Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
There are a thousand little intimacies of a marriage, small actions that when summed together describe the belonging of one person to another. For Darcy, the loss of these intimacies proved excruciatingly painful, and over the days during their return to London, it was a loss felt many times over.
It began that morning in the breakfast room when Courtenay rose and said nonchalantly, “I shall see whether Elizabeth is prepared to be off.” It required great restraint on Darcy’s part to refrain from saying that it was his duty, not Courtenay’s, to determine Elizabeth’s readiness.
There were further examples as the first day of their travel wore on.
It was Courtenay who handed her into the carriage and reached over to adjust the rug on her lap.
It was Courtenay who complimented her gown and leant into her to point out some item of interest in the passing landscape.
Darcy watched it all silently and miserably, feeling acutely the pain of separation from his wife.
Elizabeth appeared to be in a stupor. She said little and scarcely looked at either man as the carriage moved on.
Courtenay did all he could to ease the awkwardness of their journey. He regaled them with stories of the places he had been and the things he had done in the past three years, and he asked question after question about his son though Elizabeth did not respond with much vigour.
The second day of travel was no better than the first, and soon Darcy could do nothing but yearn for the interminable journey to end.
When they stopped at another indescribable inn within the confines of some little village Darcy would hate forever, Elizabeth sent word that she must see him, asking him to meet her in a sitting room designated for their party. He went to her at once.
She stood by a window with her back to the door, looking frail and despondent. She turned as he entered and rushed into his arms. He felt her tears immediately soak his chest as the sobs ripped out of her.
“I cannot…” she gasped, “I simply cannot…I am no longer married to him. Please think of something, some way—”
Darcy pressed his lips together tightly, his eyes screwed shut to prevent the escape of emotion welling within him. They had both put on an excellent face these two days, as polite and amiable as anyone could be, but their pretence was now cracked wide open, spewing out the truth indiscriminately.
“Do something!” Her voice sounded scared and wildly sad. “Challenge him or…or…we can run away, now, we will go…somewhere, anywhere, please.”
He swallowed hard as she sobbed into his waistcoat. “Just remember that you love him and he loves you. You, him, your son…you are a family. You will learn to love him again.”
“Never!” She shook her head violently. “I do not want to. I cannot do it!” She raised her tear-stained face, painfully beseeching, entreating him, “Please—is there not some way?”
He traced the path of a tear on her cheek. “I begged him to divorce you so that I might marry you, but he loves you, and he could not do it. In any case, that would not do; he would get Henry.”
She inhaled, a deep shuddering breath.
“He does love you, Elizabeth, and I know somewhere in you is your love for him.”
“I am married to you,” she insisted. “My heart, my mind, and my soul are entwined in yours. To untangle that will kill me.”
He cupped her face in his hands. “This pain is unlike anything I ever have known, but there is no escape. You are married to him, not to me.”
Her breaths came quickly as she shut her eyes, an expression of pain furrowing her brow. “How selfish I am to think only of my own unhappiness,” she choked. “You suffer as much as I! Oh, how you must hate the day you ever came into Hertfordshire and saw me!”
“I would not trade it for anything. The time I have had with you is worth any pain I must bear.”
“For me too,” she whispered and clung to him. He relinquished the appearance of stoicism and let his tears fall into her hair as they stood together, pained and desolate.
They remained for some time until, gingerly, they pulled apart, allowing only their hands to touch. Elizabeth raised her eyes to his, her futility and desperation readily evident.
“Tell me in all truth: have we any hope? Any at all?”
Darcy had spent enough hours twisting and turning their dilemma to know for certain that there was no recourse, nothing that would immediately release them. He slowly shook his head. “You are Lady Courtenay, and I cannot save you from that.”
They sat for several minutes until Elizabeth had regained her equanimity and he was confident that he, too, appeared as he ought. With a faint smile, she asked him, “If he would divorce me, would you truly marry me?”
“Lord, yes,” he answered quickly. “That scarcely requires a moment’s contemplation.”
“How different you are.” She looked at him with fondness and admiration in her eyes. “Your character is not much like the man who left Hertfordshire determined not to see me again because I lacked consequence.”
“That man did not know what it was to love you. That man did not understand that he needed you as much as he needed water to drink and air to breathe, and that man did not understand—” He choked, the feeling of their words affecting him too deeply to remain calm.
This is real—it is going to occur. For all his purported understanding of the situation, now he knew it in full.
This journey would end, and with it, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy would be no more.
He would surrender all claims to her. He would watch her walk away, knowing he was nothing to her and never could be anything to her, and he would spend the remaining days of his life watching as she carried on as Lady Courtenay.
His breath came quickly, jaggedly, as the heinous reality of it set upon him, and he could not contain his grief.
“Oh, Elizabeth!” He clutched her, pulling her tight. “I do not think I can do this.” He gasped out the words and buried his face in her hair, feeling a large, painful lump of agony caught in his throat. “I cannot let you go, I just cannot. Heaven help me.”
He fought his emotion, not wanting to hurt her further. He knew not how long he suppressed his anguish, but he could bear no more and rose quickly, pulling away and turning his back to her, unable to endure the agony of seeing her.
His voice thick, he said, “I shall hire a carriage to return to London. I cannot…I am sorry.” He moved quickly to depart the room but stopped in the doorway, his back to her. “I love you. I love you so much. Forgive me.”
Elizabeth knew that what had occurred in the sitting room had been their goodbye, and the following morning, she was not surprised to learn that he had departed the inn before dawn, leaving her a letter. She contemplated it for several minutes before gaining sufficient courage to open it.
My Dearest, Loveliest Elizabeth:
I take the liberty of addressing you as such for this one last time, though I shall always think of you this way.
For when we meet, and I say your proper name as I must, in my mind you will always be this: my Elizabeth, my own, and my love.
Although our marriage was far too brief, you have given me more felicity than I should have ever dared to imagine, and I shall treasure that bit of you for always.
My mind cannot begin to understand the contrariety of emotion within you now, but I do hope—truly I do—that therein resides some happy feeling for a reunion with the man who holds the exalted title of your first love, as well as the father of your dear son.
I beseech you to feel that happiness, to stir up your joy so that your regret for our life can be overcome.
I wish for you to enjoy nothing less than exquisite felicity.
I beg you to do all in your power to reach that state.
I know not how your husband will permit you to meet me in the future, but should we be allowed to call ourselves friends, let it always be with a fond remembrance for what was.
I shall never cease loving you, nor shall I ever forget the joys we have shared.
I can never, in truth, be your husband, but despite that, the vows I made to you on that blessed day will be forever upheld.
I do not pretend to be anything short of devastated, nor would I wish to show you a disguise.
I would do anything in my power to make this different, but as I cannot, I shall do my best to console myself and carry on as I must. I dearly hope you will do the same, finding all the happiness that you so richly deserve.
Someday, when he is old enough to understand, please tell little Henry that I have loved him, and I shall always love him as much as any father could love their child.
I shall only add, God bless you.
Fitzwilliam
She admired him for his fortitude in making the break between them.
He would go on and so must she, and if her happiness could be nothing more than a disguise, then so be it.
She would practise joy as she had practised riding, speaking French, and playing the pianoforte, and in time, it would become easier.
She and Henry would discover each other once again.
So resolved, Elizabeth swallowed the tears that threatened, raised her chin, and went forth to meet her husband.
In retrospect, Elizabeth could not say clearly what transpired throughout the remainder of their journey back to London.
Part of her mind occupied itself in presenting an appropriate face to Henry.
She related more about their son and her time in Hertfordshire, and he told of his illness, his recovery, and his constant fear for Elizabeth’s safety.
“I had so little understanding of what had occurred outside of Kidsgrove,” he explained. “News from London was scarce, and I knew not whether the situation there had quieted.”