Darcy & Elizabeth (50 page)

“I believe I should travel with you,” she reasoned. “It will be a treat to see Jane once again—it has been months.”

“It is better that she not know of any of this, Lizzy,” he explained. “I can meet with Bingley covertly. She need not know that I am there. If you come as well…”

She understood that rationale, but was still not happy. He seemed not to notice, for he had busied himself going through papers in a small satchel, tucking some under his chin, others in separate stacks.

“Furthermore,” he said without looking up from his employment, “you must stay here.”

“You cannot mean to leave me here, alone with your aunt?”

“You will hardly be alone—Georgiana and Fitzwilliam are here as well. I know you are much in want of seeing your children. No doubt they miss their mother. We will all be home soon.”

“They miss their father too,” she said dejectedly.

“I beg your pardon,” he said absently.

She rose and walked away from him, drawing back the heavy velvet curtains and looking vacantly out a window, which looked not to have been cleaned for some time. She licked the tip of her forefinger and rubbed it against a spot to determine which side had been neglected. The spot smudged. Mr. Collins had extolled the expense of Lady Catherine's glazings. She would be most excessively displeased to see one of them in such a state. Elizabeth mindlessly grasped the hem of her sleeve with her palm and fingers and began patiently to rub all the dirt from that pane. When she had finished, she looked at her cuff. It was grey with ash residue.

“Come winter,” she said idly, “they must adjust the flue in that fireplace.”

That was what she said, but not, however, what she thought.

“What?” Darcy said impatiently, picking up the chosen pages and stuffing them in the satchel.

“You will, no doubt, presently show me your pistol and tell me how to use it,” said she, recollecting the invidious leave-taking in pursuit of his errant sister.

Impatiently, he again repeated, “What?”

She closed her eyes, her back still to him, “I said, I bid you good-bye.”

“Yes,” said he, “I bid you good-bye.”

It appeared quite easy for him to take his leave from her with nothing but a pat upon her head. How dare he patronize her in that manner? How many times had they vowed that they would never again travel alone? Had that been merely hyperbole? She was endeavouring with all her being to be angry, but in truth, she was hurt. And humiliated.

She could hear that he had not walked to the door, but she could not turn about to face him. She simply could not. If she did, he would see the huge tears that had welled in her eyes had begun the trip down her cheeks.

“I refuse to be a weepy wife,” she told herself. Then aloud, she said over her shoulder, “A safe journey.”

He answered her not. But she did hear his footsteps. She heard them all the way to the doorway, then through it. She did not turn about until she heard the sound clunk of the enormous door closing behind him. His leaving her side without kissing her good-bye did not bother her in the least. She loved him no less than she ever had, but she had concluded that until she determined what agreement he had made with his cursed aunt, she could not, in all good conscience, offer her…affection.

There was no doubt of that.

Clandestine Tête-à-Tête

She refused to stay alone in that room for another moment. She considered taking leave for Pemberley at first light. She would arrive before the children would be put down to their night's sleep. That notion pleased her exceedingly and she gave those instructions to Hannah and Goodwin. If he could be happy leaving her, then she could be happy betaking herself home to those whose podgy arms
would
be extended to her. She did not much relish the long ride alone. She comforted herself with the reminder that she would have Hannah and Goodwin to keep her company. No doubt Darcy had taken their coach to London so the three of them would have a cosy trip in the smaller carriage, but that was of little matter. She chose not to think of his displeasure when learning that she had returned to Pemberley alone. Alone and unarmed upon the road. It was only then that she worried that he may not have taken his pistol with him. He had told her of the danger upon many of London's streets. If he were to meet Bingley other than at his home, what must that street be like? The notion of returning to Pemberley without her husband began to lose its lustre. She would be just that much farther from him if some catastrophe should befall.

It was early afternoon; Darcy would be in London long before nightfall. That was a comfort. She was no more easy with him travelling alone than he would be for her. Yet she could not elude the suspicion that she had formally been rendered an unwanted accoutrement. She knew that he had much to occupy his mind. In being unforgivably miffed, she felt as if she had fallen into some wifely trap—one where the husband embarks upon some lofty duty, leaving his wife to be an unreasonable shrew. But she was miffed.

She refused, however, to sulk.

She believed the proper tonic for her mood was to see her children once again. In the meantime she would busy herself—and avoid Lady Catherine. She quickly determined an ideal solution—she would make her way to Charlotte's home. It was the same cottage that she had occupied as wife to Mr. Collins. Darcy had arranged for her to keep it in lieu of any claims against Longbourn. As those homes were very dissimilar in worth, he had settled a sum upon her to redress the difference. Charlotte was not of effusive nature, but she had appeared pleased. They had exchanged letters at Christmas, but Elizabeth had not seen her for some time. She had only glimpsed Charlotte at the gravesite. She had her son with her. He had grown substantially since last she saw him. He had a dull look to his eyes and had grown fat-bottomed like his father. He looked nothing like Charlotte, who seemed to be thinner each time she saw her. She feared one day that her figure might become so insignificant as to be literally blown away with the first strong wind.

Not being in her usual conversational mood, Elizabeth had prepared what subjects she would address. Firstly, she intended to ask her opinion of the new vicar. She would be interested to learn if Charlotte saw the resemblance to her dead husband. She initially entertained the possibility for a match—then quickly determined that it was unlikely that Charlotte would want a suitor. She had never thought highly of men or matrimony. Her first marriage was simply of convenience. For a woman of small fortune, marriage had been her only alternative. Presently, she was a well-provided-for woman of steady age and character. She would have little need of a second marriage.

Thinking back upon Charlotte's alliance with Mr. Collins (possibly the silliest man in England), the memory could not help but make her sad. She hoped her friend might find love at last.

“I am not romantic, Lizzy,” Charlotte had once told her.

Perhaps, Elizabeth thought to herself, I am too romantic. Charlotte wants nothing from life but a good fire and no one to trouble her. She looked placid. Was not placidity a more favourable state than her own present distress? She had no answer for that. She gazed upon her reflection in the looking-glass and tied the ribbon to her bonnet so tightly it almost choked her. It was a pleasant sensation. She strode to the door and looked each way down the corridor. She stepped out her door, once again stopping to listen for footfalls. It was a simple matter to pay her respects to her old friend, but she strove to avoid having to explain herself, particularly to Lady Catherine. Hearing nothing, she went directly to the staircase and from thence made her way through the scullery and for the rear door.

She had but put her hand upon the doorknob when she realised she had not put on her black gloves. While she hesitated over returning for them or defying convention, a hand reached out from the shadows and clutched her wrist. Had she been of her normal composure and not been so skittish, she might not have shrieked as she had. She also might not have caught the handle of a convenient pot and raised it above her assailant's head. In fortune, she did not bring that instrument down with any force, for if she had, she would never have forgiven herself.

“Lizzy!” Darcy whispered.

He had caught her weapon-wielding hand by the wrist and held it suspended. Her eyes grew large at what catastrophe had been barely averted.

“What do you mean lurking about the scullery like this? You nearly frightened me out of my wits.”

“I apologise, I did not expect to find you in the same corridor that was my own means of re-entry into the house. What brings you here?”

“Much the same as yours, but to leave unnoticed rather than enter.”

“Your husband no more than takes his leave and you soon follow? Where do you go so secretly?”

She was tempted to be coy over her reasons, but duplicity of all sorts was quite foreign to her nature.

Hence, she said, “My intention was to steal across the lane and pay my regards to Charlotte. I took this route simply to avoid the house's mistress.”

“My intentions were less noble,” he replied, “but richly rewarded.”

She looked at him. She blinked. The hands that had loosed her wrists found her waist. He drew her hips solidly to his.

“Oh,” she replied.

He lowered his head as if to kiss her, but did not. He pressed his temple against hers and drew it across her forehead, much as she had employed her fingers across that of Anne's daughter.

Whispering against her ear, he said, “I have yet to take my leave without a kiss to hurry my return.”

He then kissed her upon her forehead. Although it might have appeared to be, in no manner did she see it as fatherly.

Still whispering, he said, “No matter how burdened are my thoughts, you are never far from them.”

“You returned to give me a forgotten kiss? I am all astonishment.”

“I would travel farther for less.”

“Whose favours tempted you thusly?” she teased.

“She is a saucy lady, one not of your acquaintance,” was his rejoinder.

Before she could reply, his hands guided her backward, pushing through a partially opened door. She came to rest against a shelf, one of many that spanned from eaves to floorboards. Without removing his hands from her waist, he kicked the door shut with his heel. It shut soundly enough for her to wonder if they were heard. Her throat suppressed a giggle. The thought of granting favours in the pantry under Lady Catherine's roof delighted her in a way that was most audacious. He leaned down to kiss her and she raised her lips to meet his. But theirs was not the pursed-lip peck of farewell often seen of departing spouses. Theirs was the moist, hot, tongue-probing kiss that would not allow containment. Little could curtail their passion, and only one concern elicited any adjustment.

It had always been a small inconvenience that he was so much taller than was she. Not that she begrudged him that height; indeed, his carriage was positively…splendid. When they kissed, however, it was a bit of a stretch (but one well worth the effort). Early on there were more occasions when this difference was an issue, as they were disposed to kiss at odd moments. Although their lovemaking may have begun toe to toe, it most frequently ended in their bed. When once they had coupled whenever and wherever passion overcame them, they had of late become less adventurous. She had not realised that alteration had come to pass until in the darkness of this unfamiliar closet, she heard the familiar sounds of her lover's desire (at least what she could hear of him over her own laboured breathing). Had she had the wherewithal to study the matter, she might have supposed she had happened upon the root of her increasing interest in their afternoon rides. It was an adventure of possibilities.

At that moment, however, more immediate concerns needed addressing, for although she had wrapped both arms and one leg about him, the matter of elevation was reasserted. Passion (particularly their passion) was not inclined to await adjustment. Their lips were still locked in a kiss which was more distinguished by enthusiasm than aesthetics, therefore neither looked about for architectural features suitable for positioning. They did, however, grope. In the past he had pressed her against a brace (a door, a windowsill, a bookshelf), and would have then, but when her searching hand found the organ evidencing his arousal, he was momentarily distracted. Indeed, when she ran her hand across his tumescence, he momentarily had a weakening of the knees.

Although her appraisal told her there was little room for improvement, she stroked him and was rewarded by a quiver beneath her fingers. Had her lips not been so happily engaged, she might have smiled.

Evidently, that caress signalled an escalation of their ardour from the preparatory to the quintessential. He did not put his hand upon hers in encouragement, for that was quite unnecessary. Rather, he grasped her hair, urging her head back, exposing her neck momentarily ere he began to kiss it. Her neck was but a brief investigation, his hand finding her knee and struggling for her hem. When he had successfully surmounted the obstacle that was her petticoats, his hand glided up her thigh, fingers spread as if to leave as little of her skin unstroked as possible.

“A moment,” said she loosing her clasp upon his manhood. Gasping, she repeated, “A moment.”

For that moment little was heard but panting, hers mingled with his.

Finally, he croaked, “What? Pray, what?”

“Did you,” she began, paused for a moment to regain her breath, then continued, “agree to promise our son to Lady Catherine?”

Again he said, “What?” but with a tinge of exasperation.

“Did you or did you not promise our son to Lady Catherine's granddaughter?”

“What?” He repeated once again, then with irritation, “I did not.”

He still had his hand beneath her skirt, but it had quit its progress.

“Her ladyship said otherwise.”

“Can we not speak of this another time?”

“I think not.”

With resignation, he removed his hand compleatly, placing it impatiently upon his hip.

“I may have said something to that effect, I cannot recall,” he confessed. “When first we arrived, she took me aside and implored that ridiculous notion of me. I, of course, denied her. She began to weep, Lizzy. What was I to do? She had only just lost her daughter. You know that I am not disposed to be swayed by a woman's tears. However, observing a woman of her temper weep was exceedingly discomposing.”

In the shadows, he looked to Elizabeth for reassurance that she would agree upon that point. She was silent, but he believed she was not in disagreement.

“I said whatever I could to satisfy her and not compromise our son's future,” he related, admitting, “I may have…I told her that I could make no such promise without your agreement.”

“I
knew
you would not agree to such a scheme!”

“She approached you?”

“I fear this is so.”

“And you said nothing of it to me?”

His words now were in the accusatory. Although they had been whispering, she lowered her voice further.

“You said nothing to
me
! Besides, I did not want to speak of it whilst we remained under her roof,” she explained, and then became irritated at having fallen prey to Lady Catherine's machinations once again. “That woman drives me to distraction!”

“How far might you be distracted?” he teased, his hands once again finding her waist, thumbs undulating upward to her bosom. As she had yet to fully regain her breath from their previous endeavours, it was but a short way to reach the throes she had just begun to enjoy. She quickly assessed his readiness to proceed. His erection had relaxed, but not entirely. Their respite did not dispose them to betake themselves up the stairs. It was unspoken, but both were not of a mind to share their inclinations with anyone else in the house. It
was
remarkable how quickly his manhood was reinvigorated.

Indeed, having previously scaled the obstacle of her skirt it was no bother, but that of his height was readdressed. In fortune, of the many shelves lining the pantry it was easy to find one of convenient height to accommodate their needs. From thence, they happily resumed their lovemaking and it was but a few kisses, more caressing, and a great deal of thrusting ere rapturous fulfillment was enjoyed.

Regrettably, accompanying this climax was an event that was unplanned. The shelf employed for the aforementioned bracing was not as resilient to repeated prodding as was Elizabeth. Hence, with the last shuddering throes of passion, it shattered, smashing to the floor. This crescendo was not nearly as quiet as theirs. Indeed, they were fortunate to escape uninjured. And escape they did with no small haste. They quickly reinstated their costumes and exited.

Standing innocently outside the wreckage, Darcy said, “I suppose I must be on my way.”

“And I as well,” said she.

He reached for his hat, tapped it upon his head, and said, “A pleasure.”

“To be sure,” replied she.

Without anyone being the wiser, both took their leave by way of the back passage, he to his carriage (patiently waiting upon the drive) and she to the path to Charlotte's.