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Chapter Thirty-three
Elizabeth awoke in the night with a sudden inexplicable longing to see her children, or at the very least, be reassured that they were safe. She lay there for some time thinking of them, until the ache in her heart was so overwhelming that silent tears began to roll down her cheeks.
Aware that the next day they were due to cross the Belgium-German border, she thought of it as yet another country between her and her sons, another set of miles further from Pemberley. Once they reached the hotel at Frankfurt, they would have some news, for Georgiana had promised to write every day, and Elizabeth knew that she would be true to her word.
Until then, she had no choice but to worry and wonder, with no comfort of certainty at all.
The morning brought no relief from the gloomy thoughts of the night, for it dawned overcast and cold, a perfect catalyst to her dark mood. The scenery had been changing dramatically since they had left the coast. Now, mountain peaks outlined the horizon, dark forests skirted the roads, emitting a feeling of intimidation upon her.
She admired it for it's imposing beauty, yet it did not ease the illogical fear growing in her breast that something was amiss, something was not as it should be. When, only a mile before the German border, a wheel of the chaise developed a crack, causing a decidedly uneven gait to the carriage, they were obliged to stop while a footman took it to be repaired at a nearby village.
Unable to bear the close quarters of the conveyance any longer, Elizabeth bravely stepped out, and stood studying the landscape around them. They were at the edge of a deep wood. The remaining footmen were standing idly, chatting, while the horses, freed from their halters, had been led to a nearby stream to drink.
Fitzwilliam had followed her out of the carriage, no doubt wondering at her restlessness, but he said nothing as he, too, let his eyes take in their surroundings. She had not spoken aloud of her concern, nor had she needed to, her unhappy countenance revealing her state of mind quite clearly to her husband.
He took her hand and led her some distance from the chaise, to ensure their privacy, where he asked her, "My love, what is the matter?"
"It is nothing, Fitzwilliam," she answered after a moment, "Just a touch of melancholia, I suppose."
She had no desire to inflict her negative mood upon him, so in an attempt to appear more cheerful, she forced herself to smile. The endeavor failed miserably, however, when, despite her resolve, her bottom lip trembled, while a tear traitorously appeared at the corner of her eye to commence it's slow journey down her cheek.
Gently lifting her chin in order to compel her to look at him directly, he said, "You are more than melancholy, Elizabeth, even I can see that. Pray, tell me why you are so unhappy."
She sighed, "I am just...missing James and Ethan. Not unexpected, I know. I would not be much of a mother if I did not."
Looking down at her hands held securely in his, she continued in a troubled voice, "Lately, though, I have had this feeling that all is not well at home...that something is dreadfully wrong. I expect, you shall think me overemotional."
Avoiding his gaze for fear that he might be contemplating her in some patronizing way, a reaction she could not have bourne, she attempted to calm herself.
More than anything, she wished to be sensible where her children were concerned, not excitable nor prone to hysterics, as some women were wont to do. Yet, this unnamed apprehension engulfing her, appeared to be evidence that she was just that; excitable, illogical, unreasonable.
In her mind she had been considering this trip as a sort of test, and it was now sadly obvious, to herself, at least, that she was not going to pass with flying colors as she had so very much hoped.
His voice, when he replied, however, was not patronizing. In fact, he spoke so solemnly, that some of the weight was lifted from her.
"We cannot do anything until we have reached Frankfurt, Elizabeth. If the news there is not good, I promise you, we shall return to England immediately."
"Without seeing Doctor Brecht?" So surprised by this generous concession, she looked into his eyes fully for the first time that day. "You would agree to that?"
"They are my children also," he reminded her calmly.
"But," she argued, "We have come all this way...you would sacrifice all of that because of some foolish whim of mine?"
"Coming from you, I would hardly consider it a foolish whim, Elizabeth. If you were to judge some correspondence from Pemberley as being amiss, then I would have no choice but to bow to your greater sensibility, and, make the arrangements to return home without delay."
"You are an enigma, Fitzwilliam Darcy," she remarked, touched by his offer, "Just when I believe I have come to understand you, you baffle me once more."
"That, of course," he replied with a brief smile, "Is completely mutual. But you should know by now that there is nothing I would not do to insure your happiness."
"As you have said."
Her expression became thoughtful as she considered his actions, then, shaking her head at him ruefully, "And, the only possible way to respond to such sensibility is for me to be just as calm and reasonable myself."
She continued to speak almost to herself, "It will not do for me to retain such
self-indulgence in the face of your good nature."
Then, unconsciously, she lifted her chin, causing him to conceal his smile at this familiar gesture of her resolve, as, in a grave voice, she promised, "Therefore, Mr. Darcy, I vow that I shall strive to improve my mood considerably from this very moment, until we have reached Frankfurt."
"You have already improved mine," he told her, carefully copying her sober demeanor.
"In what way, if you please?" Inquired she, aware of his teasing her, but determined to, at the very least, appear dignified, should any of their party happen to be watching.
With this in mind, she retrieved her hands from his, and moved as if to turn back to the carriage.
He, however, in a response sure to raise the eyebrows of even the most liberal of onlookers, slid his arm around her waist and pulled her firmly behind a nearby stand of shrubbery, which fortunately was tall enough to hide them.
Then, kissing her as fiercely as he ever had, he said, "You take much pleasure in provoking me, Elizabeth Darcy. Yet to resist you, as I should, brings me no satisfaction, but only frustration. Tell me, why I should allow you to just walk away from me now, without collecting the reward which she I am owed for my constant mindfulness."
"It appears to me you just did," she replied, trying to catch her breath, and dispell the dizziness which the passion of his embrace had evoked.
As they faced each other, their breathing gradually returning to normal, he bent to kiss her again in a more leisurely fashion. Straightening then, his fingers lightly followed the curve of her throat down to where her coat was buttoned securely against the chill March air.
"No," he spoke with a forced lightness,"I must be patient yet. It cannot be helped, for if I truly did as I wished, we would be stopping at every inn along the way, and would not reach Frankfurt until summer."
"That," her voice still a bit unsteady, "Would indeed be unfortunate...to not reach Frankfurt until summer."
She seemed to have forgotten how to form an intelligent sentence, a rational thought. His eyes and her own, were fixed in a gaze which neither appeared to be willing, or able to look away from.
Finally she swallowed, speaking carefully, "I believe I heard them calling for us."
He glanced up then, as though suddenly awakening to their surroundings, but before he led her back to the waiting chaise, he placed a much softer kiss upon her lips, along with the heady promise, "We shall, of course, finish this later."
Chapter Thirty-four
Only another hour beyond brought them to Duren, where they stopped for luncheon, as well as to rest the horses.
The monotony of the drive had allowed Elizabeth much time to consider the conversation with Fitzwilliam earlier, while they had been waiting for the wheel to be replaced. She had to marvel yet at his incredibly unselfish suggestion, and because of it, felt less inclined to be worried after all.
Perhaps, some of her previous concern had simply been enhanced by the belief of him not wishing her to return to England, until after she had received treatment from Dr. Brecht;
Who was, after all, the whole point of this excursion...this pilgrimage of sorts.
Her worries now striking her as being just a bit silly, she concluded that she really should start giving credit to her husband for considering her feelings so frequently, before his own. Immediately, then, upon their reentry into the coach, she thanked him as succintly and as warmly as she could, before the inevitable interruption of the ever-present, ever-dutiful, Preston and Clara.
If she surprised him by her unexpected kiss of gratitude, he hid it well, only taking his place beside her silently, even while his fingers caressed hers beneath the lap robe.
The stay at Koblenz that evening was augmented by the anticipation of their arrival into Frankfurt the following day. Between the anxiety of whatever news might be awaiting them from Pemberley, and, at long last, meeting the by-now infamous, Doctor Franz Brecht, Elizabeth did not sleep but three hours the whole night.
The next day, then, found her in a most uncomfortable and precarious position when back in the coach. For, while she could rest her cheek against Fitzwilliam's shoulder, she had to concentrate on keeping her feet set firmly on the floor to refrain from sliding off of the slippery seat altogether, even as she fought continuously to remain in a conscious state. Despite all of her efforts, her eyes would close, so it was with some relief that she heard him softly speaking into her ear, "Wake up, my love. We are in Frankfurt."
She forced her eyes open to watch as they pulled to the stoop of the tastefully elegant Hotel Schindelhof, three footmen in full uniformed regalia hurrying to assist them from the dusty coach.
It was clearly the most luxurious accomodations she had encountered outside of the Darcy residences, but she was determined to appear unimpressed as she stood waiting for her husband to escort her inside.
Refraining from reacting in any sort of undignified fashion became even more of a challenge when they stepped into the lobby, where pink marble pillars rose in a multitude around them to support numerous ornately designed stairways and garrets.
In fact, the whole of the interior gave the impression of one's stepping into a fairy tale, the soft pastels and gingerbread moldings successfully adding to the illusion. When they, at last, reached the massive black granite desk, the steward handed over to them a packet of letters, which Fitzwilliam then passed to his wife, his eyes meeting hers briefly, yet at the same time, most reassuringly.
Then they were led to an upper floor, almost set apart by itself. Two sets of stairs met at a thickly carpeted landing which, in turn, led to a pair of cherub-carved, pink and silver doors. The steward opened these with a grand flourish, bowing as they passed him, to enter the rooms together.
Very much aware that they were not yet alone, Elizabeth restrained herself from her initial, almost instinctive response, and it was not until after they were shown the entire suite, and thus finally left to themselves, that she could let down her guard.
As the steward closed the doors noiselessly behind them, she turned to Fitzwilliam, saying, "Why, Mr. Darcy. You did not tell me that you had let the King's own palace. I am quite overwhelmed."
He had been watching her, preparing himself for her reaction, and, as expected, her words caused him ample amusement.
"If it will not do, Mrs. Darcy. I can see if they have something more...suitable," he offered, raising his eyebrows at her quizzically.
"I believe this shall do nicely," replied she, strolling casually about the room while studying the view from the various windows.
In looking at him sideways, then, so apparent was the impertinance in her expression, it guaranteed inciting some reaction from him.
Which it certainly did.
Later, drawing back from his kiss, she said only, "I believe it shall do very nicely, Mr. Darcy."
Curled up in an oversized chair before the fire, a pot of chocolate on the table beside her, Elizabeth sorted her letters. Two were for Fitzwilliam: one from Colonel Fitzwilliam, the other had no return mark upon it, and the handwriting was unknown to her, so she set those both aside. Of the four addressed to her, three were from Georgiana, and one from Jane.
She immediately opened Georgiana's, in the order of which they were posted.
Dearest Elizabeth, the first one began, We are all well here. Ethan is sleeping through the night now, and Jamie has, happily, cut two more teeth.
Her letter, Elizabeth decided as she read on, was filled with chatty little inconsequential pieces of information; definitely not anything to cause concern.
The second letter excitedly related the news that the Bingleys were rejoicing in the birth of not one, but two baby boys! Twins, born on the ninth of March! Elizabeth nearly laughed aloud as she imagined how overjoyed Jane and Charles must be by this wholly unexpected event.
Georgiana went on to say that they were to be christened Nathaniel Carter and Nicholas Christian as soon as the Darcys had returned from Germany. As she had not seen them herself yet, Georgiana supposed they would be as beautiful as Emily, however, she added loyally, they could not be nearly so handsome as her own two nephews.
Expecting that this would be what Jane's letter would be about, Elizabeth went directly to the third letter from her sister-in-law.
This one was not nearly so pleasant. After the initial cheerful greeting and glad tidings regarding James and Ethan, Georgiana unhappily related that Anne de Bourgh had come to stay, at least temporarily, because she had suffered the most distressing of scenes at the hands of her mother, Lady Catherine.
Without going into much detail, Georgiana explained how Anne, having long decided to strive for her own independence, was confronted with such outrage by this notion, that the poor girl had no choice but to flee to Pemberley and receive some little comfort from her cousin.
She is not intending to stay overlong, Elizabeth, Georgiana wrote, But I hope that you and my brother may find it in your hearts to allow her to remain at Pemberley until her situation has improved.
Well, certainly, Elizabeth thought, as she reread Georgiana's request. Of course Miss de Bourgh could stay. Having suffered Lady Catherine's ire herself, she knew how upsetting such a vengeful nature could be, especially to one so timid as Anne.
Setting that letter aside to remind her to discuss it with Fitzwilliam, she opened Jane's. Dear Lizzy, I suppose Georgiana has told you our news already, but I do not mind, for I would repeat it a hundred times if I could. I am so happy, dearest Lizzy. Two little boys, and so very precious. We had no idea of there being twins, and imagine Charles' surprise when he was presented with both of them at once. I do not believe I have ever been so happy.
Jane continued in this vein for another two pages, but finally made a passing reference to Anne de Bourgh's flight to Pemberley from Rosings.
It is so sad when there is a rift in a family, Lizzy. I do hope upon your return, that you may act as a source of good sense, and aid poor Miss de Bourgh in healing this wound between herself and her mother.
Elizabeth shook her head at her sister's mistaken ideals, as Jane apparently had no inkling of the hostility already existing between Pemberley and Rosings Park. Still, she was Jane...and to her there was no wrong that could not be righted with compassion, affection, and true generosity of spirit.
As she neared the closing, Elizabeth moved to put the letter away, when her eye caught the post script.
It was so good to see Miss Benedict again. I do believe she is truly sorry for her unfair and unfounded accusations of Mr. Darcy. I know Miss de Bourgh relies upon her as a good friend as well as a loyal and caring companion.
Elizabeth sat as though rooted to her chair. It could not be!
Miss Benedict at Pemberley?
She stood, reread the final lines several times, then nearly ran to her husband's dressing room, the offending letter still clutched in her hand. She found him still in his bath, and, Preston, who had been waiting for its completion, a dressing gown at the ready, promptly turned a deep scarlet, coughed in embarrassment at her unprecidented appearence, and exited with haste.
Fitzwilliam, for his part, was not so much startled by her being there, as when he noticed the dismay evident upon her face.
"Elizabeth," he asked her, reaching immediately for a towel. "What is it? Is something wrong at home?"
"Fitzwilliam," she exclaimed, waving the letter about distressfully, "It is from Jane...Miss Benedict is at Pemberley!"
"What? Miss Benedict?"
Standing, he reached for the discarded dressing gown and the letter at the same time, getting both quite soggy in the process. He quickly skimmed the letter while occasionally glancing at his wife, as she had begun pacing in a most agitated manner, but when finished, he displayed little reaction to the news contained therein.
Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, she cried, "She is at Pemberley! I cannot believe Georgiana would allow her to stay there!"
"Elizabeth," he spoke reasonably, stepping out of the tub, the dressing gown now thoroughly soaked as it was dragged through the bath water, "Georgiana has not been privy to Miss Benedict's past concerning us. She could not know how we would react to this."
"But, she is at Pemberley! And we are not even there to..."
"To what?" He asked in that irritatingly rational tone, "What can she do there, Elizabeth? She is still Anne's companion, as far as I can see. If Anne is there, it stands to reason that Miss Benedict would be also."
Seeing his wife's disbelieving expression, he explained further, " I do not like it either, but there is little we can do at this point. So long as Georgiana keeps us apprised of the situation, I must believe that Miss Benedict shall attempt nothing underhanded in our own home."
Elizabeth sighed in frustration, sinking into the chair resignedly, "I suppose you are right...I am still not comfortable, but...with the servants about, and Georgiana there, perhaps she will be forced to behave herself."
He replied with an encouraging smile, "Let us hope, my dear Elizabeth, that she will...at least until we can return."
After Fitzwilliam was dressed and had joined his wife by the fire, he carefully read the three letters from Georgiana. He was noticably pleased by the Bingley's news, and somewhat resigned upon reading of Anne de Bourgh's unhappy plight, but he did not consider either as a reasonable incentive for returning to England forthwith.
Once she had recovered from her initial shock, Elizabeth was reluctantly forced to agree with him. Miss Benedict, although an unwelcome addition to Pemberley, was not truly a threat to their family. Nonetheless, the knowledge of her presence in their home, succeeded in casting a definite shadow over their so-called holiday.
Tiring of the subject, at last, Fitzwilliam opened his own two letters. The first, from Colonel Fitzwilliam, was filled with general information in regards his family home in Matlock, bits of news from London, and the rather unexpected announcement of his brother's engagement to Miss Caroline Bingley. This last was greeted with a prolonged period of silence by both Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, as they each contemplated the enjoining of two such decided personalities.
As no comment was forthcoming from her husband, Elizabeth refrained also, emitting only a brief little "Oh..." of surprise as he read the passage aloud to her. For, even though she had predicted such an outcome a year before, she found it highly unlikely that the Earl and the future Lady of Matlock would long enjoy wedded harmony and peace.
Still, stranger marriage partners had, in the past, managed to claim a successful union despite many all-too-apparent contrasts, and, who was to say, these two would not do so, as well?
The second letter turned out to be not a letter at all, but an invitation. He read it over to himself before disclosing the contents to Elizabeth, who was esconced once more in the oversized wing chair near his.
"It is," he announced finally, "From Baron Von Wold."
"Who is Baron Von Wold?"
"A distant cousin,...somehow related to my mother's family. Evidently, he has discovered our presence in Frankfurt, and, it appears, has generously added our names to the guest list for his masquerade ball."
Meeting Elizabeth's gaze, he raised his eyebrows quizzically, "I expect this is mainly for your benefit, my love. No doubt the news of my marriage has spread to this side of the channel, and their curiosity concerning you, shall at long last be satisfied."
"And what, pray tell, are they expecting?" she asked, openly amused by his matter-of-fact tone.
"They are undoubtedly hoping that you shall turn out to be nothing but a scheming social climber, you married me only for my money, and therefore, will provide them with so much gossip fodder, they shall happily remember us long after we are gone from here."
"They are hoping for this?"
"Oh, yes. It will be a sad disappointment when they discover the truth, you know."
"Which is?"
He replied seriously, "That you are amazingly unfazed by my wealth, that you are a true lady, and that I am madly in love with you."
She considered his words briefly before she rose, went to him, slipped her arms around his neck, and placed a grateful kiss upon his lips.
As he could not, in good conscious, leave it at that, he took hold of her hand and pulled her, somewhat unceremoniously, down to sit upon his lap, so that her face was on the same level as his own.
In an attempt to ignore his moment of triumph, she pretended they carried on discussions in this unorthadox fashion quite frequently. So much so, in fact, that it was to be treated as nothing out of the ordinary.
It was much more difficult, she then realized, to disregard the light pressure of his fingers massaging her back. Straightening her shoulders demurely, she asked , "When, then, is this ball?"
"You wish to attend?" His surprise somehow gratified her, as she was feeling a bit undignified in her present position.
"Well, why not?" She replied airily, still avoiding his gaze, "When would I ever have another opportunity to meet such people, who, really, must be so incredibly bored with their lives as to have made me their favourite subject?"
He studied her, his face doubtful, before answering, "Are you certain, Elizabeth? It may not be pleasant."
"You forget, Mr. Darcy, I have faced your aunt, the indominatable Lady Catherine, and have survived to tell the tale. Surely none of your German relatives can be nearly so intimidating."
"I suppose," he conceded, "You have a point...very well, Mrs. Darcy, since you are so inclined. The ball is set for three nights hence, on the fifteenth."
"The same day as we are to meet Dr. Brecht?" She instantly became aware of the nervous flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach.
"Will that present a problem?"
She considered the situation silently for some minutes. "No...not really a problem," and as she resigned herself, added, "Certainly, we may as well fit all of the anxiety, stress, and discomfort into a single day...if at all possible."
"Well, if it shall make you feel better, allow me to shoulder the anxiety, stress, and discomfort of the evening's entertainment, then you will only have to deal with the good doctor that morning," he offered, while turning her face to his pursuasively.
With just a little effort, she found that she could lean close enough to him so that their lips were almost touching, pausing to remind him softly, "We shall need masks, you know...for the ball."
"That is not your concern." Their faces were now but an inch apart.
"I should leave it to you?" She began to kiss him, short, sensuous, little kisses intended as a challenge, of sorts.
"Yes," he breathed, her lips doing their work so well, that the only possible recourse left him was to cover her mouth most decidedly with his own, thus happily meeting her challenge.
Chapter Thirty-five
Dr. Franz Brecht was nothing like Elizabeth had imagined. For one thing, he appeared to be only in his mid-twenties, for another, he did not have the manner of some learned, wise, precise old physician, as she had been expecting.
As their appointment to meet with him was set for nine o'clock, they arrived at his office (which happened also to be his residence), promptly at five minutes before the hour. It was set in an older part of Frankfurt, a well-worn but charmingly gabled house with a comfortable front porch, and many panels of darkened oak wood lining the walls inside. When they knocked, the door was opened slowly by a woman who might have been the same age as the house, so wizened was she. She silently led them into a parlor, which would have looked like any other, except for the curious model of a human skeleton supported by a wooden frame in one corner.
On the walls were several innocuous paintings of landscapes but for one portrait of a gentleman wearing the fashion of perhaps a century earlier. He was frowning as though deep in thought, and in one hand he bore a large volume with Latin words printed boldly upon the cover.
Elizabeth was studying this, her hands behind her back, when the doctor, himself, entered quietly. Fitzwilliam rose in greeting, as she turned, to, at last, meet the physician for whom they had crossed two countries.
Her first impression was how very young he appeared, her second, how distinctly handsome. He was nothing, of course, she quickly affirmed, to her own husband, while glancing at Fitzwilliam who was introducing her. Still, it caught her so unaware that it took her several moments just to find her voice.
He was quite tall. Perhaps a full inch over Fitzwilliam, and had nearly black hair, in direct contrast to the most disarmingly blue eyes she had ever seen.
She must have been standing speechless for some time, because she suddenly became aware of Fitzwilliam clearing his throat, and looking at her oddly.
"Oh, pardon me," she murmured apologetically, conscious of the warmth spreading across her face. As she curtseyed, she willed her colour to return to normal.
Fortunately, Dr Brecht did not appear to notice her discomfiture, but motioned both of them to be seated opposite him there in the parlor.
His English, when he spoke, was quite good, which he explained, by telling them of his attending school at Oxford. In fact, he had only recently returned to Germany because of the increasing need for medical training among the people there.
"So, you are a teacher?" Elizabeth asked, avoiding Fitzwilliam's eye as he was still studying her quizzically.
"Yes," the doctor replied, "I have been teaching for about a twelvemonth now. I enjoy it very much."
"And, how did you come to be interested in..." she began, but could not seem to find the right words for her affliction.
"Nerve damage?" He finished for her smoothly. "My father, Mrs. Darcy, had his legs amputated because of frostbite. I have studied the effects of long periods of frigidity on persons with outdoor occupations for several years. I am convinced that nerves can be repaired, or, if not, at least improved."
"Oh?" For the first time, she felt a small glimmer of hope. Perhaps he could help her after all.
With an abruptness which startled her, he asked, "How did you receive the damage to your fingers, Mrs. Darcy?"
She did blush then, still feeling very foolish for her actions on the night in question. Her husband, fortunately, spoke before she could. "My wife suffered an accident and was unconscious in our stables for several hours."
She flashed him a look of gratitude for saving her the embarrasment of explaining, meanwhile the doctor persisted in his questions, "How many hours?"
"Ten, eleven, perhaps," she replied hesitantly, trying to recall.
"Were you wearing gloves?"
"Yes, but they were not nearly warm enough..."
"Were you otherwise dressed adequately?"
"Not..." she was becoming a bit irritated with his high-handed manner, but he was interrupting her yet again.
"Did your feet suffer as well? Your limbs?"
She frowned, "My feet did at first, but they recovered...otherwise..."
"Doctor," Fitzwilliam interjected calmly, "As I told you, my wife lost consciousness...she cannot recall all of the details."
"Yes," Dr Brecht conceded, "I was hoping to receive a more concise report, but it cannot be helped, I suppose." He stood, his demeanor quite cool, "Mrs. Darcy, I believe I can help you, but you must be completely honest with me. Can you be so with your husband in the room?"
Her mouth almost dropped open at his candor, but she regained her composure and replied in what she hoped was a collected manner, "I believe so, yes." She stood then to study him calmly, and began speaking in a low voice, "Doctor, you wish me to be honest? Then I shall tell you what happened...In a fit of childish pique I fled my house to our stables to sulk in peace. I did not take into account the possible consequences, and, even if I had, it would not have forced me to reconsider my choice. My husband, thank God, discovered me before I could successfully kill myself by freezing to death. My fingers are numb, Doctor. They are quite useless, as a matter of fact. It is my own fault, yes, I will admit that. But, I did not come here to be verbally battered by a self-centered, self-righteous fool. If you do not intend to treat me, then tell me so, and I shall return to my home, with my husband, and, without your assistance."
Silence fell upon the three of them as she finished. Her cheeks had become a deep shade of crimson during her tirade, her hands were clenched tightly at her sides.
Fitzwilliam was intent in something upon the wall opposite, which was apparently fascinating to him, for he would look directly at no one. Dr. Brecht, meanwhile, was watching her carefully, his expression one of sudden interest.
Probably, she thought scornfully, in the same manner as when he sees a bug or worm he intends to dissect for his research.
Elizabeth had been waiting in Dr. Brecht's office for nearly ten minutes, in which time she had spent studying the stark cleanliness of the room. A high table covered with a white sheet stood against one wall, a roll top desk and chest of drawers against the other. Except for the straight backed chair she was seated on, along with its twin before the desk, that was all there was in the way of furnishings. A bored looking woman of solid German girth stood staring out of the window silently, after assisting Elizabeth in removing her dress and corset, and then, handing her a sleeveless wrapper with which to cover herself.
She is like a work horse, Elizabeth decided after idly watching her for some moments. Large, indolent, not adept at conversing, but no doubt efficient and dependable in her job.
Fitzwilliam had vanished she knew not where. Perhaps she had embarrassed him by her brief display of temper in the parlor.
Well, she thought, there was little she could do to remedy that situation. She had said what she said, and she was glad of it. Certainly the doctor had not appeared to be offended. In fact, he had instructed her to come in here for testing, with a voice tone very near respect, not five minutes afterward.
Now, grimly recalling her husband's lack of reaction, she inadvertantly sighed aloud, causing the nurse, Frau Schneider, to look at her quizzically, even as she said nothing. Perhaps, she cannot speak English, Elizabeth considered, and for just a moment she forgot her marital woes to consider, that although different languages separated them, a sigh could be understood in any tongue. Likewise, a laugh or cry, or almost any other sign of emotion. Having never really considered this idea before, it kept her mind occupied until Dr. Brecht arrived some five minutes later.
"Mrs. Darcy," he addressed her in a crisp manner, "Please sit upon the table, and we shall begin."
She complied meekly, deciding that one battle per day would be quite enough. As she settled herself, he ordered,"Hold you hands straight out before you, please."
At least he did say please, she thought, amused, as she obeyed him silently.
He took her hands, and turning them over several times, studied them intently, as though he expected to find the answer to her problem on their surface.
Frau Schneider then brought him several small metal instruments, some sharp, some rough, and handed them to him one by one. He used these to touch the tips of her fingers individually, each time, asking, "Are you able to feel that?"
She could not, and told him so repeatedly, until finally he stepped away from the table, apparently satisfied.
"Mrs. Darcy," he stated, "I believe that I can help you restore some feeling to your fingers. I cannot promise anything specific, however. You shall need to follow my instructions exactly, even if you do not see the reason for it at the time. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she replied. Of course she understood, did he think she was dense? Well, perhaps he did after her rather irate admission in the parlor. What intelligent person would get herself locked in a stable all night long?
He pulled her arm taut so that it was straight out before her, and began to massage her elbow, continuously moving his fingers in small circular movements from that point up to her shoulder.
He worked quickly, speaking, all the while in a businesslike manner, "You may do some of this yourself, at least four or five times each day for a period of fifteen minutes. The areas which you cannot reach, your husband or a servant may assist you with. You shall have to instruct them in this."
Changing to her other arm, he repeated the massage, then he said, "You may begin this yet today. Do you think you can do this yourself, yet?"
She nodded, somewhat bemused, and he indicated that she was to continue without his aid.
After several moments, he appeared satisfied, saying, "You shall also be required to do some simple exercises. Like this..." Taking her hand once again, he bent it at the wrist up and down slowly, then, he moved each of her fingers in the same manner, until they had all been flexed several times.
"There are more," he continued, "But this will be enough for the first day. You will come back tomorrow at the same time again."
As it was not a question, she assumed he did not expect an answer, thus she remained quiet despite the words she wished to say and, no doubt, would have said under different circumstances. For now, she merely nodded, curbing her irritation for the time being.
"Have you any questions, Mrs. Darcy?" he finally asked, as if he suddenly remembered that she could speak.
"Why, Doctor," she finally inquired innocently,"Was I required to undress, as your examination was only to my hands?"
He studied her for a moment, and she thought, although she could not be certain, that a trace of a smile was evident around his mouth, as he replied, "I had you remove your dress and corset, Mrs Darcy, so that you would have no restraining clothing on. The nerves, you see, do not appreciate such confining garments. Any other questions?"
This time she shook her head to the negative, and nodding at Frau Schneider, he continued, "Very well then, you may get dressed and I shall see you again tomorrow morning."
He turned to leave, but before he did so, she suddenly asked, "Do you know..." he turned to look at her, a question on his face.
She started again, "Can you tell me please, how long this might take. I mean, how many days...or weeks?"
"It will take as long as it needs to...is the amount of time a problem?" He was not exactly cold, but she suspected she had offended him somehow.
She went on to explain hurridly, "It is only that, I have two children...babies really. I have not been away from them before this, and I am afraid an indefinite separation could become quite...unbearable." she stopped then, for her throat had closed as she spoke
longingly of her sons.
For the first time, he did smile, and in a surprisingly gentle voice, assured her, "Mrs. Darcy, I would not require you to do so...all we shall need is a few weeks, perhaps. Can you spare a few short weeks?"
"Yes," she agreed unhappily as she regained her composure, "I can give you a few weeks."
Fitzwilliam was waiting for her in the parlor when she emerged from the examination room.
Slipping on her coat and bonnet, she asked in a voice kept purposely light, in case he was upset with her, "Where did you disappear to, my love?"
"I took a walk...it seemed an opportune time to run an errand, as I assumed you desired some privacy." His tone matched hers, and he even smiled, proof that he was not displeased after all.
As they left the building, she was surprised to see that it had been snowing. Large fluffy flakes were falling like feathers, already forming a thin blanket on the streets, and covering the tree branches, and rooftops.
Responding to a sudden unexplainable urge, she suggested, "Oh, please may we not walk back to the hotel? This is so lovely."
"Of course," he agreed and waved the waiting carriage to go on without them.
They walked for several moments, before Elizabeth brought up the subject currently dominating her thoughts.
"I thought, perhaps, that I might have embarrassed you earlier."
His face, when she glanced up at him, was a study. "You did not embarrass me, Elizabeth."
"Well, you would not meet my eyes, and then you left so abruptly. I supposed that you were upset."
"I left so abruptly because if I had not, I might have embarrassed you," he admitted.
Raising her eyebrows at the very idea, she inquired, "How could that be possible?"
"Have you ever," he said slowly, "Had such a desire to laugh that you simply had to escape to do so?"
"Laugh?" She was so very amazed, she stopped dead in her tracks. "You thought it humourous?"
"Elizabeth, if you could have seen your expression, and then, the unfortunate doctor, as well...I believe you took him quite by surprise." Even as he spoke of it, his lips twitched, but noticing her look of reproach, he added quickly, "I was not laughing at you, you know. In truth, I cannot say what exactly struck me as so amusing. Perhaps, just the fact that your words were not directed at me, for a change."
In spite of the fact that she should really be feeling indignant, she could not help but smile at him, and, slipping her arm through his, resumed their walk.
"Did you," she asked him sometime later, "Obtain some masks for this evening?"
"Oh, yes," he replied, as though he had forgotten, "About that. I am afraid there was not much choice to be had. It seems everyone in the area is going."
"So, you were unsuccessful?" Even as she inquired, she did not believe it.
"No..." he corrected himself, "I did not mean that. I did find something suitable, but do not expect too much."
Silence reigned for a few blocks, then she spoke hesitantly, "I believe I owe you an apology, Fitzwilliam."
"For?" He asked, surprised.
"For behaving so strangely when you introduced me to Dr. Brecht. He was not what I was expecting."
"...You were expecting?"
"Oh, someone older, more experienced, less..."
"Handsome?" He finished, his eyes teasing her.
"I thought so at first, I must confess," she admitted, "Yet, he..." She paused as she considered the doctor's impression upon her.
"He what?" If he was envious, he was hiding it well, his voice sounding more curious then irritated.
"He is missing something, I think. It is as though he is yet unfinished," she spoke thoughtfully, then in a more matter-of-fact tone, "Well, he is not you, after all...and, I am certain he is quite thankful of that."
"And why," he asked gravely, "Would you suppose him so? Perhaps he admires you now that you have set him down so soundly."
"Fitzwilliam, I doubt if many men would tolerate my sharp tongue as you do." She shook her head at him, "I consider myself extremely fortunate in that regard."
"Yes, I am probably too easy with you," he agreed, "But I have not yet had occasion to regret my even-handedness. You generally manage to do me credit." He was teasing her again, causing her to laugh a little before she said, "In any case, he is not nearly so handsome as you, nor so..." she searched for the right word, then said simply, "Appealing."
"Appealing?" He pretended to be offended, "I should not choose to be thought of as appealing."
"But, you are, you know," she declared smiling, her eyes meeting his, "You are everything that is good and kind, amd beside you, all others must fall short."
Then she squeezed his arm to let him know that, even while her voice might be impertinant, her words were, in fact, conveying her true feelings.
As they neared the hotel, she asked, "Did the doctor explain what you shall be expected to do as part of my treatment?"
"He described it briefly."
"And you do not mind such a sacrifice?"
"What he suggested did not sound like a sacrifice."
"Well, I am sure it would not have to be."
"No," he replied, "I am certain that it definitely shall not be."
Chapter Thirty-Six
Fitzwilliam had purposely misled his wife in describing the choice of costume he had obtained for the evening's entertainment. For when she saw it, her amazement was profound, and as Clara removed it from its box, and held it up for her inspection, she was doubly impressed.
One, that he was able to find anything so exquisite, and, that he had done so in so little time.
The gown was of white satin.
So pristine a white, in fact, that the black lace embroidery upon the sleeves and bodice presented a dramatic and almost startling effect. A white domino had been included in the package, along with a pair of long, black, silk gloves. Upon donning the gown, Elizabeth decided that the only way to add to such finery would be to adorn her hair with ribbons. This was somewhat out of the norm for her, as she did not usually favor such obvious affectations. But, for this occasion, she made an exception, and so, black and white ribbons were woven through her tresses, then the ends braided together to hang down her back.
The results were quite satisfactory, and she complimented Clara generously on her handiwork, all the while hoping that Fitzwilliam would be as well-pleased.
She entered the sitting room where he was reading, as gracefully as she could, considering how unused she was to the extra weight of the gown's train behind her. Stopping inside of the doorway, the rustling of the silk softly announcing her entrance, she stood a bit self-consciously, awaiting his verdict.
Having risen upon seeing her, however, his eyes clearly expressed his appreciation, laying her concerns quickly to rest.
He looked very handsome as well. Dressed in his evening blacks, he, not surprisingly, had selected a black domino, but also, and somewhat out of character for him, had added a full length black cape, giving him an aura of mystery and drama.
He surprised her yet again when, as they were preparing to leave, instead of her usual evening cloak, he held open a breathtakingly white, fur cape complete with a soft hood to frame her face.
As she appeared to be struck speechless, he smiled and asked her, "You do not mind wearing this instead?"
"No," she finally gasped, "Of course not. It is beautiful!" Then, gazing at her image in the glass, she spoke in some wonder, "I do not even look like myself...even if I had met this baron before tonight, he would not recognize me."
"You are even lovelier than usual," Fitzwilliam assured her, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
"And you, sir, are a man without fault." They both smiled a bit ruefully, recollecting the occasion of her previous use of those words in a much less admiring manner.
The Baron's schloss faced the town, but stood just beyond it, where it rose above the trees magnificently.
They were shown into a grand ballroom; the vast floor of black and white marble parquet spreading out before them, while crystal chandeliers hung from the carved ceiling high overhead.
Everyone, it seemed, was there, as the only open space appeared to be in the center of the room, where several couples had already begun to dance. Musicians were playing in a gallery set slightly above the main floor, their instruments sounding ethereal over the milling throng.
"I do hope, my love," Elizabeth said in a low voice, "That you remember how to waltz. I fear it may be a necessity this evening."
"That should not be a problem," he replied in the same tone, then, a bit louder, "Ah, here is the Baron himself."
A short, solidly built gentleman was hurrying towards them, his voice rising above the din, as he neared, "Welcome, cousin," he called jovially, "Welcome to Frankfurt and to my humble home."
He was wearing an elaborate outfit of, perhaps, a person of nobility from a century earlier. A large feathered hat sat upon his head, a jeweled sword hung from a sash wrapped around his ample waist. As he was also wearing a mask, Elizabeth could not really get an impression of his countenance, but from what she could observe, he gave the impression of being a pompous, self-important little man.
Turning to her while she had been studying him, his voice was filled with overstated delight, "And, this must be your wife, sir. I can easily see what must have attracted you so completely. She is mesmerizing!"
He bowed low to kiss her hand, and, although she curtseyed politely, her opinion of him was decreasing with each word of flattery falling from his lips.
Fitzwilliam, when he could get a word in, said, "I must thank you for your kind invitation at such late notice. How did you happen to hear of our being here in Frankfurt?"
"Oh," was the vague reply, "Word does spread, you know...and when we heard that you had brought your lovely wife along, why, I simply had to have you come this evening. It would have been insupportable to have omitted you from the guest list."
He smiled so broadly that Elizabeth was sure his face might split from the effort.
At that moment, they were joined by a vision, seeming to appear from nowhere.
She was tall. Not as tall as Fitzwilliam, of course, but a full two heads over the Baron. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head in a style which must have surely weighed heavily upon the neck.
However, her demeanor was nothing if not majestic as she glided effortlessly to where the three of them were standing, while her voice, when she spoke, was low and throaty.
"My dear," she said to the Baron, "Do not tell me this is your cousin."
"Yes, my dear," he assured her triumphantly, then to Fitzwilliam, "Please, allow me to introduce my own wife, the Baroness Von Wald. My love, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy of County Derbyshire, England."
The Baroness, in a mask of shiny gold to match the royal blue and gold gown she wore, glanced briefly at Elizabeth upon their introduction, her curtsey a mere formality. But, upon Fitzwilliam her gaze lingered, and she extending her hand as invitation for him to bow and bestow a kiss upon it in greeting. Being a gentleman, he did so, however, when he straightened, he unconsciously stepped nearer his wife, as if to underscore his fidelity.
In her hair, the Baroness had inserted several feathers dyed to the same shade as the material in her dress, which was tied under her breasts with a braided gold cord.
She is beautiful. thought Elizabeth critically, but definitely predatory, as the lady's eyes had not left Fitzwilliam since her arrival.
They were interrupted then, by another gentleman, taller than the Baron, but with the same tone of overdone cordiality.
"Broderick, pray introduce me to this angel!" He was referring to Elizabeth, as his pale blue eyes gazed upon her through his domino, apparently enraptured.
"Oh, yes, of course." The Baron replied a bit cooly, "Allow me to introduce my younger brother, Mr. Von Wold. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy."
"Cousin!" he exclaimed, tearing his eyes from Elizabeth to finally acknowledge the presence of her husband. "Why, I would not have known you. It has surely been ten years, at the very least!"
"Yes, at least," Fitzwilliam agreed, his mouth betraying his amusement, "I was not aware that you were still in Frankfurt. I thought I had heard of your moving to France some years ago."
"Oh, France," his voice dismissed it with weary contempt, "There is no order any more since poor little Bonapart was ousted. No, I have quite washed my hands of that pitiable country, and have returned to my only true home."
As he said this last, the Baron glanced at him with such an expression of sour disgust, that Elizabeth had to wonder at the familial drama they were witnessing. The Baroness, meanwhile, pointedly ignoring the arrival of her brother-in-law, while somehow closing the distance between Fitzwilliam and herself until she was near enough to place her hand upon his arm possessively.
Taking this as a sign to leave them, Fitzwilliam bowed to the three Von Wolds, saying smoothly, "Please, excuse us as I wish to claim a dance with my wife, if you don't mind."
Then, before they had time to respond, he took her arm and led her away.
"Oh, Mrs. Darcy,"Mr. Von Wold called after them, "I shall expect the same pleasure in a little while. Be sure to save a waltz for me, won't you?"
Not wishing to be rude, she smiled over her shoulder at him, but Fitzwilliam did not pause, steering her further into the crowd.
"They are your cousins?" she asked in disbelief when they at last found an open area on the opposite side of the room.
"Yes," he replied, scanning the wall for two empty chairs together. "Distant, fortunately. I always tolerated Broderick, out of respect to my mother, but Marcus was another matter."
"He seems...insincere," she said, unable to think of another term as polite.
"You are being kind. He is totally opportunistic. In fact, he could put the ignoble Mr. Jeffries to shame."
"Indeed? Mr. Jeffries? You mean they are of the same vein?"
"They could be twins. That was why I found it so unpardonable of myself to make the mistakes which I had, regarding him...I should have known better."
Taking her arm again, he led her to an unoccupied settee placed in a corner, partially hidden by a large potted fig tree.
"The Baron's wife," Elizabeth began as they sat down together, "You had not met her before tonight?"
"No," he replied, his tone preoccupied. Then, abruptly, "You know, Elizabeth. I believe I erred in acquiring that costume for you."
"Why is that?" she asked in surprise, "I thought it rather suited me."
"Oh, it does, that is the problem." He had leaned back and was gazing at her in such a way that she felt herself blushing, and was soon forced to look away in an effort to regain her composure.
"This is a lovely place," she remarked, keeping her voice impassive.
"Yes," he agreed.
She could tell he was amused, by the inflection of his voice, but she could not bring herself to meet his eyes just yet.
"Do you have other relatives here as well?"
"It is likely."
"So, your mother came from a large family?"
"Somewhat...Elizabeth."
"Yes?" She was still avoiding his eyes, attempting to concentrate, instead, on the many and varied costumes before her.
As though he took pleasure in tormenting her, she could feel his fingers idly playing with the curls lying against the back of her neck.
His voice, when he spoke again, was incredibly soft. "My love, have I mentioned recently how very beautiful you are?"
"You might have," she conceded, not turning her head.
"And, how much I am in love with you?"
"That, I cannot recall."
"You cannot? Then, Mrs. Darcy, you must allow me to show you."
When he stood and offered her his hand to take her out to the dance floor, she felt unaccountably relieved.
Goodness, Elizabeth, she scolded herself, did you think he was going to seduce you right here and now?
The problem, she was well aware, would not have been his intent, but her own impulsive, and rather audacious response. For she knew, and she suspected he did, as well, that where he was concerned she could not practice too much self-restraint. All of her good sense invaribly seemed to fly out of the window, when he looked at her in so intimate a fashion as he had, but a few moments before.
Waltzing again after having only done so once or twice, came surprisingly easy for her. But then, she reminded herself, Fitzwilliam was more familiar with it then she, and all she had to do was to follow his lead.
There were, perhaps twenty other couples on the floor besides themselves, but in his arms they seemed distant, far away and insignificant.
He really was an effortless dancer, and with him, she felt she could make no error.
No sooner had the music ended, however, then an unwelcomed voice intruded on her pleasant reflection.
"Mrs. Darcy, I hope you are prepared to favor me with your obviously superlative skill. Are you, pray tell, up to a minuet?"
She forced herself to smile at Mr. Von Wold, even while her husband bowed and excused himself, meeting her eyes meaningfully as he left her.
"You enjoy dancing, sir?" She inquired, only to make conversation as they took their positions.
"I adore dancing, madam. But I feel I should warn you, I may not be satisfied with only one chance to have you as my fair partner."
She groaned inwardly. Somehow she had hoped to spend this evening with Fitzwilliam, and without being constantly interrupted by bores and nitwits.
He was an adequate dancer, but too well pleased with the image he portrayed to demonstrate the ease she had become used to, with her husband. Nonetheless, she thanked him when it was finished, all the while, truly thankful also, that it was so.
Yet, even though he graciously escorted her back to Fitzwilliam, he praised her so often on her remarkable skill and grace, that she soon stopped listening altogether.
He left her at last, no doubt to find another partner who would pay him the homage he felt he deserved, while she breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"You looked well together," Fitzwilliam commended her generously.
"I thank you," she replied, "But I am sure your praise would be better applied to him. He appeared to be more concerned with the visual effect then in the actual dance."
"Ah, yes. Well, I am pleased to see then he has not changed. Pity to lose such an entertaining character from the family line."
"Yes," she agreed with a shake of her head, "A great pity."
"Would you care for some refreshment now, Mrs. Darcy?" He inquired in a formal voice, offering his arm to her which she accepted gratefully.
"So long as it is far away from Mr. Von Wold, Mr. Darcy," she declared as they moved away from the dance floor and into an adjourning room where tables, laden heavily with food and drink, were already being well attended by many costumed guests.
They had no sooner found two chairs together, then the Baroness floated up to them.
"I trust," she said in her low voice, "That you have been waited upon satisfactorally." Again, she made no eye contact with Elizabeth, her attention focused on the gentleman alone.
"Thank you," Elizabeth answered pointedly. She had no intentions of being ignored, despite the other lady's efforts. Fitzwilliam glanced quickly at his wife, then turning to the Baroness, inquired,"Won't you join us, madam?"
Although she was unhappy at his invitation, Elizabeth knew that he had made it only to be polite.
Unfortunately, the Baroness took it at its face value and immediately accepting, sank gracefully into the open chair on his other side.
Thus, the meal became a sort of contest as to who could divert him more successfully. He paid attention to the Baroness because he was too much of a gentleman to ignore her, but at the same time, he could not do so without appearing to slight his wife.
After the first course, Elizabeth, sensing her husband's discomfort and tiring of competing for his favor, settled into a sort of weary resignation as she contemplated a fitting fate for such a maddening woman. She was surprised to hear a friendly and familiar voice behind her.
"Why, Mrs. Darcy, I had no idea you were to be here this evening!" She turned in her chair to see Dr. Brecht, clad in a costume identical to the one of the portrait hanging in his parlor.
"Dr. Brecht," she greeted him, happy to have someone to talk to, "Are you acquainted with the Baron?"
"He and his wife are very old acquaintances. But, how do you come to know him?"
"He is," she explained, indicating her husband, who was still listening politely to the Baroness's conversation, with a nod, "A distant cousin of Mr. Darcy's. We only just received the invitation upon our arrival three days ago."
"Well, I am delighted to see you so unexpectedly. Perhaps when you have finished your supper, you might favour me with a dance."
"Well, actually," she replied, glancing at Fitzwilliam's back, "I am quite finished, and I would greatly enjoy some exercise. Thank you."
She rose from her chair, informed her husband cooly that she would be otherwise occupied for a few moments, and without waiting for his reply, permitted the doctor to escort her back into the ballroom.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Although Dr. Brecht proved to be an able dancer, Elizabeth's mind was otherwise engaged, as she could not seem to dismiss the Baroness from her mind.
He undoubtedly noticed her absent mindedness, for he did not press conversation, and, in fact, appeared to be lost in thought himself. As the dance ended, and the doctor escorted her from the floor, she searched the crowd for her husband, but to no avail.
Sensing her frustration, he inquired, "Would you like to return to the supper tables? I do not see Mr. Darcy at the moment."
"Yes, thank you," she replied, thinking that perhaps Fitzwilliam might be grateful for an excuse to leave the Baroness's side.
The place where she had left him, however, now contained two strangers, and her husband was nowhere in sight. Just as the doctor began to suggest he take her back into the ballroom, the Baron approached them.
"Ah, Mrs. Darcy. Your husband asked me to convey a message to you. My poor wife was suddenly taken with the vapours, and, gentleman that he is, he kindly escorted her out to the garden for a breath of fresh air. He was unwilling to leave you unattended, but I assured him that I would personally see to your amusement. I hope that this arrangement is agreeable."
It was not agreeable at all, but rather than appear to be mistrustful, she managed a weak smile and allowed the Baron to take her back to the dance floor.
Oh, to be a man, she fumed inwardly. To go where you like with whom you like, and not have to be attended to as if you were completely helpless. Not having much choice in the matter, she unhappily danced two consecutive dances with the Baron; one waltz and one reel, and just when she hoped he was tiring, they were interrupted by his brother.
"Broderick, I must implore that you allow me another dance with the lovely Mrs. Darcy. I have found that one will simply not do...and surely, you should be seeing to your own wife." This last was said rather condescendingly, causing the Baron to turn several shades of red, but he held his tongue, bowed silently to Elizabeth and left her there with Mr. Von Wold.
This night, she thought with a frustrated sigh, keeps getting better and better. Next time I believe I shall choose to stay at home. The music began, another waltz, and reluctantly she entered his arms, hoping it would be of short duration.
"Mrs. Darcy. do you know that at midnight all of the guest must unmasks themselves? It can be quite intriguing."
"Oh? Why should it be so? Don't you know by that time whom everyone is?"
All the while they danced, her eyes were searching the mingling throng for a sign of Fitzwilliam, and as a result, she was only half-listening to his conversation.
"Well, I must admit that over the years there have been a few surprises. It can be amazing what a difference a little mask mught make to one's personality...some people may change completely."
"Do they? How so?" She was not really interested, but at least he was not yet aware of it.
"Take my sister-in-law for instance...she wanders through most of the year as quiet and timid as anyone, but this one night..., she becomes mysterious, enticing, quite the enchantress. It really makes one marvel, you know?"
"She is normally timid?" He had caught her attention at last.
"Oh, yes. Quite so. But all she has to do is don the mask, and you'd suppose she was some sort of dethroned royalty...she certainly acts the part." He was smiling as he spoke, but it was not a pleasant expression, instead, it appeared to be borne of envy or scorn.
He is in love with her. Elizabeth was uncertain how she knew, but the fact was there as if he had printed it upon his face. In love with his brother's wife. Now, here was a situation as old as time itself, and just as problamatic. Because of the hopelessness of it, she found herself pitying this man, who only a few moments before had caused her to wince at the thought of again having to be his dance partner.
So, what did you mean earlier when you said it makes you wonder...when the guests remove their masks?" Elizabeth asked curiously.
"I suppose," he replied, his tone a bit patronizing,"I meant that one has to wonder which is the true character. The one without the mask, or the one with."
"And the Baroness?"
"Oh, who knows." He appeared to have wearied of the conversation, and as the music was coming to a close, he bowed, saying,"I really must say adieu for now, madam, but I cannot wait to see you unmasked. I imagine you shall be just as engaging, even without your disguise."
She curtsied as he left her by the wall, then stood thoughtfully, her mind replaying their discussion.
If Mr. Von Wold were coveting his brother's wife, was the Baron aware of it? And what of the Baroness? Elizabeth had not yet been able to figure her out, but she did not act the devoted wife. Was the unrequieted yearning of her brother-in-law just as obvious to her, and, more importantly, did she return the sentiment? Her behavior towards Fitzwilliam disputed that theory anyway. If she was not in love with her husband, neither was she pining for his younger brother.
Elizabeth was beginning to feel the first real pang of concern. If the Baroness had no qualms in being disloyal to the Baron, than perhaps she assumed someone else's husband might do so, as well, and would not balk at her lack of scruples.
No. Elizabeth, she scolded herself. This will not do. Fitzwilliam loves you.
He said it himself not three hours before, and she believed him. She had to. Still, she renewed her search with a nagging feeling of urgency. Where, she thought, resisting the impulse to panic, could he have gone? This was not like him at all. To leave her for so long at a ball such as this. Even if he were angry, which he had no cause to be now, he would stay with her...if only for propriety's sake. The Baron had said they had gone outdoors for some fresh air, but that had been at least an hour before, and she had seen neither of them since.
On the wall directly opposite of the main entrance, were three sets of French doors, and Elizabeth, from where she stood, could see that one had been left slightly ajar.
Is that the garden, she wondered, and more importantly, was her husband to be found out there with the Baroness? Making her way deftly around the groups of guests, she had nearly reached the open door, when she heard a woman's voice drifting in from outside. There was no doubt to whom it belonged. Elizabeth recognized that low throaty quality instantly.
"I have loved you from the first moment I saw you," she was saying softly, "How can you even doubt me?"
Whomever she was speaking to did not answer immediately, and when they did, the voice was muffled.
He must be facing away from the house, Elizabeth decided, her head down, her eyes closed, as she listened with bated breath.
"Do not be a fool. What do you suppose he could ever be to me? I would as likely yet love your brother."
The reply Elizabeth did not need to hear, for what she dreaded had just been gloriously disproved. The Baron's brother, Marcus Von Wold, was the recipient of the Baroness's loyalty, not Fitzwilliam. She heaved a rather shaky sigh as relief overwhelmed her, and then nearly jumped at the sound of her husband's voice almost beside her.
"There you are, Elizabeth. I have been looking for you for some time."
Placing her fingers against his lips, and indicating the door with her head, she took his arm and led him to a place several feet away.
Then, not waiting to explain her strange actions, she asked in a low voice, "Fitzwilliam, where have you been? You were gone for so long, I was becoming worried."
Seeing the extreme tension underlying her words, he steered her behind a heavy drapery which had been pulled shut before a window bench. Once they were both seated, he carefully reached over and removed her domino, then, after untying his own as well, he placed them on the seat beside them.
Enfolding her hands into his, he gently inquired, "Now, why should you be worried, my love? Did not the Baron tell you where I was?"
"He told me you took his wife outdoors for some air, but that was over an hour ago." She did not attempt to disguise her distress, and her lip was beginning to tremble because of it.
His face registered his surprise which quickly turned to something else as he pulled her against him. "I am sorry, Elizabeth. We did step outside, but the air was so chilled that she graciously offered to give me a tour of the castle instead. You were otherwise occupied, and so I did not think I would be missed."
"Oh." She was beginning to cry, which vexed her, and, as a result her words were not as calm and collected as she might have hoped. "I was not occupied with the one person who I wished to be with...for he was nowhere to be found." Her tears were now flowing freely, thoroughly soaking his lapel, but he held her as if he did not notice.
When, finally, she was quiet, he murmured, "Please, forgive me, Elizabeth. I assumed you were enjoying yourself. "
"No," she answered, her face still hidden against him, "Dancing with Dr. Brecht was tolerable, but I could live the whole of my life without dancing again with Baron Von Wold, or his brother."
She felt, rather then heard, his laughter, which unaccountably renewed some of her previous irritation.
"Pray, what is so amusing, Mr. Darcy?" She asked haughtily as she straightened and pushed herself away from him, a futile attempt to gather up her bruised dignity.
"Why, Mrs. Darcy, I believe you are jealous of the Baroness."
"If I were, it is only because you have given me good reason." She spoke indignantly, but already she was finding it difficult to resist his smile.
"You had no cause, you know. She is not interested in me," he assured her, all the while gazing at her so ardently that she could not seem to avoid his eyes.
"I know that now," she argued illogically, "But, I did not then...the way in which she was behaving...she certainly appeared to be interested in you."
"How is it you know that now?" He asked curiously.
"What?" Besides forgetting the point of her argument, she was quickly losing interest in it as well.
He repeated his question patiently, "Elizabeth, how came you to know that the Baroness's interest lay elsewhere?"
"Because, when Mr. Von Wold danced with me...while you were missing," she added emphatically, while glaring at him, "He, without even realizing it, gave himself away."
"He is the one? Marcus?" His voice sounded surprised.
"Why, yes." She was puzzled by his reaction, "Who did you think?"
He, too appeared somewhat confused, "I had deduced it to be the doctor."
"Dr. Brecht?" She stared at him confounded, "Why would you suppose that? Did she allude to him somehow?"
"She did not have to," he admitted, "While she was showing me around, the doctor caught up to us, and...something about the way they behaved...well, it led me to believe she preferred Dr Brecht to her husband. I must have misinterpreted their intentions." He did not, even as he stated this aloud, appear to be convinced of it as a possibility, nor did his wife.
She was silent for several minutes, considering what few morals a woman must have to profess love to not one, but, two men, neither of them chanced to be wed to her at the time.
Becoming aware of her husband being now deep in thought, himself, and feeling slightly foolish for her earlier suspicions, she inquired gingerly, "Of what are you thinking, Fitzwilliam?"
He smiled as their eyes met, "I am wishing that I might witness your jealousy again...it is quite heartening."
"Perhaps," she replied recklessly, "I would choose to remain imperturbable instead."
"I somehow find that hard to fathom...you are all fire and ice, Elizabeth. There is not an impassive bone in your body."
"Unlike the inscrutible Baroness?"
"Thankfully, yes," he agreed, and to prove his point, he kissed her once deeply, just before the Baron's voice, speaking above the din in the ballroom, beyond the draperies, announced loudly, "Attention, ladies and gentlemen, it is now five minutes before midnight. ..the time when we shall all remove our masks!"
"Perhaps," suggested Elizabeth wryly from the warmth of her husband's embrace, following the Baron's announcement, "I may prefer to replace my own. My eyes, I am afraid, will most likely give testimony to my silly emotionalism."
Fitzwilliam, his chin resting atop her head, replied, "We might remain in here until your eyes have recovered...if you are truly concerned."
"We could, but with my luck, Mr. Von Wold would come looking for me. He professed an interest in seeing my features without the mask...heaven knows why."
"Probably, because you are my wife, therefore you must be undeniably beautiful," he kissed the top of her head as he said this, "And, he is a shameless flirt. He has been so, for as long as I have known him, but, if he wishes to see more of you, I can hardly fault him for that. At least he is sensible in some things."
"And Fitzwilliam Darcy," his wife added, her cheek resting against his coat, "Would never do something so nonsensical as flirting, would he?"
"No, not unless there was an ultimate purpose for it."
"Such as?"
"Such as this..." and he tipped up her chin, kissing her so that she quite forgot what they had been speaking of, then with a smile, he said, "But if you are concerned for your appearance, do not be so. Jealousy becomes you, you know."
"If my appearance has improved, it is not because of jealousy," she informed him as she wrinkled her nose at him impertinently.
When the din on the other side of the curtain increased enough so that it could no longer be ignored, Fitzwilliam sighed, stood up, and, pulling a reluctant Elizabeth with him, told her, "We may as well get it over with, my love. Then, we can politely make our farewells and return to the hotel."
As they stepped out from behind the draperies, they both studied, with some bemusement, the excited guests around them. Confusion reigned as masks were removed by one and all, and gales of laughter greeted those who had managed to successfully deceive their friends and acquaintances. At the sight of such commotion, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy looked at each other, and almost simultaneously, shrugged.
Although, thought Elizabeth, it was a relief to feel the air upon her face again, and, at last, to see the expression in her husband's eyes.
"Well," Fitzwilliam suggested after another moment, "Shall we find our hosts and bid them good night?"
"Yes," she agreed, "I believe I am getting a well-timed headache."
She linked her arm through his, and as they threaded their way through the crowd, they carefully searched for some sign of the Baron.
"Oh, Mrs. Darcy!" They both turned at the voice calling from behind them, and exchanged a glance as Mr. Von Wold caught up to where they stood waiting.
"I have been looking everywhere for you," he said playfully, "And now that I have found you, I can see your perfection for myself. Darcy, you are very fortunate, indeed."
Elizabeth's cheeks became warm, aware that the people nearest to them were staring at the three of them with open curiosity.
"Please, Mr. Von Wold," she said quietly, "I thank you for your flattery, but you are embarrassing me."
"Oh, come now, Mrs. Darcy," and it became apparent that the gentleman had been drinking heavily, "This cannot be the first time a man has praised your beauty."
"Marcus," Fitzwilliam intervened in a calm voice, "Perhaps we should go outside for some air."
"That is nonsense, Darcy, I am fine...or, is this a challenge? Are you challenging me?" Even in his present state of inebriation, his eyes lit up at the prospect.
"Mr. Von Wold, you do not know what you are saying!" Elizabeth spoke sharply, hoping he would understand her, and reconsider his brash words.
"No, no...I know when I am being challenged to a duel, and I gladly accept."
Then in an even louder voice, he proclaimed to any within earshot (of which there were many), "My cousin, Mr. Darcy, has challenged me to a duel, and I shall not disappoint him! Come, Darcy," he ordered, slurring his words a bit, "To the trophy room, and choose your weapon!"
"No, wait!" Elizabeth cried, as the crowd, now caught up in the contagious anticipation of witnessing a duel, pushed them along in its frenzy. Where, she thought wildly, was the Baron? Why was he not stopping this idiocy?
She had lost her hold upon her husband in the mad rush, and not being able to see him any longer was causing her to be overcome with an inexplicable feeling of slow suffocation.
"No," she cried again, although no one was listening, "This is ridiculous!"
Then, realizing she was being left behind in the ballroom, she called out frantically, "Fitzwilliam, where are you?"
Everyone had followed Mr. Von Wold. The ballroom, save for the musicians who were packing up their instruments, was now nearly completely empty.
"Oh, my God," she said aloud, "This cannot be happening...I have to be dreaming."
Her voice echoed in the deserted hall, making her realize that she was not dreaming, she was most painfully awake, and she had to do something immediately. Picking up her train in one hand, she ran after the throng, stopping only when she saw the Baron watching the proceedings impassively from an open doorway.
"Sir," she begged taking hold of his arm, "Stop him, You must stop him! There is no reason for this...you must do something!"
But Baron Von Wold, as well into his cups as his brother, only stared at her glassily, saying, "I hope Darcy kills him."
She took a step back in horror, "What are you saying? Fitzwilliam is not a murderer, nor is there any cause for him to be so...this is completely pointless, can't you see?"
"No, Mrs. Darcy," he explained with maddening patience, "There is a point...a very major point. Marcus is a swine. He deserves to die for what he has done with my wife...for what he shall continue to do unless your husband stops him."
"Is this," she asked, in sudden clear understanding, "The reason for your invitation?" Seeing the awful affirmation in his gaze, she cried, terrified, "You are using my husband as your means of revenge? This cannot be! How can you be so calculating? My God, he is my husband! What if he is the one to be killed rather than your brother? How can that serve your purpose?"
"In that case," he replied, "I would have to consider another option, I suppose."
Without waiting to listen to anymore, Elizabeth turned and made a dash towards the clamoring crowd, now grouped expectantly far ahead of her. Reaching the back row of people, she pushed between them, until, coming abruptly to a massive wooden door, she stopped and glanced with some contempt at the cluster of men waiting beside it.
"Are they in there?" She asked, to no one in particular.
Not really expecting an answer, she opened the door, and swiftly entered the room. Closing the door firmly behind her, she leaned back against it, as if afraid they would force their way in behind her.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness within, there being only a few tapirs alit in the wall sconces. But what she had expected to see, was not actually what met her eyes, for, seated comfortably in two chairs facing each other, sat Mr. Von Wold and Mr. Darcy. As she came to terms with this surprising and gratifying sight, Fitzwilliam, meeting her eyes, silently put a finger to his lips as a signal for her to remain quiet.
It was another moment before she realized that Mr. Von Wold's head was nodding against his chest, and he was very near to snoring. Covering her mouth to keep from laughing in her relief, she waited until Fitzwilliam rose and came over to her.
"Elizabeth," he whispered, "We must get out of here...Is the hallway still blocked?"
She nodded, and, to herself, said a quick prayer of thanks that he had not been harmed. Already he was thoughtfully studying the walls of the room for another exit, then, striding suddenly to the window, he peered out into the darkness, motioning for her to join him.
There, he asked, still in a whisper, "I cannot tell how far it is to the ground, but I'm afraid we may have no choice. That crowd," he indicated the door, "Is out for blood, and will probably not leave until they get it."
He looked at her feet in their delicate satin slippers. "You are not really dressed for scaling stone walls, but if you are feeling brave, my love, we can attempt it."
"I am so thankful you are all right that I would happily follow you anywhere," she whispered back, even as he unlatched the leaded double windows and leaned carefully over the sill.
The noise in the hallway outside of the door was becoming louder, the voices more impatient.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
"Be careful, Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth cautioned anxiously as she watched him lower himself, feet first over the edge of the sill.
She glanced at Mr. Von Wold, who, fortunately did not awaken, but only made a sort of snorting sound, and settled himself further into the chair.
Hurry, she thought nervously, hurry, my love.
She was uncertain of just what reaction the mob might have in seeing their anticipated entertainment cancelled, but she had no desire to wait here to find out. Leaning over to stare down at where he had disappeared, she was rewarded by hearing him calling her.
His voice did not sound too far beneath the window, and, "In fact," he assured her, "It is not more then a nine or ten foot drop to the ground."
After an extremely long moment, he instructed, "Come down to me as far as you can, and when I am able to reach you, let go."
"Let go?" she asked a bit dubiously, "Are you sure that it is not too far?"
"I shall catch you," he reassured her confidently, and, although she was far from convinced, the only alternatives seemed to be to remain in here with the inebriated Mr. Von Wold, or face the, now, irate crowd alone.
"All right," she agreed, still uncertain, but bravely resigned to whatever fate might have in store for her. Warily she climbed onto the deep sill, turned over onto her stomach, and began to slide backwards so that her legs dropped over the side. She inched back until she could get a bit of a toehold in the wall below her, but the flimsy slippers impeded any real aid, and her foot soon slid precariously from it's shallow niche. Gripping the edge of the sill as tightly as she could, she prayed that this would not be one of those times in which her fingers would suddenly relax, or give way completely. When she had gone as far as she could, but was still able to hang onto the window sill, she felt his hands close around the region of her knees.
"Now, drop, Elizabeth," he said encouragingly.
So, taking a deep breath, for she really had no other choice in the matter, she released the sill, closed her eyes tightly, and promptly fell like a rock.
Or at least, she started to, for, somehow he had enough of a hold on her so that she did not fall all the way to the ground, but landed against his chest, his arms wrapped around her from behind.
As soon as she could, again, feel the ground beneath her feet, she leaned back against him, closed her eyes, and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"Are you all right?" he asked after a moment, not moving his arms immediately, but tightening his hold around her instead.
"Now I am," was her reply as she became uncreasingly aware that, not only were they standing in several inches of snow, but large flakes had begun to fall softly around them.
She was also becoming quite thoroughly chilled, as she had been forced to leave the lovely white fur behind, and the gown she wore was far from being a sensible outdoor garment for the winter.
Even as these thoughts occurred to her, he had removed his coat, and slipped it around her shoulders in a generous gesture, which earned from her a grateful smile.
Taking her hand into his, he said, "Come, before they realize we've gone."
Glancing up at the window in time to see an unidentifiable figure beyond it staring out into the night (the Baron, Marcus?), she followed his lead through the snow. He was walking quickly, his long strides causing her to run as she attempted to keep up with him.
She did not mind. It had been so long since she had really run, and running was definitely preferable to walking in the cold night air. They circled the schloss, until they, at last, reached the front drive to see the line of carriages awaiting there.
If the driver and footmen thought it odd that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy should descend upon them, not from the castle, but from somewhere outdoors, and, that they were not clad in the wraps which they had arrived in, they, of course, remained silent on the subject. It was not their places to comment, and so they did not, nonetheless, their expressions reflected their astonishment.
No sooner had the carriage door been closed behind them, and the order to "Drive on," given from within, that the schloss was soon left, happily, far behind..
Inside the coach, Elizabeth's lips had found her husband's, her fingers entwined in his wet-from-the-snow hair, while his arms enfolded her securely in his embrace.
She laughed a little as they separated, "I must admit, I have never left a ball in such an unconventional way, or in such a hurry...and I am afraid that this gown is displaying the effects of it."
Sure enough, the dress was no longer white, but muddy and even torn in several places. The gloves, she had discarded before climbing out of the window, although she had yet to accept the loss of the white fur cape.
He looked little better. His hair was wet and quite wild looking. After giving over his coat to her, his shirt was now hanging out. His breeches bore a rip over one knee, which had occurred from landing upon it as he had hit the ground, and his splendid cape also had to be left behind.
But, for now, however, it was of little matter...for they were safe, and they were together.
Chapter Thirty-nine
The following morning, as Elizabeth sat in her dressing gown sipping her morning tea pensively, a parcel was brought in and presented to her by the servant. Even as she accepted it, and was untying the string which bound it securely, her thoughts were yet preoccupied by the events of the evening before. It had been a strange but ultimately wonderful night, culminating in such all inclusive lovemaking that she blushed a vivid crimson simply at the recollection.
Realizing that the package now lay partially open upon her lap, she forced her thoughts to return to the present. Carefully moving the paper aside, the back of her hand brushed against the softest of fur. My cape, she thought in surprise, someone has returned it...but who? She lifted it out, causing a small slip of paper to float down from one of the folds. On it, in the neatest of script, was written:
Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, You left us in such a hurry last evening, that you left your wraps behind. We do hope they are returned to you this morning in satisfactory condition, and we especially wish to extend our utmost gratitude that you were able to attend our little entertainment. May the pleasure of our meeting be repeated very soon. Thank you again.
Baron and Baroness Von Wold
She read it twice, three times, her astonishment so profound as to render her speechless. To read such a letter, one would suppose that nothing out of the ordinary had even occurred, that they had not been forced to escape through a window as though being held prisoners. It was nothing less than astounding, and when she attempted to make sense of it, it only succeeded in giving her the rather painful beginnings of a headache.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, wishing her mind could simply go blank. But it was no use. Besides her head throbbing, her stomach was not feeling settled at all. And, as she thought about it, she realized that it had not felt well for the past week, or so.
It cannot be, she groaned inwardly, oh, please, God, not now.
She was with child again.
Now that the idea had insinuated itself into her brain, she had no doubt of it. All of the symptoms were there, but this time...this time the knowledge brought her little joy.
Ethan is only four months old. I am not ready yet. It is simply too soon.
Was she to go through the rest of her life having children every year? She loved her babies, more deeply and profoundly than she had ever thought possible, but...couldn't she have some time to rest between them?
I suppose, she considered wryly, that this is the price we pay for our passions, for that ceaseless and driving need we have for one other.
She sighed, her eyes still closed, and so was unaware of her husband watching her from the doorway.
She might have remained ignorant of his presence, but for the fact that he was now leaning over to kiss her ever so gently, letting his lips linger against hers until she opened her eyes. He smiled then, as their gazes met.
"Good morning, my love," he greeted, his voice tender.
"Good morning," she replied, resolved to behave normally, despite her present concerns, "You are awake later than usual."
"I suppose, climbing out of castle windows can be wearing on a person," he answered, as he poured a cup of tea and seated himself in the chair facing hers.
Apparently only then did he notice the open parcel before her, his eyes lighting upon the white fur drawn halfway out of it.
"Is that your cape?" he asked, as surprised as she had been.
"Yes... and yours, as well," she answered, discovering only then the black cloak nestled beneath the fur.
"They were returned with this note," leaning forward to hand it to him, her stomach suddenly lurched as if in warning.
He read quickly, raising his eyebrows, his only outward response to the words written. When he had finished, he glanced from her to the parcel, asking only, "Do you suppose all of their guests are treated so...graciously?"
"If they are, I am amazed anyone shows up at all. I, for one, could not go through such drama two times in my lifetime."
He had not noticed her being out of sorts as yet.
Good, she thought, perhaps he won't. Perhaps I can put off telling him until I absolutely have to. It was unknown to her whether he would be pleased or not with her news, but she did know that she, herself, would require some time to become accustomed to the idea.
He, of course, she mused, had the far simpler job of fatherhood, involving little more than the act of conceiving, and then, congratulating himself upon the child's birth.
But, even as these dismal thoughts went through her mind, she knew she was being unfair, and that it was only because she was feeling so very tired that she was now in a fair way of being overwhelmed by her own self-pity.
"Are you not feeling well?" he asked, abruptly restoring her to the present.
"I am fine," she replied a bit too quickly, and then forcing herself to speak slower, she added, "Just a headache from last evening...too much wine, I suppose."
Wishing to avert the topic of discussion from herself, she said brightly, "Well, at least our wraps were returned."
If he thought her behavior strange, he did not immediately say so, yet his expression appeared perplexed for just a moment before he answered her, "It is of little matter. I consider it inconsequential when I consider what might have been lost."
"Yes, of course," she agreed.
She fell silent, aware of his eyes now studying her quizzically. "Elizabeth," he asked finally, "What is wrong with you?"
"There is nothing wrong...why do you ask?"
"Well, for one thing, you are avoiding my eyes...and there is something else." He seemed to be trying to think of when she had been in a similiar state, and as it, at last occurred to him, his eyes widened slightly.
"You are..." he did not finish. He did not need to. She could read his thoughts right there on his face.
"Yes," she answered miserably, "I am."
She felt like weeping, but instead, she found a particular rose embroidered in the rug to stare at, while she concentrated on her forlorn thoughts.
He was quiet for several moments. When he spoke again, he was leaning forward, as if wishing to move closer to her, but unsure of the reception she might give him.
"Elizabeth, are you unhappy with this?"
"I am..." she tried to sort through her feelings. "I am tired of being ill, of being awkward, of being out of sorts."
She stopped when she saw the crushed look on his face.
"Oh, Fitzwilliam," she suddenly cried, and she rose and went to him swiftly, kneeling before his chair to take his hands into hers, "Pay no attention to me, please. I do not mean to say that I am unhappy to have your child...I am not. I am only being selfish."
As she swallowed back her tears, she laid her head on his lap, "If it pleases you, than I shall resolve to be so, as well."
She waited then, for him to speak, afraid that she may have already hurt him terribly by her thoughtlessness, yet, uncertain if she were truly sorry for speaking her mind.
As Elizabeth followed Dr. Brecht's instructions later that morning while she sat in his office, moving her fingers and arms repetitously, her thoughts were not upon her exercises. Although Fitzwilliam had appeared to forgive her thoughtlessly impulsive words, he had remained quiet and somewhat distant. Not cold, nor even angry, but as if his mind was far away from her, as though he were puzzling over some quandary that he did not yet choose to share. It made her uncomfortable, and as she did not know what exactly to make of his manner, she could only hope that he might return to his former affectionate self very soon.
Meanwhile, Dr. Brecht, attempting to break into her troubled thoughts, inquired as to how she had enjoyed the ball.
"I had to leave early, I'm afraid," he added, not noticing her incredulous expression. "And I fear that I neglected to bid you goodnight. But I had hoped you would be too happily occupied to take notice of my poor manners."
Collecting herself quickly, she replied, "I thank you for your concern, Doctor. I must say that it was, perhaps, the most unique ball that I have attended."
"Yes?" Then unexpectedly,he asked,"What was your opinion of the Baroness, if I may be so bold as to inquire?"
"I found her...interesting," was her reserved answer, as she studied his countenance a bit curiously. Was he really going to ask after his paramour to her, a near stranger? His next words, then, succeeded in catching her completely by surprise.
"I am sorry if I appear to be prying, but I am in hopes you might feel some sympathy towards her...for you see, Mrs. Darcy," he explained, "She is my sister...and I fear that her natural reserve and timidity could be mistaken for pride. I thought, perhaps, with your more open nature, you might find it in your heart to befriend her."
Elizabeth sat dumbfounded at the doctor's astonishing disclosure, unable to answer for several minutes. When she, at last found her voice, she asked him, "What makes you suppose that she would wish such a friendship? She appeared to be surrounded by many fond acquaintances during the evening."
"Acquaintances, yes. Friends? I doubt it very much. Many of the guests there last evening have no wish to know her better. They are only there by request of her husband, or are hoping to benefit from the social contacts derived from such a gathering. She is, in many ways still a newlywed, and with a husband of his rank, she is not likely to happen upon persons of her own peerage in this rather limited village."
"Forgive me Doctor," Elizabeth intervened, "But your sister gave me no indication of her desire to become better known to me. Instead, she showed a definite penchant for my husband. I do not mean to be cruel, but she made it quite obvious in whose company she preferred to be."
"Do you believe that was her inclination?" he asked seriously, "Then I must beg to differ, Mrs. Darcy. The only way, I am afraid, for you to see my sister's true nature is to meet her again, away from the castle walls. Believe me, she has no ontoward feelings for your husband, only a wish to socialize comfortably with people of her own station. Would you be agreeable to seeing her again under less formal circumstances, if I can arrange it?"
Although she was still disbelieving of all that he was telling her, she nodded cautiously, answering, "If the Baroness is truly as you profess, then I could have no objections."
"Good," he seemed pleased, "Then with your permission, I should like to arrange a dinner party with you and Mr. Darcy, my sister and myself."
"What about the Baron?" she asked, not sure if she could face that gentleman after the strange events of the previous night.
"The Baron," he replied ruefully, "Rarely accompanies his wife when she visits me. We have little in common, and, as a result, he becomes bored easily."
As they walked back to the hotel together, Elizabeth told Fitzwilliam of all that the doctor had relayed. Her news was greeted with silence, but she knew by his expression that she was not the only one to be taken by surprise.
When no verbal response was, evidently, to be forthcoming from him, she asked finally, "Does this better explain their familiar manner towards each other while in your company?"
"Yes," he answered, "I suppose it does...still, it is odd that she did not mention the relationship."
He said little after that, returning to his former pensive mood, thus leaving her feeling frustrated, and even a bit irritated.
No sooner had their hotel room door closed behind them, granting them the privacy she had been longing for, when she turned on him, exasperated. "Tell me what you are feeling, Fitzwilliam, for you have not been honest with me today."
He had the grace not to appear surprised by her accusation, but his response did little to appease her.
"I understand your reluctance to have another child, Elizabeth. I believe I told you as much this morning."
He had cooly removed his coat and thrown it across a chair in an uncharacteristic gesture of casual disregard.
"You are speaking the right words," she conceded, her face tight, "But your heart is not in it, and now you have closed it off from me entirely."
"How have I done this?" he asked, taking his usual stiff position by the window. A pose he reverted to whenever they had an argument, as if he might have a need to escape through it.
"You are making it very clear that it does not matter what I say now, for you have ceased listening to me." As she spoke, her resentment was quickly increasing
"You are mistaken," he corrected her, his gaze focusing on something outside, "I hear every word you have said...until it echoes relentlessly in my brain."
She closed her mouth abruptly, his words as shocking as if he had slapped her.
"Elizabeth," even though he was speaking to her, he kept his eyes averted. "I know how difficult the past two years have been for you. You have suffered through a miscarriage, as well as through two births. You have nearly died, not once but twice. If anyone knows how much you have suffered, it is myself...and if I could have taken any of it from you, I would have. But," his breath caught, then he continued doggedly, "I thought...I had hoped, that our love made up for it somehow. That my love for you could help you forget all that you have gone through...could ease those painful memories and make them more palatable to you. Apparently I was mistaken."
"I did not say that I did not wish any more children," she cried, defending herself, "I would only desire some time between...it was not intended as a slight to you or to our marriage."
"And I explained that I understand, Elizabeth," his voice sounded suddenly impatient, as if he wished the discussion to be at an end. "What more do you want from me?"
"Nothing," she turned away, now thoroughly angered and upset. "I want nothing from you, Fitzwilliam," and with that, she left him, still by the window, and quite alone.
Chapter Forty
Later, as she sat miserably before the bedroom window of their suite, after hearing the force from the front door being closed upon his exit, she replayed their argument again and again.
She had been honest, she told herself, wasn't that what a good marriage was supposed to be founded upon? Open and honest communication, her father had stressed as she was growing up, even as his own had sadly lacked in both of these ideals.
Yet, witnessing her parents' unequal partnership only strengthened Elizabeth's determination to have a different sort of marriage entirely. For if she were unable to find a gentleman who would share her values, who would support those same ideals, well then, she would not marry at all.
Upon falling in love with Mr. Darcy, then; seeing who he was, and what he was, she had believed, intensely, that he might be such a man.
She had believed it when she happily accepted his second proposal, through the joys and trials of the past two years, and even now, although he refused to empathize with her present state of mind, she still must believe it.
Finally, she had to admit, it did not matter one whit if they agreed or disagreed on their current situation, for the fact remained that she was pregnant. She would have another child in probably six or seven months, and by that time, most certainly, she would love it dearly.
This, she had no doubt of.
She was uncertain, however, if her husband shared her confidence in the depth of her maternal feelings. Did he believe her to be so cold, so heartless that she would not love any child of his? It did not bear thinking of, and she leaned her still-throbbing head against the soothingly cool window pain, utterly dispirited with the whole situation.
The following day, at Dr. Brecht's office, he issued an invitation to the Darcys for a dinner party, to be given that evening in his rooms, situated above his practice. She accepted gracefully, as she had promised that she would, but her heart was not in it. Fitzwilliam and she, had, as yet, settled nothing, and were speaking to each other only as polite strangers. He had not come to bed the night before, but had slept, rather awkwardly, she was sure, upon the settee in the sitting room of the suite.
This morning, his manner had remained unchanged, and as a form of self-defense, she acquired the same mask of indifference which he wore so expertly.
That evening, then, upon arriving at the doctor's residence at the agreed upon time, the atmosphere between them was still decidedly chilly.
The Baroness, looking beautiful and stately, was quieter than she had been at the ball, and although she conversed with her brother, the coolness between Mr. and Mrs. Darcy acted as discouragement to any open coversation between the four of them.The meal may have been in danger of lapsing into total silence, had not the doctor, himself, carried on a cheerful monologue throughout most of it. As the dessert was being served, he suggested they retire to the sitting room where the Baroness might be persuaded to sing for them. Her face coloured but she did not refuse, and so, she was soon seated at the piano, her fingers tripping over the keys effortlessly.
Elizabeth, who had seated herself as far from Fitzwilliam as possible, was aware of the poor impression they must be making upon Dr. Brecht and his sister, but her heart, which had dropped from a steady ache to a frozen numbness, did not seem to care. Avoiding her husband's eyes, she accepted politely when the doctor urged her to follow his sister at the piano, and she rose from her chair cooly to situate herself before the handsome instrument.
Her fingers, while not as agile as they had once been, responded well this evening, and even though she was receiving little pleasure from the actual performance, at least she could gain some satisfaction from knowing that.
As she finished, she stood, and then, abruptly sat down again. A blinding, stabbing pain was shooting through her midsection, and instinctively her hand rose to rest protectively upon her stomach. For, she instantly recognized this pain. She knew, with no doubt whatsoever, that she was losing her baby.
Seated there, her face pale, her eyes closed, she heard Dr. Brecht's concerned voice, "Mrs. Darcy, are you ill?"
Opening her eyes, she answered him as calmly as she could, "I believe we should be leaving now."
It was unknown to her, however, as she arose from her seat, that a dark stain was already spreading down her dress until she heard the Baroness gasp, "Mrs. Darcy, your gown!"
At that moment, Elizabeth fell into a frightening and terrible blackness.
She awoke in a strange room, with furnishings and wallpaper completely foreign to her. Taking note of the unfamiliar gown which she was now wearing, only added to the sense of disorientation sweeping over her.
Several panic-stricken moments passed, before she could recollect the events which had taken place just before she had fainted. As the dim memory returned to her, she realized instinctively that she was no longer with child.
One moment she had been, and the next, she was not.
Hot tears escaped from the corners of her eyes to run in rivulets down into her hair, and she knew that they were not so much for the loss of the child, as for the fact that she now appeared to be very much alone. Fitzwilliam was not here with her. Where, then was he? Did he blame her, hate her, for this loss? Did he suppose her to be glad of it?
She swallowed back a sob, although the tears continued unabated.
If he believed this of her, was not their marriage as good as dead also?
"Mrs. Darcy?"
As Elizabeth had not heard the door open, she was momentarily startled to hear the Baroness's voice. Nevertheless, she did not raise her head nor attempt to look at her unexpected guest.
For, in fact, simply opening her mouth to answer seemed to require all of her strength, "Yes?" she finally managed.
"Oh, Mrs. Darcy!" The Baroness had moved to the side of the bed so that she was within Elizabeth's view, "I am so pleased you are awake at last!"
"How long," she swallowed painfully as a dull ache seemed to encompass her abdomen, "Have I been...asleep?"
"You have been in this bed for nearly two days," was the answer, "We were becoming quite worried for you."
"You are very kind," Elizabeth said carefully, "Have you waited here all of that time?
"But of course," the Baroness assured her, "I could not return to the schloss until I was convinced of your recovery."
"Where is..." She had begun to say, my husband, but awkwardly she changed it to, "the doctor?"
"He is downstairs, as is your husband. May I go and tell him the good news?"
"No." She did not want him there if he did not choose to be so. "Please, not yet."
"I know that he shall wish to be made aware of your awakening. Please, allow me to bring him to you."
"No..." Elizabeth begged, "Please," and under her breath, she added, "For, he does not care."
"But, you are wrong!" The Baroness cried, causing Elizabeth some embarrassment, as she had not realized that she had spoken aloud.
Moving closer to her bedside, the other lady continued, "You could not be more wrong, Mrs. Darcy. I have never seen a man in such turmoil as he. When you fainted, he picked you up in his own arms and carried you in here. He would not leave your side, and only did so, some fifteen minutes ago, when my brother persuaded him to finally take some refreshment." Her face, as she spoke, was in earnest, "I swear to you it is true. I could not help but think, when I saw his expression, that, here is a man whose heart is breaking...here is a man in pain."
"He did that?" She asked weakly, troubled by the images that the Baroness's words had invoked.
"Yes, that and more. You cannot know it all...Mrs. Darcy, won't you let me bring him to you now?"
Elizabeth closed her eyes, her tears beginning anew, and nodded, unable to speak other than, "Yes, bring him now.".
Chapter Forty-One
Once the Baroness had left her alone, Elizabeth deliberated.
He had not left her side while she had remained unconscious, therefore, he must still love her...he still must care for her. Or, she reminded herself, he had, then. Perhaps now that she was awake, he would revert to his other self once again, allow his resentment to resurface.
Unable to face such a disheartening prospect, she closed her eyes, teardrops still clinging to her lashes.
"Elizabeth?" he spoke her name hesitantly, uncertainly, "You are awake?"
Slowly she opened her eyes to look into his.
"Can you forgive me?" she asked, more feebly than she had intended.
He swallowed, before replying unsteadily, "You have done nothing that would warrant my forgiveness."
"I have done everything," she insisted weakly, "I did not want this child, and now it is gone. In my selfishness, I could not see how I was hurting you..."
"As I have done to you," he reminded her, his voice gentle.
"Did I not deserve it? I thought of no one but myself, and now see what has become of us." She was not going to allow him to lessen her guilt.
He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, taking her hands into his, "Elizabeth, this child," he paused, a fleeting expression of sorrow crossing his features before he continued, "This child was, I suppose, not meant to be. Even if we had not spent those hours angry with each other, this would likely have happened anyway. You must see that."
She did not answer immediately. Wishing in that moment of silence that his clarity in the matter might convince her, might restore her own piece of mind.
Finally she asked, "Do you truly believe that?"
"I must believe it," he said quietly.
She searched his face, his eyes. He appeared to have, indeed, come to terms with this calamity, but then, he had the past two days to do so, where she had not.
Without her realizing it, he had begun to speak again, yet, so softly as to be nearly unintelligible. "Each time I convince myself I could live without you, something happens to prove me wrong...as though I am continually being tested. I don't know why this is so. All that I know is how very much I love you...that I need you with me always, Elizabeth. I need your spirit, your humour, your warmth, your fire, and, even when we disagree, I know in my heart your love is constant. Not that I deserve it...I would never presume that, but, I am ever grateful you are who you are, that you do love me despite my weaknesses..."
Sometime, during his soliloquy, she had begun to cry again. Silent tears finding their way down the sides of her face until they disappeared into her hair.
"Stop, please," she begged him, at last, "You have no weaknesses...you are perfect. I am the one who is unworthy. How you can love me after being subjected to my stubborn, foolish pride, I shall never understand. I put you through hell, and yet you have forgiven me."
"As you have with me, countless times."
His words, so reasonable and soothing, dried her tears while at the same time, encouraged her sense of irony to surface.
"Is this, then, what we should expect," she questioned, "For the rest of our lives? These comedies and tragedies? It could become quite wearing...perhaps you would rather not."
"Perhaps," he replied, relieved to see her mood improved, "I would."
She was to remain in bed for several more days until she could be returned to the hotel. What she wanted, however, was to go home to Pemberley. Never had she been so homesick, and it was hindering her recovery drastically.
She had no appetite, causing Frau Schneider deep concern when her trays were carried away relatively untouched. Randomly falling into long periods of sleep, Elizabeth was losing the desire to be well, and the promise of rising from her bed no longer acted as motivation.
Fitzwilliam, while seriously concerned, was ignorant of the cause for her melancholia, as she would not speak of the reason behind it. All he could do was watch her, his brow creased with worry, and hope that her good sense would finally prevail.
One day, as he had left her to return to the hotel for a bath, as well as a change of clothes, Dr. Brecht stopped in. Seating himself in the chair which her husband had only recently vacated, he studied her critically.
"You are not yet feeling better?" he inquired.
She declined to answer. He was the doctor, he ought to be able to see that she was not.
"Perhaps, Mrs. Darcy, you would be so kind as to share with me the reason for your lack of improvement."
"How could I know that?" she asked him cooly.
"I think that you do," he said in a calm voice, "I believe, and you may certainly correct me if I am mistaken, that you are suffering from an advanced case of self-pity."
"If you think that I am remaining in this bed out of sheer willfullness, Dr. Brecht, you are, indeed mistaken," she answered, irritated by his self-righteous tone.
"Your willfullness, I have had the privelege of personally witnessing, so I am not a stranger to it. What concerns me is that you appear to be quite comfortable in your present state."
"Comfortable?" She raised an eyebrow in haughty disbelief, "The day that you lose a second child for no good reason, doctor, come to me and tell me how comfortable you are."
Rather then being offended by her candor, he smiled, "Ah, a sign of some spirit at last. Perhaps, Mrs. Darcy, instead of focusing on this child lost, you should be concentrating on rebuilding your strength for the two who are waiting upon your return to England."
As he had inadvertantly named the very problem which plagued her, she closed her mouth and looked determinedly out of the window.
But he was not going to be ignored, stubbornly he continued, "Have you lost the desire to see them again? This is selfish indeed...I would not have believed it of you!"
"Stop it!" she cried out in anger, "You know nothing of me!"
Having successfully forced a reaction from her, he sat back, his eyes watching her intensely.
"Can't you see? I miss them dreadfully...I miss them every minute of every day, and yet, I cannot see them. I am chained to this village, until you decide I may leave. I did not wish to come to Frankfurt in the first place. I had no faith in a doctor unknown to me. Why should I? And, now that I am here, you alone have the power to determine when I am cured, or if I am even to be cured. If it was not for my idiocy, I would not have had to desert them at all...they are without me, and it is truly my own fault."
At this painful admission, her throat closed, and even while she hated herself for such weakness, she was compelled to stop speaking, as large tears were beginning their traitorous descent downward.
"So this was a punishment?" He asked her slyly, not at all sympathetic to her lack of composure.
"What? Do you mean my coming here, or, losing my child?" He was confusing her and he knew it.
"Either, or both...what would be fitting justice for your "idiocy" as you called it? Tell me, what do you want, Mrs. Darcy?" He had leaned forward as he put forth the question, his eyes boring into hers relentlessly.
"I want to go home to Pemberley!" She cried, enraged, "I want to see my children and know that they are well and happy!"
"Well," he replied, his voice becoming much gentler, "If that is what you want, then what shall you do to earn such a privelege?"
Without waiting for a reply, he rose and left her, both of them aware of how important her answer would prove to be.
She was allowed to leave the doctor's residence five days after her miscarriage, having finally regained back some of her strength..
Following his total lack of sympathy for her predicament, she realized that the recovery of her body and soul would be dependent upon herself alone. Her husband's love and support, of course, was vital, but as it was a given, the actual healing had to be accomplished through her own will.
Her first evening back at the hotel found her sitting cross-legged on the floor before the settee, a letter to Jane lying half-finished in front of her. Needing to stretch her arms, she leaned back against the sofa, her thoughts idly drifting to Pemberley. It was now nearly the first of April, and Derbyshire would surely be enjoying the headiness of spring among the hills and pastures comprising it. Recollecting the April two years before, when she became aware that she was pregnant with James, she could not help but contrast it to the events of the past week. Then, she had been so happy with the prospect of motherhood, now, although she loved her sons, another child so soon only made her feel weary.
Well, it had taken care of itself, she thought. There was no longer a pregnancy to concern her, so she should be relieved. Then why, she wondered, was she still feeling low?
She knew the reason of course, but to admit it to herself was almost as painful as the actual loss of the child had been...Fitzwilliam.
She had misjudged him when she had supposed he would not want another baby so soon, for he evidently had. There had been no doubt of the happiness in his expression when she had first told him, and how quickly that had disappeared when she made it clear that she was not so thrilled with the idea as he.
She sighed in recalling it. Yes, of course she wanted more children, just not right away. But for him, apparently there could not be too many, nor even too close together, for that matter.
As much as she loved him, she hated to see the hurt which would occasionally appear in his eyes. No, she knew, he would not get over this so quickly. She only hoped that he did not blame her for her candor in the matter.
Hearing his step at the door, she sat up, resolving to finish the letter and get it posted, so that poor Jane did not think they had fallen off the face of the earth.
Unless her husband wrote them, which she doubted, the Bingleys would have not heard from them in nearly a fortnight. So, retrieving her quill from under the settee where it had fallen, she hurridly set down some general news of the weather, their health, and the company they were keeping, and signed it "Elizabeth Darcy" with a generous flourish. She had no intention of informimg Jane of their recent misfortune. It would only break her overly-sensitive heart, and cause her undue worry for Elizabeth's well-being.
As she waved the letter to aid the ink in drying faster, Fitzwilliam joined her on the floor, his long legs stretched out on the rug before him.
"It is good to have you here again," he said, by way of greeting.
Capping the ink bottle lest he tip it, she smiled at him, "So that I may keep up with the family correspondence, no doubt. I daresay no one has heard from the Darcys since..." But there she stopped herself, for she knew, somehow, that he was not yet ready to speak in casual tones of the miscarriage. Their eyes met briefly, both aware of her near slip of the tongue, but neither willing to broach it.
Instead, he replied, "I'm afraid that my letter writing has become rather dismal of late. Even Georgiana has suffered."
"I shall write to her first thing in the morning," she promised him, attempting to make amends, "Even I could not venture two in one evening. If my fingers would not give out, my eyes surely would."
That remark appeared to be his cue to take her hand, which happened to be lying on her lap, into his. "How are they, by the way?" he asked, studying her fingers, as though they might speak to him.
"It is hard to say, really," she answered lightly, "I thought my playing had improved on the night..." abruptly she halted her words once again, scolding herself for her insensitivity.
"You don't have to do this, you know," he told her quietly, noting her embarrassed silence. "We cannot spend the rest of our marriage avoiding a subject because you do not wish to hurt my feelings."
"I can think of no better reason to do so," she frowned, keeping her eyes fixed upon their entertwined fingers.
"Elizabeth," he said softly, "Please, look at me."
Reluctantly, she let her eyes meet his, still upset by inadvertantly bringing up the very topic she had hoped not to have to discuss, on her first night back.
"I told you that I have accepted what happened, and I will be forever grateful that you were not taken as well...Do you believe that?"
Being drawn into the mesmerizing spell of his gaze, there in the glow of the firelight, was making her feel a bit lightheaded, but she managed a rather dreamy, "Yes, I believe you."
"If that is true, then, you must also believe that whenever, or if ever you desire another child, it shall be just fine with me."
"If ever?" she had to ask, some of her impertinance returning, "It is probably not a question of if. In less than three years, I have had four pregnancies, the odds are good that there shall be more."
"And," he inquired carefully, trying to remain serious, "Is that what you would wish?"
"Fitzwilliam," she said with a sigh, as she contemplated his lips which were unmistakably moving closer to hers, "If you desire twenty children, that would be perfectly all right with me. All I ask, is that you allow me to occasionally rise from my bed for a rest."
She succeeded in making him laugh then, definitely disrupting the moment when he should have taken her in his arms and seduced her right then and there, but it was so good to hear the sound of his laughter again, that she truly did not mind.
"I suppose," he said thoughtfully, sometime later, "I could make the same generous offer that I did upon our return from London."
"What...you mean separate bedrooms?" She was almost astonished that he could speak of it so flippantly, as awful as the idea had seemed at the time.
"It still does not appeal to you?" He was teasing her, but she met his eyes boldly, daring him to make light of it, "Only if it does to you, Mr. Darcy."
"Well, only as a last resort, of course," he hedged, aware that she had somehow gained the upper hand in the conversation.
"You mean, if we do have twenty children?" she inquired, the absurdity of that image beginning to tickle her.
"Perhaps twenty-five," he corrected her soberly.
"In that case, I would insist upon it."
With that, she declared their verbal sparring a draw, thus bringing the discussion to an abrupt and timely end by placing her lips most decidedly against his. The immediate result being, of course, that he no longer had any inclination whatsoever in discussing separate bedrooms.
Chapter Forty-Two
To avoid the risk of lapsing into the danger of monotony, her husband strived to involve them in various entertainments around the area. One of these was to be a presentation of the late Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's "Requium", to be performed by a full orchestra, accompanying a large chorus of singers from as far away as Vienna.
The evening of this event was greatly anticipated by Elizabeth, as she had heard much of the piece, yet, had not enjoyed the privelege of witnessing it personally.
Fitzwilliam had procured the final remaining box seats for the concert, and as their carriage pulled up before the opera house, a large crowd of people who had not been so fortunate, were seen waiting impatiently for the chance at any last minute cancellations.
Emerging from the coach, she slipped her gloved hand through his arm, and as her eyes met his, she allowed her excitement to be evident to him.
The opera house itself, did not disappoint. Three brilliantly lit crystal chandeliers hung in a row down the center of the lobby, at the end of which rose a set of curved red carpeted stairs. The walls were ornamented with frescoes of cherubs, angels, and virginal appearing maidens, all painted in soft shades of white and gold gilt to highlight their features.
Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were led up the elegant staircase by a uniformed attendant to their box, hung with velvet curtains of alternate red and gold, six chairs set in a sedate row before the rail.
"I feel almost guilty," Elizabeth whispered after they were seated, "Seeing all those poor people outside without seats, and we have several extra."
"You are certainly free to invite them up, if you like," he replied in a low voice.
"I believe..." she said, after a thoughtful pause, "That the opportunity to be here with you alone, shall be well worth any guilt which it may entail."
"I hope it does not hinder your enjoyment of the music."
"If this concert lives up to it's reputation, I doubt that it could."
Studying the audience, she recognized all three Von Wolds in the box directly opposite of their own. Although the Baron and his brother studiously ignored them, the Baroness returned Elizabeth's smile, nodding to her pleasantly.
"I believe," Elizabeth said to her husband, "That we owe the Baroness our gratitude."
Having already noticed the deliberate snub coming from across the room, Fitzwilliam smiled, amused, "And why, pray tell, would that be?"
"Because, she told me many things about you," was her reply, "After I awoke...when she was kind enough to see to me."
"Yes?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, "What could she have said, I wonder?"
"You should know, but of course, I did not. It was...quite enlightening."
"Did this information improve my standing...did it make you feel somewhat kinder towards me?"
"Oh...yes, considerably."
"Then," he agreed,"I do owe her my gratitude...perhaps I should ask her to dance at the next of the Baron's balls which we attend."
"Since the likelihood of that is very slight, I shall not waste my time worrying about the prospect."
"But, why ever should that worry you? In appearance and manner, you have nothing to be concerned of, you know," he assured her, with a smile.
"Despite that charming compliment, Fitzwilliam Darcy. I do recall how she managed to keep you away from me for nigh upon an hour. It is hardly favourable to me, if even lacking in those attributes, she was still successful," she challenged him impertinantly.
"Am I to conclude then," he replied, choosing to address only a small part of her accusation, "That you missed me in such a short span of time?"
"I merely missed your dancing," she answered, shortly, thus putting an end to the conversation.
Then, turning her attention to the orchestra, who had begun the short overture, she smiled to herself, happily aware of the fact that her hand was, even now, encircled warmly by his own.
She was transfixed.
From the first haunting chords of the "Requiem Aeternam", to the lovely "Lacrimosa", Elizabeth was completely mesmorized, becoming unaware of anyone else even being present in the theatre. Only when she had to shift her position for comfort's sake, was she conscious of her husband still beside her.
As the candles were relit for intermission, he invited her to take a turn about the lobby with him in order to stretch their limbs. Accepting gladly, for she was a bit stiff, she was overwhelmed yet by the beauty of the first half of the concert, and so walked quietly with him for some minutes.
He broke into her thoughts when he spoke, smiling down at her, "I do not have to ask if you are enjoying it, I can easily see that you are."
"It is amazing," she confirmed unnecessarily, "It is the most impressive work that I have ever heard...I am only sorry it has taken me so long to do so."
"I can see," he replied thoughtfully, "That we shall have to do this more often when next we are in London."
"That would be wonderful."
At that moment they happened upon the Von Wolds, who were chatting amid a small gathering under a rather ostentatious mural of three thinly clad young ladies dancing in a wood.
The Baroness, seeing them slow their walk and begin to change their direction in order to avoid the group altogether, successfully foiled their intention by greeting them happily, "Oh, Mr.and Mrs Darcy! You must join us."
With a quizzical look at Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth moved closer to the Baroness as she continued to speak directly to her, "Pray, Mrs. Darcy, how are you feeling? Better, I trust."
Hoping that no one else in the group was aware of what she should be feeling better from, Elizabeth answered her politely, "Much better, I thank you."
"How are you enjoying the performance?" she then inquired enthusiastically, "It is one of Herr Mozart's finer works, and, I might add, is being performed exquisitely this evening."
"I am liking it very much," Elizabeth replied.
It was becoming apparent to her, that the Baroness had been bored with her present company, and welcomed the Darcys as a much needed diversion. Elizabeth glanced at her husband, but he was inspecting the painting above them, purposely remaining apart from the conversation.
Meanwhile, Mr. Von Wold, who had only appeared somewhat distracted at the sight of them, spoke up, "Well, of course, no one can perform the piece as well as the Vienniese, for whom the music was actually written."
"Reportedly written," corrected a white haired gentleman beside the Baron, "No one can ever be certain, as his death occurred so suddenly."
Listening, as several others chimed in with their own views on the subject, Elizabeth suspected it was an oft discussed topic, which of course could never be finally decided either way. The Baroness took this opportunity of the general noise and clamor to speak quietly to her. "I hope I did not embarrass you just now, Mrs. Darcy. But I simply had to think of a reason to call you over. You do not mind, do you?"
"If your reason for calling me over was for further conversation, than I have no objection," Elizabeth answered, smiling at her.
"I am glad," the Baroness returned her smile warmly, "I have been harboring a hope that we could become better friends, now that I have had the occasion to visit with you at my brother's home." And away from my husband, she might have added, but of course, did not.
"Well, I do need to thank you for your kindness during my illness," Elizabeth said earnestly.
"I did not do so much," the Baroness replied, attempting to minimize her contribution to Elizabeth's recovery.
"You did more than you know, madam," Elizabeth corrected her, "And I shall be forever in your debt."
The Baroness, obviously touched by the gratitude shown her, said, after a moment, "Well, then...if that is so, you must join us after the programme. We shall be going for a light supper, as we always do, at Weinhaus Gruneburg next to the theatre. Please say that you will...I would so enjoy having you to talk with."
"Thank you," Elizabeth replied, uncertain whether the prospect would be so welcomed by her husband, "I shall suggest it to Mr. Darcy, and see if it might be agreeable."
The chimes for the second half to begin,were being sounded by then, causing the group to disperse languidly.
Fitzwilliam, who had stepped away from them a moment before his wife, had not overheard the invitation by the Baroness. When Elizabeth repeated it to him, therefore, as they strolled back to their box, instead of the instant refusal which she had expected, he surprised her by inquiring, "We would not have to escape through any windows, would we?"
"I expect not," she answered, squelching her laugh.
"I suppose it would not be too much of a hardship," he agreed.
"Truly?" she was amazed, "You would suffer the company of your relatives yet again?"
"I shall be certain to be seated beside you, and with any luck, shall not have to suffer them very much or very often."
The second half of the concert was as dramatic as the first, and as the final note echoed of the "Lux Aeterna", Elizabeth drew a deep, satisfied breath, impressed through to her soul, and wondering when she might be so fortunate as to attend such a performance again.
Donning their wraps (as a coincidence, she had chosen to wear the white fur cape), they stayed back for a few moments until the general throng had cleared the lobby, then, offering her his arm, Fitzwilliam escorted her outdoors to the pedestrian walk.
"Are you positive," he asked innocently, "That you would not rather return to the hotel? We may be just as pleasantly entertained, there by ourselves."
"The decision is yours," she replied, refusing to decide either way, "They are your cousins, after all. I am merely along as an observer."
"You, Mrs. Darcy," he disagreed,"Are rarely merely an observer, and I expect you shall not disappoint me this evening."
"And what, pray, can you mean?" she asked, raising her eyebrows in astonishment, "Are you suggesting that I have some plan as vengence for our escapade at the ball?"
"Escapade," he repeated, "Yes, that is an apt description of it...well, if you do not, I only hope it shall not be a totally wasted evening."
"Why, Mr. Darcy, I intend to be on my most correct behavior, and I trust, that you shall do the same."
He did not answer but the look he gave her caused her some amusement, even as the doors of the Weinhaus Gruneburg were opened grandly for them. Upon entering, they were shown to the Von Wold table, already occupied by their hosts, along with two other couples, including the white haired gentleman who had begun the argument with the Baron's brother at the theatre.
They were introduced graciously, all around by Mr. Von Wold. The older couple were the Schluters, the younger (around thirtyish, Elizabeth guessed) the Feldtburgs, all smiling pleasantly at the latest arrivals to the party. No sooner had they been seated, than several bottles of wine, along with silver platters of cold meats, cheeses, fruits, and pastries were brought to them by four uniformed waiters.The Baroness, who had arranged the seating, made certain that Elizabeth was directly beside her, with Fitzwilliam gratefully seated next to his wife. On the other side of Mr. Darcy was Mr. Feldtburg, who, as it happened, owned residences in both London and Ramsgate, so once the initial ice had been broken, they were able to discuss both locations at length.
In fact, the only person at the table who appeared to be ill at ease was the Baron himself. Clearly, he had not been pleased by his wife's invitation to the Darcys, but as it had been already given, he could not retract it without losing face.
Elizabeth studied his countenance while sipping her wine inobtrusively. He is terrified that one of us might mention that evening. Perhaps, he wishes to forget that it ever happened. Perhaps, his brother is not aware of the vengence wished upon him by the very one who houses and supposedly cares for him. It had been quite apparent from her first meeting of the two of them, that there was no love lost between the brothers, but she doubted if Mr. Von Wold realized how much the Baron's quiet dislike had blossomed into open hatred.
"Pray," Elizabeth said suddenly, in a voice loud enough to be heard around the table, "I fear we did not thank you properly for extending your kind invitation to us for your masquerade ball this past month."
Conversation halted abruptly, as all eyes turned toward Elizabeth and then slid to the Baron in an effort to catch his response.
Baron Von Wold, already an unhealthy shade of crimson, became almost purple, took a hurried drink from his wine glass, and answering with as much aplomb as he could muster, stammered, "It was, of course, no problem, madam...we are always glad to extend a welcoming hand to visiting family members."
Beside her, she felt Fitzwilliam stiffen, no doubt at the word family, a term he would have sooner wished to forget.
Beginning to enjoy her game, Elizabeth continued shamelessly, "We departed rather suddenly...quite unexpectedly as a matter of fact. But, we are grateful for the return of our wraps...a most thoughtful gesture considering how abruptly we had to leave."
"What called you away so urgently that you would leave your wraps behind?" Inquired Mrs. Feltdburg curiously, "I do recall it being a chilly evening...although we left early. Something did not agree with my husband's constitution, I am afraid."
"Yes," Elizabeth agreed with delight, "That was it exactly. For my husband, as well."
"You do not suppose there was something wrong with the food?" Questioned the Baroness, at once concerned for her guests.
"Oh, I am certain nothing was amiss with the food, itself. Perhaps, there was only too much excitement following...not good for the digestion, you know." Exchanging a glance with her husband, Elizabeth was enjoying herself extremely, for the Baron was making a great show of ignoring her comments.
"Why? What excitement?" This from Mrs. Schluter, "Do you mean the unmasking, for I am afraid we departed earlier than that, as well."
"I do not see what could be so exciting about that," chimed in Mrs. Feldtberg, "The same thing happens each year. Although, I suppose some people might find it intriguing."
"It does raise the question, does it not," Elizabeth inquired, "Of whether the true person is the one with the mask, or without it? What do you think, Mr. Von Wold?"
He visibly started, composed himself, and replied relatively calmly, "I suppose that would depend on the personalities involved. Were you speaking in generalities, or in specifics, Mrs. Darcy?"
"Why, of no one in particular. I found it a pecular phenomenon on that evening, however, that while some become inclined to shed their inhibitions under disguise, others do so only after discarding theirs."
"Oh?" Mr. Von Wold now only appeared to be bewildered, and she turned her attention back to his brother, "And what say you, sir? Did you notice this altering in behavior as well?"
"I..." he began, taken aback by her questions, but, without waiting on him to form an answer, she continued, "As I do so enjoy the study of people, I, of course noticed this immediately. I am afraid I shall miss the wide variety of dispositions when we must return to England. Our society seems to be so much more limited, than is your own."
"Oh, you shall be leaving soon?" the Baroness asked, her voice relaying her distress at this.
Elizabeth, being far away from their host, thought, although she could not be positive, that the Baron muttered,"Not soon enough," under his breath at his wife's query.
As that topic of discussion had apparently worn itself out, Mr. Feldtberg and Mr. Schluter were now engaged in a low voiced conversation on hunting, while the Baroness was speaking to Mrs. Schluter of a recent change in dressmakers.
Somewhere in all of this, a natural pause occurred, into which Mrs. Darcy slyly dealt the Baron yet another blow.
"Perhaps you can enlighten me, sir," she inquired innocently, when all were quiet, after glancing at her husband, who was toying with his empty glass idly, "What is the current sentence imposed, for fighting a public duel?"
Mr. Von Wold, who had, by turns, been watching with increasing mystification, his brother, Elizabeth, and Fitzwilliam, was now appearing to be in the first stages of recollecting the outcome of that fateful evening, as he exclaimed in a low voice, "Oh, good Lord!"
The Baroness, staring at her brother-in-law and plainly shocked by his evidently unprovoked outburst, asked of no one in particular, "Excuse me...I'm afraid that I am confused...what is it we are discussing?"
"Nothing," the Baron interjected, his frown deepening, even as Mr. Feldtburg, who happened to be a barrister, spoke up, "I can answer your question, Mrs. Darcy. For public dueling, a man may expect up to ten years in a workhouse. Hardly worth the entertainment entailed, I assure you...but, why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason in particular," she replied, aware that, although the others were returning to their former conversations, the Baron and his brother were listening to her, yet.
"I only just heard of a tragic case from home," she added lightly, "A gentleman goaded his friend into fighting a duel with another for whom that person had no argument. Although no one was harmed...fortunately, all three were sentenced to the Tower for an unspecified period of time. Quite pitiful, really." She felt the pressure of Fitzwiliam's hand upon hers under the table, but when she met his eyes, his expression was not one of reproof, but amusement.
"Why," the Baroness took up the subject, unaware of the effect it was having upon her husband, "Do men do such silly things? It quite amazes me. Do they suppose that it impresses women?"
"I have no doubt," this came, unexpectedly from Fitzwilliam, who was sliding his chair from the table as a cue for their exit, "Men may do some very silly things for women, but, in their defense, they do so only as proof of their devotion...and although I do hate to leave on such a fascinating topic, it is time for us to return to our hotel."
Then, perfect gentleman that he was, he offered Elizabeth his hand as she rose from her chair, bowed to all at the table and, with an enviable dignity, guided his wife from the room.
Glancing backwards only once, she smiled and nodded at the Baroness, her expression a promise that they would meet again soon.