Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The house felt quieter since Fitzwilliam left for Brighton, but it was not an unwelcome quiet.
Netherfield’s lodge had once felt desolate, but the company of Mrs Darcy now made it a comfortable place that felt more like a home.
But is she as deeply attached to me as I am to her?
Did she admire him as a man, as her husband, or did her affection stop at kindness toward the brother of her departed friend?
Darcy stopped this train of thought and pulled a book from the shelf in his study and walked to the drawing room.
Platonic or passionate, any love between himself and Mrs Darcy could not matter because her life was now to be measured in weeks.
He ought to instead think of what would make her the most happy before she died.
He had asked her to consider what she might like to have or where she might like to go, but she had yet to give him an answer.
He cleared his head and settled into his chair to pass a quiet evening with his book, interspersed with conversation with his wife. However, she entered five minutes later holding her gloves and crepe-lined bonnet and said she was going out and would return within an hour.
She had already been active today, and he worried for her heart. “Do you intend to go walking again?”
“I must not allow myself to grow fat.” She gave a little laugh as she tied the ribbon under her chin.
He openly admired her whilst her attention was elsewhere. Mrs Darcy had a light but pleasing figure, one that, unknown to her, provoked his desire. “It would not do to, to walk far alone this late in the evening.”
She threw him a disbelieving look. “Is my rambling about the country a matter of condemnation?”
He ought not to say that he still feared that when she died it would not be amongst friends, or quietly in her sleep, or when they were at home together, but rather on a hilltop or a Meryton street. Michaelmas was not so far away now that today was the fifth of August.
“I rather think it pleasing that I have the courage to make use of the strength that nature has endowed me for now.” She looked defiant with her hands on her hips and a hard look in her eyes. “All you asked of me was that I tell you where I intend to walk.”
He could not forbid her to go. She married him to have independence, to have the power of choice over her own life.
And whenever I mention her ailing heart, it wounds her feelings more.
What Mrs Darcy wanted was to live as though she was not soon to die, but he could not be at ease until she returned. He set aside his book and rose.
“The evening is a lovely one. Let us stroll in the meadow so you can enjoy the melody of the birds.”
She gave him a knowing look but smiled and said she welcomed his company. He collected his black gloves and his hat. He supposed he ought to put on a black armband, but he could not be bothered for only a short, private walk with his wife.
After Darcy handed his wife over the stile she asked, “Was Colonel Fitzwilliam expected in Brighton today? When will he seek out Mr Wickham?”
The familiar loathing for the man who ultimately hastened his sister’s death rose within him.
“Fitzwilliam does not wish to raise an alarm and risk him bolting. He intends to call on this Colonel Forster as soon as the sheriffs from Bow Street arrive. Once that happens, action against Mr Wickham should progress swiftly since they have their writ and I shall not settle with him.” Sadly, that action could never be Wickham swinging from the end of a rope.
“Even were it not for Georgiana’s sake, Fitzwilliam would see the matter through with enough speed so everything is resolved before the Glorious Twelfth.
It may as well be a sacred holiday for him,” he added with a laugh.
“Your cousin must intend to visit friends in the north if he expects to shoot so early. Most gentlemen in Hertfordshire do not expect any birds until September.”
“His father’s estate is in Yorkshire.”
Darcy braced himself for her natural question, and she looked about to speak.
I will answer. He would explain his connexion to an earl and confess his every lie of omission.
If she could never understand why he continued to deceive her after they were married and had become friends, if she could never comprehend how he had enjoyed being admired for his own sake rather than for his wealth—if she hated him for deceiving her—he would accept the consequence.
She stopped walking to look him in the eye. He realised he was leeward of her, and moved to the other side to shelter her from the strengthening wind. To his surprise, the look she gave him was affectionate and not inquisitive.
“You are a generous man,” she said softly.
“For shielding you from the wind? By all means, call my being gentlemanly a virtue.” Darcy waited for her to ask him, but she only gave him a soft look. She had taken to heart his demand that she ask him no questions. He felt a little relieved, but his guilt drove deeper into his bones.
“When I called on Charlotte this morning, I learnt that someone gave funds for Mrs Starr to feed and clothe her children for the rest of the year, and that her rent is also paid.” She looked at him expressively.
“Some generous individual has taken it upon himself to show charity to a woman who entirely failed in her business.”
In the hours since Sunday’s services, neighbourhood gossip had returned the news back to his wife of his liberality to a friendless, bankrupt widow. “Perhaps your friend Mrs Beverly provided aid, and she did not need your guidance to undertake any charitable concerns after all?”
She looked at him with the profoundest attention and a glowing warmth filled his chest. “It was you, my dear Mr Darcy. For all your incivility and pride when we first met, I was right about you. You are a good man.”
Darcy felt himself colouring faintly from pleasure at her approval.
After all he had felt and done and suffered, nothing could be a better solace to his wounded spirits than Elizabeth Darcy thinking he was a good man.
“You were not supposed to know that it was me. I did not do it for praise. You wished it to be done, and Mrs Starr is a neglected widow who had a need now. I could never deny someone within my notice anything that was in my power to give.”
“Even me?” Her voice was so low it could hardly be heard over the wind. Darcy’s attention fell from her pretty eyes to her lips.
His heart lurched at her not knowing that there was no one who mattered to him more. “Especially you.” He was truly sensible of Mrs Darcy’s great worth. He extremely liked her person, no less admired her accomplishments, intelligence, and tender goodness.
No matter how much her looks and words had lit a fire that wantoned through his veins, he had never entertained any thought, in reality, of kissing her.
Idle thoughts, certainly, but never did he think in any moment that he might do it—and that she would welcome it.
But now, when her expressive eyes were looking at him so tenderly, and she was standing so near, with the sun setting and a few loose curls dancing in the wind, he had never been so tempted or so hopeful that she might want him to kiss her.
He was on the point of leaning down and tilting his head when she turned and said breezily, “Shall we be daring and try to walk another mile? I am pleased to find myself capable of walking so much and with so much satisfaction as I once did.”
The moment, and whatever emotions it held, was gone.
Whatever she felt for him, Darcy now knew that he ardently loved her.
But unless she felt more for him than respect and admiration—and gave him any hint of that same love—he had best withdraw rather than risk making her unhappy during her final days.
But still he reached for her hand, and his hand—his whole frame—trembled when she returned his grasp. “We can certainly, but please take care, my dear Mrs Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s thoughts were still full of Mr Darcy while she readied for bed.
Both his voice and looks were full of inexpressible tenderness as he spoke the words “my dear Mrs Darcy,” and at the same time, he laid gentle hold on her hand and held it for the rest of their walk.
It had struck her, standing in that meadow while he looked at her with his whole attention, how necessary he had become to her.
Not simply a deep affection, or an ardent admiration, but I feel a sincere love that swells my heart and raises my spirits.
She wanted to love Mr Darcy during the short time she had left with him, and wanted him to love her in return.
She had never had anyone of her own to love, someone she would not have to eventually relinquish to husbands and families.
If only she could be certain that he was as willing to change their arrangement as she was.
He was not the sort of man that she had thought would attract her, but with each passing day since Georgiana died, she realised how wrong she was.
He was tall and handsome with luminous dark eyes and a noble mien, and she longed to touch every inch of him.
He had a subtle fire of passion and intellect that she was always eager to see push forward beyond his natural reserve.
Mr Darcy was unlike any man she had known; he listened to her concerns and opinions, respected her wishes, granted her a great deal of freedom, and he wanted her to be happy in the time she had left.