Chapter 9
Darcy woke at dawn. He frowned at the window; it was Christmas Eve, and he would rather have the sun shining over the snow-covered grounds for this, Elizabeth’s first Christmas at Pemberley.
But the clouds were looming, threatening more snow and a rising wind. He sighed and turned as his valet entered, carrying a steaming cup of coffee.
“Thank you, Mr. Maunder.” Darcy appreciatively breathed in the aroma from across the room. It was doubtful he could ride out this morning, and he missed the exercise and the chance to prepare himself for the day. He chuckled to himself; his horse would certainly not wish to leave his warm stable.
Perhaps Elizabeth would like to stroll in the gallery with him after breakfast. He could answer yesterday’s letters before they met to eat, and that would free him for more of her company.
He was waiting eagerly to see Elizabeth as he waited in the breakfast room, trying to decide what she might enjoy when he filled her plate, and imagining the easy conversation over whichever book she was reading at the moment.
But she looked pale and drawn, and did not meet his eyes as she entered the room and curtsied. “Mr. Darcy.”
He frowned. “Are you unwell, Elizabeth?” She had reverted to calling him Mr. Darcy. Had he overstepped? He frantically wondered what had happened and when.
“I am afraid I slept ill last night, sir.” She nodded her thanks as he held her chair, but there was no spark of life in her eyes.
“May I get you something? Just a little to begin with?” He was anxious for her.
“Just a cup of tea, please.” The footman leapt forward, and Darcy sat down. He wished he had helped himself while he was waiting, he did not feel he should eat heartily while she was not partaking.
“Please do not deny yourself because I am not eating, Mr. Darcy. Or I will take my tea into my sitting room if you would feel easier.” She had noticed — of course she had noticed.
“If you are sure, madam. But I would appreciate your company.”
There was the ghost of a smile on her face, “Perhaps just a roll and some butter. Then you might feel easier.”
“Of course.” Darcy leapt to his feet to obtain what she asked for. So little.
“Are you cold? Let me have the fire made up.”
She shook her head. “We will not remain here long, it is hardly worth it.”
It was not long before they left the breakfast room, Darcy’s heart heavy. He bent his head. “If you feel unwell, do you think it would be better to retire and rest a little this morning?”
She looked away. “I am not unwell, merely tired. The duties of the morning will soon set me to rights.” She straightened up without looking at him. “Please excuse me.”
He watched her walk away from him towards the mistress’ office, where Mrs. Reynolds awaited her, a bemused look on her face as she watched her mistress approach.
He sat in his study, staring at the papers on his desk.
Was Elizabeth denying she was unwell? Surely she would still call him William if that was the case.
He must have pressed himself too much upon her — perhaps she needed more space to come to terms with their increased felicity.
His heart was heavy as he reached for his pen.
He could think of nothing else that might have offended her; he had been careful, he thought, although he knew he was not adept at saying the right thing on occasions.
However, she had forgiven him his distant words about the library and he warmed a little, thinking about the concord they had found that evening, and longing to experience it again. With Elizabeth.
Two hours later, he rose and crossed to the drawing room, hoping to see Elizabeth taking tea, quite recovered from her sombre mood of the morning. But although the trays were laid out ready, his wife was not there. He rang the bell, frowning.
“Mrs. Reynolds, is Mrs. Darcy resting in her chambers?”
The woman shook her head, glancing at the windows. “No, sir. I did try to persuade her not to go, as the wind is rising. But she insisted. I expected her back this hour past.”
His alarm rose. “Where did she go? Not outside?”
The housekeeper shrank back a little. “Yes, sir. She would not be dissuaded. She took a wreath for Lady Anne’s tomb to the mausoleum.”
He was shocked. It was not far, certainly; not one hundred yards further than the chapel. But the whole distance was much too far in this icy weather. “She was accompanied by a footman?”
“Yes, sir. She did not wish it, but I sent Parker to follow her.”
Obstinate, headstrong girl! She was a slight, slender lady. A mere puff of the Derbyshire wind might unbalance her.
Darcy scowled. “Call for my coat and boots. I will find her.”
Jamming his hat on his head, Darcy hurried down the steps.
Even in his winter boots, with hob-nailed soles, it was still slippery, and he took the side verge of the path — he would rather wade through unbroken snow than risk the ice.
His alarm rose; Elizabeth could not do that with long skirts, and as for ladies footwear — even half boots were more for ornament than heavy weather.
Soon he saw the footman hurrying back towards the house.
“Parker! Where is Mrs. Darcy?” How dare the man abandon her?
The man veered towards him. “I am pleased to see you, sir! Mrs Darcy is waiting at the mausoleum. It was very slippery to get there and she has agreed to wait while I fetch a vehicle for her.”
“Very well. I will go to join her and await the carriage.”
Darcy’s relief was heartfelt. At least she had some sense, and his heart softened as her allowed himself to be moved by her determination to honour his mother.
More than a little guilt filled him that he paid his respects less and less often; he had not even been on the anniversary of Mama’s birth this year, he realised.
But his temper rose again not halfway to the chapel when he saw her struggling back through the heavy snow at the side of the path, her skirts lifted as high as she dared.
“Elizabeth!” He hurried towards her, although he dared not take any chances. “I believed you waiting within the monument for Parker to complete his task.” His exasperation showed, much as he tried to keep his voice under better regulation.
Her look was colder than the weather. “I can manage, sir. I was certain you would not wish me to hike my skirts in the presence of the footman, and there is no way that any shoemaker in England makes ladies footwear that is designed to walk in ice or rain!”
Her ire with the world forced him to make the attempt to stop his lips twitching; she would certainly not be amused if he laughed at her pique.
“Perhaps you would permit me to assist you, madam?”
She eyed his outstretched hand, seemingly vexed with the world.
“I am managing quite well, sir. If you wish to be helpful, you could return —at great speed in those hessians — and ask Mrs. Reynolds to arrange a hot bath for me.” She bunched her skirts again and Darcy caught sight of a stockinged calf.
His heart stopped and he forced himself to breathe.
“You are already shivering,” he said quietly. “Please allow me, if only for appearance’s sake.”
There was a moment’s silence. “I do not need rescuing,” she said finally. “But I suppose that your precious pride would be injured if I am seen to refuse your arm.” She appeared downcast, and Darcy tucked away the knowledge that his wife was a fiercely independent lady.
They trudged slowly back, Elizabeth walking as close to the snow as she could, where the path was least slippery.
She seemed determined not to cling onto his arm, and he remembered the bruises he got from Miss Bingley clinging to him just to cross the room.
He pressed his lips together not to laugh.
“You are very cold, Elizabeth. May I place my coat over your shoulders?”
“No, you may not, sir. We are nearly back at the house and I must overcome my temper to be calm with the staff.”
He did allow himself to be amused then. “You have no such scruples with me, it seems.”
She declined to answer that, but was all charming apologies to the coachman and grooms when they appeared with the carriage not fifty yards from the house. She patted the horse’s noses, and thanked them, too before lifting her eyes to the coachman.
“Mr. Evans, perhaps you might allow them the treat of an apple for being obliged to leave their nice warm stable?”
Having been assured of their comfort, she tightened her grip on his arm a little as they mounted the steps to the great front door, still glittering with ice even though swept clear every hour on a day like today.
“It is a pity ashes leave marks on the stone,” she remarked. “It would be very pleasant to keep the steps clear of frost.”
He took her to the smallest parlour, certain that Mrs. Reynolds would have had the fire built up, and Elizabeth crossed the room to warm her hands while she waited for her bath to be ready.
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating. Finally, Darcy could bear it no longer.
“Have I done something to offend you again, madam? If so, I apologise from the bottom of my heart, I would not willingly have caused you any harm.”
She dropped her head, hesitating. “I suppose I must tell you. It was yesterday. I …” she seemed to think what to say, and he waited.
“After you left to see your steward; I picked up your letters so that the footmen could clear the breakfast table. But the letter from your cousin was open, and my eye caught the word Bennet.”
She shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “I know it was wrong, but I had to know, so I read that part of his letter.”
She raised her eyes to his, misery and fury combined.
“… handled the Bennet business … the Meryton affair … such a niece. It was all just an arrangement, done out of pride and disdain. No wonder you hated having to marry, treated me so poorly.”
Darcy stared at her, unable to reply. But the silence drew out. He must say something before she was called away for her bath. He cleared his throat.
“Elizabeth, I am sorry. Yes, it was true I was proud and disdainful; and above my company at the assembly. But I did not know you then — had not even been introduced. But then I saw that servant’s face. Greed, avarice and … lust.” He shuddered.
“I have seen that expression before. And once it was on the face of a childhood friend as he importuned my sister, wanting her dowry. She would have gone with him —” He knew his voice was anguished. “She would have eloped, gone with him, had I not arrived in time.” He shook his head.
“I saw that same expression on the servant that night as he looked at your youngest sister, and she forgot everything she knew about being a gentlewoman, everything she knew about society and followed him.” He met her gaze.
“Yes, I followed her. I could not bear to think of another young lady ruined in the same way that my sister so nearly was.”
She was staring at him, her hand over her mouth, tears standing in her eyes.
She believed him, he thought. Dear God, please let her believe me.
Mrs Reynolds’s discreet cough in the doorway reminded them of propriety. Elizabeth had gone for her bath then, the presence of the housekeeper stunting the conversation they could have had.
She had gone, and it was right that she should get properly warm; he would not wish her to become ill, but he did wish they had had a few moments more.
He left the small parlour; his library was where he needed to be, and he poured himself a drink before taking his familiar chair beside the fire. He stared into the crackling flames, the quiet motion soothing his restless mind.
He had not said nearly all he needed to say, but could he ever speak so plainly or remember all he wished to say when in the midst of a conversation?
Perhaps he could write notes. Elizabeth would not laugh at him, she was kindness itself.