
was by no means certain of it, but she continued her efforts to become the best
mistress of Pemberley she could. This included spending more time with Georgiana,
and encouraging her confidence. Although it was still difficult for her to take
pleasure in anything, she felt some satisfaction in their improved
relationship.

One
day as they sat together in the front drawing room, Georgiana spoke up with
unusual determination. "Have you ever looked at the miniatures over the
mantelpiece, Elizabeth?"

"Not
closely." Elizabeth's needle moved nimbly through the fabric.

"Would
you object if I removed one of them?"

Elizabeth
set aside the handkerchief she was embroidering. She had been working earlier
on a shirt for the baby Mrs. Tanner was expecting, but found it drew her mind
to the question of her own condition. Although she wished she could view the
possibility of her own child with joy, she found it impossible to think of anything
but how her husband would react to the news. It was hard to forget that once
she had produced the heir to Pemberley, there would be little inducement for
Darcy to make their marriage more than in name only.

Yet,
still she longed for his presence, and hoped he would be happy to see her on
his return. It was desperately confusing.

She
disentangled herself from her bleak thoughts to focus on Georgiana.

"I
cannot see why you should not, if you so desire. Would you show me which one
you have in mind?"

"If
you wish to see it, which I doubt that you do."

Now
curious, Elizabeth approached the fireplace. She had never examined this
particular group in detail. Her eyes lingered on a miniature of Darcy, clearly
taken some years ago, but with a familiar smile on his face.

She
recognized Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Colonel Fitzwilliam in two of the
others. There was one of Mr. Darcy as a boy, and one in a matching frame of
another child she did not recognize, but with the Darcy family looks. Then her eyes
alighted on an unexpected face. What was Mr. Wickham doing in this family
collection? It must be the doing of old Mr. Darcy. She could not imagine her
husband making such a choice.

"No,
I have no objection whatsoever to removing it." Elizabeth felt no need to
ask which miniature Georgiana meant. "I agree it has no place there."

Georgiana's
shoulders relaxed. "No, it does not. I will ask Mrs. Reynolds to put it in
storage and to rearrange the others."

Elizabeth
pointed to the miniature of the unknown child. "I do not recognize this
boy. Who is he?"

"That
one, next to Fitzwilliam? That is Thomas."

"Thomas?"
Perhaps it was a cousin she had not heard of.

"My
brother. It is the only likeness of him that was taken."

Her
brother? How had Elizabeth remained unaware of this piece of Darcy family
history? Thomas looked to be nine or ten years old in the portrait, and the
matching one of her husband suggested they were close in age. "I had not
realized you had another brother."

Georgiana's
surprise was evident in her expression. "Yes, though I do not remember him
well. I was still a child when he died, and he was much older than me.
Fitzwilliam could tell you more about him."

Elizabeth
did not doubt this was true, but if he had not mentioned him in their months of
marriage, it seemed unlikely he would now. "What happened to him?"

"Smallpox.
Both Thomas and my mother succumbed to it. My father had it as well. He
recovered, although he was scarred by it."

It
must have been a terrible time for Darcy. She suddenly remembered something he
had said once-- I fear losing the people I care for.
"But you and Fitzwilliam were spared?"

"Fitzwilliam
was safe at Cambridge. I never became ill."

"How
dreadful for all of you." She wondered what it had been like for Darcy to
return home to a decimated family.

Georgiana
shrugged. "It was a long time ago."

"Thank
you for telling me." Elizabeth had many more questions, but she suspected
this conversation was more upsetting to Georgiana than it might appear.

Georgiana
looked puzzled, and seemed about to say something, but then she fell silent and
returned to her book.

The
day was unseasonably warm, and Elizabeth was tired by the time she returned
from a walk through the Pemberley grounds. No sooner had she entered the doors
of Pemberley than one of the maids gave her the welcome news that Mr. Darcy had
returned.

"Where
is he?" A surge of gladness filled Elizabeth's heart.

"In
his study, madam."

Elizabeth
hesitated. The proper behaviour would be to return to her room to refresh
herself before seeing her husband, but she had missed him too much, and
wondered too long about this reunion. She hurried down the hallway to the
study.

The
door was open, though he was alone, seated behind his desk. He looked healthier
than he had when he left; still a little thin, but with good colour and a
general air of strength about him. It warmed her just to see him.

He
did not seem to notice her until she said, "Welcome home."

He
looked up, then rose to his feet formally. "Thank you."

"You
were much missed." She smiled at him, feeling a little shy.

"I
appreciate the sentiment, Elizabeth, but it was not your gratitude I was
seeking." He resumed his seat and lifted a glass of brandy to his lips.

"It
is not gratitude that makes me glad to see you." Even as she said the
words, she knew they were pointless. His unsmiling visage told her that much.
Her dreams that his actions in London represented continuing affection for her
were just that--dreams. He was polite, nothing more. But she would not give up
so easily and go back to their long silences. "Tell me, how was your
trip?"

"Uneventful.
I assume you would like to hear about your sister Lydia."

Heat
rose in her cheeks. Was he reminding her of her disgraceful connections?
"No, in fact, I would prefer to hear about you."