Chapter 14
LADY IN RED
The next morning went almost exactly as the day previous.
Jane wakened, feeling much recovered, but grew nauseated after her morning meal.
It was almost as though food, in general, did not agree with her.
After she once again lost her breakfast, she claimed only the need to rest, and fell promptly asleep.
In the afternoon she declared herself improved, until a bout of dizziness forced her back to bed.
Alarmed, Elizabeth had nearly panicked at the dizziness, and if not for Jane’s protests, would have begged the Bingleys to call for Mr Jones at once. Jane had tearfully pled with her to say nothing, that she knew she was better, that her symptoms were ‘nothing at all’.
It was not until Jane again fell asleep, her arms curled in an unusually protective manner around her abdomen, that an entirely different suspicion occurred to Elizabeth.
She, of course, had never been with child, but she had been fully accepted amongst the matrons and heard their most intimate disclosures for some years now.
Could it be? Did Jane suspect? If so, why would she say nothing of it?
But then, Jane had never returned to the subject of their falling out, not since Fanny’s arrival had interrupted an almost-conversation; what was more, she gave Elizabeth no openings to begin it again, either. It was obvious that Jane did not wish to discuss anything at all with her sister.
At least Mr Collins had not yet visited today, forcing her to invent more excuses if Jane would not speak to him, either.
Ought I simply to leave? If Jane was hiding from her husband and all the more personal aspects of her life, she would doubtless continue to hide from Elizabeth as well. Maybe departure would be for the best. Besides, I am sick to death of appearing in company wearing this ugly, faded dress.
She had to laugh at herself for this vanity.
While she liked to appear at her best, she had never particularly looked to others for approval.
And certainly not to the likes of the Miss Bingleys of the world!
An uncomfortable realisation followed on its heels: It was not Miss Bingley before whom she wished to appear… prettier, was it?
Mr Darcy’s expressed admiration had sent her feelings into a whirl.
She thought of him constantly now, overly aware of his every expression—although what she was looking for in him was not entirely clear to her.
Approval? Censure? It was not only that he was the most handsome man she had ever met; it was the feeling that he, and he alone, could see into her soul.
Somehow, when she was alone with him, she forgot the ever-present need to appear as the mature, self-contained ‘widowed Mrs Ashwood’.
With him she had been, ever so briefly, a girl again, capable of hopes and dreams and ‘what if’s’ and ‘happily ever afters’.
Although he had promised never to hurt her, those wishes he inspired were the most dangerous of all.
The night before, when joining the company after dinner, she had engaged Mr Bingley in a conversation on the topic of his snuff box collection, of all things—having learnt that it was his pride and joy.
With a smile pasted upon her face and pretended interest in her eyes, she had kept him blathering on a subject about which she cared nothing.
She had even been made to suffer through an actual inspection of his entire collection, all for the purpose of avoiding looking at or talking to Mr Darcy.
As if I am a silly girl, ignoring an infatuation by bestowing attentions on another, she thought with self-aimed disgust.
Jane no longer needs or perhaps even wants me here.
I cannot seem to stop thinking about Mr Darcy.
Ergo, returning home is the most sensible decision.
Just as she came to this conclusion, Molly stuck her head in, startling Elizabeth from her reverie; she stood, motioning the maid into the adjoining sitting room, that their conversation might not awaken her sister.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I only wanted to tell ye—your trunk arrived from Stoke just now, and I had it put in your chamber. Might I unpack it for ye?”
“My trunk?” Elizabeth repeated blankly, she was so astonished.
Her surprise was followed by a burst of gratitude towards Mrs Heartly, who must have again risked the disapproval of her employer in order to have some necessities delivered.
It took another moment to remember to express appreciation to Molly for the offer.
After the maid’s departure, Elizabeth returned to her sister’s bedside, staring down upon Jane’s sleeping countenance. There was one problem solved, in the matter of more appropriate clothing. The other two—Jane’s silence and Mr Darcy—remained.
Being held within his arms had been the most wondrous, exciting thing to happen in…
well, ever. She had known, with a feminine instinct, that had she lifted her face to his, he would have kissed her.
What then? She did not know, had never known what it would be like to have a man want to kiss her, much less to want to kiss one in return.
To want anything at all from a man in the way of affection, much less lust, was as unfamiliar as it was astonishing.
Lust is all it is, she scolded herself. Those matrons had provided an education on that, too—one that, in past years, had only caused a revulsion and embarrassment she had struggled to keep hidden.
Where were those emotions now, when she needed them most?
Not anywhere to be found when they would be useful—for instance while experiencing his heat and scent, the strength of him, the press of his body against hers.
What was more, a slow burn within her had been ignited, a fire she could not seem to crush whether or not he was even in the room.
Nevertheless, she had decided on a life for herself—a life where no one would ever again force her to give her mind and body, her decision-making freedom, over to another, and where no one could ever again hurt or misuse her.
She would travel, see the pyramids of Egypt and the canals of Venice, fill her life with adventure, art, architecture, learning.
She was no fool; in the circles Mr Darcy inhabited—those of the wealthy, the powerful—they all married each other.
They did not wed impoverished widows from nowhere in particular.
She was not stupid; if he offered anything at all, it would be a brief affair, and the most she could hope for at its end would be a piece of jewellery when he tired of her.
Even if he did somehow offer the permanence of marriage—a notion too ridiculous to seriously consider—beautiful women would be throwing themselves at him all his life.
Plenty of them would be happy to accept that jewellery, trophies proving they had managed to capture a particle of his affection and attention—however fleeting.
She had lived it once already—a different situation, but still as a powerless wife, helpless to change any of what was wrong in her life; she could not do that again.
After all her internal lectures, however, she returned to her chamber to change into a more presentable gown.
Perhaps, afterwards, she might go to the library and see if there were any books of interest—maybe of a country she had not yet researched.
And she knew, even as she tried to convince herself that immediate departure was the wisest choice, that she was going to stay at least one more day.
Darcy stared at the page without seeing a single word on it.
Instead, he only saw Elizabeth’s smiling visage and his friend’s deeply interested expression of the night before.
He saw Bingley leading her into his study, ostensibly to show her his ‘snuff box collection’.
Yes, yes, of course he had one, and never mind that his study was directly beyond the drawing room, that the doors remained open, and that he could hear Bingley’s chatter—or at least that he was chattering, and not taking advantage of having a beautiful woman alone, out of direct sight of the company.
But no one—and certainly not the clever Elizabeth Ashwood—could possibly be that interested in such an uninspiring topic.
Then again, a shrewd woman might use such a tactic to attract the interest of an otherwise na?ve male.
And it had worked, had it not? Bingley had grown provokingly interested.
Her insipid questions had floated across the length of the drawing room.
“Truly? That many? Which is the oldest of your collection? Do you know anything of its history?” On and on it went, each enquiry more banal than the last. Not to Bingley, however. He ate up the attention like a famished shark within a school of small fish. The remembrance was infuriating.
The library door squeaked as someone entered; as he was seated near the fireplace on the opposite side of the room, he saw who it was well before he was seen.
Elizabeth! Without even glancing about to see whether she was alone in the chamber, she shut the door behind her, walking directly to the sparsely populated bookshelves. He had a perfect view of her in profile.
Darcy nearly swallowed his tongue.
She was clad in a burgundy velvet that coasted over her figure like a cascade of wine; her sleeves were long, but puffed at the shoulders and tied with flirtatious dark satin bows that seemed to point to the squared, deep-set neckline.
While not precisely immodest, in comparison with the ugly, dingy dress he had become accustomed to seeing her wear since her arrival, it was provocative in the extreme.
This one displayed her figure to a degree he found inflammatory.
Worse, it was all his own fault. He had decided to take his man out to Stoke to procure some clothing and necessities for Elizabeth—especially since it had become clear that Fanny Ashwood had no intention of doing so.
In that lady’s fortunate absence, he had interviewed Stoke’s housekeeper, who had been very glad to see that Elizabeth’s belongings were gathered, giving the maid specific instructions about what should be packed.
The housekeeper was obviously quite fond of her former mistress, and his perception of Fanny Ashwood’s hatred of her had been, plainly, correct.
“I’ve been hoping for a way to send these over without the mistress knowing,” Mrs Heartly had told him bluntly, after he had reassured her that no one would discover it from him.
“You never saw such a frightened tiny chick as when she came here for the first time—all eyes and feigned bravery, she was. Old Mr Ashwood was a good man, but I thought at the time, lord almighty, what have you done now? But come to find out, she is as steady and unshakeable as a person could be, right there beside him during every illness—and he had many. Smartest thing he ever done was to marry her, and ’tis a rotten shame how she’s treated now. ”
Then, as if he had not learnt enough about the horrible state of affairs with the Ashwoods, she had escorted him to the dower house, Elizabeth’s abode; he had been appalled. “Is that even safe?” he had asked, and Mrs Heartly had sighed.
“She doesn’t use most of it,” was all she would say.
Well. There was nothing frightened or chick-like about Elizabeth any longer.
He could not believe that every garment in that trunk would be this…
enticing. Had she selected the dress most likely to capture Bingley’s eye?
Her hair was styled more softly now—she had removed her usual lace cap, her tight bun loosened, tendrils floating around her face, putting images in a man’s head of how she might look lying upon his pillows.
Had capturing a new, younger husband become her goal?
Bingley was na?ve, but he was neither blind nor stupid. A man would have to be both to ignore the way Elizabeth Ashwood looked now, a tormenting angel framed by gilded afternoon sunlight and a cloud of red velvet. Damnation.