Chapter 12
Elizabeth knew Mr. Darcy a little better after four weeks in the lakes.
Certainly, she learned a lot about his generosity.
She could not express a wish without it being granted, nor dislike something without it being changed.
At first, she was embarrassed by such attention, but soon she understood how effortless the gestures were to him.
Darcy had a vast fortune, and she was not demanding.
He would certainly not think twice about spending a few shillings here and there.
Elizabeth feared he would have spent a great deal more without resenting her, but she didn’t want to risk it.
She learned not to make offhanded comments, but never mastered the trick of refusing his gifts without causing offence.
Still, some of his gifts were breathtaking. Having no notion of what she liked, he had spent the weeks before their wedding (when the banns were read) commissioning an eclectic chest full of beautiful and useful things to tempt her with.
Darcy was amused to watch his wife’s reactions, for they were never what he expected.
Elizabeth exclaimed more over a neat little embroidery set in a walnut box than she had over an expensive Indian shawl.
She wore the shawl to dinner, of course, but spent the evening asking him where he had found such sharp needles, cunning thimbles and bright silks.
It gave Darcy a chance to speak about his sister and the strange little animals she used to hide in her sewing.
Elizabeth never asked about Georgiana’s sickness.
Darcy appreciated that. There would be plenty of time for her to find out about that when they got to Pemberley.
While they were in Windermere, Kendal or Keswick, that world seemed blissfully far away.
In his quest to make his new bride happy, Darcy had given himself an excuse to ignore his worries… at least for a few months.
Sometimes he thought about going home. It made him feel sick. Generally, after such reflections, he sent his servants to find lodgings for them in another town. Two weeks became three, and then four, with no real thought of going home.
It was a comforting month, and one he sorely needed.
Even thought it was the height of summer, the Darcys decided to walk around the lakes without servants.
Mr. Darcy easily carried their water and helped Elizabeth to climb the steeper paths with no sign of weariness.
If she had not been constrained by her long skirts and old boots (chosen for their fashion, as the paths around Meryton presented no challenges) then Lizzie knew she could have kept up with him easily.
The day after she had teased her husband with this comparison, a cobbler came to their hotel and measured her for a pair of rugged walking boots (which managed to be far more flattering despite their sturdiness, as once again Mr. Darcy spared no expense).
The boots were tested a few days later, and Mr. Darcy found that his wife was astonishingly hale and could outpace him with ease.
Their walks turned into playful competitions to be the first one to the next rise, or to dare an icy ford to cross a stream.
“I told you I liked walking.” Elizabeth said after this one, shaking water from her feet. “Perhaps I should have said, ‘not swimming’!”
“Can you swim, Elizabeth?”
“I imagine so, if you can. Perhaps we can try it one day.” she said, pushing her curls back from her cheek and unconsciously leaving a silver trail of river water. Darcy grinned.
“There is a lake on my estate, but I do not think any of the ladies have ever dared to swim in it. If you wish to learn, Miss Bennet, I will gladly teach you - but it may raise a few eyebrows!”
“Let them raise.” she retorted, “I am your wife, not theirs.”
“A fact that pleases me greatly.” he replied, offering his hand to help her climb up the slippery bank.
Elizabeth had reached out to take it, but blushed scarlet at his words and drew back. The look she gave him was not hostile; after her first shock, she cautiously reached out her hand a second time. When he took it, Darcy felt the pulse thudding beneath her skin.
“I apologise, madam.” he said quietly.
Just as softly, she replied: “Don’t.”
On the days when it rained and walking was out of the question, they stayed indoors and found other pursuits.
They spent a whole day playing different card games, wagering pretty stones which Elizabeth had picked up from the trails.
Another day, they dared the rain to visit a bookshop.
The afternoon was spent most agreeably as they compared their purchases and disagreed amiably about the skills of Pye and Burns.
In the evenings they kept to their own devices.
Darcy answered letters pertaining to the management of his estate.
Elizabeth wrote her own letters and enjoyed being able to embroider without her mother’s constant interruptions.
She was surprised to find that she liked silence - something that was a stranger to the Bennet household.
She was comfortable being silent around her husband.
Her family forced one to interrupt or go forever unheard.
There was rarely half an hour where they all existed in silence.
In their peaceful rooms, the Darcys could pass a whole afternoon without making a sound.
Elizabeth’s letters were not easily written.
In many ways, she felt as if she was writing fiction.
She had nothing pleasant to say to either of her parents, so her brief notes to them were chillingly formal.
Her younger sisters received little gifts and playful stories from her encounters, but nothing meaningful. As for Jane…
Jane should have been the easiest confidante, but Elizabeth could not do it.
Up until the day she was married, her sister had wept and begged for forgiveness for forcing Lizzie into such a desperate match.
As much as Elizabeth tried to comfort her, she knew that Jane would not accept any version of the truth that did not match her own paranoia.
A letter praising Mr. Darcy would be dismissed as a falsehood.
A letter exposing his faults would only make Jane feel guiltier. Still, Elizabeth tried.
As to the matter of marriage, she had nothing to say to anyone.
There was nothing to speak of. After their evenings in their shared parlour, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy parted and slept in their own rooms. There was never any question of sharing more than a cordial ‘good-night’, and the only time that Elizabeth had not woken up alone was when the hotel’s cat managed to sneak onto her pillow.
Certainly, she saw no sign that her husband had any interest in the more unpleasant part of a marriage.
Of course, such a man would need an heir eventually.
Sooner or later, Elizabeth knew she must resolve herself to the humiliation.
From what little she knew of the marital act, it was undignified, uncomfortable and embarrassing.
Jane had once come to her room in tears after a nightmare where Mr. Collins had come into her room and pulled her blanket away.
She had described his leering, fishy eyes gleaming in the candlelight, and his moist hands touching her bare legs.
Both sisters had shuddered at the thought.
Elizabeth couldn’t help feeling that, however loathsome the act was to be, it would at least be less disgusting than doing the same thing with Mr. Collins. It was a small consolation.
But how was such a thing to be managed? Would Mr. Darcy simply decide that it was time, and claim his rights with the same businesslike manner he claimed dues from his estate? Perhaps he expected her to make some invitation. Elizabeth did not know how she would dare do it.
His touch had made her shiver when he gave her the necklace, but the sensation was mercifully short-lived. Elizabeth had not felt it since. It had doubtless been their intimate conversation that had made everything so heady.
She told herself that she did not care and then spent most of the evening daydreaming about it.
And when they were at the river, and he had taken her hand…
Why not daydream about one’s husband? Surely it was better than daydreaming about someone else’s?
So much for the pleasant Mr. Darcy, who smiled when he greeted her and took great delight in her happiness. That man, she could have been content with until the end of time. But the man Elizabeth was married to had a demon upon his shoulder, and as the weeks past, she came to loathe it.
Mr. Darcy was changeable and quick-tempered. He grew thorns when thinking of his home, or when he had to turn down a glass of wine at dinner. Sometimes he trembled and fixed his eyes upon the carafe like a man dying of thirst.
The first time that Elizabeth truly behaved as his wife was when they had arrived at an inn in Kendal. While her husband was speaking to the owner, she took a servant aside and quietly asked him to clear away the liquor from their rooms. She also asked him not to bring it to their table at dinner.
So it was that they entered their private suite to be met by an empty drinks cabinet. Darcy’s eyes always went there first. When he pointed out the peculiarity, Elizabeth proudly told him what she had done.
He was furious. Elizabeth could not have found a more efficient way to shame him. Everyone knew what it meant to ask for a ‘dry’ room.
“I thought you would find it easier.” she protested, on the back foot once more.
“I can control myself!”
“For now! Whenever we argue, or when you are out of sorts, I can see how much you long for a drink.”
“Long for, yes! But have I ever been weak?”
“No,” she admitted softly, “But I can see how much it exhausts you. I only want to help.”
Darcy turned another fierce look on her, but his hands unclenched.
He knew exactly what Elizabeth meant. The longing was clearly getting worse.
It grew harder and harder to refuse the servants’ innocently proffered refreshments.
It had been easier in Meryton, with Bingley to help him and a house free from liquor. Here, temptation was at every corner.
Just one taste. He found himself thinking, and hated himself. It was the mantra of a failure. Sometimes it was all he could think of himself: Failure. Failure. Of course, with such self-loathing, the urge to fade into oblivion was almost overwhelming.
“Thank you,” he managed to say at last, taking Elizabeth’s hand. She was trembling. In that moment he hated himself. “Please forgive me, Elizabeth. You are right. I should not have… you can act as you see fit.”
Elizabeth nodded, but her hand was limp in his grasp, and she pulled it away as soon as he loosened his hold. She did not look up at him but quietly went into her room. Darcy heard the lock snapping shut behind her.
For the next few days, he tried everything to regain her trust. Gifts received only polite thanks, compliments were met with careful smiles.
He woke up each morning feeling sick, not wanting to open the door and see her pale face at the breakfast table.
Then, one day, she emerged from her room and greeted him in her old, friendly manner.
She did not look happy, but she looked determined. It was enough for them to begin to heal, but after that Darcy could not read her at all. Was it all a mask?
He did not let himself dwell on the matter. Elizabeth had every right to be angry, and at least she wasn’t afraid any more. God willing, he would not scare her again. He had frightened even himself with the violent accusations he had hurled at her.
After his outburst he began to notice all of the things she had been doing for him, since their wedding. He had been oblivious!
His wife had not touched a single drop of wine herself, even though he would not have resented it.
Whenever he was stricken by the urge to drink, Elizabeth made jokes and told him more engaging stories to distract him.
Had his pride not been hurt, Darcy would have thanked her for learning the signs so well, and for helping him unbidden.
But he had been blind to her and her gentle care and thought he was fighting the demon alone.
The Darcys ended their honeymoon much as they had begun: cordially, but not affectionately. They were both still unsure of the other’s mind.
It was Elizabeth who finally put words to the issue.
Darcy had begun to speak of going to Rome for the autumn, but she refused at once.
Even though her heart ached with the thought of seeing the pines and endless vineyards of Italy, she knew that it was not the right time.
Darcy clearly wanted to find a way to bring them closer; England had failed them, and so they were to go to Italy. And what next? The moon?
“I doubt even Cicero himself would be able to make a difference.” she told him, “We are as well acquainted as we could hope to be. I cannot learn more about you while we are away.”
Darcy did not understand her meaning. In his mind, taking Elizabeth away from her troubled past and her heavy worries would be the perfect cure. If she was happy, then she would be able to find peace in her new life. Elizabeth thanked him for the thought, but explained her own:
“I know how you are with me, which is to say kind, attentive and very, very cautious. There are other sides to you. I would like to see Mr. Darcy the gentleman, or the host, or the overseer of his estate. And I would like you to see me as something other than a strange woman whom you shower in gifts.”
“You are not strange, Miss Bennet!” he protested with a small smile. To his surprise, Elizabeth blushed.
“I am when I am around you.” she confessed and then turned her intelligent eyes on him. “I must move out of the sun, or I shall get burned. Go and shine on others, sir, so that I can admire you from afar.”
Darcy laughed at the teasing, over-eloquent speech. “What of you, Miss Bennet? How will you allow me to admire you?”
She smiled crookedly, “As your wife, sir. It is past time for me to learn how to be Mrs. Darcy. I should learn about your household, and my duties on the estate - and meet my new sister.”
“I told you, Elizabeth: you must not feel obligated to be my wife.”
“Oh, I do not.” she replied, her skin going a little pink, “I did not mean that we should… I know that you do not require me to… um. I meant that I cannot be your guest forever, sir. You have been so kind, and I have done nothing but take. I will grow lazy, sir! I must find my own purpose.”
“Very well,” he said, smiling crookedly, “Then we shall go home.”