Chapter 6
Darcy was a man possessed in Gentleman Jackson’s salon, raining blows down upon his cousin, who returned them with equal, albeit confused, vigour. When they were done, the two men stood, sweat pouring from them and chests heaving with attempts to catch their breaths.
“Well,” said Fitzwilliam at length, “the French seem like idle playfellows compared to that!”
“My apologies,” Darcy muttered. It had helped a bit to immerse himself in the physical, to release his agony by punching and being punched. But it was not enough. The demon within him was temporarily resting, by no means vanquished.
They donned their discarded attire in silence, soon finding themselves back on the road, walking slowly towards Matlock House. “I need to do…something,” Darcy said abruptly. “I cannot live in this way.”
“Return to Pemberley, perhaps?”
“Imagining that dastard coming to defile my marriage bed at Pemberley is too much to bear,” Darcy snapped. “It is bad enough to think it happens here in London.”
“But you cannot be sure, Darcy. Unless you have spoken to her and she admitted it?”
Silently, Darcy reached into the pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a handkerchief. He handed it to Fitzwilliam, who opened it, nearly dropping the lock of hair folded within.
A short lock of hair, deep blond in colour, and matching that on George Wickham’s head.
Folded within a handkerchief that bore the initials ‘GW’.
Found in the drawer where Elizabeth’s stays were kept.
Darcy was unsure who exactly had found it and when, but Fields had been the unlucky man obliged to bring it to him.
Fitzwilliam cursed as only a soldier can. Darcy echoed him softly.
“Small wonder you wished to beat someone to death.” Fitzwilliam gave him a wry smile. “Will you confront her with this?”
Darcy nodded. “I shall. I must. But there can be no denying this, and then…then what? I know not.”
“What if she carries his child?”
“I cannot bear to think of that.”
“But you must. For practicality’s sake if none other. The ton would see it and know that she…well, it would force you to either recognise the child as your own or make her disgrace known.”
His words brought an uneasy recollection to Darcy’s mind: finding his wife crying in the breakfast room and mentioning children to him.
Likely Elizabeth feared that if he did not visit her bed, he would know he was not the father of whatever bastard she might conceive.
Did she cry because she suspected Wickham’s son grew within her?
Would he be subjected to this most painful of indignities?
“…house in North Yorkshire, excellent grouse moor. Quite out of the way of anyone. I daresay it is ten miles to the nearest village, certainly out of sight of the ton.”
“What are you saying?” Darcy asked.
“I am saying that if you fear it has gone as far as that, perhaps the pair of you should go off for a bit. I would say abroad, but in these uncertain times…no, Yorkshire is nice enough, and you could fish and shoot until…well, until you know for certain. And Wickham would not know where to find her, and in any case, he cannot afford to travel so far.”
“You are saying you think we should go away?”
“I do,” Fitzwilliam said. “Until things can be worked upon. Get out of the chaos of London, remove her from her lover… I think it would be best, do you not?”
“And if she is with child? Then what?”
“Then…then perhaps my father will know what to do.”
With a faint groan, Darcy rubbed his hand across his face and murmured, “God forbid.”
Elizabeth returned to Darcy House later that morning, only to learn that her husband had just departed with Colonel Fitzwilliam.
She still had not seen him by dinner time, and she learnt from the housekeeper that he had returned some time previous and requested dinner on a tray in his chamber.
She was nervous but decided she must try to speak to him, particularly as Mrs Hobbs had intimated that the master appeared upset in some way.
Tentatively, she went to his room and tapped on the door. There was silence for a moment until Darcy yanked it open.
“I wanted to make sure you were well. Mrs Hobbs said you wished to dine in your room.”
Suddenly, she felt a need to touch him, at once certain that if they could only talk about things, she could reach the man she once knew, the man she had entrusted with her life. She reached out her hand, intending to lay it on his arm.
He stepped back quickly so that her arm fell into thin air. “Please do not—”
She entreated him, “We need to talk.”
“Not…no.” He was so stern, looking at her as though he had never loved her, never once cared for her even a bit. “I am not ready.”
“Please?” Elizabeth heard the tremble in her voice and hated herself for it.
“You will excuse me.” His voice was flat and without emotion.
“But perhaps—”
“Please leave me!” His face contorted as he said it, and he quickly closed his door.
She reeled back. Tears came as she ran to her own room, rousing only briefly later to inform Georgiana that she was ill with a headache and would not return downstairs that night.
She spent a desperate, sleepless night in her chamber, doing little more than weeping, feeling angry and betrayed, and trying to find a tenable solution to her problems. She could think of nothing but the possibility of returning to Hertfordshire.
The very thought of it was utterly humiliating, but perhaps if she presented it to her family as nothing more than a visit, it would be less evident that her husband despised her.
When she entered the breakfast room the next morning, she found him standing at the window with a cup of coffee in his hand. He turned to look at her as she entered.
“Good morning.” She nearly choked on her words. “I…I hope you slept well? I did not sleep well, but it gave me time to wonder whether…should I…”
Seeming to take some small pity on her distress, he went to the table, pulling a chair out for her and helping her sit. He then sat beside her.
“What is it?” he asked, not kindly, but not unkindly either, which was the best she could hope for these days.
With a fortifying breath, she said, “I thought it might be best to have a respite from this situation in which we find ourselves. Given time, we might find some solution to it.”
He took a sip of his coffee and coldly enquired, “To what situation do you refer?”
She barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “You seem angry and upset, and I cannot force you to discuss it with me. Perhaps time apart—”
“Time apart?” He gave an unexpected and bitter laugh. “You have somewhere else you would rather be?”
“N-not…no, that is not what I meant.”
“A wife’s place is with her husband, regardless of what you might think.”
“I did not mean that I wished to—”
Darcy stood abruptly and, in dire tones, informed her, “Be careful what you wish for, Elizabeth.”
She had grown accustomed to eating dinner in her bedchamber from a tray, and it was both thrilling and frightening when Darcy summoned her that night to dine with him.
Elizabeth scarcely tasted a morsel through the tremblings and flutterings that afflicted her.
She snuck surreptitious looks at him as they went through two full courses.
Even after everything, she ached to realise how she loved him still and how much she hoped that something might be said to put things to right between them.
He might only wish to discuss ordinary matters. Things pertaining to the household, perhaps plans to return to Pemberley. It might be nothing at all. She did not know whether the thought was a comfort or a disappointment.
Darcy’s countenance was unreadable as he asked her to join him in his study after they finished. Fear rose up within her as he gestured her towards a seat across from his large desk. She wished she had not eaten even the small amount she had, as it began immediately to roil about within her gut.
For a long moment, he was quiet. Then, at last, he reached slowly into his desk, producing a handkerchief and laying it before her. He said nothing but studied her carefully and dispassionately.
She looked at it, dumbfounded. It was a man’s handkerchief, plain but elegant, looking to be one of Darcy’s own. Did he think that what he was about to say might make her cry? Why would she need his handkerchief? “Wh-what is this for?”
Coolly he replied, “It was found in your bedchamber.”
“N-no. It is not mine.”
“I know it is not yours.”
He reached across the desk and flipped the handkerchief over, revealing a monogram.
‘GW’ was embroidered simply and elegantly in one corner.
With no immediate comprehension of who or what ‘GW’ might be, she looked at him questioningly, her heart pounding wildly, and her stomach clenched in nervous tension.
She wished she could think clearly, to try and determine what was happening, but she simply could not.
Fear and upset ruled her, and she could only focus on restraining her tears, understanding instinctively that they would only cause him to grow angrier with her.
With shaking fingers, she reached for the handkerchief, unfolding it to reveal a lock of hair. Light hair, hair that belonged to neither her nor her husband. In fact it looked like her brother Bingley’s hair, down to the corkscrew curl of it. “B-Bingley’s hair?”
“I will not hear your lies!” Darcy shouted, scaring her.
Elizabeth startled, tears pouring from her eyes as her hand jerked and knocked the handkerchief to the floor. She immediately bent, picking it up, enclosing the lock of hair, and returning it to the desk. When she stood again, Darcy was at the window.
Speaking very calmly, he said, “Your maid tells me you have not had your courses for two months. Is this true?”
Was that true? She could not make sense of his meaning. She understood the sentences well enough but not what he implied, particularly with such underlying anger.
“I…perhaps…I cannot say, but I would not make too much of…”
When he turned from the window, his voice was again cool and distant, and his entire being had become suffused with a deadly calm that was infinitely more frightening than his anger had been.
“I believe it would be best for all of us if you would consent to spending some time at an estate I have let in North Yorkshire.”
He was sending her away.
It was astonishing and devastating, yet part of her had known, had realised it would come to this from the very moment her aunt had mentioned it. He despised her and all that she was, and now he wished to be rid of her.
He continued to speak, telling her all the hateful details. She heard none of it save for the fact that she would go tomorrow. She was stunned, sitting motionless in shock, reminding herself to continue to breathe.
“For obvious reasons, I would much prefer no one know where you are, not even your family. Write them, assure them you are well, but have them send your letters to me. I shall ensure you receive them.”
Then he escorted her from the room, depositing her outside his study and closing the door quietly but firmly behind her.
The night was long and painful. Elizabeth was restless and numb, needing something to do but knowing not what.
In the end, she wrote a long letter to him, telling him that she loved him, needed him, and was willing to do absolutely anything at all if only he would allow her to stay with him.
She told him of her fears that he had decided she was unsuitable and of her willingness to change and become everything his wife should truly be.
Over and over again, she begged him to please, please not send her away and to give her and their marriage another chance.
All pretence of pride and dignity was discarded; she offered him the rawness of her soul and the desperation of her spirit, and she pleaded with him to offer her mercy in return.
When she had finished her letter, her head ached from the tears she had shed, and her stomach was in a painful knot.
She sealed the note and handed it to a footman to give to her husband.
She wondered what the servants thought of the matter, believing they were probably speculating as to all manner of scurrilous doings, but still they treated her with respect, a kindness for which she was very grateful.
She awaited Darcy’s response on pins and needles, jumping every time she heard a footstep outside her door or a creak of the floor.
Darcy offered her no response whatsoever.
He did afford her the dignity of seeing her off in the morning, standing gravely beside the coach as the footmen finished strapping her trunks on. Georgiana was there as well, her eyes wide and unsure, looking as if she might cry.
Elizabeth knew she should depart with dignity and did her best, but at the last, she could not help but ask him, “Did you receive my letter?”
He nodded once, slowly. “Yes, I did.” Then he stepped back to permit the footman to assist her into the coach.
Elizabeth numbly entered the conveyance, sat down, and stared at the floor, desperately trying to keep at bay the tears that flooded her eyes and threatened to break into stormy sobs. The door closed, and Darcy signalled to the drivers to depart.
She looked at him once more, standing so tall and silent and solemn, and then she was gone.