Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In the morning, Elizabeth felt every bit of the reward that comes from a night of indulgence in spirits. The sun coming through her windows was painfully bright, causing her to wince as a headache roared to life.
Oh, Elizabeth, what did you do? She was mortified by her indiscretion and could only console herself with the fact that she had managed to escape detection by nearly all of her servants and her son. Just Mr Darcy and Burney and, thankfully, both are inclined towards silence.
She reviewed the events on the settee in her mind.
Mr Darcy had resisted her efforts for a few minutes, but he eventually returned her kiss.
It was a relatively chaste business at first; Mr Darcy had permitted himself no more than to caress her back lightly.
She could boast no such restraint. One hand had roamed his chest while the other had rested on his thigh, supporting her as she leant into him.
It was his thigh, was it not? Please, God, it was only his thigh!
She was not entirely certain how it had gone on from there.
After some time, he had laid her back on the settee—Perhaps, I pulled him on top of me?
I cannot bear to recall it!—allowing some of his weight to rest on her.
And their kisses! Remembering those kisses made her smile through the mortification.
Her skirts were mostly between them, but she could not deny that her leg had encircled one of his.
He must have discarded his coat and waistcoat, she believed, for she recalled the searing, hard heat of him pressed against her chest and legs.
Her hair had escaped its pins, and he had combed his hands through it repeatedly, telling her it was beautiful and that she was beautiful.
Yet it became worse. She had briefly entertained the notion of taking Mr Darcy to her bed and prayed she had not voiced the idea.
How utterly humiliating to be drunk and as wanton as a harlot, begging Mr Darcy to join her in her bed!
She had only wished for the particular consolation that comes with the intimate knowledge of a man and to feel the sense of belonging and dear regard of that state.
Such a gentleman. No matter what I did, he pulled away and apologised. Did I see him out? Did I wander around with my hair wild about me, looking so obviously lustful?
Her maid had left her a glass of water along with a packet containing some powders. Elizabeth blessed her for her foresight, pouring the contents into the water and drinking down the bitter liquid with no hesitation.
Her morning ablutions proceeded slowly. Burney persuaded her to eat some breakfast though her stomach could not enjoy the idea. As she finished dressing, her housekeeper came to her with a card. “Mr Darcy, madam. Will you receive him?”
She moaned, putting her head into her hand. Then, with a quick shake and a rally of her spirits, she said, “Yes, I shall.”
Minutes later, she entered the parlour where he stood, looking over her garden. Although it was small, she had managed to commission something of a floral paradise. It was early in the season, but the space was sheltered and the sunshine plentiful, so things were beginning to flourish.
He turned as she entered. “I should almost think this a garden from Hertfordshire.”
She smiled. “Most of the seeds came from my mother’s storehouse, so in some manner of speaking, it is. Shall we go sit out there?”
“Perhaps, or would you prefer a walk?”
“Always.” There was a brief delay as the maid fetched Elizabeth’s bonnet and gloves, and then they were off.
It was a lovely day, the sort of day that just begged for people to fall in love within it. The air was fresh and smelled of new grass and blooming flowers, and baby birds hopped about on the paths around them. It was a day formed for happiness and renewal, and Elizabeth felt it, despite her shame.
She waited to speak until they had walked for a time. “Mr Darcy, I am exceedingly ashamed of my vulgar behaviour last night.”
“You were rather amusing, actually.”
“My head was not amused this morning,” she told him ruefully.
“I should think not. Fitzwilliam told me a bit more of the news you had received yesterday. How shocking it is—I could scarce believe it myself, particularly the role of George Wickham.”
“Have you known him a long time?”
“Nearly my entire life. My father supported him at school. I am glad he is not alive to see what Wickham has become. What misfortune it was for George to meet up with his oldest boyhood friend while using an assumed name.”
“How frightening to think he was so near.” She paused a moment, lost in thought.
“I cannot say why the price on Henry’s head distressed me so.
It somehow made things worse, that his assassin had done his deed for such a small payment.
I could not bear it, and then I found Henry’s flask and sipped it as I went through some of his papers. Not the behaviour of a lady, is it?”
Darcy offered a kind smile and patted the hand that rested in the crook of his arm. “You have managed so well for so long. Many others in your position would have turned frequently to such comforts.”
“I do not know why you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You take the most glaring examples of my faults and follies and somehow make them a source of admiration.”
“When you love someone, you love them for their imperfections, not in spite of them.”
A queer fluttery feeling came into her stomach. She turned her face away from him until the moment had passed. When she looked at him again, he held out a letter.
“You had this last night, and it fell from your hands. I picked it up and then forgot about it.”
She took it, seeing it was one of Henry’s letters, an unimportant one addressed to a school friend in Kent.
She opened it and glanced over the words.
“Henry was so disorderly; his papers were a scandalous mess.
This letter was a note to a friend. It must have been a draft, or else he neglected to send it for some reason.
“He had been at the friend’s estate, and the pair of them were doing a bit of fencing with some old swords they found.
The friend’s sword slipped, and made a deep gouge across Henry’s chest. From Henry’s account, the wound bled impressively, and his friend was worried about him.
This letter was merely to reassure his friend that he was well. ”
She sighed. “He had quite the scar from it, nearly the whole way across his chest. I saw it once, and it looked rather mean. Would you be so good as to hold this for me? I did not bring a reticule.” She returned the letter to his hands.
“Of course.” He replaced it in his coat pocket.
There was an awkward silence until she offered, “I hope you will forgive me for kissing you as I did.”
His countenance unexpectedly became teasing. “Having taken such liberties, madam, I am anticipating your offer for my hand.”
She laughed, relieved. “I suppose if I refuse to do the honourable thing, you will have Miss Darcy call me out?”
“I might have Georgiana call you out anyway, just to see how you might settle it.” He grinned at her.
“If ladies were to duel, we would need a retinue of friends and acquaintances to attend. The pair would face off and begin hurling veiled insults at one another, or perhaps, contrive rumours and gossip to spread to those around them.” Elizabeth giggled at the notion.
“In any case, the idea of it is certainly awful enough, so perhaps I should just offer for you—or rather, agree to your offer if it still stands—and avoid Georgiana’s wrath entirely. ”
She had caught Darcy short, and he gave her a wary look. “Do you mean that?”
Astonishingly, she found she did. She hardly knew she had been considering it, but having given voice to the idea, she felt peace. It seemed right.
She nodded but added immediately, “I do not wish to hurt you, but neither would I mislead you.”
“Very well.” His countenance became grave and he stared intently at her.
“We are rather well matched. There is a similarity in the turn of our minds that would serve us well, I think, and moreover, I enjoy your company very much. You are a good and honourable man, and I was a fool not to have seen it before. Our friendship is so very dear to me, one of the dearest I have.”
He shook his head slightly when she called herself a fool but said nothing.
“My greatest hesitation is that you tell me you love me.”
“That troubles you?”
“I just do not know that I could ever offer you the same. It is unfair.” She hated the look of disappointment that came into his eyes.
“I gave my heart in full to Henry, and with all that has happened, I cannot imagine I shall ever recover from it. I can offer you my friendship and my affection, but as for more…I just do not know whether I can.”
With an inhale she continued, “If you, too, would enter this marriage for practical reasons, I would be more easy with the notion. Then we would give to each other only what was received.”
He smiled faintly. “Alas, my desire to marry you is formed by the wishes of my heart, not my head, so I cannot oblige you.”
“If I did feel myself forming a more romantic attachment, I would welcome it. I just want you to understand that I do not know whether it will occur. It must be yours to decide whether you can be in an unequal marriage.”
“I have considered it,” he admitted after a thoughtful pause.
“I see how you loved your husband, and I did not expect to supplant that.
I shall readily admit that I am a jealous man, and to know that your heart belongs to him is difficult for me to accept.
However, my choice is for an unequal marriage no matter what we decide.
Either I can be with you—the one I love—or I can marry another and, thus, be with one who might love me but whom I do not love.
You see, just as your heart is for Henry, mine is for you. That will not change.