21. The Sonnet’s Fate
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE SONNET’S FATE
Clarice had arranged her finest nightgown: white lawn, lace-trimmed, finer than anything she had owned at Longbourn.
Elizabeth dressed with fingers that would not obey her, unpinned her hair, and let it tumble about her shoulders, then splashed water on her face to cool the heat that lingered from her husband’s not-so-chaste kisses.
Then she sat on the edge of her bed, watching the connecting door, and waited.
The brass handle caught the candlelight, gleaming with promise.
Unlocked, as she had vowed. Invitation and question, both concealed in that unassuming mechanism.
He would come, of course—he was only observing the proper interval while she readied herself.
Ought she to unbutton her nightgown? Or was she expected to await him, demure beneath the counterpane?
Should she dim the candles? Elizabeth could not say; her mother had proved singularly unhelpful on such matters.
Keep quiet and do not speak. God knows my nerves and how I strive to hold my breath.
Lizzy, mind your tongue and your posture.
All dispensed in a flurry as she dressed for her hasty wedding.
Jane, meanwhile, had been the picture of composure—silent, serene, betraying not a flicker of feeling.
Elizabeth could almost see her sister lying motionless, as she had so often in their shared bed, undisturbed by Elizabeth’s nightly restlessness, her feet forever seeking new meadows to cross and stones to skip.
Jane scarcely seemed to breathe. Was this what men preferred?
And then, a new anxiety formed. Had she been too forward?
Hurling herself at Darcy while he read Shakespeare?
She had kissed him first—pressed her lips to his without so much as a by-your-leave, and made that small, traitorous sound against his mouth that revealed far too much.
Perhaps her boldness had unsettled him. Perhaps a gentleman preferred his wife to be altogether more… contained.
The minutes ticked by, her heart grew tense, the doubt coiling tighter.
Elizabeth rose from her chair, unable to bear the stillness any longer, and paced the length of her chamber. The connecting door stood in shadow, unlocked, unmoving. She had offered herself as plainly as a woman could without stripping bare and climbing into his bed, and he had not come.
Court you properly, he had said. Give you time to be certain.
But she was certain. She had told him so. And his eyes had been dark with wanting, his hands urgent on her waist, his kiss anything but reluctant. Whatever held him back was not a lack of desire.
She should be patient and give him time, as he had asked. She should trust that whatever barriers remained between them, they were his to dismantle in his own way and his own season.
But the waiting was hard, and the not-knowing, more so. The fear that she had somehow failed—that her boldness had confirmed suspicions she did not know he held—was hardest of all.
The candle had burned down to a stub before she heard a soft knock at the door. Not the connecting door, but the one to the corridor.
“Enter.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Clarice appeared, bearing a tray with a steaming cup. Her face was carefully neutral, revealing nothing of whatever observations she had made about her mistress’s attire, the guttering candle, and the lateness of the hour.
“Chamomile, madam. For sleep.”
Elizabeth accepted the cup, grateful for the warmth against her cold fingers. “Thank you. I did not realize I had rung.”
“You did not.” Clarice moved about the room with quiet efficiency, straightening items that did not need straightening. “But the night grows late, and I thought you might find comfort in a warm drink.”
The kindness was unexpected. Clarice had always been competent, never tender; professional, never maternal. Yet something in her manner suggested she understood precisely what Elizabeth had awaited—and what had not come.
“You may retire,” Elizabeth said. “I will not need you again tonight.”
Clarice paused at the door. “Sleep well, madam. The morning often brings clarity that the night withholds.”
It was as close to advice as Clarice had ever offered. Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her voice, and listened to the lady’s maid’s footsteps retreat down the corridor.
The chamomile was both bitter and soothing.
Elizabeth sipped it slowly, watching the last of her candle drown in its own wax, and told herself that tomorrow must be better.
She would not speculate about indigestion, estate emergencies, or the possibility of Darcy’s regret.
She would attempt an explanation when she had more to offer.
Morning arrived with an excess of brightness, a personal affront to Elizabeth’s mood. She had slept at last, chamomile and exhaustion conspiring to drag her under despite the churning of her thoughts.
She woke with her eyes burning, wiping the tears with the edge of a sheet.
She was alone, quite obviously, and this was not something to weep about.
She would not languish in bed, like a pathetic Gothic heroine.
She was Elizabeth Bennet—Elizabeth Darcy now—and she had never been the sort of woman who surrendered to melancholy when action remained possible.
There had to be an explanation, and she would not let moss grow under her feet. She swung off the counterpane and rose, moving to the washstand as Clarice entered with hot water.
“Did you sleep well, madam?”
The question was ordinary, and the pause before it was not.
“Tolerably,” Elizabeth replied, watching Clarice’s lips compress for a fleeting moment—almost sympathetic—before her composure reassembled itself into professional blankness, for which Elizabeth was quietly grateful.
Clarice was no Hannah, and at this moment, Elizabeth could not fathom having the cheery housemaid chirping romantic nonsense while drawing back the curtains and waxing eloquently about covers and counterpanes and stormy nights sheltered with strong arms and passionate—
Enough. Elizabeth commanded herself, turning her attention firmly to the business of washing her face.
“How is the household?” she asked, instead of referring to her husband.
“They are stirring. Miss Darcy is breakfasting alone. Mrs. Reynolds is consulting with Cook regarding the day’s menus. And…” She drew a folded note from her apron pocket. “Mr. Darcy rose early. He left this for you.”
It was sealed with plain wax, without the Darcy insignia.
Elizabeth’s heart stuttered, and she did not reach for the note, so Clarice placed it on the dresser.
Moving efficiently, she set out Elizabeth’s morning dress—a sensible muslin, not the green silk of the night before—and withdrew with a murmured comment about returning shortly to assist with dressing.
The door closed, and Elizabeth found herself alone with Darcy’s handwriting. She broke the seal.
Elizabeth,
Forgive me. You offered more than I deserve, and I found I could not take what I have not yet earned the right to claim.
This is no reflection upon you. You are everything I said and more—everything I could wish for and more than I dared hope to find. The fault lies entirely with me, and with matters I am not yet free to explain.
Please believe that I love you. Please believe that I will make this right when I am able.
- F.D.
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed as she reread the letter.
How could he imagine he had not earned the right to claim her?
She had offered herself—plainly, unmistakably, without a trace of coyness or maidenly hesitation.
She had left the door unlocked, sat in her finest nightgown, and waited like a fool while the candle guttered to nothing.
And he sent her a note. A note that praised her, certainly. A note that professed love, undeniably. But a note, all the same: ink and paper where his presence ought to have been, pretty words in place of explanation.
Indignation flared, then ebbed, leaving something colder behind. Very well. He wished to earn her, did he? To prove himself worthy by some arcane process of his own devising?
Then let him earn. Let him prove. She had made her position clear; it was not her burden to repeat it.
He was withholding himself, that much was plain.
Some unspoken matter held him back, and Elizabeth was no innocent in the woods.
She prided herself on reading characters, both fictional and living.
Darcy was not simply a brooding gentleman; his reserve concealed more than desire or passion. His composure masked secrets.
Something was amiss. Something deeper than the Apethorpes, deeper than guardianship disputes or family manuscripts.
He loved her, and yet had not come, because in his mind, it would not be noble or honorable.
Yet his manner of proposing, of offering money to her parents, of appointing her mother to Little Tom, and expecting her to perform the dutiful wife before the servants—
Did treating her like property, as Lady Amelia believed a husband considered a wife, qualify as honorable and noble?
Taking his brother’s orphan. Yes.
Buying a wife. No.
Courting a wife. Yes.
Keeping secrets from a wife. No.
Elizabeth tucked the note into her writing desk—beside the journal where she had noted her observations, measured his smiles, listed the wildflowers and the books he’d left for her, and the word “essential”—and locked it.
The morning room was bright with unseasonable sunshine, and Hannah was brighter still. Georgiana, however, appeared subdued, a crease furrowing her brow. Perhaps it was that time of the month for her. Elizabeth gave her a sympathetic squeeze and took her seat.