Chapter 11
Elizabeth sat beside her fire, the warmth drying her hair and soothing her limbs. She had chosen a thick woollen day dress, happy the modiste had recommended this fabric.
When she had been in her bath, she had rested, thinking of her husband — that intractable man, eaten up with pride! But, no. She heaved a heavy breath. Not intractable; more perplexing, incomprehensible. Nothing of him made sense.
Slumping further into her chair, she remembered his insufferable pride and disdain. Tolerable, indeed! But then — he had been in torment because of the near elopement of his sister. He would not prevaricate about such a serious thing; it must be true.
And he had followed Lydia because he wanted to protect her from the same sort of man. A silly, bumptious girl he did not even know and was certainly not responsible for.
It spoke well of him — so why had he shown her a different side of him in the early months of their marriage? Cold, silent, and avoiding her company?
She wished they had not been interrupted by her bath being called; although it was welcome, she would have relished the opportunity to finish their mutual explanations, so near to honesty as they had been.
A knock sounded at the door, and Elizabeth pushed herself up to a better posture. “Enter.”
The housekeeper approached, a letter in her hand. “Mr. Darcy has asked me to hand you this message from him.”
Automatically, Elizabeth reached for it. Elizabeth written on the front in his clear, decisive hand.
She nodded the woman away. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” and broke the seal. Two sheets. If he had only just written it, he must have begun within a short time of her leaving him.
My dear Elizabeth,
I find I cannot leave matters as they stand between us. I spoke clumsily earlier and fear I have now deepened the wound my own stupidity created.
She read on, her hand over her mouth for some of it. It was a hastily-written note, some of the lines scratched out, the words rewritten with more emotion, the sentiments raw and deeply-felt.
When she reached the final part of the letter, she felt the tears start to her eyes.
… your happiness has become the measure of mine …
She pressed the sheets up to her chest, her head bowed over them. She had never, never, considered such a proud man would humble himself to this extent.
… I vow to do all in my power …
… Yours ever
William …
The wind outside began to ease, mirroring the sense of calm stealing through her, and she understood that William — her husband — had no idea whether she could or would forgive him; his anguish at her pain these last months was in every line written.
She stood up hastily; she could not leave him in suspense a moment longer. Then she hesitated, her hair was not yet dry, and she could hardly go to him in some disarray. But she would not wait; she seized some pins and twisted her hair up loosely. It would do.
She hurried on the stairs, and nearly lost a slipper, but saved herself — she would hardly wish to arrive in a heap at his feet. At the library door, she hesitated an instant, but she would not knock as the servants did.
She entered, feeling suddenly shy, and hoping she had not misread the passion in his letter. It might have been a better moment had she been properly dressed and coiffed as Mrs. Darcy, but he must take her as she was.
He was sitting staring into the fire, but the small noise of the door seemed to startle him, and he jumped to his feet.
“Elizabeth!”
He took a step toward her, and then stopped as though unsure whether he was welcome. She could see he was anxious, his coat rumpled as if from long hours at his desk, his hair unruly.
“I could not wait,” she said breathlessly. “I read your letter —.”
“Then you know,” he said. His voice was low and rough. “I meant no offence by sending it, only …”
“Only that you would not let the day end in misery.” She tried to smile, but her throat tightened. “Nor could I. You have been in agony all this time while writing it, and I could not let you wait a moment longer.” She blinked. “I have misunderstood you most dreadfully.”
He moved closer. “If you can forgive me —”
“There is nothing left to forgive.”
The silence that followed was softer than any words. She felt the fire’s warmth and his presence before her, and something unknotted inside her chest.
He straightened. “Elizabeth, I …” then the words seemed to leave him and he grimaced in frustration. “I am sorry, my love, so sorry for …”
Elizabeth reached up and put her finger over his mouth.
“If you say one more word of apology I will be deeply offended that you do not believe I forgive you without the necessity of you grovelling on your knees.” She let her eyes flash as she teased him, but his reluctant smile did not quite yet reach his intent gaze.
“William.” Deliberately, she reached out and took his hand, knowing that he had no confidence that she would not reject such a gesture from him, and the hitch in his breath informed her of the rightness of her action.
But he stayed an arm’s length away and she did not understand why. “William.” She took a step towards him, feeling very forward. But they were married, and she wanted to show him she cared, that his happiness mattered to her.
He groaned, and turned slightly away. “Elizabeth, I cannot …” but his hand still clutched hers.
“What is it? Am I wrong, sir?”
He dropped his head. “No of course not. But I … I love you so much, Elizabeth. I am afraid I will frighten you, lose control if I am too close.”
“Oh, is that what it is? You have frightened me that you might not wish to …” Elizabeth reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand, just for an instant, before dropping her hand and stepping back as far as his grip on her hand would allow.
She smiled faintly, unsure what the weakness in her legs and her racing heart presaged, but if he wanted her to be calm, she would be. For him.
“William, I want you to know how I feel. I have misjudged you grievously. And I must apologise to you for that. But I have come to realise that I feel for you a deep admiration and warm regard, and I wish we could learn for there to be more than distant civility between us. And then perhaps learn to be husband and wife.”
There was a firm rap on the door, and William dropped her hand convulsively.
“Enter,” he said, but his voice was hoarse, and did not elicit a response. He cleared his throat to speak again. “Enter.”
Mrs. Reynolds opened the door. “I thought you might prefer dinner on trays in here than to dine formally.” There was no question in her voice and Elizabeth smiled at the woman who had accepted her as Mrs. Darcy, assisted her to learn the duties of mistress, and was now trying her best to ensure the felicity of both master and mistress.
“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.” Elizabeth stood back while several footmen carrying trays entered behind a maid who hastily spread a tablecloth on the table in the window, before the trays were deposited and wine and glasses placed carefully.
“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. We will ring when we have finished. Otherwise we are not to be disturbed.” William had regained his composure admirably, Elizabeth thought impishly. She must try to dislodge that later.
As soon as they were alone, Elizabeth stepped to the table and moved the trays, that they might sit much closer together than the opposite ends of the table.
“I applaud your actions, madam.” William grinned and suddenly looked much younger than he had over the last months. Then he crossed to the mantel and brought down his mother’s brass ornament and placed it in the middle of the table before reaching for a taper to light the candle.
He looked up and must have seen the tears standing in her eyes, for he reached over and lifted her hand to his lips.
“Let us enjoy our meal, Elizabeth. We have the rest of the evening — and our lives — to say all that must be said.” His quiet murmur nearly undid her, and heat spread up her arm from the feel of his lips on her bare skin. She shivered.
“Of course.”
He held her chair for her, and poured the wine before taking his seat. As they ate, he watched her constantly, his eyes soft in the candlelight. Conversing quietly, she began to feel that she had not known him before, but now she knew — he was exactly the man who was most suited to her.
As they finished, he began to look a little uncomfortable. “Elizabeth. Mrs. Darcy. May I … may I attend you in your chambers tonight?”
Elizabeth leaned forward until her face was close to his and met his gaze. “Yes,” she breathed, closing her eyes. Would he kiss her? She wished so much to know and licked her lips, suddenly dry.
At that, there was a sudden exclamation, and his arms were around her as he drew her up and into his arms.
He enfolded her within his embrace, and she felt the steady pounding of his heart. Could he feel hers racing and fluttering, she wondered, before all thought left her and she was conscious only of the strength of his arms, the smell of the woodsmoke and the beeswax, of …
“Elizabeth.” He murmured her name reverently, and then his lips were on her forehead, light and gentle, before his mouth met hers, and her legs would hardly bear her weight.
His arms tightened and he lifted his head. “Are you well, dearest?”
She rested her head against his. “Never better.” Her voice was rather quavery, she thought, but it seemed he understood, for his lips met hers once more.