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Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sometime later, Elizabeth discovered, much to her chagrin, that in attempting to stand, her feet simply would not hold her up. Hoping that the paralysis affecting her extremities was only a temporary side-affect of being nearly frozen, she was forced to set aside her pride, and allow her husband to carry her to their bed.
He did not seem to mind, and, in fact, did not complain even once.
The problem, she stated wistfully, was that more than anything else at that moment, she wished for a hot bath. Although the solution suggested by him caused her to blush profusely, it was not without practical merit, and after some consideration, she at last agreed to his generous, although somewhat extraordinary, offer.
And so it happened that when the steaming water had been drawn, and the attending maid dismissed, Mrs. Darcy was bourne dutifully to her bath, where she was thence deposited by Mr Darcy, himself.
The activity following was definitely diverting, certainly enjoyable, and greatly entertaining to both the parties involved, but, from the vantage of being strictly a means to return to a state of cleanliness, it was not the most efficient.
Originally, Fitzwilliam had put forth the proposal of assisting her with the most honourable of intentions. As the exercise progressed, however, his patience and self-control were severely tested, as she, aware of the affect she was having upon him, derived great joy in teasing him out of his reserve.
When at last, she had succeeded in causing his clothing to become thoroughly soaked, her glee at seeing the most proper Mr. Darcy in such disarray was complete.
A reaction, which in the past, would have surely cooled his ardor, instead merely succeeded in rendering the opposite effect upon him, making it some time before the "bath" was completed.
After he had returned her by the same method (his arms) to their bed, and she, in spite of his continued attempts to assist, managed to slip on a dressing gown, a fretful Ethan was brought in.
Missing three feedings was having a decidedly negative affect on his disposition, a condition which only his mother could rectify at present. By then, the time was nearing eight'o clock in the morning, and, between the lack of real sleep, the soothing affect of the warm bath, and simply the stress of her ordeal, she had to concentrate on keeping her eyes open until Ethan was finished nursing.
She slept most of that day.
Her husband, meanwhile, had sent for Doctor Fisher to come and verify that she would, after all, suffer no permanent damage from her alarmingly close brush with death.
Following her examination, the physician told them both that the tingling in her hands and feet should subside in time, supposing no serious nerve damage had incurred. If, however, this were the case, he would guarantee nothing.
All they could do was wait and see; two words certain to irritate Elizabeth, because she usually did neither with grace or patience.
Despite this, the doctor, himself, was optimistic, declaring her sound in all other aspects, and, that she should have no problems once (or if, she thought dismally, although she did not say it aloud) the feeling had returned to her fingers and toes.
"Elizabeth." As they were lying, closely entwined around each other that night in bed, he spoke, somewhat bemused.
"Fitzwilliam?"
"Will you promise me something?"
"What, if you please?"
"Will you promise to tell me those things which you apparently, instinctively, wish to keep from me?"
She raised her eyebrows, "I did not plan to be evasive on purpose, you know."
"You wish to protect my feelings," he supplied for her.
"Yes, exactly." Then, inquiring of him, "Suppose I had told you of Miss Benedict and Mr. Eastman? What would your reaction have then been?"
He was temporarily diverted by her slip,"Eastman? What has he to do with anything?"
Realizing her mistake too late, she nonetheless continued stoically, "He thinks you are a lunatic, but that is beside the point..."
"Beside the point?" His astonishment was now complete. "Stop, Elizabeth. You must explain," he insisted in disbelief, "What can you mean that he thinks I am a lunatic?"
"Oh, yes...he told Georgiana," she continued calmly, reasoning that he may as well know everything, as she had already said too much. "I do not know where he acquired this impression, but he believes it most sincerely."
"Is this the reason for the engagement being called off?"
"Some of it..." Reconsidering, she then admitted,"Well, most of it actually."
"And you said nothing?"
"Oh, please, Fitzwilliam. You can hardly pretend this knowledge would have helped you in any way whatsoever...do not make me feel guilty for withholding such an idiotic notion from you."
He was silent for so long she was afraid she had offended him again, so it was with much relief when she heard him laughing into his covers.
Inasmuch as she was thankful for his ability to see the humour in the situation, she nevertheless was determined to return to her previous argument.
"You have not answered my question," she persisted.
"You might be in the right for not telling me of Eastman's strange ideas, Elizabeth..." he conceded once he had recovered his composure, "After all, I might have had the urge to throw him out of the house, thus verifying his suspicions of me...but, you still cannot defend the other matter."
"Well then, tell me, please, what would you have said or done if I had told you about Miss Benedict right away?"
"I cannot know since you did not."
"Well...I am sure it would not have been good, or even helpful."
"How could you know such things?"
"Because, you do not tolerate fools gladly, Fitzwilliam Darcy...you take it all to heart, and suffer in silence because of it...and I could not bear to see that."
"So you have said...but, if I am insane, perhaps I am merely plotting some revenge?" He was trying to lighten her mood, and having some success, she had to admit at last. They were both silent for some minutes, until she asked him, "Fitzwilliam?"
"Elizabeth."
"Have you truly forgiven me?"
"I told you that I have."
"Then...say that you love me."
"Is it not obvious?"
"Say it anyway."
"I love you, Elizabeth."
"How much, then?"
"More than any man has ever loved any woman."
She sighed in contentment, then softly, "And I love you even more then that."
"Do you, Elizabeth?" He had begun kissing her throat as he spoke, causing her to catch her breath. She swallowed, "Fitzwilliam?"
"Elizabeth." His lips were moving to her shoulder.
"You are driving me to distraction."
"That's good..." not even hesitating, she felt him sliding his lips to just below her ear.
"Why is that good?" she breathed.
"Because," he stopped only long enough to smile at her, "Then we may be insane together."
The following morning, Elizabeth was able to walk with a slow, stilted gait, but only so far as the nursery, and back again to their room. Because of this, she was forced to remain on the second floor, until she would, again be able to navigate the stairs. This meant, of course, that she spent much more time with her children, and they with her, and as long as she could be seated, she would remain with them in the nursery for several hours at a time. Within a week, she was walking as she always had, but the happy recovery of the use of her feet was not the case in regards her fingers. The numbness and tingling never left them in the days following her "bout of witlessness", as she referred to it.
In fact, she was unhappily convinced of the symptoms becoming worse.
Fitzwilliam had questioned her about her progress as she recuperated, but, although she could physically see him holding her hand, there was no sensation of her fingers within his. Likewise, she knew that she would be reaching out to touch, or to pick an object up, only because she could see it with her eyes, not by actually feeling it.
His face, upon her consistantly negative reply, would reflect his concern so much that she began to trivialize the problem.
One day when he impulsively took both of her hands in his, turning them so that her palms were facing up, and had lifted them to his lips to press a kiss upon each, he asked her, "Can you feel that, Elizabeth?"
His face, at that moment, was so very trustful of her answer being encouraging, that she, while not actually lying, certainly made it appear to be less of a bother than what it was, smiling at him sweetly while assuring him, "More so everyday, my love...I am quite certain that I shall be well soon."
But as the days and then weeks passed, they did not improve, making even simple activities a challenge which she had could not have foreseen.
When she played on the piano-forte, the keys became difficult to press, and the effort required, invaribly resulted in her music sounding laboured and slow. If she tried to write a letter, the pen would slip from her fingers without warning, leaving ink blots where there should have been words.
Worst of all, she could no longer feel her children's soft skin under her fingers when she went to touch them lovingly. She could still pick them up, hug them, even hold them upon her lap, but the tips of her fingers remained numb and cold.
Saying nothing of all of this to her husband, it was, she frequently reminded herself, her own fault. She, who had so recklessly run out into the cold that afternoon, with no consideration of the consequences, either to herself or her family. So, she should pay the price now without complaining, nor would she let him know how great a price it was truly turning out to be.
One afternoon, as she stirred her tea, forgetting for a moment, her husband's presence in the room, the spoon fell uselessly from her hand, landing on the tabletop with a clatter.
He glanced up from his book then, slightly startled by the sudden noise, when his eyes caught her awkward attempt to retrieve the utensil.
She did not notice his gaze, however, his expression when she did finally look at him, should have acted as a warning.
Curiously, she suspected nothing, especially as he remained silent for some time, pretending to return his attention to his reading. In fact, he continued to watch her for another ten minutes without her being aware of it, then, in a casual voice, he asked, "Elizabeth?"
"Yes, my love?"
"Would you pour me a cup of tea, please?" He did not take his eyes from the page, so she was unaware of his discovery, still, she was reluctant to fulfill his request. Always before this, someone else, Georgiana, or a maid, or even Fitzwilliam himself, had considerately waited upon her, so she had not been required to lift any heavy or unsteady object while in his company.
Hesitating, and hopeful that he would offer to do the task himself, she reached for the teapot. He, however, did not stop her, and finally, with painstaking care, she forced her fingers to grasp the handle as firmly as she could.
As she filled his cup, she managed to keep her hand steady, and she inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as she placed it back upon its tray. But, as luck would have it, while handing the saucer back to him, her hold unexpectedly relaxed, sending both saucer and cup down to the floor, and splashing tea everywhere.
Elizabeth's eyes were frozen upon the dark stain spreading across the rug. She hastily rose from her chair intending to ring for someone to come and clean up the mess, avoiding her husband's eyes all the while. But, as her hand reached for the bell cord, he stopped her. "Wait," he ordered, putting out his own hand to stay her motion.
Then, standing before her, he took her hand into his, holding it while gently touching the tips of her fingers.
"You cannot feel my touch, can you, Elizabeth?" He asked her after what seemed an endless moment.
She swallowed, not wishing to answer, but he continued thoughtfully, "You have not felt anything for many days, have you?"
"No," she admitted, and pulling her hand from his, she returned to her chair, where she sat rigidly, dreading his next words.
In an effort to ward off his impending (she felt) pity, she continued in a matter-of-fact voice, "I thought it was getting better, but I was mistaken...it has not."
"Why did you not say anything?" There was no recrimination in his tone, only concern, a fact that very nearly made her lose her carefully preserved self-control.
"What would be the use? It was my own fault...my own doing. I did not wish to burden you with my problems."
"Am I not your husband, Elizabeth? If something is causing you unhappiness, then your telling me should certainly be no burden."
She could not answer, her throat was now completely closed, and on her lap, her hands were clasped tightly together in a vain effort to keep them from shaking.
"What if I could find a doctor...a specialist? Would you be willing to see him?" Fitzwilliam suggested tentatively after studying his wife's resigned expression for several moments.
"I have not heard of a doctor for such as this...I am becoming quite used to my limitations, Fitzwilliam. Do not make it harder, please, by offering hope where there is none." Elizabeth was keeping her eyes focused upon her lap, unwilling to meet his troubled gaze. For she knew that if she should look up at him, her tears would undoubtedly begin, and all of her efforts to not be swallowed by self-pity would be in vain.
"Elizabeth," he was clearly becoming frustrated by her apparent complacency, "If you think I am just going to stand by and watch you suffer, you are very much mistaken."
"I am not asking you to..." she almost whispered in a tight voice, "I would not wish you to feel tied down by an invalid."
"Don't!" In one movement he had pulled her to her feet and was holding onto her arms so firmly that she could not budge, and was forced to look up into his face. "I do not understand how a woman who usually has so much sense, can speak so...can be so ignorant!"
She interrupted him suddenly, blinking back her tears, "I have sense enough to know that I am not who you thought you had married. That I am not the same as I was. No one would blame you if you wished to be out of this...this situation, Fitzwilliam!"
Releasing her arms as though he had been burned, he stepped away from her, his eyes bright with his anger, "Is this your opinion of me, then, Elizabeth? Haven't I proven anything to you? How can you stand there and accuse me of having so little fortitude, so little regard for you and our life together, when with one trivial problem you would believe me ready to walk out? You might think of yourself as being magnanimous, open minded and generous, but, in truth, I can now see how much you distrust me still. If you believe this would be anything but a minor setback...that I would allow it to turn me from you..."
Her misery forgotten, she was facing him now with an intense fury, "Trivial? Minor?" she cried, "Call it a minor problem if you will, Fitzwilliam Darcy, it is not so to me! You do not know what it is like to be so clumsy... so awkward in performing even the simplest tasks, and being unable to do what I have always enjoyed doing. You shall never understand how I am feeling when I cannot feel your kisses on my hand, nor your body under my fingers. I am sorry if you believe I have insulted you, it was not intended, but there are men who would not consider it an insult, but a gift. I cannot help it if you wish to be a martyr. Stay if you will, but do not call it a minor problem in my presence again!"
Somewhere between the beginning of her tirade and the finish, he had become frozen before her, and as she finally ran out of words, they stood staring at each other, both breathing heavily as if through some physical exertion.
At last emitting a strangled groan, he pulled her to him, his arms enveloping her completely, while her own were wrapped around his back, her nerveless fingers clutching the material of his coat in desperation.
"Let me help you, Elizabeth," he spoke against her hair in an anguished voice, "I can seek a doctor...you do not yet know if it is truly hopeless...please, my love...please, let me do this for you."
He could feel her body relax as she reluctantly surrendered her will to his, "All right," she sighed, "All right, Fitzwilliam...if you succeed in finding someone, I shall see him...I do not believe that it will do any good, but I shall see him."
Several weeks later, he brought the matter up again to her.
"I believe I have the name of a doctor," he informed her in a casual voice.
Elizabeth had been nursing Ethan in their room, and as she looked up at her husband, she affixed her expression to display merely polite interest at his news. "Near to here...in Derbyshire?"
"No...in Germany. Frankfurt actually. He is supposed to be very good."
"Germany?" She was more surprised than anything else, "You enquired all the way to Germany?"
"I enquired where I had to," he replied.
"Well...what do you mean that he is supposed to be good? He has much success, or only some?" she asked with careful disinterest.
He studied her, attempting to judge what her motive might be, finally he answered, "Much success...with certain cases of course."
"Certain cases?"
"Well, the patient must wish for a cure, must be willing to work for it...to believe in it."
"Oh." She returned her attention to her son, a bit miffed by his insinuation.
He cleared his throat, then gently, "Do you wish it, Elizabeth?"
"How can you ask me that?" She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice, "There should be no reason not to, should there?" Then she sighed, aware of how hostile she sounded, "I am sorry, I just..."
He waited silently while she searched for words to express what she was feeling, "I just do not want your expectations raised too high...I am not looking for promises, only to be disappointed in the end."
"If he does not succeed, I know of others..."
"How many others?" her voice was angry, but not necessarily at him. "Am I to be forced to do this the rest of my life? One thoughtless, stupid mistake, and I am to be punished over and over...how is that fair? How is that right?" She stood up, her bewildered eyes meeting his as she turned to lay the now sleeping child in the bassinette. As she straightened, he came up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist in an effort to comfort her.
"You are not being punished...you have done nothing to be punished for. This was just...an accident, a happenstance, and if we can do something to right it, then I believe we must."
She closed her eyes as she felt his lips in her hair, "But, Germany?" She asked, in a tone meant to let him know that she would no longer resist his efforts to be of help , "It is so far away. Is there not one closer?"
"Not that I found," was his answer. He appeared to hesitate before he added, "It shall mean an extended absence from Pemberley."
She turned, still within his hold, and slipped her arms around his neck, "But so long as we are all together," she said.
"Elizabeth," he spoke soberly, "The children shall not be able to come with us."
She looked confused, then startled, as comprehension dawned,"They would stay here...without us?"
"Georgiana shall be here, and the servants, they would be well cared for." he explained, dreading what her next reaction would be.
"How long are you expecting, Fitzwilliam?" She was speaking into his waistcoat, her eyes troubled.
"I don't know...he, Dr. Brecht, could not give an exact schedule, but it may very well be three or four weeks...perhaps more."
"Three or four weeks? How can I leave our babies for so long?" She had pushed away from him, staring into his eyes accusingly, "Please, don't ask me to do this, Fitzwilliam...why," as the thought occurred to her, "I am still nursing Ethan...I cannot leave him now. How can you expect this of me?"
"The doctor could only leave a certain amount of time open to us, Elizabeth," he pleaded with her, "If we are to do this, then we must do so at his convenience, not our own."
His voice became very earnest, "Do you not think I shall suffer also? They are my children too. I have no desire to go off to a foreign place and let someone else look after them, even if it is my sister...but Elizabeth, my love, you must decide...you have to make the decision, because I cannot do it for you."
He took a deep breath before continuing carefully, "You told me once how much you have had to sacrifice, how much you have had to give up because of the loss of feelng in your fingers. Now, tell me what you would do to get it back. What is it worth to you, Elizabeth?"
She had become very still as he spoke. He was right, and she knew it. Much as she abhorred the idea of leaving her children...her home, she found the thought of being without the sense of touch in her fingertips for the remainder of her days, far worse.
She swallowed, then managed a weak smile, "Well...I have never been to Germany. I've heard it said that the mountains are quite breathtaking."
He had pulled her close once more, his lips pressing repeatedly upon her damp cheeks, her closed eyes, her waiting mouth, and, with each kiss, he spoke of his love for her.
Elizabeth, on the next occasion of speaking with Jane, was unwilling to inform her of the true reason for the trek to Germany, merely telling her that they had decided to go on holiday for a month or so...just she and Fitzwilliam.
"Without your sons?" Jane had asked in disbelief."But, Lizzy, how can you leave them for so long? You are certainly more confident then I." Her eyes, upon meeting her sister's were troubled, "Does this mean you shall be away from us when it is my time again?"
"Oh, Jane!" Elizabeth cried out, as she suddenly recalled her sister's rapidly-approaching delivery date, "I am so sorry! I had forgotten you are due in March...Oh, I am a poor excuse for a sister!"
"It is not that important, Lizzy," Jane generously sought to ease her distress ,"You cannot live your life according to my calendar. I shall be fine." Still, she looked a bit hurt, leaving Elizabeth feeling worse then ever.
"No, Jane, don't try to minimize my guilt...I have been totally selfish, and would deserve it if you never forgave me."
The sight of Elizabeth's misery was more than enough, for her sister to embrace her warmly, all the while reassuring her, "Do not concern yourself, Lizzy. Truly, I shall be fine, and when you return you will have a new niece or nephew to meet."
"You are too good, Jane...and, perhaps we might find some rare and unique German artifact to bring back to you as a baby gift."
"Are you offering a bribe, Lizzy?"
"Perhaps a very small one, would you mind?" she replied, as the two exchanged a glance, aware that harmony had again been restored between them.
"So, tell me, Lizzy, where shall you go in Germany?"
"Frankfurt is the destination...through Belgium."
"Belgium? Is that not still occupied by France?" Jane inquired, immediately anxious for their safety.
"I believe since Napoleon's failure to recapture his empire, the people have become quite friendly to us once again. There should not be any danger. Certainly, if there were, we would be using a different route...and since Fitzwilliam is not worried about it, I shall not be either."
This fact, alone, was enough to insure Elizabeth's own peace of mind, and so, she thought firmly, it should be for all others as well, but Jane did not seem completely convinced.
"Well, just the same be very careful, and do not take any chances. I have heard of smuggling going on between our two shores, and that the King has not put much effort into its regulation."
"Why, Jane," Elizabeth was truly surprised,"Have you become interested in politics of late?"
"No," Jane hastened to deny her sister's mistaken conclusion, "But Charles has interests in several ships docked in that area, and he had stated his growing concern for the goods which they carry...he has become rather absent-minded because of it."
"Oh, Jane, why did you not tell me?" It was Elizabeth's turn to be distressed, "But, how can I leave you when you have so much to worry you now? No," her voice became suddenly determined, "I shall tell Fitzwilliam we must postpone our trip until later."
"No, Lizzy," Jane was insistent, "You must not change your plans because of me. Go to Germany, but, please, be careful!"
The date set to meet with Dr. Brecht of Frankfurt was March fifteen, and so all activity at Pemberley was thus directed toward that single, distinctive day.
Fitzwilliam had calculated the whole journey taking about seven or eight days time. To be traveled in the beginning, via one of Pemberley's carriages to London, followed by ship across the English Channel and North Sea into Belgium, and, finally, a hired coach to take them on to Frankfort.
With this in mind, the intended date of departure would, thus be the fifth of March.
As this was Elizabeth's first journey outside of Britain, she was understandably nervous, and, coupled with her dread of leaving their children, she was hoping for the time until then, not to pass too quickly.
"Fitzwilliam," she said gravely, one day as she stood by their bedroom window looking out, "I wish we could have taken this trip under different circumstances...I might have anticipated it with more pleasure than I am at present."
He had come up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist, his voice tender, "What is it that concerns you, my love?"
"Being gone from the children, of course, and not knowing what to expect when we arrive there."
"Would you rather we not go? That we do nothing at all? You may still change your mind, you know."
"You would enjoy that, I am sure," she shook her head, "Then, you could remind me of it later, and since I had refused your most generous offer of help, I would have no cause for complaint, and would thus have to suffer in silence until the end of my days."
"And, that, of course," he countered, "Would not be possible for you...so, we shall go to meet Dr. Brecht in Frankfort, who will be completely successful in curing you, and, when we return to England, our children shall be happily awaiting our homecoming."
"Let it be so, then," she breathed, as he began to kiss the nape of her neck most provocatively. She closed her eyes, revelling in the stirring touch of his lips, and more then a little sorry when he, again, began to speak.
"You know, Elizabeth," he suggested in a reasonable voice, as he felt her finally relaxing against him, "You should consider this trip as the honeymoon we neglected to take when we were newly married...perhaps we shall discover what we had missed then."
"Mr. Darcy," was her matter-of-fact reply, "I would say, that our not having a honeymoon was never much of a sacrifice for you, as your first love has always been Pemberley."
"You are quite wrong, Mrs. Darcy," he defended himself, "My first love shall always be you."
She smiled, pleased by his response, then, for some minutes, she considered the suggestion he had put forth.
"It might be nice...even somewhat diverting to get away for a time...with you." she conceded.
"If it would not be too much trouble...I would not wish to put you out, after all," he murmured as he resumed his former activity, this time moving down her shoulder in a very deliberate fashion.
"You are very wicked," she remarked breathlessly, as the sensations he was eliciting were making her feel quite lightheaded. Forcing herself, at once, to remain sensible, she repressed them, and asked him less calmly than she had intended, "Is this the real reason you did not want to take the children?"
"No, my love," he had moved to the other shoulder.
"Fitzwilliam," she swallowed, "We hardly need to go all the way to Germany if a honeymoon is all you desire."
"That," he replied, his fingers now entertwining with hers, "Is the secondary purpose, as you are well aware. The first," and he began kissing each of her fingers in turn, "Is for you to know, without having to watch me, when I am doing this."
"If that is so," she smiled at him, allowing her dimples to flash as she had not for some weeks, "Then, my love, I believe it shall be well worth the trip after all."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They set off on schedule, although being not quite seven o'clock, it was still not yet full daylight. The morning was promising to be cold but clear, and extra lap robes were stored in the benches of the carriage in case they should be needed by any of the passengers.
The leavetaking was painful, as expected, but mercifully brief, since Jamie was not quite awake while Ethan was very nearly asleep.
Though it had pained Elizabeth to do so, a wet nurse had been found for him, through the aid of the Mrs. Willoughby, whose own niece had only recently given birth. There just did not seem to be any other solution, given the immediacy of the journey and the short amount of time with which they had to prepare for it.
As they entered the carriage at last, Georgiana promised to write them faithfully as soon as they were established in the hotel in Frankfort. Then, with goodbyes being called through the frosty air, the carriage pulled away, to proceed on its long journey to the south and east.
Clara Foster, Elizabeth's personal maid, and Preston (he had always been simply Preston; no one seemed to recall his given name, and he did not deem it necessary for them to know it), Fitzwilliam's valet, were settled on the seat opposite them. Both, by some silent agreement, were discreetly staring out of their respective windows.
It had made more sense for them to accompany Mr. and Mrs Darcy in the carriage then to take a separate conveyance, and the sheer length of the trip would warrant that their services should definitely be required.
Meanwhile, however, there was the issue of the lack of privacy within the coach. A solution, at least for the moment, was offered by Mr. Darcy, as he took his wife's hand beneath the blankets spread across their laps, and held it firmly within his, . As conversation would not be obscured, no one said very much, and with the heartbreak of leaving her children still fresh on her mind, Elizabeth was not feeling especially talkative in any case.
As a result of this, until they reached the village of Nottingham, where they would eat lunch and change horses, not two words together were spoken by any of them. Almost as soon as the carriage had come to a complete stop, Clara and Preston exited, but Fitzwilliam forestalled Elizabeth's rising for just a moment after they were left alone.
"Wait, my love," he told her, causing her to meet his eyes quizzically, but before she could inquire as to his purpose, he had reached out one hand and pulled her to him so that their lips met briefly.
"That," he whispered, "Is for all of the times I shall miss doing so while we are sharing this coach."
She replied lightly, smiling at him,"You certainly shall have many chances, I should think, without having to steal a kiss in a deserted carriage. Surely we should be past such conduct by now, Mr. Darcy."
"Yes, we should be," he agreed, but the look he gave her left her with little doubt at the true nature of his words.
Lunch was adequate although not exciting, and, in no hurry to continue their journey just yet, Elizabeth proposed a short walk after the meal. They strolled away from the inn and moved toward a thick stand of trees off behind some out-buildings, where they could hear, faintly, the sounds of a brook bubbling, and swirling over rocks. Coming to the bank, they both stood and watched the water flowing, each immersed in their own thoughts.
Finally, Elizabeth spoke, "We are coming to a new place, Fitzwilliam." He did not answer, but lest he misunderstand, she elaborated in a thoughtful voice,"I mean, that we have been married but two and a half years, much of which have been as parents, and now...here we are. As we were before all of that...you and I, by ourselves."
"Not quite as we were," he had to disagree, "We each have changed somewhat."
"Only in regards to each other, not in essentials. You are still you, as I am myself. You are yet the man that I fell in love with...that part of you has not changed."
He considered her words, then replied,"I hope that whomever you fell in love with, does not."
"Oh, I would not worry, if I were you...I have found you to be quite consistent in that regard." She had bent to pick a floating leaf from the icy water, and as she stood again, he lifted her chin to look into her eyes, a smile playing about his lips.
"And you also, Elizabeth. Although I am unsure that I would use the word "consistent" as an accurate portrayal."
"Well, as I have said," she responded airily, "You could have chosen someone more suited to you in that aspect, but you did not."
"I chose someone very much suited to me in every aspect...there is nothing that I would change about you." He bent his head to kiss her, his lips lingering over hers, before they both heard the low whistle which was the signal of the carriage being ready to move on.
She spoke first, as his eyes had not yet left hers, "We should go back, I suppose...they shall wonder where we are."
"Yes," but he made no immediate move, instead he leaned down and kissed her again, saying seriously, "As I will have to gaze upon your lips for another four, or so endless hours, and, tragically, will be unable to acknowledge them, I shall simply have to make the most of them now."
She laughed at him then, "They say that having to wait for such as this, should make the appreciation greater, when it is finally achieved."
"Then," he replied, as his lips found hers again for the third time, "I should be the most appreciative man on earth."
They stayed at Peterborough for the night, a village that reminded Elizabeth very much of Meriton in Hertfordshire. The entire business district consisted of two inns, a dressmaker's shop, a general dry-goods shop, and several pubs. Along with a church, a vicarage and perhaps a dozen houses, it was a welcoming sight for weary travelers on their way to London. The inn in which they chose to stay was larger than most, although still modestly appointed, , but quite popular, as the innkeeper's sister was well known locally for her fine meals. Fitzwilliam managed to procure three rooms, despite the large group of sportsmen who had entered immediately after them.
As a result of the by-now stifling crowd, they agreed to take a walk together before dinner, thus leaving the place only minutes after their arrival.
They went for some time without speaking, both relieved to be away from such noise and confusion altogether in one room. Soon they were seated upon a stone bench set in front of the church.
Elizabeth, watching leisurely as many people passed before them, imagining what their businesses and lives might be, simply by observing their dress and mannerisms. It was a diverting pasttime which she had shared with her father many times as a child. Meanwhile, beside her, Fitzwilliam appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. When she spoke at last, she kept her voice low enough so that only he could hear her.
"What are you thinking of, my love?" she inquired, her entertainment waning as the had sun already begun to set, thus causing fewer people to be visible on the street.
He did not answer immediately, but when he did, his words surprised her.
"I am having second thoughts about our passage across to Belgium."
"Why?" she asked him, "Is there some obstacle?"
"Not now, but a few weeks ago, a small ship was taken by French smugglers...no one was killed, thankfully, but the passengers were left stranded on a stretch of deserted beach for several days."
She studied him thoughtfully, "You did not know this when you booked our passage?"
"No..." was his reply, "In fact, I had been assured that the British Navy was increasing it's patrols in the very same area we are to cross."
"When did you find out about this incident?"
"While we were at the inn, I overheard several men talking of it. It was not the first time I had heard such rumours...however, now that it has been repeated, I must confess that it has me concerned."
"Is there another route which can be taken, instead?"
As her faith in his ability to solve any problem was great, she was not terribly concerned herself, yet seeing the misgiving upon his own expression, she suggested this as a logical option.
He was silent as he considered the viable alternatives, but seeing none that would not, in the long run, be inconvenient, he finally stated conclusively, "I shall simply have to look into it further when we are in town. If there is such a danger, then I will make the decision whether or not we shall need to change our plans."
"I am sure you will make the right determination when it is needed," she reassured him, wishing to ease the worry from his face.
"I would not put you in harm's way, Elizabeth."
"I know that you would not."
He looked at her finally, allowing a smile to begin around his lips. "Although, any smuggler who would dare to cross you, would certainly rue his foolhardiness."
"Am I so intimidating?" She had caught his playful mood, and smiled at him impertinantly.
"Not intimidating...but, I do recall certain expressions upon your countenance which very nearly froze my soul."
"If that were truly so, I am amazed you continued to pursue me."
"Are you?" His gaze had changed to something more tender. Very much aware of where they were, however, she abruptly turned away, an action designed to remind him of that fact, as well.
Then, keeping her eyes focused upon a house directly across the street from them, she suggested in a restrained voice, "Perhaps it might be a good time to return to the inn."
"Perhaps so," he agreed, the laughter in his voice so obvious that she had no need to look at him.
"Perhaps," she continued, archly, "I would be safer with smugglers then with you this evening, Fitzwilliam Darcy."
"I would not be surprised," was his reply, but as they rose from the bench, he, with a low formal bow, asked her by way of apology, "May I, in spite of my poor manners, be allowed to escort you back to the inn, Mrs. Darcy?"
"As you are my only choice just now, sir, I must accept your invitation."
"That is your only reason?" he queried as they began to walk together at a deliberate pace.
"No," she admitted, with a sideways glance at him, "But any others shall have to wait until we are alone."
They would stay at the London house for the second night of their journey, their arrival occurring exactly as planned.
Upon entering the vast foyer, Elizabeth hesitated, her heart beating irregularly for a moment. The last time she had viewed these walls, she had only just miscarried, and the memory inevitably stirred a fleeting breath of sorrow, as if that sadness were bourne on the very air which lingered in this house.
With the return of common sense, however, she shook the impression off, moving aside just in time for two footmen to carry a trunk past her and up the stairs.
Fitzwilliam joined her then, his expression quizzical as he wondered why she had paused, "Elizabeth, is something the matter?"
"No," she assured him, pulling off her gloves, and glancing after the footmen, "But, I think I shall feel more myself, once I have washed off this road dust."
She had begun to mount the wide curved stairway, when a maid came in and curtseyed, holding a letter out to Fitzwilliam timidly.
"Excuse me, Mr. Darcy, but this come for you this mornin'." Then, curtseying again, she vanished as rapidly as she had appeared.
Upon accepting the missive, he broke the seal, scanned it, and announced, his voice indicating his pleasure, "It is from your aunt...they have invited us to dinner this evening."
"How could they know we would be here?" Elizabeth asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise, then, as she considered aloud, "...Although I suspect Jane might have written to her."
"Well?" he was still waiting patiently, "Did you wish to accept?"
Thinking rather wistfully of relaxing at home tonight, she answered, " I suppose we should. We have not seen them in such a long time...Yes, accept it, my love, even though I shall have to concentrate on remaining alert throughout the evening."
He watched her ascend with some amusement, however, his eyes darkened as he recollected the circumstances with which she had departed two years earlier, much as she had done herself, but a few moments before.
The Gardiners, as always, were all that is gracious, greeting their niece and her husband warmly as they stepped down from their carriage on Gracechurch Street. The Darcys, likewise, expressed their happiness at being with their friends once again, and Elizabeth was very near to forgetting about her impairment, until two incidents occurred as a sharp and cruel reminder.
The first, during the meal, happened when, while lifting a glass to her lips, her fingers suddenly and treacherously relaxed their hold, causing her to almost spill wine over the tablecloth. Fortunately, she recovered just in time, and carefully replaced the glass beside her plate . Glancing up self-consciously to see if anyone else had noticed, she was relieved to see all were otherwise engaged. However, when her eyes met Fitzwilliam's there appeared to be an unfathonable expression of, what...mortification? Empathy? Distaste? Instantly, she knew he had seen her slip, and her ensuing embarrassment was as much for him as for herself.
The second was following dinner, when they had retired to the salon. Mrs. Gardiner, as was her practice, entreated her niece to play for them, but after the near-mishap at the table, Elizabeth politely declined. A bit surprised by her refusal, and supposing she was only feeling shy and wanted further encouragement, they persisted, but she would not yield.
Finally, Fitzwilliam spoke on her behalf, saying, "I am afraid, my wife is weary yet from the journey. Pray, excuse her for this evening, and I am certain she shall honour us at another time."
The Gardiners, having no choice but to do so, good-naturedly substituted their eldest daughter, Elinor, to play in her stead, but Mrs. Gardiner studied Elizabeth with some concern for the remainder of their visit.
The ride home was awkwardly silent, and it was not until they were alone in their bedroom, that Elizabeth broached the subject at the forefront of both of their minds.
Having prepared herself for bed, she sat before the mirror, brushing her hair with short uneven strokes (for even that simple action had been hindered, of late). His continued silence, however, was weighing so heavily in the room, that she felt she must speak, or else, scream out of frustration.
"Fitzwilliam," she said finally, "I hope...I hope that you shall not have occasion to conceal my shortcomings in future. I know how uncomfortable it must have made you...at least," she added, smiling weakly, "It was not a total falsehood."
She had attempted to inject some humour into the situation. But apparently, he was not having it, for, abruptly, he turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.
Not knowing what had prompted his sudden departure, she sat dumbfounded, staring at the door. What was he thinking? Was he angry? If so, why? It was not as if she had drawn attention to herself on purpose.
At once, an overwhelming sensation of weariness enveloped her, and she rose with an air of defeat, to move to the bed. As she lay alone, her thoughts went around in circles.
It is true, he is so very proud. It must be mortifying indeed to have such a wife. Perhaps he is coming to resent my presence now...perhaps he would rather I remain secluded someplace where he would not have to justify my clumsiness.
Yet, it was his idea to come here. Was that for a selfish motive as well? If I had refused, would he have left me eventually?
From self-pity to sorrow and then to anger, her emotions traveled, leaving her feeling thoroughly confused, and wishing she had remained safely at Pemberley, instead of venturing forth on this fool's errand.
Chapter 29
Elizabeth stood by the pier, letting the salty spray settle its mist over her. She, along with Clara and Preston, were awaiting Fitzwilliam's return, as he had gone to speak with the captain of the ship which would carry them across to Belgium.
Contrary to outward appearances, her mind was not at peace, for her husband had remained aloof even after the long night estranged from each other.
She had awakened often, once she had, finally, fallen into a troubled sleep, but he did not return, leading her to believe he must be taking his rest elsewhere in the house.
This morning found her with a throbbing headache, and still no Fitzwilliam, although during her bath he did step in briefly.
Only long enough to inform her, in a distant tone, that after his early morning ride to the docks to make inquiries, he had deemed their impending passage to be safe from any threat of smugglers.
Safe, she thought sardonically, as she watched the waves splashing across her shoes, yes, I am quite safe.Glancing at her companions, who had stationed themselves near the many trunks and bags comprising their luggage, she noticed that Clara was staring into space unseeingly, and Preston, who must have received orders from Mr. Darcy, was keeping a critical (she suspected) and careful eye upon herself.
My own husband does not trust me, she decided crossly, but then, why should he? I have certainly given him cause to doubt my common sense on more than one occasion.
Still, it was a bit vexing, although perhaps it would not be so, if they had been able to forgive each other and even now be on friendlier terms. She sighed unhappily, maybe, she mused, she should force the issue... make him tell her why he was so very upset with her. Something had happened last night to have caused such a chasm between them, but she was uncertain as to what exactly it had been. Another gust of spray blew over the dock, causing her to close her eyes, yet at the same time, she lifted her chin revelling in the sensation of it.
Despite her frustration with Fitzwilliam, she was looking forward to her first ocean voyage, even though it would only be about twenty hours in length. She had no reason to think that she would be sea sick, in fact, she was feeling so confident, her anticipation had increased steadily as she visualized the actual sailing.
There were perhaps twenty-five vessals tied to the moorings, and she studied each from her present vantage point, with some curiosity. Having always lived inland, the sea, with all of its corresponding activities was as foreign to her as...well, as living inland would be to someone who had dwelt all their lives by the water. It was truly two different worlds, and even as she considered the matter, she began to speculate on which ship was to be theirs.
Her attention was diverted by the sight of two sailors approaching Preston, explaining something to him, and then hoisting the trunks upon their backs as easily as if they had weighed nothing. Hauling them off, they climbed the gangplank of the ship anchored second in line, and disappeared from view.
Stepping closer to decipher the name painted in weathered red and gold letters across the bow, she made out, Eliza Jane. As her surprise was quite complete, her mouth dropped open in undignified astonishment while she contemplated it.
Had Fitzwilliam known the name when he had booked passage? And if he had, why had he not mentioned it?
It was a little startling to be witness to such peculiar chance, but, she finally assured herself, it is only a name, after all. Probably the captain's wife or daughter...nothing more than a coincidence, in any case.
The approach of her husband, accompanied by a white haired gentleman even taller than himself, pushed these thoughts from her mind as she waited expectantly for an introduction.
"Captain Bernard, this is my wife, Mrs. Darcy," Fitzwilliam was saying, in so formal a manner, that she almost shivered.
The face of the other, although creased by too much sun and wind, was not unkind, and she found herself smiling into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
"You are wise to keep her hidden in the north country, Mr. Darcy," Captain Bernard commented gallantly as he bowed to her.
"Thank you, Captain," she replied, letting her dimples show, "I am looking forward greatly to our voyage on the Eliza Jane.
This remark caused him to beam proudly, and when she accepted the arm which he offered to her, began walking at a leisurely pace to the waiting ship, all the while telling her the tale of its christening.
She had not met Fitzwilliam's eyes during the whole of this exchange, some demon within her asserting spitefully, let him stew...if he is so determined to brood, then I shall let him do so without an audience.
He was following them silently up the gangplank, but as she would not look at him, she had no clue to his present state of mind. Turning her thoughts to the sights around her, she found herself repeatedly expressing her enthusiasm, to the Captain, for all that she was witnessing.
Sailors were now hurrying in all directions completing the preparations for the rapidly approaching time of departure from the London port.
Several other passengers were also watching with great interest the activities going on all about them. Then, Captain Bernard, as though by some unspoken signal, suddenly bowed to her, and excused himself to return to the immediate matter of guiding his ship out of the harbour safely. Standing close to the guardrail, she watched breathlessly as the huge ship pulled away from the pier, each hand on board doing his job with an efficiency acquired through years of relentless routine.
"Come, Elizabeth," she heard her husband's voice beside her, "I shall show you our cabin."
"Can't we," she asked wistfully, "Stay but a little longer?"
Her eyes were still fastened upon the widening band of water between the ship and shore, and she wished to remain until there was nothing to be seen but the ocean around them. Even with their strained relations at the time, her plea appeared to have affected him, and for his silence, a sign that he would accede to her wishes, she could not help but feel a glimmer of gratitude.
Not until the skyline of London faded into the horizon, did Elizabeth return her attention to her husband. When he touched her arm, therefore, she turned away from the rail rather reluctantly and followed him to their cabin.
Because it was used only for shorter excursions the Eliza Jane was a smaller vessal than most, thus the living quarters reflected this lack of size as well. Still, as their door was opened for them by the ship's steward, she was a bit taken aback at the extreme efficiency in the use of space.
Against the wall directly opposite of them, were two bunks, about two feet apart, which were fastened to the walls securely. A walkway between, separated them, while under the beds was just enough space for no more than one trunk per side, to be stored. The only other furnishings were a dressing table and chair by the foot of one of the bunks, with a simple mirror hung before it. Set above and between the beds was a porthole which allowed a minimum amount of light into the cabin.
She made no comment as she took in the room, but Fitzwilliam, apparently supposing that she would find fault, spoke defensively, saying, "Well, it is only one night, Elizabeth."
Closing her eyes briefly to the coolness yet in his manner, she inquired, her voice troubled,"Why do you despise me so, Fitzwilliam? What have I done to deserve your contempt?"
Although she was facing away from him, she could hear his sigh, but she did not turn as she waited unhappily for some verbal response.
When he did speak, his voice was quiet, "It is not you...but myself."
He walked past her slowly to stare out of the porthole, making his words sound far away as he continued. "Any contempt is for myself, Elizabeth. For being such a selfish narrow-minded fool."
"What can you mean? You were fine until I...until I nearly dropped the glass at my aunt's house. I do realize," She took a step towards him, then hesitated uncertainly, "I understand that I embarrassed you, Fitzwilliam. I am well aware of that...but, for you to treat me so coldly because of it...that, I do not."
In spite of herself, her voice was beginning to break, and she stopped speaking in an effort to regain her composure.
"No..." he argued, even as he kept his eyes averted, "You are wrong. You did not embarrass me. That is not what I was...am feeling."
"Then, what?" She was struggling to comprehend his meaning. "Tell me, Fitzwilliam." The firmness of her words belied the tears now beginning to trickle down her cheeks, "Or, I promise you, I shall be sharing Clara's room this night, and when we dock, I will turn around and go back home to Britain...with or without you."
"You alarmed me, Elizabeth." He blurted it so hurridly, she was unsure if she had truly understood him.
"I...what?"
"You alarmed me." He had finally turned to face her, but his eyes were fixed on a point somewhere behind where she stood.
"I suppose," he went on unhappily, "The sight of seeing your... weakness in another place besides our own home, startled me. I felt the discomfort you were experiencing, as though it were my own...and I have to admit, it terrified me."
She swallowed a sob, "But, why could you not tell me this last night? Why did I have to be made to think you hated me?"
"Because I am an idiot. I have no excuse...nothing to say in my defense. The whole incident upset me so that I could not bear to think about it, much less discuss it with you, as you deserved. " He shook his head, "Fear...helplessness, these are not emotions which I am ever comfortable with."
His expression was unreadable, yet the pain in his voice, very real, causing her to feel something other than the despair which had engulfed her for the past several hours.
"I wish you would have told me," she managed at last, her hands clasped before her tautly.
She longed for him to come to her, to take her into his arms, or at the very least, open them for her in invitation, as he used to. She wanted some sign that he still loved her, that it could be as it was yesterday, before their dinner with the Gardiners.
"Fitzwilliam," it was a sigh, a plea. Her whole heart made evident by simply speaking his name aloud.
Time seemed to have stopped, and, as if in a dream she saw him, at last, moving towards her, his arms opening to draw her into them.
Yet, the solidness of his embrace, the scent of his coat, the sweet pressure of his lips against hers, all of this, she pondered, cannot be a dream, for if it is, I should hope to never awaken again.
"Elizabeth," he spoke into her hair, "Forgive me."
"For being human? You are allowed, you know." She would have excused him anything at that moment, her relief spilling over into her voice.
"For being such a fool."
"You shall not convince me, no matter how long you go on disparaging yourself." The tears falling were no longer of despair, and he kissed each one until they both tasted of salt between them.
Chapter 30
Mr. and Mrs. Darling were perhaps in their fifties. He, talked much, she, little. But for every opinion he voiced on food, wine, politics, or society in general, her expression showed plainly what she thought of his tenets, and it was all Elizabeth could do not to smile upon the farce they unwittingly presented between them.
Colonel and Mrs. Merriweather were older still. Their faces resembled nothing more than finely crinkled paper, yet their behavior towards one another was that much more pleasing than the Darlings. For, each treated the other with a consideration difficult to find in a pair half their ages. When Elizabeth caught them exchanging an amused glance at the antics of Mr. Darling and his wife, her heart warmed to them immediately. They were not fools, and were clearly as diverted by their company as were the Darcys.
The remaining couple were the Watsons. Mr. Watson, it turned out, was a merchant returning to Belgium from England, accompanied by his wife who was far less in age than himself. His face, stern though it was, appeared to soften whenever he gazed upon her, while she, in return, basked in his attentions. She was very pretty, small and blonde, her laughter light and charming. She openly flirted, in a sweet French accent, with all of the men present, but not one of them seemed to mind.
"Captain Bernard," she said, ignoring her r's completely, "It must be terribly lonely to be at sea always...do you not miss your wife?"
"I am unmarried, " he replied cheerfully, "However, if I had met a lass such as yourself in my youth, I should not make the same claim now."
"Mon Dieu!" she cried with a false modesty, "If you spoke in such a way while in your youth, you would not be allowed to make such a claim!"
"How long have you worked at sea, Captain?" Inquired Elizabeth, attempting to turn the conversation to something less flighty.
"Thirty-three years, man and boy," he answered proudly. "I was but ten when I was taken onto the "Jesting Squire" as a cabin boy."
"But that cannot be," Mrs. Watson interjected, "You look but a youth now!"
"Thank you, madam, but I am not embarrassed by my years," he responded pleasantly.
"Nor should you be," interposed Mrs. Merriweather. "Age is a mantle to be worn proudly, despite what the youth of today might believe."
Mrs. Watson's rosy cheeks became, for a moment, a bit deeper in cast, although she said nothing.
"Today's youth knows nothing of the trials we endured, eh, Captain?" This from Mr. Darling, while his wife rolled her eyes in disdain.
"Some trials, sir, have not changed with time," argued Elizabeth mildly, "Such as birth, and death, poverty, and despair."
Mr. Darling scrutinized Elizabeth for a moment. "But, you must admit, young lady, that these things are not so dire as, say, twenty years ago. Oh, but, you could not know that personally, could you?"
"I know, that when such a situation does arise, the parties involved are not likely to find it any less dire," she replied, her estimation of that gentleman diminishing by the moment.
"Each generation, Mr. Darling," Mrs. Merriweather put in, " Has its own crosses to bear. Wouldn't you agree, Captain?"
"Of course," the Captain said, obviously wishing to restore peace at his table, "For instance, each generation appears to have it's own war to contend with."
"Ah," Mr. Merriweather admonished, "But, war is perhaps, the one occasion which crosses generational lines. There are few wars, indeed, fought by only the young or old. Both tend to become involved, no matter who might have begun it."
"Why," interrupted Mrs. Watson, impatiently, "Are we talking of war? This is not pleasant dinner conversation!"
"No, of course not, my dear," soothed her husband, "What say we speak of something less troubling...the weather, perhaps?"
Elizabeth smiled into her lap as Fitzwilliam spoke, "Excellent choice, sir. We were wondering what the weather in Belgium might be this time of year."
"Similar to Britain, I am sure," replied Mr.Watson with a frown of concentration, "Less rainy, perhaps. You may yet come across snow on the inland roads. Where are you headed, Mr. Darcy?"
"To Germany, actually. Frankfurt."
"Ah, yes," he nodded seriously, "Do beware of the remote districts, however. Since the Confederation has been formed, there have been various uprisings. The border areas, especially, are plagued with violence of all kinds."
"Thank you for your warning," Fitzwilliam replied, adding, "We shall be careful."
At the same time, Mrs. Watson cried, "Oh, but then, you should not attempt it! Mrs. Darcy, how can you be so calm? Why, if it were me, I should be terrified!"
Elizabeth smiled, "I thank you for your concern, Mrs. Watson. I am certain if there is anything truly to fear, we shall find an alternate route."
"Now, here is a wife who is sensible enough to submit to wiser heads," announced Mr. Darling pompously, while his own looked on with apparent contempt.
"I do not," Elizabeth corrected him, keeping her voice level, "Consider myself as submitting, Mr. Darling, but as concurring."
"Mrs. Darcy," intervened Fitzwilliam smoothly, "Is indeed sensible, and oftentimes, I find the wisest course is to confer with her before a final decision ought to be reached."
"Hear, hear!" Seconded Colonel Merriweather, as his wife smiled her approval, "I firmly believe there is no more discerning counsel to be had, other than a loving and loyal wife."
"If that wife possesses both of those qualities, then you would be correct." To the surprise of the company, this came from Mrs. Darling, who continued cooly, "The other side of that coin, however, is that her husband must have earned this loyalty...this love, and return both as generously as he would have them bestowed."
To this Mr. Darling changed to a rather warm hue, and appeared to be struck, miraculously, speechless.
"Oh, undoubtedly," agreed Elizabeth, purposely ignoring the discomfiture of the gentlemen at the table. "For love, in all of its forms, must, in the end, be earned."
"But, if we are, ouselves, recipients of such deep feeling, then do we not owe some measure in return?" Mrs. Watson inquired reasonably, impressing Elizabeth, who decided that the lady was not as empty-headed as she would have them all believe.
"I am not certain gratitude is a solid foundation for a lasting alliance," said Mrs. Merriweather doubtfully, "However, it is a beginning, and one must begin somewhere."
"Gratitude might very well lead to more profound emotions later on," offered Elizabeth with a sideways glance at her husband.
"Unless, it acts as a hindrance to those feelings," Fitzwilliam contradicted.
"You mean," Mrs. Watson questioned, "If it is mistaken for true regard?"
"Or," he replied, meeting his wife's eyes briefly, "If it blinds one to that regard."
It was now Elizabeth's turn to colour, and she was grateful when Mrs. Merriweather spoke, "If that is the case, than both parties must be guilty of so carelessly discarding such a rare prize."
"Therefore, " interjected Colonel Merriweather gallantly, "It is up to them both to retrieve, and restore, that which was lost."
"Yes, of course," his wife agreed, "Supposing they are wise enought to do so."
"I am quite at a loss," interrupted Captain Bernard amiably, "This conversation has clearly gotten away from my area of expertise, so now, as we shall be docking at Ostend in the morning, and, it is becoming very late, I fear I must bid you all good night."
With that, he rose, bowing them out, as they thanked him in turn, and departed, one couple at a time.
The Darcys took a turn about the deck before retiring to their cabin, for the air was mild, and the breeze fresh.
After completing a full circuit, Elizabeth asked him, "Did you truly believe I was blinded to your regard?"
"I believed you to be unwilling to see it, yes," he acknowledged, as they stopped at the rail to observe the last of the sun set beyond the gentle rise of the waves.
"I was not so much unwilling as I was disbelieving...why should you have cared for me still, after I treated you so cruelly?"
"Because, I did not see your words as cruel, once I had time to consider them. Your lack of pretense only caused me to love you more."
"I am not sure Mr. Darling would share in your good opinion."
"Mr. Darling and myself, no doubt, share very few opinions."
"Thank heavens for that."
In an uncharacteristic display of playful impropriety, Fitzwilliam, ignoring the two narrow bunks available to them, pulled the bedding completely off to spread it out onto the floor. After adding the two pillows to the general disarray, a delighted, yet somewhat astonished Elizabeth, joined him there.
"Are we to sleep down here?" She inquired innocently, her arms already around his neck.
"If that, " he replied gravely, "Is your desire, then I should return your bedding to the bunk, for it shall be infinitely more comfortable."
"Yes," she agreed thoughtfully, as though she were considering the idea, "But, then, my love, I would only have to imagine you all alone upon this cold, hard floor, and I am afraid, I would not sleep a wink for the distress such a picture would cause to me."
"You do have the obvious alternative, of course," he murmured, while kissing her ear.
"I see little alternative," she sighed in return, as his lips moved down her throat and along her shoulder.
In the midst of their rising interests, a sudden, loud, and rudely demanding knock sounded against their door.
Without extracting his hand from where it had begun to roam, in a manner both intriguing and enticing, he called out distractedly, "Yes, who is it?"
"By order of his Majesty, King George, open this door at once!"
Abruptly, Fitzwilliam stood, frantically (as well as awkwardly) pulling on his breeches and shirt, while Elizabeth scrambled for her dressing gown. Between the two of them the bedding was thrown with careless abandon onto a bunk, and finally, taking a deep breath as he glanced quizzically at his wife, he jerked the door open.
There stood a British Naval Guard in full regimentals, who appeared to be neither sorry to have disturbed them, nor even aware of the fact that he had.
"I am under orders, sir, to search these quarters by proclamation of the King," he stated, stony-faced.
"So you said...in search of what?" Considering what had been interrupted, Fitzwilliam was displaying amazing aplomb.
For answer, the guard pushed impatiently past him, revealing Captain Bernard standing, embarrassed, in the darkened hall behind.
"I am terribly sorry, Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy. I should have warned you, they are seraching all vessals bound for Belgium and France," he explained contritely.
"Yes," Fitzwilliam frowned, following, with his eyes, the soldier's systematic ransacking of their trunks,. "You should have."
If either of the intruders noticed the irregularity of the bedclothes, they gave no sign, and after every available nook and cranny had been poked, prodded or generally upset, the soldier turned back to them, bowed stiffly, and left without another word.
They could hear him entering the next room in the same fashion, with much the same indignant reaction from the inhabitants.
Captain Bernard apologized to the Darcys once more, bowing and hurridly following in the guard's disturbing wake.
As the door closed behind them, Elizabeth met her husband's eyes, and without warning, laughter arose in her throat. She covered her mouth, but her mirth overflowed, and she could not have suppressed it long enough to explain the reasoning if she wished to. The absurdity of the whole situation had become too much, and until the tears ran freely from her eyes, she could not speak legibly.
Finally, her husband, who had spent the time returning the bedding to its former position, remarked, "I hesitate to inquire what has struck you so humourous, as, I would much rather you join me, than set you off again."
He moved to stand before her as he spoke, untying the belt on her dressing gown, and sliding his hands around her waist.
With a final swipe of her eyes, she replied, her voice yet unsteady, "It occurred to me that England, herself, appears to be uncommonly fascinated with what the Darcys might do after dark."
"I am only interested in what one Darcy does after dark, and if she will contain her amusement long enough, I should wish to revisit that subject as soon as possible."
Lifting her face for his kiss, she acceeded gladly, yet the irony of that evening would return to entertain her, despite her best efforts to set the memory aside.
"My darling, please," she breathed, "I fear we shall be discovered..
Chapter Thirty-One
The morning sun coming through the porthole awoke her suddenly, and after distinguishing where she was, her eyes fell upon her husband, asleep on his back, who had flung one arm across his face, the other sprawled atop her own.
Even though her muscles ached from lying upon the unyielding and unforgiving planks, she recalled with pleasure the activities of the night before.It had been some weeks since they had so freely given themselves to one another, and the resulting effects were nothing if not blissful.
The slow rocking motion of the ship both relaxed and aroused her, and she wondered if he would be shocked if she were to awaken him in the manner which now tempted her.
As luck would have it, however, just as she had leaned over to place a careful kiss upon his lips, a knock once again sounded upon the door.
This one was quieter, less intrusive than on the evening before, yet just as ill-timed.
"Mr. Darcy, sir?" It was Preston, "Sir, you asked to be awakened by eight o'clock...it is nearly half-past."
Elizabeth, letting out a sigh of frustration, lay back on her pillow, while Fitzwilliam stirred enough to acknowledge this communication with an unintelligible groan.
"Yes, my love," she chimed, leaning over to kiss him anyway, but with more playfulness than she had, at first, intended. "Wake up, Mr. Darcy, and greet your wife good morning, before she runs off with the King's guard."
"She shall do no such wicked thing," was his reply, opening his eyes to smile into her own, "Or, I should be forced to lock her in her chambers to be dealt with at my leisure."
"That sounds quite interesting, sir...but, a lock would hardly be necessary."
Using one arm, he drew her down against his chest, and as his fingers played with her hair, he asked languidly, "Mmmm, Elizabeth, did I dream last night, after all?"
"Do you mean the guard tearing up our room, or, following?"
"Following," he answered, kissing her forehead, as it was the part of her nearest to his lips.
"Then, no, you did not dream it, unless I was fortunate enough to be a part of your dream."
"Oh, you are definitely a part of my dream, Mrs. Darcy."
From her place on his chest, she smiled in utter contentment, "As you are mine, Mr. Darcy."
The port village of Ostend, spread out haphazardly across the horizon, appeared to be a jewel in the midday sun. Light danced and glittered upon the rooftops and steeples when they came into its view, as the Eliza Jane neared the piers.
About twenty large men were standing on shore waiting for it to dock, keen to accomplish their appointed tasks as soon as possible.
Elizabeth, in spite of the true nature of their journey, felt at that moment as though she were stepping into some sort of an adventure.
This excitement, it appeared, was also having some affect on the other passengers, as well.
Some were waving hats and handkerchiefs to no one in particular, shouting "Hello", and "Bonjour", while others were already gathering up their belongings, even though it would be some time before the ship was actually docked and anchored.
"And so, Mrs. Darcy, on to Frankfurt, then?" It was Mrs. Merriweather beaming at her from under an elaborately designed bonnet, replete with feathers ribbons, and little false birds.
Elizabeth smiled at her in return, "Yes, thank you. And you, madam?"
"Oh, we have not got far to go...only to Menen. We shall be there easily for dinner. Perhaps if you return by this route, you might stop by our chateau. The locals call it le petite palais, although it is actually named Villa Rousseau. It is quite easy to find, once you are on the correct road."
She was interrupted by the appearance of Colonel Merriweather, holding firmly onto his hat which was in danger of being blown completely off of his head.
"Ah, there you are, my dear. I instructed Jeanne and Philippe to meet us at the gangplank in ten minutes. Oh, good morning, Mrs. Darcy," he bowed as he noticed her, "I trust you are well rested."
"Good morning, Colonel Merriweather," replied Elizabeth, smiling at the allusion in his voice, "Yes, my rest was, on the whole, undisturbed. Thank you."
"No midnight mirauders, eh?"
"Only a lone King's sentry, although he did not tarry long."
"Met the fellow myself, as a matter of fact...thought he must have been somehow misdirected. But, the Navy has changed over time...and not always for the better, mind you."
"My dear," his wife interjected patiently, "I am attempting to convince Mrs. Darcy to call upon us, if they should come back in this direction."
"Yes, by all means," he agreed readily, "The door, as they say, is always open." Then, seeing their servants awaiting them, he urged his wife, once again, "Come, Mrs. Merriweather, I can nearly taste Mrs. Bouchet's wild rabbit stew...Our cook at the villa," he explained, "She is a treasure." With that, he bowed once more in Elizabeth's direction, offered his arm to his wife, and hurried her off just as she called back, "Good day, Mrs. Darcy, and do express the same to your handsome husband."
That very gentleman appeared not two minutes later, greeting her with, "Oh, good, Elizabeth, here you are. I have arranged for a coach to take us on to Leige tomorrow"
"You arranged that here?" She asked, surprised by his never-failing efficiency.
"There are always ways," he assured her, adding with somewhat more concern, "I only hope we have similar good luck at the inn here in Ostend."
"Why does that worry you?"
"This is a port town...it, most likely, will be quite busy," he was silent for a moment, then he shrugged, "Well, if they are full, we shall go on to Gistel. Chances are, we should find something available to us."
Once the ship was docked, Fitzwilliam held his wife back until the throng had thinned, and then, keeping a firm grip upon her arm, guided her carefuly off of the vessal. Preston and Clara were awaiting on shore for the trunks to be delivered, and loaded into a hired chaise.
While this was being accomplished, Mr. Darcy informed them that he and Mrs. Darcy would be walking to the inn (as it was only a few short blocks), and would see them there.
Even though she showed no reaction to his words, at the same time she felt a little exasperated that he had not even bothered to ask her if she wished to do so.
As they strolled together, she inquired, casually, "What if I had wished a ride to the inn?
He had the grace to look surprised, "Did you?"
"No, but you could not have known that...perhaps I shall surprise you sometime and do something out of my regular character."
"As I have said many times, you always surprise me...I supposed that you would wish the exercise after being in such a cramped space on board the ship."
"You must be talking of the cabin, as the deck was not cramped at all. There was ample space for walking about."
Their eyes met briefly, before he replied, "Yes, of course I meant the cabin."
"I did not find it to be so."
"You did not find it somewhat...small?"
"I thought it quite adequate."
"Ah," he said only, but a smile was beginning to play about his lips. Then, "You were not uncomfortable?"
"Were you?"
"I am asking you, Elizabeth."
"Oh, well...I was perfectly comfortable. At least, I believe I must have been, for I slept quite well."
"Did you?" He managed to make his voice sound detached.
"Yes...although it is interesting that I have not yet slept on a ship's bunk...something which I believed I would surely have experienced by this time today."
"If you thought the floor of that cabin was much worse than the bunk itself, you were mistaken, I can assure you," he declared.
"You...prefer sleeping on floors?" She questioned him.
"Only in certain cases."
"Such as?"
"Such as, when the alternative is a narrow and very uninviting bunk, in which I would most likely be quite, pitifully alone."
"And so you chose otherwise."
"There was little choice involved."
She smiled a lttle wider, "Well, I for one, found the results rather interesting. Perhaps we might do so again, sometime."
"Perhaps we might," was his reply, but as they had, by now, reached the steps of the inn, the conversation was discontinued.
To say there was no room in the inn would be a misnomer, as there were, indeed, rooms, but not of the desired number. Somehow, due to unfortunate human error, their party was shorted one of these upon their arrival, thus separate chambers for Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, Clara, and Preston were not going to be possible.
Preston, to his credit, made the magnanimous offer of residing in the lobby for the night, so as not to inconvenience his master and mistress, but Fitzwilliam would have none of it, and insisted that the men share one room and the two ladies, the other.
Soon after this was agreed to by them all, however, he began to regret his high-minded solution. Why is it, he mused resignedly, as he sat opposite of his wife during supper, that once something is well out of reach, it becomes more desirable than ever before? He had not imagined, on this night above all others, he would long for her quite so intensly as he now was.
His sentiments must have been apparent to her, for when her eyes met his, she was ever so sympathetic, and seemed to share in his frustration.
So it was, when they arose from the table, he pretended to escort her to her room, but, instead of releasing her arm at the door, he steered her purposefully outside onto a stone balcony, accessable only through the hallway.
Before she had the chance to inquire of his intent, he had enveloped her within his arms while covering her lips most passionately with his own. She did not resist.
Her hands had moved as though by their own accord, finding their way inside of his coat, to bring his body as physically close to hers as possible.
When he, at last, relaxed his embrace, she lay her face against his chest, listening to his heart beating abnormally fast, as was hers, asking him carefully, "My love, is there no place where we might be alone?"
"No," he answered in a ragged whisper, "Believe me, Elizabeth, if there were, I would have thought of it."
Without another word, he began peppering her hair and face with frantic kisses until she stopped him with a gasp, "Fitzwilliam, I shall go mad if you continue this...allow me to catch my breath, please."
She leaned back against the wall, letting the coolness of the stone restore her to sanity. Closing her eyes, she took in great breaths of air, willing her heart to return to its usual rate, but she again, could feel his lips pressing upon her throat, her shoulders, and then moving tantalizingly ever downward.
All the while, she was torn between wishing him desperately to continue, and fearing beyond reason that he would.
.have some compassion."
Suddenly, they both seemed to freeze as Preston's low voice came unexpectedly from the hallway, "Mr. Darcy, sir. If you shall not be needing me for a time, I believe I will step down to the pub for perhaps an hour or so. Would that be agreeable to you?"
Fitzwilliam, taking a deep breath, answered in a decidedly unsteady voice, "Yes, Preston...thank you, that will be fine."
They listened breathlessly as his footsteps faded away, and then, taking her hand firmly in his, led her into the now empty bedroom, where they could finish in private what had been so abruptly interrupted on the balcony.
Later, as they lay, entertwined upon the bed, she laughed softly, "Fitzwilliam, whatever you are paying that man, it is not nearly enough."
"You do not know the half of it, my love," was his amused reply, "Preston does not even drink."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Arising, at last to find the sun full up, she waited for her bath to be drawn as she gazed out of the window to the already bustling scene in the street below.
They met for breakfast in the diningroom of the inn, where few empty tables were available, yet, miraculously, one was promptly found and made ready for them.
Elizabeth was beginning to become used to the immediate attention unfailingly attracted by her husband, although it still struck her as somewhat ironic.
Not that she had come from an inferior background, but these people who bowed and scraped so diligently supposed her to be something akin to nobility...which she most definitely was not.
As they were seated, and, forthwith waited upon, Elizabeth noticed a gentleman at a nearby table eyeing Fitzwilliam intently.
Leaning forward, she touched him on his sleeve, asking, "My love, do you know that gentleman?" Indicating with a nod of her head to whom she was referring.
Glancing at the observer, who, meanwhile had looked away quickly, he replied, "No, I think not."
That might have been the end of it, but for a zealous servant responding overloudly, "Thank you, Mr. Darcy," after Fitzwilliam had graciously complimented the meal.
"Darcy...Darcy, don't I know you? From London, perhaps?"
It was the gentleman in question, now standing eagerly beside their table.
Fitzwilliam, rising politely, studied him again without recognition, saying, "You must have me confused with someone else."
"Forgive me," the man exclaimed, suddenly recalling his manners, "I am Mr. Basil Townsend from Doughty Street."
After Fitzwilliam had duly introduced his wife, Mr. Townsend pondered for another moment, before some recollection appeared to fall into place.
"That's it!" he exclaimed, "I do recall! You were once engaged to my cousin! You must remember her; Miss Felicity Scott from St. Jermaine Street! By Jove, I thought you had disappeared from the face of the earth!"
Elizabeth watched in awe as her husband stiffened visibly, his face abruptly appearing to be etched in stone, his eyes as cold as ice.
"I am sorry," he replied distantly,"It has slipped my mind, somehow."
"I remember many evenings watching the two of you...your heads together, in my uncle's drawing room, while having deep conversations of who-knows-what. I was convinced that she had finally met her match with you, Darcy."
Fitzwilliam had unconsciously stepped back from Mr. Stevens, all the while avoiding his wife's curious eyes. She, for her part, was truly intrigued.
After her discovery of the unfortunate Miss Dumont two years earlier, she had assumed other ladies' names would be brought up in connection with her husband. He was handsome, wealthy, and quite eligible, after all. But, although she had suspected much, the subject was never again discussed. No doubt to avoid another painful scene such as the last had proven to be.
Somehow, she knew this instance to be quite different from the other. For one thing, he was displaying none of the shock, guilt, or pain so evident with that case.
Now, he appeared to be more embarrassed than anything else, and, this impression alone proceeded to incite some mischievous little demon within her.
"Please, Mr. Townsend," she spoke up impulsively,"Pray, tell me, what was the reason for the engagement to end, if they were so well suited for one another?"
For the first time, Mr. Townsend became aware of his having committed the ultimate breech of conduct; to speak to a gentleman of a former lover, before that gentleman's own wife.
He coloured, hastily stammered, "Pardon me," and, "Good day," to them both, bowed, and nearly bolted from the diningroom, almost knocking over a maid in the process.
"Well," Elizabeth commented innocently, "How pleasant it is to run into former friends. Perhaps you may fill me in on all of the details of your acquaintance with Miss Scott of St. Jermaine Street."
He narrowed his eyes at her, in what might have been a warning, if she had chosen to take it as such, but her mood being what it was, she did not, and as they left the diningroom together, she blithely slid her arm through his.
They stopped for lunch in Aalst, and while waiting for their meal to arrive, Elizabeth casually reintroduced the subject of Miss Scott.
"Please, Elizabeth," Fitzwilliam responded in an inscrutible voice, "I would rather not discuss it here."
"Then...perhaps, later?" she asked, her curiosity whetted by his evasiveness.
"If you insist," he conceded, not meeting her eyes, but concentrating instead on something, apparently, of great interest outside of the window.
Stopping at the village of Liege for their overnight stay, Elizabeth recalled his promise, and as they lay in bed together that evening, she insisted softly, "Now, tell me of Miss Scott, Fitzwilliam."
He sighed then, in resigned surrender, "What is it you wish to know, Elizabeth?"
"How long had you known her?"
"Since I returned to London after Cambridge. Our families socialized frequently, and we often were thrown together because of it."
"Was she beautiful?" She almost regretted asking this, as it may have been better to remain ignorant of some details, but he answered reluctantly, "I suppose so, yes."
Without being aware of it, a spark of jealousy was beginning to ignite in her heart, yet, managing to keep her voice nonchalant, she asked, "How long, then, were you engaged?"
"A year, perhaps a little longer."
"Did you love her?" Even as she phrased the question, she dreaded his answer, yet, in spite of her fear, wished very much to hear it.
"I believed that I did."
There, she thought, that was not so bad. Unable to leave well enough alone, however, she continued her subtle form of self-torture. "Then, what happened? Why did you not marry?"
Waiting with bated breath, she wished he would tell her that he had simply fallen out of love...had lost interest, or, at least something else of equal insignificance, but his reply was not nearly so satisfying.
"She decided she preferred someone else."
"She...what?" Elizabeth almost gasped, "How could she?"
She was genuinely astonished, asking again, "How could this be true?"
Amused, he replied, "Much as I appreciate the enthusiasm of your response, Elizabeth, it was not such a surprise to me."
"Fitzwilliam," she interrupted, "This could not be. I do not mean to sound naive, but what could have given her reason? You are," she searched for the right words fervently, "...Everything that is good and kind...how could she have chosen another over you?"
In the midst of her indignation, he had pulled her close to him, his voice gentle, soothing, "Elizabeth, my love, it is hardly important. It was so long ago, and I was yet very young. To own the truth, I had nearly forgotten it until today."
"Did you know who he was?" She persisted, "Was he an acquaintance...a friend?"
"An acquaintance, yes. A friend, no...He was," and, hesitating briefly before speaking again, stated with amazing indifference, "George Wickham."
Something inside of her froze. She did not know what to say, nor how to say it. Wickham! The man was unconscionable!
"Is there nothing," she cried in disgust, "He would not do to hurt you?"
"I believe," he said reasonably, "He was not altogether solely to blame in the matter."
"But, I can well imagine the influence he must have had upon her...still, I cannot begin to comprehend why she would choose the likes of him over you."
"You nearly did the same yourself," he reminded her.
"That was before I knew yours, and his, true natures...I would not make the same mistake twice, I can assure you!"
She chewed her lip thoughtfully while she considered his words for some moments.
Torn between asking him or not, she, at last, inquired in a gentler voice, "Was your heart, again, broken?"
"If it was, I recovered, obviously...Elizabeth," he continued firmly, "From that day until I met you, I did not regard another woman with interest. You revived feelings in me which I had doubted could ever be so, again. Do not, please, waste your sympathy on that time of my life."
"How old were you?"
"Not yet twenty-three. I barely knew my own mind."
"And I," she said, "Would have been but fifteen...How strange to think that what must have been a tragedy for you at the time, turned out to be very fortuitous after all."
"Yes," he agreed, conveying his readiness for the discussion to be ended by kissing her neck softly.
"So, whatever happened to her? Do you know?" She was not ready to change the subject, as yet.
"I believe I heard that she had married a Count, settled in Spain, and had twenty children."
"You are lying," she accused him, laughter bubbling up inside of her.
"Mrs. Darcy, may we please talk of something else, or better yet, not talk at all?"
"But,..."
"Elizabeth," he made his voice stern, brooking no further questions.
"Fitzwilliam," she began, but whatever she had intended to say was abruptly muffled, as his lips firmly, and most resolutely, covered hers.
Later, before they slept, she asked innocently, "Is this to be all, then, my love?"
"All?" He appeared to be ignorant of what she was referring.
"There are no other past lovers for me to discover at some inopportune moment?"
"No, Elizabeth."
"You are certain?"
"No others."
"Positive?"
"Elizabeth..."
"Well...I am very glad of that."