Chapter Fifteen #2
How could she have done that right on the heels of hearing of Richard’s death?
Certainly, she’d had far too much to drink before she did it, but it wasn’t even like her.
Of course, some dark and perverse voice would often speak up and demand to know if she was sure of that?
Wasn’t she like that now? Hadn’t she become that?
Whatever the case, it was the worst thing she could have done. It had likely shattered whatever shred of a good opinion Mr. Darcy had of her. She thought sometimes of the way his voice had lilted when he told her to take the blame. And then to take the tip—
He had liked it.
Yes, but he had also been drunk, and she knew that man. He would be regretting all of it, even now. He would likely tell himself to swear off of her. He must realize by now that she was not good for him.
His devotion to her had never wavered, but now, surely, it must.
She went back and forth between these two extremes—fantasizing about Mr. Darcy and then reproaching herself for her wanton behavior—before she met the Matlocks and after.
She met Richard’s parents, Lord and Lady Matlock, and his older brother, and they were polite to her but she could see the disapproval in their eyes.
They barely spoke to her, and she was not included in the way the wife of a deceased man should be.
Mr. Darcy protested a few times on her behalf, but she asked him to stop, eventually.
He did so.
They hadn’t talked.
Certainly, they spoke to each other, but not about anything, certainly not about the fact she’d put her head in his lap and sucked his prick into her mouth and swallowed his seed in a sitting room in Neith Abbey whilst they were both abominably drunk.
They never acknowledged that had happened.
There wasn’t a time or place for it, to be fair, however. He set up the trip to the Matlock house through letters, and one didn’t write that in a letter, for it was too risky that it might be seen by someone if the letter was dropped or lost or what-have-you.
And then they were always in the company of others. They were never alone.
Richard’s funeral took place within a week of her return to Weythorn.
She was allowed to attend, which was all the concession she was given as his wife.
She was never acknowledged as such by the family.
She was not asked to stand in the receiving line to receive condolences from the guests.
There was no graveside ceremony for there was no burial. No body to bury, after all.
After it was over, she went back to Weythorn, and assumed that was that. It was all over. Richard had left her nothing, but then he had nothing to leave to anyone.
She was not yet one and twenty. She was a widow.
But there was no need to be too maudlin about it all, she supposed. She was deeply grieved over the loss of Richard. He had been too young and too vibrant, and he had loved her and she loved him. She should, in fact, suffer for a bit. It should be a time of sadness and solemnity.
She found Weythorn to be just the place for a period of mourning, or it should have been, anyway, except for the fact that one day a carriage and some horses appeared.
The carriage Richard had left her had been taken away by the Matlocks, and she inquired where this one had come from, and was told only that it was hers and she should not worry overmuch over the whys and wherefores.
And only three days later, a troupe of servants arrived at her door, saying that they were there to serve her, and when she inquired about where they had come from, they also gave a similar explanation, that she must not ask questions but simply accept.
Elizabeth had an idea who was doing this, and she wasn’t sure how to react to it.
On the one hand, perhaps it was a good thing, for it meant that Mr. Darcy’s devotion to her was still as unshakable as ever.
On the other hand, maybe it didn’t mean that.
He wasn’t here, was he, not visiting her, and she was in mourning and couldn’t go out and call on people, anyway, and it wouldn’t have been entirely proper for her to call upon him anyway, though she was a widow now, which meant she had more social mobility, and anyway, she would rather have talked to him than have had these luxuries lavished on her.
She sent him a letter and had one of the new servants deliver it, and a response came back from him right away saying that he had no idea what she was talking about and apologizing that he had not been to see her but that there were various things he needed to see to that involved his sister currently, and he hoped she was well.
If you need anything at all, madam, I am at your service, obviously. He closed the letter, Yours, Fitz
The nickname pierced her and she clutched the letter to her chest, thinking that yes, perhaps he was hers.
Why he was being coy about doing this for her, however, she didn’t know.
And then, a week later, she was paid a visit from the dowager duchess herself.
Her Grace cut an imperious figure when she was shown into the sitting room of Weythorn, and Elizabeth apologized a number of times for the lack of much in the way of refreshments. In truth, she was not indulging herself, since she was supposed to be in mourning—sad and solemn.
The Duchess of Neithern perched on her chair and didn’t touch her tea or her scone. “I shall come right to the point of my visit.”
“All right,” said Elizabeth.
“No use in beating around the bush, after all.”
“No use, indeed.”
“Your husband has conveniently died.”
“Conveniently?”
“And this means you can marry again, and I think you must marry Bartholomew.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Marry Neithern? But he was her brother. Except, actually, no, he wasn’t. No, they weren’t related at all. She was quite stunned.
“You must see how tidily this solves everything,” said Her Grace.
“You will be the duchess, which will mean that you will have access to everything you are due to have inherited, more, even, for you won’t have to be married off outside the family.
You may stay there, with me, and you and I can get to know each other. ”
Elizabeth drew back.
“And then, the business of the next generation, it’s all solved as well. Your blood is my blood, and we shan’t worry overmuch about Bart’s, for he is, in every other way, a most exemplary duke. It solves absolutely everything.”
“But Neithern and I, we don’t have those sorts of feelings for each other,” said Elizabeth.
Her Grace shrugged. “Oh, that will come with time, likely. In my case, I did feel a great deal for my late husband, but then he rather beat all of my admiration out of me.” Her mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile.
“So, it faded out. You will find, of course, that a marriage need not have any feelings in it at all for it to function.”
“Yes, but my parents’ marriage, I never wanted one like it,” said Elizabeth. She realized this could be confusing. “The people who raised me, that is, the Bennets.”
“Well, there are a number of things we want in the first flush of youth, and then we grow up,” said the duchess.
“Yes, but I have compromised so much on all of it, and now, I have another chance to do it right, and I can’t—”
“It’s that Darcy person that Bart told me of,” said the duchess. “Is it not?”
Elizabeth’s lips parted. “Well, no, there is nothing between us that would indicate anything, necessarily.” We did say we would get married when we were drunk, but we have agreed to be married before, other times, and it has never actually happened.
“Bart is gone out of his head for the girl, the Darcy girl,” said the duchess. “I told him of this idea, of his marrying you, and he wasn’t pleased. He said you wouldn’t agree either, that you would want the brother. So, I do have another idea.”
“Oh?” said Elizabeth.
“A betrothal,” said the duchess. “Between your daughter and Bart’s son, which will keep the bloodlines as well as they can be kept, I think.”
“My daughter,” repeated Elizabeth.
“Yes, after you marry this Darcy person and you do have a daughter—”
“You wish me to promise away the future of a child I have yet to conceive?”
“It’s done all the time, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, but perhaps you aren’t aware of what it’s like in these social circles.”
“Maybe it used to be done,” said Elizabeth, “but this is a different time—”
“I also need you to exert your influence on Mr. Darcy to convince him to marry his sister to Bart,” said the duchess. “I know he may have objections, since he knows that Bart isn’t of noble blood, not at all, but no one has to know that, and his sister would be a duchess.”
Elizabeth was speechless.
“Well,” said Her Grace, “you have some time to think about it, anyway. We also have to be sure that you are not carrying that colonel’s child, I suppose, though if you are, that is no concern. We shall accept and care for that babe easily enough.”
“I am not,” said Elizabeth.
“Excellent,” said Her Grace. “Then, that makes things easier. We could likely wait only six months, and then we can proceed with a wedding between you and Neithern.”
“But you just said the thing about Mr. Darcy.”
“I did,” said the duchess with a shrug. “Either way, but it must be one or the other. You either agree to marry Bart or you get Miss Darcy to marry Bart and agree to the betrothal of the children or I shan’t give you a pretty penny, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.
We must ensure the line, you see?” She got up, huffing.
Elizabeth was too stunned to get up for a moment, but then she did, and she saw the duchess out.
“Oh, it goes without saying,” said the duchess at the door, “that if you do not cooperate, I shall take back the carriage and the servants I sent you.”
“You sent them,” said Elizabeth. “I see.”