Chapter 51 #2
“Something in this is not right. There is deviltry afoot, and I wish to ensure Elizabeth is not caught amid it.”
“Is it not her husband’s prerogative to see to her safety?”
“Unless her husband is involved,” Darcy replied sharply.
“There has never been any suggestion of that.”
“No one was looking for it,” Darcy insisted, turning to look at his cousin. “Even though she can never be mine, I want to see that she is safe and happy, always.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door and a footman informing them that the carriage awaited. Darcy rose with a sigh of reluctance.
“I shall go to this ball for a short time, but I shall not promise you more than that.”
“That is fair enough,”
He was shocked to see her there though he did not know why.
Lord and Lady Courtenay had entered the social fray with a vengeance, the earl clearly eager to reacquaint himself with all the pleasures of town society.
Darcy supposed their design was to meet the gossips unashamedly.
If everyone saw them everywhere, there could hardly be as much to say about them, could there?
He did not go to her immediately but watched as she danced, noting that her smile was dull and her manner gracious but restrained. She had a pinched look about her eyes that he knew mirrored his own.
Courtenay had left her by the fourth set, and she stood among other young married ladies who chatted lightly as they watched the dancers. He went to her immediately.
“Lady Courtenay, will you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?”
She turned to him, her eyes filled with an emotion he could not discern. “Mr Darcy. Yes, I would be honoured.”
He was aware of the eyes of the ladies upon them as he offered his arm and silently led her to the dance.
The set that had formed was large, which suited Darcy well as it gave them ample time to talk while the others moved through the pattern.
“How are you?”
She gave him a small smile. “Well enough, and you?”
“Dreadful,” he whispered. “I think of nothing all day but my longing for you.”
“In that we are equal,” she replied with a slight lift of her shoulders.
When they spoke again, it was simultaneously.
“I must speak—”
“Where is—”
He smiled at her. “After you, please.”
She looked away quickly, and he saw tears fill her eyes. “Will you escort me out for some air? I must speak to you, and I cannot do it here.”
He wondered what new pain was nigh upon him as he agreed, indicating she should lead the way and following her with dread.
Her tears fell quickly once they reached the terrace. He offered his handkerchief, but she did not take it. Instead, she pulled a handkerchief embroidered with her husband’s initials from her reticule. He disregarded the meaning of that, taking her elbow and guiding her towards a small bench.
“How is young Henry?” He missed the boy dearly and often spent the scant time that he was not dwelling on Elizabeth in thinking of the little boy he had once called his son.
“Wonderful, as always.” She wiped her eyes. “We are for Warrington within the next week to be there for Easter. We shall not return for some time—a year perhaps.”
He nodded through the pang of sadness that smote him. “I see.”
“Fitzwilliam.” She sighed more than said it as more tears came to her eyes. “I cannot go on this way. I love you, I love everything about you, and I suspect that I shall never feel that way for anyone ever again.”
“Anyone except for Henry.”
“No.” She shook her head, looking down. “Heaven help me, I just do not love him any longer. As gradually as my love for you came on, so did my love for him wane, and I cannot seem to find it within me again.
“That is why I must…we must sever the ties between us. How I despise it!” Her tears came again.
“It is impossible to continue. I am living a double life, wanting that which I cannot have while forced to pretend the one I want is before me. I cannot act; the role I have been assigned is more than I can feign, and I must…I must remove you from my heart and my mind in hopes that I can regain what I have lost for him.”
Darcy rose from the bench, putting his back to her. He went to the edge of the terrace and stood against a column, staring out into the inky night.
Quietly, she spoke to his back. “I cannot continue with half a life and half a heart, and the one who owns me wishes for the return.”
He was silent for several long moments when he heard her rise and come towards him. Leaning her face against his back, she wound her arms around his middle.
“This is your final goodbye then,” he said, his voice rough.
She whispered fervently, “Had I any other choice, I would take it, but I do not. This is killing me. I cannot go on in this divided way. I must do my best to love him once again. He is my husband and the father of my son, and I must make myself love him again.”
Darcy could not bear more pain or more sorrow, and thus, the flush of anger spreading over him was welcomed. He removed her hands from his waist and stepped away, turning to face her.
“Very well then.” His voice was clipped and cold. “Henry has played his hand well.”
She looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
Darcy shrugged, looking off into the distance of the black night.
“I could not understand his liberality with you. He was neither jealous nor possessive. He unlocked your door and let you come to this as you had to, and now he is the ultimate victor. He has won it all. You are his once more and by your own choice. Could anything be more sweet?”
“He was always going to be victor.” She, too, sounded angry through her sorrow. “My choice is only to avoid descending into madness, for that is where my love for you is taking me.”
“Well, that is the difference between us. I would gladly take madness so long as I had you there.”
She stepped closer to him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have a duty! I have a son to raise and a marriage vow to fulfil, and I cannot do that when my heart, mind, and soul are filled with you!”
“So you come to me this night to tell me you will have no part with me? That is your duty? To tear my heart out?”
“No!” Elizabeth cried out. “That is not—”
“Are we speaking of your marital duties then? You wish me gone from your mind so you can be more engaged in Henry and his tedious intimacy?”
She closed the distance between them in a trice and slapped him soundly. He was glad she struck him for saying such a wretched thing. He knew he was despicable even as he said it.
After she slapped him hard enough that tears came to his eyes, she turned, prepared to run, but he grabbed her hand, pulling her back and into a tight embrace.
She was sobbing intensely, and his anger dissolved, leaving a new sort of tear to burn his eyes.
“Lizzy, darling, forgive me, forgive me please. You do not deserve such vile words from me.”
She said nothing, but neither did she leave his arms, crying into his waistcoat as he stroked her hair and murmured his apologies repeatedly.
“I have already become a bitter and wretched man, so very wretched, and it is no excuse. It does not give me licence…I am appalled and horrified by what my sorrow has made me. We are both victims of this.”
When she finished weeping, she stepped back from him, raising Henry’s handkerchief to her eyes.
There was a rain barrel nearby, likely used to water the flowers within the courtyard. He took her handkerchief and went over to wet it, bringing it back for her to clean her face and help restore her appearance to some semblance of her usual beauty.
She stood silently, holding the cloth to her eyes with her other hand in Darcy’s grasp. At last, she dropped the cloth, turned to him, and kissed him on the lips.
He knew, deep within him, that this was it for them—a final goodbye, a last acknowledgement of what they once were to each other—and thus, he heeded neither honour nor duty but allowed his heart its small claim on him.
He ran his hands down her body and across her back as she plunged her hands into his hair, holding him tightly to her.
He prayed that somehow they might make this kiss last forever.
His need for her was fierce, and he imagined taking her then and there, partly from want but mostly from his desire to own her.
When she pulled away, heaving a sigh, he stopped her for a moment.
Gently, he traced the features of her face with his hand, winding his fingers into the softness of her hair, and doing all he could to memorise the sight and feel of her in his arms. It would need to sustain him, he knew, and thus, he wished to burn the sensation into his skin, to press her into him and leave an indelible mark so that he could always know she was once his.
“I must commit you to my memory for the long nights when I am bereft and feel my loneliness even more keenly than I do now.”
Tears came to her eyes as she fell back into his embrace, hugging him tightly, much more tightly than she ever had, causing him to gasp for breath.
She released her hold just a bit and rested her head on his chest, her curls tickling his chin. “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“Find someone else to love, someone who loves you too…”
He shook his head firmly.
“Yes, please, for me. I insist. Do not allow your anger and your sadness over this to make you bitter. Find someone who will help you be happy, someone who will love you and help prevent you from becoming, once again, the lonely, sombre man I met at the assembly in Meryton. Forget about me; forget about us. It is the only way either of us will survive this, for you as well as for me.”
He could not look at her but nodded once, silently, to give her his word. As soon as he did, she gave him one more soft kiss, barely touching his lips, then she turned away, leaving him standing there as she returned to the ballroom.