Chapter 21 Owner of a Lonely Heart #2
Darcy could not abide the pity in Georgiana’s eyes, nor the resemblance, however small, between Mary and her sister. Although he would prefer to bury himself in his wife’s pillows and weep, he must await the discovery of the body. He must see her—hold her. One last time…
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The study was dimly lit as the sun, fittingly, had disappeared from the east-facing window. He poured himself a generous amount of brandy, not remembering how he had come to be here, nor whether he had excused himself before he left the ladies.
Darcy stared at the mantel clock. Two hours had come and gone. An eternity. No visitors.
“Dear God, Darcy. What is the matter? You look positively feral!”
He stared at a diminutive slipper on his desk and could not muster a reply. When had he retrieved that? It was too dreadful to mention and too wretched to comprehend.
Colonel Fitzwilliam must have noticed where his eyes rested because he strode to the desk and picked up the wet shoe.
“What is this, Darcy?”
It was quite obvious, but he mustered a reply. “It is Elizabeth’s slipper.”
“That much I can see. She has even smaller feet than Georgiana. But why is it wet?”
Quite suddenly, the words tumbled out of him.
It was to be hoped that he would comprehend once the horrible truth had been voiced aloud.
“I found it in a boat, on the Serpentine’s riverbank.
Elizabeth’s uncle is fond of fishing and keeps a rowboat by Mr Culvert’s brewery. He taught her how to angle.”
“I do not care a straw for where Mr Gardiner keeps his boat. The material point is where is Mrs Darcy?”
“I do not know,” he admitted, deprived of feeling. “Her soul has left me for a better, more forgiving place, whilst her body is most likely lying at the bottom of the Serpentine, or it may have washed up on the riverbank by now.”
“Bloody hell, Darcy! You cannot be in earnest.”
“I never lie,” he asserted.
“She must have fallen or jumped overboard. Besides the shoe, I found a piece of fabric lodged in a splinter that matches one of her gowns.”
“Until Mrs Darcy is found, you cannot be certain. Mayhap she has taken a longer stroll than she intended?”
The lump in his throat made it almost impossible to speak. “Elizabeth is dead or she has left me intentionally. Why else would she not wait for her maid to return with her shawl?”
Richard’s shocked expression was comical. If Darcy’s life were not in ruins, he would have laughed. At least the colonel sensed his despair and asked in mellow notes, “Have you searched her room?”
“For what? She is not there—that much I have established,” he replied sarcastically.
“Whether she left of her own volition is easy to ascertain by rummaging through her wardrobe. Have you looked to confirm whether the green shoes are missing? Her writing desk might also hide a clue or a message.”
Darcy was on his feet within the blink of an eye, and he ran up the flight of stairs to her chamber, whilst cursing himself for his stupidity. Halting abruptly before her writing desk his courage failed. What if she had written a letter of farewell? What if he was the source of her despondency?
“I found a pair of green slippers,” the colonel said, interrupting his thoughts.
Darcy glanced at the shoe Richard was holding aloft. It was not the same shade as the one in the boat.
“It proves nothing. She has a pair in every shade,” he grumbled, turning back to his task.
There was no letter in the escritoire, but there was a journal.
Darcy stared at it for an eternity. Perhaps there was a clue within?
Resolutely he opened the book and rejoiced in reading small pieces from their honeymoon.
It was joyful and… Damn it! He leafed past the description of their many amorous encounters lest the colonel be looking over his shoulder.
Delirious happiness emanated from the pages—a small reassurance in this quagmire of lost hope.
Then he read about Lady Matlock’s shopping excursion and ball.
The self-doubt that Elizabeth felt, questioning her own worth between the lines.
A doubt that grew through ridicule and difficult relations.
She showed compassion for Georgiana, despite being apprised of her folly.
What a wretched husband he had been of late.
Why had he spent their last weeks hunting for the rumour-maker and rectifying another of Wickham’s disasters when he could have spent every second with Elizabeth. He should have…
He read about the appointment at Mrs Bean’s Magazin des Modes and the financial troubles Elizabeth had discovered.
The expensive Dhaka muslin his aunt had ordered but never paid for.
The truth about Miss Molesworth’s visit was harder to swallow.
It was clear that Elizabeth had been worked upon by more than the thieving lady; even his aunt must bear culpability for that transaction—instilling in his wife the importance of revering and obeying the corrupt peerage.
Then she wrote the most damning words he had ever read.
Oh God! Why did we not go to Pemberley? Elizabeth had even suggested it in a rare moment of despair.
She who could not be broken by the vilest accusations or derision had begged him to leave for his country estate.
But he must be the man and resolve every problem, even those which could not be remedied.
Chaucer’s ‘The Wife of Bath’ sprung to mind.
Women desired sovereignty over their husbands.
Ending her tale in a prayer that all women with meek, young, vigorous husbands should outlive them, whilst ungovernable husbands and skinflints should be cursed with short lives and pestilence.
Yet Elizabeth was dead. What did that make him?
“Darcy!”
Darcy looked up from Elizabeth’s diary. Richard was poking his head through the door, waving an envelope in his hand.
“I found a letter on your bed. It is addressed to you in a female hand.”
Darcy grabbed the piece of paper. Mr Darcy, he read. It was a very formal way of addressing him. Richard lay a comforting palm on his shoulder as he took the letter and weighed it in his hands. It was light, only one folded sheet.
“I had a feeling she would not leave you in the lurch,” Richard spoke softly.
“Yet, she has!” Darcy spat. “How could she do this to me?”
“Because she loves you,” Richard suggested.
Darcy laughed mirthlessly, sounding insane even to himself. “If Elizabeth loved me, she would not have set foot in a boat without me present,” he countered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Read your letter,” Richard implored, clapped him on the shoulder, and left.
Darcy could not stand being in her room and hastened to his own quarters. He lit the lamp on his desk and neatly unfolded the paper. He fought the impulse to flee, throwing the dreaded missive unread into the flames like a coward. The lamp flickered, as if to compel him to do exactly that.
Dearest Darcy!
The opening was an insult. He could be no more dear to her than a used and tattered quill. Or else she would not have left him.
I had not imagined that superior society could be so mean, so unforgiving, and so completely unreasonable.
It pains me exceedingly to see the toll it is taking upon you.
How I, during the span of a few short weeks, shifted from giving you pleasure to becoming a burden, an embarrassment, and a wretched wife.
Darcy could no longer read the words that had blurred into a greyish illegible mass. His mind went blank but for the rhythmic steps of his cousin approaching.
“Mrs Darcy’s dressing room looks half empty. Are you certain that these are all the gowns she has?” Richard spoke from the threshold.
Darcy went to her room and glanced through the door of her dressing room. “Yes…or perhaps not. What difference does it make?”
“Nothing, I am sure.”
“She might have given the unfashionable tattered raiment she brought from Longbourn to the rag and bone man.”
“Was she truly that lacking?”
“I would not know. Why do you ask?”
“I doubt you would have allowed yourself to fall in love with someone who wore rags…”
“I allowed nothing. My emotions would simply not listen.”
“So, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was truly lacking in every sense?”
“If you are still speaking about her attire, I never saw any fault in what she was wearing.”
“You just called it unfashionable and tattered.”
“You must have read the tattle in the newspapers. The whispers are all over London, that she was countrified compared to those of our sphere.”
“Yes. I heard the beau monde’s cats disparage her no matter whether her gown was from the famous Mrs Bean or from Meryton. You must have known it was jealousy and spite that was talking, which is not rooted in reality.”
Darcy looked at his indistinct cousin. He made sense, and yet he did not. The letter in his hand beckoned.
You want a divorce…
He did not! How could she even think of such a revolting notion?
I shall save you the trouble and leave you. I shall not hold against you the need to sire an heir with someone more fitting for the role of Mrs Darcy than I. Do not allow your lust to run away with you but choose wisely and prudently—an accomplished lady with a title, connections, and fortune.
His stomach churned with the mere idea of taking another woman into his arms.
What need did he have for a title, connections, or fortune?
None whatsoever! If only he had absconded with Elizabeth when it became clear that the ton did not accept her in their midst. They could have been happy at Pemberley, consorting with the lower gentry of less lofty expectations. How perfectly happy he would have been!
Returning to his chamber bereft and aggrieved, he had much to repine. Their entire sojourn to London had been nothing but a wretched mistake. Why was winning the approbation of the elite so important to him that he would forsake his happiness, and worse, Elizabeth’s?
My great truth is that I love you, even though I do not have the words to express what my abiding heart feels so deeply. I am also angry with you and hope to mend my broken heart ere long.
Do not look for me, for you will never find me.
E D
She would return, if one counted her lifeless body as such.
His own exacting demands had killed Elizabeth. His only consolation was that she had not wanted to die. She was running from him and his blasted acquaintances. But what was this about a divorce? Had the judge importuned her before he arrived in his study? Damn him to hell if he had!
A large, comforting hand was patting him on the shoulder.
“I have never seen you this distraught. You need to rest, Cousin. Come, I shall fetch you a soothing tumbler of brandy.”
Darcy complied in a haze and allowed his cousin to help him to his bed, obediently swallowing the laudanum-infused brandy that was put to his lips.
“Why the hell did you ply me with laudanum? You know I detest the vile stuff.”
“Believe me, it is for your own good. You are hysterical—something I have seen multiple times in the field. Unfortunately, laudanum and rest are the only remedy, and before you rightfully curse me to hell, you would not want to see Mrs Darcy when they pull her out of the water. To be submerged for so long does heinous things to the body, and considering your present state, it is unadvisable. It is better that someone else identifies the remains.”
Darcy made to protest; he had not yet succumbed to the haze when there was a knock on the door. The muffled sounds of his butler informed Richard, “A body has been found.”
He was up on his feet in an instant and staggered awkwardly to the door. Blasted laudanum.
“You, my friend, are not fit to be seen and can barely walk. Allow me to go in your stead.”
“You do not even know what she looks like,” Darcy growled.
“Have you had her likeness taken?”
Darcy shook his head. Another of his failings, forgetting to order a painting of his beloved before it was too late. But his sister was forever sketching this and that. She might be of aid.
“Georgiana!” he bellowed.
The girl hastened out of her room.
“Have you sketched Elizabeth?”
His legs were buckling under his weight. He may not make it to the Serpentine’s receiving house, where the drowned were kept until they were claimed by their family.
“Yes,” Georgiana confirmed.
She disappeared into her room and returned with a sketch book under her arm. The drawings swam before his eyes.
“Show it to Richard.”
Utterly humiliated, he sank to the floor. It was fortunate that he had the wall at his back or he would have been prone.
“Put her in the mistress’s chamber. I want to see her with my own eyes, even if I must crawl to the room.”
“Of course,” Richard called on his way down the stairs.
Darcy was utterly humiliated when Georgiana and Mary more or less carried him to his bed and tucked him in.