Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy: The Last Man in the World (16 page)

"You
are not concerned for your sister?"

Perhaps
she had hoped for too much in thinking he would be polite. She raised her chin.
"You have already told me she is alive, married, and to live far away.
Since the past cannot be undone, that is the best I can hope for, so there is
nothing further you can say to reassure me."

He
took a swallow of brandy. "Do you not wish to know whether she was party
to Mr. Wickham's plans?"

She
had not considered that possibility. Lydia, although vain and frivolous, had
never possessed a talent for mischief-making. But if Lydia had known what
Wickham was planning, it would be a disgrace Darcy would never be able to
forgive. "I suppose I ought."

"She
was not. She was unaware of the contents of the letter beyond her own
note."

"That
is, I suppose, a relief. I would rather her worst fault be silliness than
larceny."

Colonel
Fitzwilliam appeared in the doorway. "Darcy, have you

...

Pardon
me, Mrs. Darcy; I had not realized you were here. I hope you are well?"

Her
husband had not cared to ask that question. "I am, I thank you."

"I
will not interrupt you further, then." He bowed, as if to depart.

Suddenly
her hurt turned to a form of anger, that her husband did not even show her that
much courtesy. "There is no need. I was merely expressing my gratitude to
Mr. Darcy, and we have quite exhausted the subject. I shall see you at supper,
I presume?"

The
colonel gave her a puzzled look. "Of course. I shall look forward to
it."

She
moved past him, hoping she could keep her countenance until she was out of
sight. Her first impulse was to flee to her room and to lick the wounds of her
lost hopes, but she was tired of hiding in her rooms, tired of crying, and tired
of feeling unloved. Instead, she made her way to the kitchen and asked the
cooks to put together a basket of food for the Tanners.

Delivering
it calmed her a little. The children's pleasure in her visit lifted her
spirits, and seeing the fading bruises on Mrs. Tanner's face reminded Elizabeth
of how much she still had to be thankful for in her husband. Even if he never
cared for her again, at least he did not misuse his position.

But
it was little consolation. She could learn to live with the fact he no longer
loved her, but knowing he held an ill opinion of her was difficult to

bear.
If only she could speak openly to him, to tell him of the ways she had changed,
it might be easier, but it seemed he did not wish to hear it.

She
delayed her return to the house as long as possible, arriving back just in time
for supper. She ate it in silence, letting Darcy, Georgiana, and Colonel
Fitzwilliam carry the conversation. It seemed the wisest course, since she felt
unable to discern what Darcy wanted from her. Did he wish for her to be
animated or to try to be invisible? To act as mistress of Pemberley or not to
interfere with his household? Or did he wish her to leave completely?

The
situation was untenable, but she could not imagine discussing it with her
husband after the debacle of their first conversation. Finally, when she
retired after supper, complaining of a headache, she decided to take pen to
paper. At least this way she would not have to witness his reaction to her
questions.

The
most painful consideration was whether to tell him of her suspicions as to her
condition. It might please him. On the other hand, if he were inclined to wish
nothing more to do with her, it would be that much easier for him to put her
aside if she were already carrying the heir to Pemberley.

She
wrote two drafts before she was satisfied her words were neutral enough, then
recopied it yet again after tears stained her fair copy. She crumpled the early
drafts and tossed them on the fire; it would not do for Lucy or one of the
chambermaids to find them. She read through the final version one last time.

Although
you said you did not want my gratitude, you have it in any case, and my deep
appreciation that you would take on the burden and mortification to help my
poor sister. It was an act of charity on your part, by no means deserved by the
recipients, but you have my heartfelt thanks, as well as my regret and
apologies to have ever brought this situation upon you.

It
was not my gratitude which caused me to be glad to see you today, anymore than
it was gratitude that made me pray desperately for you when you were missing or
that kept me by your bedside during your illness, at least until such a time as
you made your wishes for my absence known. I understand fully that my
late-blooming affection and admiration are unwelcome to you at this juncture. I
cannot say I deserve anything more after my poor judgment and unkind behaviour.

My
purpose in writing you is to request direction as to how I may least impinge
upon your peace of mind given our awkward circumstances. I have misjudged your
desires in the past, and have no wish to do so again, nor to force my company
on you. Therefore I would ask your guidance as to the extent to which you wish
me to participate in your household, or even if you would prefer me to absent
myself from Pemberley. My only wish is for your comfort and happiness, and you
may be assured I will follow your instructions in every particular.

I
will await your direction. If it is of importance to you in coming to a
decision, it is my belief that I am presently with child.

You
need not be alarmed that I will make a habit of forcing my sentiments upon you,
but on this one occasion, I will take the liberty to sign myself,

Your loving wife,

Elizabeth
Darcy

It
might be better to leave out the final part, but she feared she might never
have another chance to tell him of her feelings. It would likely be unwelcome
to him now, but perhaps some day he might recall it with more fondness. Or
perhaps that was no more than wishful thinking.

She
folded the letter carefully and dripped hot wax to form a seal, blowing across
it to cool it more quickly. If he received it tonight, it would be that much
less time before she had an answer and could end this terrible uncertainty.

She
was in luck; Darcy had not yet retired, so she was able to give the letter to
Ferguson with instructions to deliver it personally to her husband when he came
upstairs. Now all she could do was wait. She doubted she would sleep tonight,
so she settled herself in the window seat, a book beside her which she could
pretend to be reading if Lucy reappeared.

Hours
later, the candle long since burnt out, Elizabeth started when a peremptory
knock sounded at the adjoining door. Without waiting for an invitation, Darcy
opened the door and strode in. He stopped in the middle of the room as if
allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Her letter was in his hand.

His
countenance bespoke disturbance, if not anger. He approached her as she sat in
the window seat, holding her letter as if it were a weapon.

"What
means this, madam?"

She
looked up at him, tracing his features with her eyes. If only she had
recognized her feelings for him earlier, she might have been allowed to caress
them with her fingers, to feel the warmth of his skin. But it was not to be.
"Exactly what it says."

"Do
you wish to establish yourself elsewhere?"

She
dropped her eyes. So it was to be exile from him. "If that is what you
wish."

He
placed one booted foot on the window seat, leaning closer to her. "I asked
what you wish."

She
leaned her head back against the carved wood. "If all else is equal, I
would prefer to remain here."

"And
you are with child?" There was no warmth in his tone.

"I
believe so. I am not yet certain."

He
spun away and crossed to the bed, throwing the letter upon it.

"Elizabeth,
I will not mistreat you, or indeed treat you with less than respect. You need
do nothing to please me in order to earn that. I pray you, in the future do not
torment me by pretending to sentiments you do not possess. I would rather have
your honest dislike."

"There
was no pretence in my letter. I would never lie about my affection for
someone."

"Indeed?
It seems to me you did little else during the first months of our
marriage." There was a world of bitterness in his voice.

She
pressed her fingertips against the cool glass. They would leave a mark that
would have to be cleaned in the morning. "I did not lie to you about my
feelings. I chose not to contradict your assumptions. There is a difference."

"To
you, perhaps. Whether you deceived me or whether you allowed me to deceive
myself does not change the outcome for me. Good night, madam."

"Wait!"
She rose to her feet and caught his arm. As he turned back to look at her, she
caught a hint of a haunted look in his eyes. She could not resist the urge to
tuck back his stray lock of hair, and let her fingers rest afterward on his
cheek. It had been so long since she had touched him. "Fitzwilliam, I will
not quarrel with you. It was unconscionable of me to deceive you, but I could find
no other option. I will not deceive you now."

"You
cannot change your feelings as you would your gloves. Please, Elizabeth."
It was as if he were torn between staying and departing.

"If
there is one thing of which you cannot accuse me, sir, it is of learning to
love you too quickly." She caressed the line of his jaw.

Her
teasing tone must have gone amiss, because his countenance turned grim again.
"Do not speak to me of love, Elizabeth. If you no longer hold the past
against me, I am satisfied. No more is needed."

"So
you do not believe me when I speak of caring."

He
crossed his arms. "No, madam, I do not."

She
could find no warmth in him now, no sign of love, no trace of desire, even
though they were alone in her room and she wore nothing but a summer nightgown.
Apparently he had lost interest in that aspect of her as well.

She
knew then that nothing she could say would convince him, perhaps because he did
not trust her, or perhaps because he did not want her love.

She
looked into his implacably distant eyes. So it was beyond repair. All she could
do would be to learn to live with a love that would never be returned, and the
knowledge of the opportunity she had lost. Perhaps someday it would no longer
hurt as it did now.

"Then
I will not trouble you with sentiments you do not wish to hear."

She
tried to speak lightly, but her voice began to shake. Choosing retreat over a
rout, she returned to the window seat where she had an excuse to look away from
him.

The
sound of the door opening and closing again told her he had departed.
Exhausted, she lowered her face into her arms and wept.

What
Darcy needed was a gallop over the countryside, but unfortunately that would
have to wait until morning. Not that first light was far off; he had stayed
downstairs until it was quite late, since he did not wish to think long before
he fell asleep, not with Elizabeth in bed just beyond the sitting room.
Instead, he had found her letter and confronted her, and now he prowled his
room like a wounded tiger, full of rage and helplessness.

He
tried to find excuses for her behaviour. Women with child were often moody and
prone to strange reasoning, were they not? He should not have spoken so coldly
to her on his return, but he could not bear the happiness on her face when she
saw him, knowing it was not for him. Perhaps she had sought to please him by
that incomprehensible letter, not realizing how much more it would hurt him to
raise his hopes again.

But
was it possible she meant what she had said? He quashed the voice inside which
wanted to believe her. There was no point in even considering it. His goal was
a civil friendship which would allow them both to survive this mockery of a
marriage. Tonight that objective seemed a distant one.

What
had she said, that she had worried about him when he was ill?

When
he had finally awoken from his illness, she was nowhere to be found.

Hardly
the action of a devoted wife. Certainly there had been fever dreams where she
had been present, placing cool cloths on his forehead and holding his hand, but
that had been wishful thinking. The doubting voice spoke up again. If only he
could shut his ears to it!

Ferguson
emerged from the dressing room with Darcy's nightshirt and gown. The valet
moved silently and efficiently as he performed the nightly rituals, turning
down the bed, hanging up the topcoat and waistcoat Darcy had abandoned over the
back of a chair. Darcy stopped pacing long enough to allow Ferguson to remove
his boots, but his thoughts would not stop.

"Ferguson?"

"Yes,
sir?"

"When
I was ill, did Mrs. Darcy attend to me?" Here would be his proof to quiet
the inner voice. Darcy stripped off his shirt and handed it to Ferguson.

"Quite
constantly, sir. She was here day and night while you were most ill. She was a
most devoted nurse." Ferguson folded the shirt with utmost care.
"Until you told her to leave, that is, sir."

Darcy
rounded on his valet with a temper not often shown to his servants. "I
never told her to leave."

"As
you say, sir." Ferguson disappeared with the shirt and boots into the
dressing room.

No.
It made no sense. Darcy strode to the dressing room. "What do you mean,
that I told her to leave? Did she tell you that?"

"No,
sir; I was present on the occasion. It was the day your fever broke."

Ferguson
knelt and began polishing one of Darcy's boots with a soft cloth, as if there
were nothing unusual about this conversation, as if nothing depended on it.

Darcy
gritted his teeth. "What did I say?"