Chapter Twelve #2
He ran his hands briskly up and down her back. “I know what would heat you up,” he whispered in her ear.
“What is that, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, feeling rather bashful.
The wicked smile he only used when they were in the privacy of their rooms was playing on his lips. “Darcy secret number four.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth breathed, ducking her head. Why she wished to hide her blush, she could not say—certainly it was too dark for Fitzwilliam to see it. “I should like that.”
From the time she had decided that she would marry Fitzwilliam Darcy, Elizabeth had imagined what it would be like to share his bed.
She had an elementary notion of what would happen, but Aunt Olivia had told her not to be afraid to ask questions of her husband, that discovering their pleasure together was itself a kind of intimacy.
The idea that it could be pleasurable had been echoed by her mother, and so Elizabeth had been keen to begin this part of their life together.
Elizabeth had done as Aunt Olivia suggested—and what she had learned was that she craved these moments with Fitzwilliam nearly as much as he did with her.
The world demanded so much of them, but this—this was theirs alone.
Sharing herself in this way was still new—every time he introduced something else, she was awkward and uncertain all over again. But then he would ask . . .
“Do you trust me, Elizabeth?” He kissed the spot behind her ear that was especially sensitive, and her tremor this time was not caused by the chill in the air.
“Yes, Fitzwilliam,” she replied, made almost breathless with the longing induced by his touch. “Yes, I do.”
January 12, 1812
Elizabeth woke suddenly. It was still dark, but the sky outside her aunt’s window was fading to an ashy hue. Dawn was coming. She stood to stretch her back and rub the ache from her neck. It was her second night in the chair, and she knew she would have to sleep some hours in her bed this morning.
Aunt Olivia’s appearance at dinner a week and a half ago had been her last. Her decline had been slow but steady, like a watch whose mainspring was winding down. Though it did not make the coming separation any easier to bear, having Fitzwilliam and Georgiana with her did help.
Georgiana assisted in the sickroom during the day while Elizabeth slept.
Fitzwilliam kept everything else running smoothly, speaking with Mr. Yeager in her stead, seeing to whatever business he could as she remained above stairs with Aunt Olivia.
He had even come to sit with them the night before.
When it was clear he meant to accompany her last evening as well, Elizabeth had refused and sent him to bed.
Her husband was also trying to prepare Darcy House in the hope he could find a tenant before the season.
It required daily trips to Mayfair, seeing to the storage of some family heirlooms that should remain with the house, the removal of others to Kensington, reading and updating the inventories, and conducting meetings with his solicitor.
He then returned to Russell House to support her in her vigil.
Elizabeth knew Fitzwilliam was rushing the preparations.
He wishes to complete them before Aunt Olivia passes and we have so many other matters to arrange.
The poor man was exhausted. It was now Sunday, and she was determined he would rest. Aunt Olivia’s advice about hiring more help for their financial endeavors now appeared prescient. I should never have doubted her.
Elizabeth was grateful for the weeks they had shared after the wedding.
Aunt Olivia had been sure she would not live to see Christmas, but she had been healthy enough to join them for the pudding and to tell a few stories about her own childhood holidays; it was a gift Elizabeth would always cherish.
She held her aunt’s fragile hand and placed a kiss on the back of it. “I love you, Aunt Olivia,” she whispered.
“Lizzy?” Her aunt’s voice was weak but clear.
Elizabeth lifted her head. “Aunt Olivia?” She stood without relinquishing her aunt’s hand. “Would you like some water? Or shall I send for some tea?”
“No, dear,” her aunt said. It was difficult to see her expression in the gray room. “I would like some music.”
“Music?” Elizabeth asked, her weary mind unable to grasp the request. “Now?”
A rasping laugh rose from the darkness. “Beethoven, please, Lizzy? You know my favorite.”
She did indeed. As she rose to fulfill her aunt’s request, the first streaks of red light stretched across the sky outside. She sat on the bench, positioned herself, and ignored the pain in her heart as she began the first movement of Quasi una fantasia.
The keys were cold, but her fingers found their way. She played the notes, finding the music separate from her, somehow—only a minute into the piece, she faltered. There was a gloominess, a melancholy overtaking her and destroying her concentration.
Elizabeth began again and progressed a little farther before she hit a wrong note. The jarring sound of a sharp played out of place made her pause; she could not recall where she had left off.
The third attempt ended when she found herself motionless at the first notes of the second movement, staring at the keys rather than playing them. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, but she could not remember where they should go. She noted with a strangely calm detachment that they were shaking.
There was a rustle of fine muslin and suddenly Georgiana was sitting next to her on the bench.
“I am sorry to wake you, Georgie,” Elizabeth said, her breath coming hard and fast. “Aunt Olivia wanted…” Tears clouded her vision, but she fought them back.
“I was awake,” Georgiana assured her in a whisper. “Would you like me to help you? It is Quasi una fantasia, is it not?”
Elizabeth nodded dumbly. “Please,” she begged, her hands falling, useless, to her lap. “Please.”
Georgiana kissed Elizabeth’s cheek and began to play from the second movement.
The notes were cheerful and light, like small seeds transforming into beautiful flowers.
Then the reprieve was over, and they descended into the storm of the third movement.
As Georgiana played, Elizabeth dragged herself back to her aunt’s bedchamber.
There was enough light now to see that Aunt Olivia’s eyes were closed.
Her chest did not rise and fall; there was no color in her cheeks, though there was yet a small smile on her lips.
Elizabeth sat heavily on the end of the bed, numb with sorrow, and placed one hand on the blanket that covered her aunt’s leg.
She did not cry or scream or wail. Somewhere in the distance, the sonata ended.
Elizabeth heard soft slippers on the floor approaching the room before someone was flitting away in a hasty retreat.
A little time passed before she heard a heavier footstep in the hall.
It grew louder as it moved into the sitting room.
Then Fitzwilliam appeared before her, stroking her cheek, taking her cold hands in his.
“Elizabeth?” he asked, crouching down before her, peering up into her face. “Dearest? I am so very sorry, love.”
Elizabeth leaned her head against his shoulder, her heart broken.
She felt the air shift beneath her as he swept her up into his arms and carried her out of the room where Aunt Olivia laid so still.
She clung to him as he sat in a chair near the pianoforte and placed her gently on his lap, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close.
She wound her arms around his neck, dropped her head on his shoulder—and wept.
January 17, 1812
Darcy held Elizabeth’s hand as John left the room.
There were three solicitors from three different firms. Elizabeth had only known one of them.
They would all arrive early Saturday to read and explain the will properly, after the Darcys had time to absorb the information in her aunt’s letter.
It had been Livy’s request, the duke said, and he felt honor-bound to see things done as she had instructed.
Elizabeth stared at the unopened letter in her lap. “I am almost afraid to read it.”
Darcy was no less concerned. He had never considered that one might possess too much wealth, but the requirements of Elizabeth’s investments and his own going concerns, they were both worn thin.
Wealth had to be managed; it was both a boon and a burden.
He recalled Mrs. Russell’s advice about creating a staff and realized it had not been an idle suggestion.
“Perhaps we ought to adjourn to our sitting room,” he suggested. “It will be quieter in that part of the house.” She agreed, and they removed upstairs silently, lost in their own thoughts.
Darcy had known that Elizabeth was to be an heiress, of course.
She had told him as much, though he had not known how soon that would occur.
He knew she owned Russell House, or would, upon her birthday in May.
He had fully expected that she would inherit Weymouth House in addition to the funds to operate it.
Mrs. Russell had mentioned another home in Russell Square.
Beyond that, if he considered it at all, he supposed that Mr. Russell had left a healthy jointure for his wife that she had drawn on in the years she had been a widow.
Elizabeth had a jointure from him in their marriage contract; he had coerced her into taking it for the sake of tradition.
She had laughed at him but finally agreed.
Any additional monies that came to her from her aunt’s funds would simply be secured for Elizabeth’s use.
The weeks since they had left Hertfordshire had been very full; he had honestly not had much time to think beyond the figures she had outlined for him in her father’s study. The need for three solicitors, however, spoke to something more.