Chapter 49
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Mr Hanley said little in the carriage as they travelled towards Towton Hall. Elizabeth made the polite, expected banter with him for a bit and then lapsed into silence, trying not to wonder what Hanley might have overheard in the garden.
He entered the house with her. “I have a brief matter of business to discuss with his lordship. I shall not detain him over long.”
Elizabeth smiled and retired to her chambers.
As she surrendered herself to the ministrations of her maid, she wondered—assuming Hanley had heard her with Darcy—what he might tell Henry.
She had no wish to pain Henry, and he already knew well that her heart was divided.
However, for him to know that she no longer loved him, and had said as much to Darcy, was just too cruel.
Surely, Hanley could not be that unkind.
She did not fear what Henry might do. Indeed, were he to divorce her, even for adultery, the scandal could hardly be more than it already was.
She was nearly inured to the whispers and conversation about her.
If tattle circulated about an intimate relationship between her and Darcy, she doubted anyone would think it odd.
There likely were many who already assumed something of that nature still occurred between them.
What she truly feared was hurting Henry. He was a good man, and she despised all that had happened to him. The treachery of a brother now leading to the faithlessness of a wife—it was despicable.
A soft knock came at her door, and Elizabeth inhaled, thinking that her question might well be answered as to what Henry had learnt from his friend.
“Come in,” she called softly as her heart began to pound, dreading any sort of confrontation.
Henry entered and smiled. She knew immediately that he wore nothing beneath his light silk dressing gown.
He came to her where she perched on the side of her bed and sat next to her.
He looked into her eyes, and she smelled the brandy on his breath.
Gently, he said, “Elizabeth, you know I love you very much, yes?”
“I do.” She nodded, swallowing, and felt her anxiety grow. “And I wish you to know that I appreciate your patience with me. This situation has been a trial to us all—you most of all—yet your kindness has been indefatigable. I…I would not wish you to think…”
He laid his fingers on the side of her cheek, caressing her with great tenderness. “I adore you. I would do anything to take back these years and begin again where we left off: newly married with all that was good in life before us.”
A slight smile was her only response—the only response she could make through her trepidation.
“I must admit, my patience this night has been sorely tried.” He pressed soft but ardent kisses to her cheek that left her in no doubt of his wishes.
“Has it?” she whispered, her heart pounding wildly. Is this, then, to be my penance? Henry finally coming to assert his rights? “I am sorry, I know…”
“Your beauty has enticed me to the point of madness. My desire for you is overwhelming.” He reached for his waist and loosened the ties of his gown, which fell partly open, revealing him to her eyes.
She blushed, looking away quickly, even as he reached for her hand and pulled it to his half-covered chest. She could scarcely look at him, unnerved by the thought of seeing those parts of him that were previously hidden.
“Please, my love.” He was sweetly entreating.
“I am filled with an almost wretched desire for my wife. I would not have anything from you that you did not give in willingness and in love, but my need for you is nigh on killing me.” He edged closer to her, leaning in to kiss her lips.
She turned slightly, causing him to kiss the corner of her mouth.
“I thought you were worried about a possible conception.”
“I am, but there is much to be enjoyed without risk of that, is there not?”
He knew. Elizabeth inadvertently stiffened.
Hanley had heard her reminiscing with Darcy of their time in the meadow, and he told Henry.
She supposed she deserved as much for speaking so, and for having such licentious wishes for a man who was no longer hers.
Her guilt and her shame washed over her, guilt for having spoken of Henry so unkindly and for no longer loving him as she should.
She pulled back, and he released her hand, moving to cover himself. “You are unwilling. I would not wish—”
“It is not that,” she said hastily, feeling relieved once he was completely covered by his gown. “I just…my head aches and I…”
He shook his head, giving her a smile that, to her guilty eyes, seemed sad. “If you are not yet ready for further intimacy between us, I understand.”
She pressed her hand to her forehead, mortified and ashamed. “I am sorry, so very sorry…”
“You need not be.” He moved to leave her. “I understand, truly I do.”
“Henry, I—” She stopped, having no notion of what she might say. He turned back, and she offered him a rueful, regretful smile. “I am sorry. I wish I could…I just cannot, not yet. It is too…”
He returned to where she was seated on the bed, and trailed his fingers across her cheek. “Do not fret about it, my angel. I am not upset and would not wish you to be so either.”
“Angel?” She laughed a bit. “I had forgotten you often called me that.”
“Did you?” He smiled. “I called you that from almost our first meeting, I think. Impertinent of me to claim such a familiarity back then. Does it amuse you to recall it?”
She shook her head. “I did not think of that. I smiled only because our brother Bingley calls Jane that too.”
He bent, kissing her cheek. “We must tell him that it was our endearment first, and thus, he must share it.” He kissed her lightly once more. “I bid you good night, sweet angel.”
She smiled faintly. “Good night, Henry.”
Minutes later, Elizabeth lay in her bed, staring up at the canopy over her and considering what had just transpired.
She could not fault her husband for his needs. His forbearance and his patience were exemplary. They had been reunited for two months, and it was not surprising that he should think her accustomed to his presence in her life again by now.
Alas, she was not. Having Henry enter her bedchamber felt like having a stranger enter. She was still Mrs Darcy, not Lady Courtenay, and until that feeling changed—and she doubted it ever would—to willingly accept Henry into her bed was impossible.
Her mind returned to the admission she had made to Darcy earlier that night: I do not love him. She did not love Henry any longer; she knew that. At times, she felt that she loved him less each day, and at other times—disgraceful times—she hated him.
Loving a man I cannot have is preventing me from caring for the man I do have. There is no escape. Whether I love him or not, I am his wife until death do us part. It cannot go on. I am making myself miserable.
As she drifted off to sleep, she noted that Henry had grown much more muscular in their time apart.
Although he was certainly not as attractive as Darcy—stop thinking of that, Lizzy!
—his figure was appealing now, manly and athletic.
Henry had not been so well built before; he was more inclined towards reading and strolls in the country than he was to fencing, boxing, or even riding.
It must have been the mines, she concluded. Such work must make a man strong.