Chapter 19 #2
“If it is all the same to you, I do not see any value in reviewing events that are painful to us. Remember the past only as its remembrance gives you pleasure—that is my philosophy, and I think it a good one. At any rate, our life is agreeable, and I do not think anything more could be expected.
He wondered at her choice of words. “What do you mean that nothing more can be expected?”
She would not look his direction, and he cursed her bonnet, so capably shielding her from his view. “Our marriage is as would be expected.”
“Do you mean expected for now or expected for always?”
She would not answer him.
Quietly, he said, “I know I have no right to wish for more, but I must tell you that I have expectations that exceed amiability and commonplace civilities for our marriage. I am a fool perhaps, but I am fool who loves you still more than ever he did, and thus I cannot surrender my wish, not until you tell me I must.”
He saw her sigh deeply. Eventually, she said, “My first object is a happy home for Bennet.”
“I agree completely. I wish him to be happy and feel loved every day of his life. I also wish that for you.” Elizabeth gave no sign that she had heard his words.
He stopped their progress, reaching to take her hands in his. She permitted it, yet she did not look at him.
In a very low voice, he said, “I shall do anything in this world to make you happy once again. I know how I have hurt you, and I have thought of little else for the last two years. Please allow me to make amends for my errors.”
“Is it not the common way with adulterous wives? Punish them by sending them off to the outer reaches of civilisation to stitch handkerchiefs? One cannot blame you for wishing me away from a man you thought was my lover.”
“I did think so,” he admitted. “But I was incorrect and stupid and selfish and—”
“But it’s over now, and you have changed, as have I.
Why scream and shout at one another? It was all a misunderstanding, was it not?
” She turned, gesturing towards the lavender field.
“Even such as this—I do not need to know this was planted in 1813. I scarcely remember Pemberley, and it was winter when last I was here. Whether this field has been here since 1713 or you planted it yesterday, I should not know the difference. What matters is today. Here and now.”
After a long pause, he said, “Very well. We shall not speak of any of it, if you please.”
“Some might think arguments and fighting are best, to get all the grievances aired, so to speak. But no one really knows, do they? Has anyone ever succeeded in doing what we are trying to do?”
“In repairing a marriage that has been so affected?” He considered it for a moment, then admitted, “I do not know of anyone.”
“No,” she agreed. “Nor do I.”
“Do you think it a hopeless case, then?” He turned to look at her fully.
She crossed her arms over her chest. The breeze blew through lightly, tumbling about the curls at her cheeks as she stared off, away from him. “We can never recapture the early days or the opportunity to build on the fresh, energetic sort of love that we once had.”
It broke his heart when she said so, though he knew she was correct. “But perhaps there is something better,” he suggested. “We are parents and—”
“Precisely,” she said quickly. “Bennet must be considered above all. That is my first thought, and I am glad to hear he is yours, also.”
She began to walk away, and he followed her. It seemed as though she wilfully misunderstood him but he would not try to further his point.
As the house came into view, Darcy was reminded of a request he had of her. He stopped her with the lightest touch of his hand on her arm. “May I ask you something?”
Her smile was impatient. “Of course.”
“I wondered whether I might read to Bennet before he sleeps at night. He seems to be very fond of books.”
“You do not require my permission to do anything you would wish with Bennet. He is as much your son as mine.”
“Thank you, but I would not wish to do anything that might distress him—or you—or alter whatever patterns or schedules to which he is accustomed.”
“I think it fair to say he is unaccustomed to any of this,” Elizabeth said with a faint smile. “But he is still a baby, and babies are remarkably adaptable. I daresay he would much enjoy having you read to him.”
“Is there a certain way it should be done?”
“Reading?”
“Yes. That is…I want to ensure I do it as well as you would.”
“Nurse Harriet generally readies him for slumber and tucks him in his bed, so after that would be the ideal time. He will let you know which books he prefers.”
“And I have noticed that when you read to him, you sit next to him on the bed. Shall I do likewise?”
With teasing gravity, she replied, “That would seem wise. Otherwise, one of you will not be able to view the book.”
He chuckled. “True. Thank you.”
Darcy went to his son that very night, hoping the lad was not already asleep. Fortune smiled upon him; Bennet was just being settled into his bed by Nurse Harriet. “May I read to the boy?”
“Will that do, Master Bennet?” the nurse asked. “Can Papa do the honours tonight?”
With a smile, she handed him a book titled The Butterfly’s Ball. Darcy settled in, taking it and holding it open to read. When he finished, his son, whose eyes were only slightly tired-looking, said, “Again, please.”
By his third reading, he thought he might be able to simply recite it from memory. Blessedly, by the fourth reading (Do all children wish to hear the same book read over and over again?), Bennet had begun to grow sleepy and agreed to the extinguishing of his light.
Leaning down, Darcy kissed his head gently and bid him good night.
He watched from the doorway as his son slowly turned over, pulling his arms and legs beneath him such that he was in a strange, uncomfortable-looking ball.
He went back to him, moving the boy’s limbs gently and carefully, but with a sudden, unintelligible grunt, Bennet yanked himself away and formed the ball again.
Darcy laughed quietly. “So it is then. Sweet dreams, my darling.”