Chapter 3 #3
She got up and retrieved the letter. Her eyes went straight to the last paragraph.
“Should you have any practical need, you have only to send word.” she whispered aloud and began to nibble on the nail on her thumb.
“Maybe I do not have to just imagine what it would be like with him, if it could last a little longer…” She laughed to herself, shocked at the conclusions she began to draw…
She would send him a gift as a disguised invitation.
It must look innocent enough in case it were intercepted by a servant.
Elizabeth ran downstairs and entered the still room.
She looked through the shelves and took a little bottle of sandalwood oil scent - one of the first things she noticed about him from the beginning of their acquaintance.
She went to the shop and put the bottle down.
She found a box and started to fill it. She found a discreet packet of sheaths, since he was so worried about consequences.
A bottle of Elixir of Long Life. What else?
Aphrodisiacs, but not the obvious ones. Something luxurious…
A little porcelain jar of Ambergris paste.
She looked at the contents and tapped her fingers on the counter… It was missing something.
Ah… A book! He liked women who improved their minds by extensive reading, she smirked a little.
She found her late father’s old copy of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria - It was in Latin so it would appear fairly innocent.
All she needed to do now was to write a note and decide just how much innuendo to include.
She would send Jonathan to Darcy House with it tomorrow.
* * *
Cranston took a small box from a boy he had never seen before.
He was told it was a delivery from Morley it was fast and desperate, angry even, but nevertheless, he had held her in his arms and she, without any doubt, had wanted him at least for that brief moment.
Before this delivery, he was resolved to think of her and the time they spent in company, with fondness.
He was robbed of that, the memory was tainted with her inexplicable cruelty.
* * *
He stood in front of the mirror while his valet helped him to dress for dinner. The blasted family dinner… He did not know how he would be able to keep his equilibrium tonight. He looked at his pocket watch. He was both worried and in anticipation of his cousin’s acumen of his psyche.
They all came in the same carriage.
“Good evening, brother!” Georgiana stood on her tip toes to press a kiss on his cheek.
“Good evening my dear, where is your husband?”
“Ah, he asked me to apologise for him, he was called away on an urgent business matter.”
“Rita! You look dazzling tonight.” He bowed and kissed the back of his cousin in law’s hand.
“Good to see you, Richard!” The two men shook hands.
They were ushered to the drawing room. The women sat on the sofa exchanging confidences.
Darcy stood by the fireplace with Fitzwilliam holding his glass of scotch a little too tight absently watching the two ladies.
He did not pay any attention to the anecdote his cousin was sharing about their mutual acquaintance from White’s.
“I see, entertaining the ladies is my responsibility tonight.”
“Sorry I was not attending.”
“I can see that. Is the ‘ghost’ still haunting you? Or something else?”
Darcy looked into his glass watching the amber liquid swirling, before he turned it bottom up into his mouth.
“There was an unexpected development.” Tears welled his eyes, but that was probably due the quality of the drink.
“We shall talk later, cousin.” He smiled unconvincingly, but the sentiment was genuine.
The party moved to the dining room. Darcy settled into his chair at the head of the table.
He tried to be all smiles as the candlelight reflected off the silverware and the delicious aroma of roasted pheasant and wine filled the room.
These were his favourite people in life - the conversation should be easy, heartfelt, meaningful and yet all that swirled around his mind was her. Her and that damn box.
He had taken her, he should feel sated, victorious even - is it not what other men experience? Losing interest after they bedded the woman.
Georgiana recounted some small misadventure at the milliner’s, her soft laughter like music. Rita and Fitzwilliam exchanged easy jests. But Darcy’s mind was a battlefield, each thought colliding violently with the next.
He smiled when he heard everyone else laughing just to keep up the pretence of participation.
“Do not worry, Darcy the bird is already dead, no need to harm it again.” Fitzwilliam leaned closer to him. Darcy replied with a scowl.
“You seem pensive, Brother,” Georgiana said lightly, tilting her head in curiosity. “Are you quite well?”
“I am perfectly well,” he answered smoothly. Too smoothly.
Fitzwilliam shot him a look over his wine glass, one brow arching slightly. Darcy ignored it.
The footmen brought in the next course, turbot in cream sauce, and Darcy focused on the delicate arrangement of the dish, the familiar motions of lifting his fork, the slow, deliberate process of chewing. A distraction.
“Did you visit the old acquaintance you mentioned not long ago?” Georgiana asked, her voice almost teasing. “Was she very surprised to see you again?”
The fork in Darcy’s hand stilled against the porcelain for the briefest of moments. He noticed Rita’s mouth forming an ‘O’ and questioningly looking towards Fitzwilliam.
Darcy set his utensil down with careful precision, dabbing his lips with his napkin. “I did, Georgiana. And you were correct - she was not the person I expected.” He had a sip of wine. The liquid burned in his throat and his blood turned to fire.
Elizabeth was more experienced than him.
The realisation unsettled him more than it should.
Had she taken many lovers? The thought made his stomach clench, his appetite vanishing.
It was one thing to know she had been married, but to think she was accustomed to this, to treat it lightly, as if it were nothing, no, worse!
Mocking his performance like it was a badly done farce in the theatre.
God, how it burned!
His cousin’s voice cut through the thick haze of his thoughts. “Strange,” Fitzwilliam mused, swirling his wine, “I thought you were much impressed by her independence.”
“Yes, yes - but it does not follow, I am in agreement with her modus vivendi!” He replied with a huff, his eyes shooting daggers into Fitzwilliam.
“Who are we talking about? A brothel keeper?” Rita asked unruffled while raising the fork to her mouth. Fitzwilliam masked his laugh as a bout of sudden cough but Georgiana’s giggle escaped. Then the silence spread when Darcy scowled in earnest over everyone at the table.
The table fell into conversation again, but he felt the weight of Fitzwilliam’s scrutiny. He saw too much.
The next course arrived, roast lamb with rosemary, and still, the torment pressed against his ribs like a vice. Why was she so nonchalant about the consequences?
Unless she had never suffered them. Unless she had never feared them.
Unless she knew she could not conceive.
His grip on his knife tightened imperceptibly. Was that it? Was she barren? The thought struck with such unexpected force that he had to reach for his wine again, taking a deliberate sip. It should not matter. It did not matter. And yet, that thought filled his heart with sorrow.
Rita laughed at something Georgiana said, and Darcy forced his lips into a semblance of a smile.
It was agony.
Course after course. The hours dragged, each one an exercise in restraint. The conversation carried on as if he were not slowly unraveling beneath the weight of his own thoughts.
Finally, when the meal drew to a close, when the plates were cleared and brandy was served, Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair and said, almost lazily, “Darcy, will you talk to me now?”