Chapter 10 Dramatic Interruption #6
Hastily flipping to the literary section, the headline story was of Lord Byron’s newest publication.
Surely an article about a book of poems, the primary work a fable about a monk, was a safe read, right?
Apparently, it was not her destiny that morning to avoid reminders of illicit dalliances.
The writer of the piece barely mentioned The Prisoner of Chillon, and Other Poems. Instead, the focus was on Byron’s affair with Claire Clairmont, formerly linked with Mary and Percy Bysshe Shelley in an infamous, scandalous ménage à trios and who was now rumored to be pregnant with Byron’s child.
Tossing the paper onto the table with a grunt of disgust, she further startled her half-asleep family by jolting out of her chair and stomping out of the room, leaving her plate untouched.
From there, the week proceeded from bad to worse.
Every night, without fail, the horrible nightmare came.
Over and over and over, his beloved face would twist in anger and disappointment, stabbing her soul.
Always, some woman, the face changing and often hazy, would clutch him, kissing and touching as the entwined duo faded into the shadows.
Dream Lizzy would be left standing alone, sobbing and wretched.
Unable to bear the pain, Lizzy would wake in a panic, her heart pounding and lungs burning.
Jane had forever been a solid sleeper, but how she slept through Lizzy’s thrashing was a mystery. Lizzy was glad of it though, as she absolutely did not want to talk about the nightmares or her chaotic emotions.
Nevertheless, despite Jane’s unawareness of Lizzy’s traumatic nightly visions, Jane knew her sister well enough to pierce through the feigned normalcy Lizzy tried to project in front of her family.
No one was fooled, although to everyone besides Jane, Lizzy’s dolor was merely the result of missing Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Bennet, who was hopeless in dealing with female moods, retreated to his library.
Whether due to conscious regard for Lizzy’s malaise or regret over her hideous speech, Mrs. Bennet never again broached the subject of future husbands and marital counsel.
This development was a huge relief to all four of the Bennet daughters!
Mary was flummoxed by Lizzy’s depression over a man being absent for a few days, the concept utterly inconceivable to her.
After a handful of piously intoned platitudes gained nothing but stinging retorts from Lizzy, Mary gave up on her brand of comfort.
Kitty tried to cheer her sister but was far too self-centered and flighty to fret over Lizzy’s emotional state for long.
After all, if a cute puppy or a parlor game didn’t do the trick, what else was there?
Honestly, Lizzy was glad when they finally left her alone.
She had always preferred solitude when troubled, ideally out of doors where the clean air and open vistas calmed her nerves and renewed her senses.
Alas, the weather insisted on being unpredictable and volatile, another reason why that week was terrible.
Decreased temperatures, spates of wind, and intermittent drizzling rains forced Lizzy to remain indoors.
Normally impervious to inclement weather, with her wedding a week away, even hale and hearty Lizzy Bennet was not going to risk an autumn fever.
Thus, she had scant to do but stare at the gloominess outside, which matched how she felt inside.
I miss you, William. I miss you so much my entire body hurts. Please hurry back to me.
His letters helped tremendously. In that week alone, Lizzy received nine envelopes addressed to her!
The red wax stamped with his seal indicative of passionate love, so he wrote.
The double-sided pages contained line after line of romantic sentiment, expressions of his grief in being parted from her, his longing to hold and kiss her, and his impatience to be her husband.
After his loving greeting, each letter began, “In X days, you shall be Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Despite this concrete evidence of his devotion, Lizzy’s subconscious stubbornly refused to relinquish her fears and insecurities. It was not until Friday, a short break in the nasty weather providing a window of opportunity for a vigorous walk, that she gained some clarity and improved her outlook.
“Assess what you know to be true,” she said aloud to herself while trudging through a deserted field of yellowed, knee-high grasses. “William loves you. He is an honorable man, who is devoted to his family—a gentleman in the purest meaning of the word. He is kind and…he loves you.”
Always, inevitably, she came back to that incontrovertible fact. He loved her. He had proven his love in a thousand ways for close to a year. There was no possibility of her doubting his love. With his love and because of his love, he desired her physically. No question of that either!
Where she stumbled in her confidence was concerning her ability to please him in the physical realm, as probably all virginal brides had since Eve.
What caused deeper anxiety were the subtle doubts of her competence and worthiness to be Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley that had crept inside her brain.
There had been conversations and incidences, particularly while in London, when the reality of his worldliness, education, refinement, and superior station forcibly hit her.
William had divulged fragments of his business affairs, life at Pemberley, and noble family, but for every piece of the Fitzwilliam Darcy puzzle she snapped into place, there were a hundred more lying in a jumble.
His stated reasons for secrecy--the pain of lost loved ones weighing upon his heart and the preference to share once at Pemberley--made perfect sense.
Lizzy had never questioned his motives or was suspicious.
Until now, thanks to her mother instilling distrust and weakening her faith!
Ignoring the damp, Lizzy plopped down on a sun-warmed rock and stared up at the sky. As much as she wanted to curse her mother and place the blame upon her shoulders, Lizzy knew her mother’s words held no power unless the thoughts had already been buried deep within her mind.
Was he the type of man who entertained women of ill repute? It was so outside his character that she could not fathom it! Then again, look at Lord Byron. A man who wrote the most beautiful love poems was a notorious rogue if even half the rumors were true, and he was only one famous example.
What her mother had said about men of Society and mistresses was true.
If one listened close enough, murmurs of the same were rampant right in sleepy, boring Meryton and the surrounding villages.
She could name three widowed women off the top of her head who were reputedly “available” for men in need.
Polite ladies pretended not to hear such tales—and also pretended not to gossip about it—yet somehow whispers spread.
Local shenanigans had nothing to do with Mr. Darcy, of course. They only served to remind Lizzy of the wickedness of the world, the decaying morals—the human condition, if you will, that far too often justified less-than-perfect behavior.
William had said, numerous times, how he abhorred the attitudes and activities of Society, and she believed him.
However, by all accounts, it was wholly acceptable for males to follow different rules when it came to their physical urges.
Her William was a healthy, robust, virile man possessing an intensely passionate nature, as she knew oh so well.
“No, I don’t want to know the details of that portion of his past. Not ever,” she said to the sky. “I only hope Mama is mistaken and that his affairs are past and will remain so.”
It came down to her fears and uncertainty—right or wrong, valid or nonsense—and their promise to be honest with each other.
She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject or what she would say, but she trusted her beloved William to comfort and reassure.
No matter how difficult the conversation or painful the answers, the burden pressing upon her shoulders eased once she decided to talk openly with him.
So why did she continue to have that hideous nightmare?