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Chapter Forty-three
Spring may have begun in Derbyshire, but in Frankfurt, winter still had the region in its icy grip. The air remained frosty, the snow crunched underfoot, and the river was yet coated with a thick layer of ice.
One chilly April day after her usual appointment with Dr. Brecht, Elizabeth was only mildly surprised when Fitzwilliam suggested they take the scenic way back to the hotel. This generally meant that he wished to see a different part of the town, or that he had become bored, restless, or both, and needed some time out of doors. The sight of two plain parcels set upon the floor of the coach, each about the size of a hat box, plus her husband's manner of secrecy, succeeded in piqueing her curiosity, but he gave her no clue as to where they were going or what, even, he might have in mind.
They drove briskly toward the river, where, in summer, boats could be rented for romantic excursions or educational treks. Now, however, with everything covered yet in snow, she could not imagine what his intention might be. When they rounded a curve in the road, and the shore came into full view, her eyebrows rose as the tiny suspician just beginning to form in her mind, was, at last confirmed.
"Ice skating!" she exclaimed, astonished, "Fitzwilliam, I have never skated in my life!"
"Does this mean," he asked calmly, "That you have no wish to?"
At that moment, the carriage pulled up alongside many dozens of others, and the footman stepped down, opened the door and waited expectantly to assist them out.
She thought about it, then inquired, "But...what if I fall?"
"Then I shall help you up," he replied, adding, "You haven't yet answered my question. Do you wish to, Elizabeth?"
"I...suppose," she said doubtfully, "The worst that could happen is, I break my arm." Glancing at him then, she asked suspiciously, "You would not leave me alone out there, would you?"
"Out there", was the center of the ice where, although there were a steady flow of people skating the perimeter, only those who wished to show off their skills and daring to anyone who might be watching, ventured. Right now, there were perhaps a half dozen brave souls, some quite impressive, others only attempting to be so.
He smiled at her question, "Only if you feel the desire for an audience." He leaned over and picked up one of the boxes, then removing the lid, held up a skate for her perusal. It appeared to consist of a hard sole with a thin steel blade attached to the bottom. Leather straps were splayed in all directions, waiting to be bound securely to her booted feet.
After a moment of studying them, she said resignedly, "All right, Fitzwilliam. Since your heart is set on doing this, you may teach me."
At her tone, he looked like he might laugh, but he said only, "Come, then...I won't force you to wear them until we are actually near the ice."
They found a bench in view of where a group of children were playing "Crack the whip", and she watched them silently, while Fitzwilliam strapped the skates to her boots.
"They must be very good to stay on their feet, even while they are tossed about like that," she observed conversationally.
He glanced at them over his shoulder, "Probably more luck than skill," he said, "Don't worry, my love. I shall steer you clear of them."
"You have done this quite a bit?" she asked, studying her skates while he put his own on.
"I did...long ago, although it has been many years I must admit. I believe I shall try it by myself first...become reacquainted with the feeling again...do you mind?" He had stood as he spoke, his feet now strapped in as hers were.
"Certainly not, go ahead," she bade him, content to sit and watch for a time.
Carefully he walked through the shallow snow to the ice's edge, stepped onto it gingerly, and stood for just a moment before gliding away from her. He does make it look easy, she thought. Perhaps, it shall not be so bad after all. Still, whenever she happened to see some poor unfortunate drop rather inelegantly upon the hard, unforgiving ice, she felt a twinge of dread.
There were, she noticed with some little hope, people of all sizes and ages, so it must not be too difficult...must it?
In fact, many, like themselves, were in twosomes, arms entwined, their glides perfectly syncronized, while others skated with children holding tightly onto them as if in fear for their very lives, still others, as Fitzwilliam was now, skated alone, with only themselves to please. Her eyes sought out her husband's figure in the crowd as he moved out to the section of the ice furthest from her. She could not help but feel a certain amount of pride. He was quite handsome, and if he, indeed, had not skated for many years, anyone watching would not be aware of it. For he skated precisely as he danced; graceful, competant, with an air of quiet dignity which in itself could impress.
When he returned, he held out his gloved hand as invitation. "It is your turn now, Mrs Darcy," he said, smiling at her.
Although her stomach was knotted into a tight little ball, she took his hand and rose uncertainly. Standing in the snow, the sensation was not so very bad, but as she began to walk, her ankles wobbled precariously, threatening to trip her up before she had even stepped foot on the ice.
Reaching the river's edge, he took hold of her other hand as well, and facing her, said, "Trust me, Elizabeth," as his eyes lifted from her wavering feet to gaze confidently into her own.
Trusting him, she knew, was not the problem, as her feet wished to slide in two different directions.
"Bend your knees," he said in encouragement, "Keep your toes pointing straight before you."
She did so, awkwardly, yet no sooner had she begun to feel a bit steadier, then he was telling her something different.
"Now, pretend you are dancing."
"What sort of dance?" She really was not trying to be difficult, she just wished to know.
He looked nonplused, then, "A waltz."
"Oh," she took a deep breath, and still clutching his hands tightly, slid one foot out before her as she had seen him do. Then the other. "Like this?" she asked breathlessly as she gained rhythm.
"Bend towards me...just a little," he instructed, as she almost fell into him. He, meanwhile, was somehow able to skate backward, a feat she found amazing, but could not, at that moment, stop to marvel at.
"Don't watch your feet," he said, causing her to look at him in exasperation.
"How do I know if I am doing it correctly, if I do not watch my feet?" she asked with a frown.
"You shall know," he answered cryptically. As she was, by that time, gaining some confidence, he let go of her right hand, and deftly moved aside so that he was skating beside her instead of in front of her. She felt an instant panic which eased as soon as she felt the firm pressure of his arm around her back, there to hold her steady.
"Are you certain," she asked, as he matched his movements to hers, "You have not done this in a while?"
"I have not been away from you long enough to do so in nearly four years..." he reminded her.
"Three."
"No, Mrs. Darcy...four," he smiled a bit as he corrected her.
"Fitzwilliam," she argued, "We have been married not yet three years, and we were engaged but three months...how could it be four?"
"We were engaged but three months, yet I did not go far from Hertfordshire long before that. At least between July and October."
Momentarily distracted, she almost lost her balance, but recovered before she caused them both to spill. "You went to London...many times, as I recall," she stated as they carefully resumed skating.
"Yes...but no further."
"You did not return to Pemberley in all of that time?"
"I had no reason to do so."
"Oh." That thought had not occurred to her before, and she mulled it over silently. "Well," she finally said, "You would not have had occasion to skate then at any rate."
"No," he agreed as he steered her from the path of a slower skater before them, "And actually I had not for perhaps five years before that."
"Nine years!" she exclaimed, coming dangerously close to a snowbank, "You skate as if you had done so everyday of your life!"
"No," he shook his head, "I was better while at Cambridge. We often would hold races when the conditions were good."
"Really?" She found herself continuously surprised by him, "I would not have considered you so...frivolous."
"Oh, there was nothing frivolous about it. We were, at all times, deadly serious."
While she attempted to decide if he was speaking in jest or not, she glanced at him in time to see the smile flicker across his features.
"You are being so right now," she accused him then. "Something in your story is not ringing true...but, is it the sport, I wonder, or the manner in which you describe yourself?"
"You doubt me, Mrs. Darcy?"
She did not answer, being distracted by another couple who skated past them expertly.
Suddenly he removed his arm from her waist, instead taking her hand into his, which instantly removed her sense of security and caused her much unsteadiness.
"Why...what are you doing?" she cried, "Fitzwilliam!" It was quite an unsettling sensation. Her new found confidence was shaken, as she flailed her arms in an attempt to compensate for the abrupt change in her balance. Before she knew it, she was sitting, landing upon the ice with a decided thump. He was standing before her, an innocent look upon his face, as he offered her his hand.
"You did that on purpose," she accused him.
"I thought you should try to solo...apparently I was premature," he replied, and although he was not laughing, she suspected that he was very close to doing so. She took his hand, still glaring at him, and though precarious, he did aid her in resuming a standing position.
Brushing the snow from the back of her coat, she said, "If I did not know better, Mr. Darcy, I would accuse you of a vindictive nature."
Ignoring her charge, he asked calmly, "Did you wish, then, to rest for few moments?"
As she was becoming winded, either by the exercise or from the effort of returning upright, she agreed, a bit indignant yet, by his silent but effective reproach.
Fitzwilliam did escort her off the ice in as humble a fashion as he might ever be willing to demonstrate, as it was not bred into his character either by heredity nor upbringing. Knowing this of course, Elizabeth had forgiven him his impulsive act by the time they had reached the safety of the iron bench, although not altogether ready to admit as much to him. Therefore, with a great deal of haughtiness, she sat somewhat gingerly upon the bench, her face averted from his scrutiny.
"Elizabeth," he asked at length, "Shall you ever forgive me, I wonder?"
His tone, not exactly as repentant as she might have wished, nonetheless restored her humour, and, not really of a mind to remain out-of-sorts, she smiled in spite of herself. "Your apology is lacking in sincerity, sir, but I suppose I must accept gracefully whatever I am offered."
"You did not suffer permanent damage, I hope," he inquired in a grave tone.
"Little would you care if I did," she reproved him, lifting her chin slightly. Then, unable to continue the pretense any longer, admitted, "In all probability, the only true damage is to my pride, and that, you can do nothing for."
"No broken bones, then? Nothing that I can tend to personally?"
Blushing thoroughly at his offer, she scolded him, "Mr. Darcy, please remember where you are." Then as her eyes met his, she conceded, "Later, perhaps."
Returning to the ice at length, she, after her earlier lesson, did improve significantly in keeping her balance , so that he soon felt safe enough to leave her for short periods, in which time she could attempt to venture forth on her own.
Following one of his absences, as he again took his place beside her, she said, "I wonder at your never having mentioned your enthusiasm for this before."
"It had simply not occurred to me, I suppose," was his reply.
"Pemberley has the pond and the river, yet, since our marriage, you have never even displayed an interest."
"I had other matters to take up my time."
"All of your time?" She glanced at him doubtfully, "Those long, cold months of being practically housebound might have been less stressful with a diversion such as this."
"Were they so very difficult?" he inquired..
Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she said, "When you were at home it was not difficult at all...but you must admit, a little exercise would have been most welcome."
"Well, I suppose I had set the occupation aside as part of who I used to be."
"Are you so very different, then?"
"Somewhat."
"I should have liked knowing you , I think."
He smiled slightly, "Perhaps not."
"Were you, as most young men of consequence, at all times solemn and single-minded?" she teased him.
"I imagine I was...although over time, I seem to recollect less of that."
"What did you do for diversion at school...besides ice skating, of course?"
"Well," he thought carefully, even as he guided her through a maze of children all coming at them in a cluster, "Cricket, naturally, and then I read a great deal...I doubt if you would have been interested in one so introspective."
"Why would you suppose that? Am I so shallow?"
"Lively is the word I was thinking of...you would not have been long satisfied with my company, I am afraid."
"So little you know of me..." she replied, but she thought that he might, indeed, be correct in his conclusion. After all, even she had been misled insofar as to whom she had believed herself to be suited, in direct contrast to the one who, in the end, actually was.
Aloud she said, "You underestimate yourself, Mr. Darcy. Do you not keep me quite satisfied now?"
The look he gave her left no doubt as to the meaning he had chosen to attribute to her entirely innocent question, "I should hope so," he replied gravely.
Her cheeks had become a bright crimson, although whether by the inuendo, or by the frigid wind stinging them, it remained unclear.
"Are you too cold?" he asked her then, suddenly aware of the temperature, as well as the waning afternoon light, "We might return another day, if you wish."
"More tired then cold really," she replied, "I am almost ashamed to admit how I have become unused to extended exercise while being in Frankfurt."
"Let us stop for today, then, " he decided, leading her off of the ice, and over to an empty bench where they could remove their skates.
Later, Elizabeth, after a luxuriously steamy bath, but still wrapped in her dressing gown, lay on the settee before the fire, feeling almost shamefully lazy as she basked in the warmth now enveloping her. She heard Fitzwilliam enter, yet unable to will her eyes to open, she did not stir at all, aware that he had moved to the chair nearest hers, for she could hear the book pages ripple as he prepared to read.
A few moments passed quietly, before he observed aloud, "You are like a cat, Elizabeth,who is most pleased with it's situation."
"If a cat should be as contented as I just now, then that would be an agreeable prospect, indeed," she answered, opening her eyes to smile at him.
"How are your ankles?" he inquired, changing the subject, as her appearance and manner were proving to be rather distracting.
"Fine now, although I may pay dearly in the morning," she replied, pulling the hem of her gown up to view them critically. She was well aware of the unsettling effect she was having upon him, but a bit of comeuppance would harm him none, and she enjoyed the small triumph, however temporary it might prove to be.
His attention, when next she looked at him, had returned to his book, but she suspected it was mere pretence on his part, as no page was ever turned in all of the time of which she spent observing him.
"What, pray, do you have in mind for tomorrow? " she asked idly, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
"I had not thought that far as yet," he answered, turning a page rather pointedly.
"You have not?" Feigning surprise, she continued, "I had supposed you to have yet another hidden talent which you might choose to share with your wife at your leisure.".
"No, I believe you know it all now," was his impassive reply.
"Are you certain, Fitzwilliam? Or shall I be amazed someday when you compose an opera, or, present to me your own published text of great Latin philosophers?"
"If I do so, I shall let you know." He still had his eyes focused on his page, but a smile was beginning to play about his mouth.
"Perhaps," she said, rising to move over to him, "I should hire Mr. Radcliff to discover any other secrets which you have kept from me. Would I be shocked, I wonder?"
"I cannot imagine."
"Neither can I." Leaning over him so that he could no longer ignore her, she slid her arms along his shoulders, the rest of her moving forward as well, until she had insinuated herself cosily upon his lap.
Laying his book aside in defeat, he put his arms around her, complaining, "You are worse than a cat, for at least a cat would not persist in conversation where none is necessary."
"You are telling me, that you would rather read than converse with me?" Elizabeth attempted to appear hurt, but gave it up, as he was too close, and her mind was already well onto other things.
"That would depend on the topic of conversation."
"What might it have to be to succeed in distracting you, Mr. Darcy?"
Their faces were, by now, very close, and when he spoke again, her lips felt, as well as heard, his words. "That much, I believe you do know, Mrs. Darcy."
Chapter Forty-Four
During the night, she awoke suddenly with such an all consuming terror that for a moment she could not catch her breath. She sat up, her heart beating wildly, her brow bathed in sweat. What had frightened her so? Whatever she had been dreaming was now just a jumble of quickly fading images, leaving her with an inexplicable feeling of overwhelming dread.
"Fitzwilliam," she leaned over him, her voice urgent, "Please wake up."
He stirred, mumbled something incoherant, then turned over onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow.
"Fitzwilliam, " she almost whimpered, for she did not wish to be awake alone with these unnamed fears. Impulsively she drew on her dressing gown where it lay on the foot of the bed, and rose to look out of the window.
Everything was quiet. Nothing and no one appeared to be out of place, so what had disturbed her so intensely? Her heart had slowed but minimally, and she knew that it was useless to return to bed. Leaning her forehead against the windowpane, she fought down the familiar worry of something being amiss with her children, with her home. The feeling was a recurring one, there was no logical basis for it, no reasonable explanation, but she could not simply dismiss it.
There had to be a cause...but what? Was it just homesickness again? Was she being hysterical, overemotional, exciteable? It did no good to think that if there were something wrong they would have heard of it. Pemberley was a good ten days away, something could very well happen, and she would not know for some time.
This line of thought was not helping her regain her sensibility at all, and she had to force her mind to halt the terrible images plaguing her.
"Elizabeth?"
She took a breath when he spoke, both relieved that he was awake and uncertain about confiding her fears to him once again. He must think her totally unstable by now, he had heard them so many times in the past few weeks.
"Yes?" she answered at length, by now coming to the decision to suffer alone and in silence.
"Why are you up? What time is it?"
"Go back to sleep, my love...I had a bad dream...I am fine."
As she did not really want him to follow her counsel, a tiny hope flickered, that he might stay awake with her for a while.
"Are you returning to bed?"
"Soon," it came out as a sigh although she had not intended it to be so, apparently alerting him to her mood.
"Elizabeth, come to me, please," his voice, although still sleepy, conveyed a willingness to hear her out. She went to him, and in the darkness found him sitting up against the pillows, his arms ready to enfold her within them comfortingly. As she curled up against his chest, the familiar scent of him acted as a balm to her troubled spirit.
"Now, tell me, what is concerning you?" he asked, stroking her hair.
"I do not know..."she confessed, "That is the trouble. Something woke me. A dream, perhaps, a noise, but it has left me with a weight that I cannot seem to dispell."
"Pemberley?"
"I suppose so...I did not think I could be so nervous always. You shall think me as bad as my mother."
"Heaven forbid."
In the darkness, she could hear the smile in his voice, "If you did not worry, I would wonder why. As it is, you have eased any concern I might ever harbour there."
"You are very patient."
"I expect, Elizabeth," he said then, "That Dr Brecht shall be finished with you very soon, and we can then return home."
"Did he tell you that?"
"He said you were making incredible progress."
She sighed again, "But it is so indefinite. I am doing everything that he has instructed me to, and yet, I must remain here."
"Have you noticed no improvement?"
"Some...a little in my right hand, not so much in my left."
"Let me see," he took her left hand within his and kissed each of her fingers softly, "Anything?"
She smiled at last, "You missed something."
"What's that?"
She found his mouth with the fingers in question, and turned her face up so that her lips were pressed against his, her hand continuing along the line of his cheek until it was buried deep into his hair. His kiss, as it always did, succeeded in filling her soul, soothing her until she quite forgot what had upset her in the first place. When they parted and she had returned her cheek to its place against his chest, she asked, "Do you think I am worrying for nothing?"
"I pray that you are..." His own fingers traced the outline of her face while he continued his reassurances, "My love, we cannot do anything while we are here, and unless we hear something from Georgiana, we must hope for the best. Until then, I would like you to do two things."
"What, please?" she asked meekly, because by then, any advice was more welcome then the sense of doom which only now had begun to leave her.
"I want you to believe, nay, be firmly and roundly convinced that everything is perfectly fine at home. They are all well and happy, but not too much of course, as they must be missing us as well, and when we return to Pemberley at last, there shall be no crisis, no tragedy, nothing to cause us grief."
She considered his words for a moment, "Well...I cannot promise, but I shall try."
"Please do."
"And the second thing?"
"Remember that I love you. You are not alone, Elizabeth Cecilia Bennet Darcy, nor shall you ever be, while I am alive."
"But at two o'clock in the morning when you are fast asleep, it is very easy to forget those things."
"No excuses, madam, as I am adament. Will you do this?"
"Remember that you shall live as long as I?"
"I cannot promise that, of course."
"But if that is the only way to guarantee my never being alone, then surely, you should at least make the effort."
"I shall make the effort."
"If that is a promise, then I agree as well."
"To..."
"To remember how you have always been right here when you were needed. ..and if I must wake you each and every morning at two because of my foolish anxieties, then I should not hesitate to do so."
"Something like that...but, Elizabeth, if you are yet waking from being anxious, then you are not following my instructions entirely, are you?"
"What? I can let nothing concern me any more...ever?"
"No, for if you do, you have broken your promise."
"But, what if you are the cause of my concern?"
"That should be impossible...there can be no instance on my part to do so."
"You are constant?"
"As constant as the sun rising in the morning, as constant as the changing of the seasons, as constant as..." he paused, apparently running out of analogies, but she supplied her own words to finish his statement.
"As constant as my own deep love for you."
He considered briefly, "No, much more than that."
"Fitzwilliam!" she cried then, while stifling the urge to laugh aloud at his nonsense, "That is hardly fair! How can you be allowed to be so, and yet I may not?"
"You may, of course, but for our love to be equal, you must accord me the same credit which I bestow on you."
"You have not always been so assured nor confident, as I recall. Am I not allowed to have even an occasional moment of self-doubt?"
"If it were only yourself you doubt, there would be little I could do, however, when you doubt the depth of my own immeasurable esteem towards you, then there, I must draw the line."
"Spoken like the true master of the manor that you are...all right, Mr. Darcy, then explain to me how I have come to earn such fidelity, such devotion. My character is not so unique...so outstanding that I deserve your unquestioning steadfastness. Perhaps, it is caused by some flaw in yourself...perhaps, you are truly insane after all."
"Is devotion a symptom of insanity, then? For if it is, I shall gladly surrender to such madness."
"Well, considered in such a light, love is a sort of madness, I suppose." She smiled as she felt light kisses upon her throat, working their way up to her lips. "When in the throes of it, I cannot form a rational thought, nor speak a word of logic. It would answer many questions actually."
"You are speaking very rationally now, so much so, that you are disproving your own theory," he reminded her, as his mouth lingered over hers.
"You are quite mistaken, she confessed somewhat breathlessly, "I am rapidly losing the ability or the will to remain so."
As usual, she forgot everything else in the headiness of his embrace, until she could not recall at all why or how she had even awakened. However, she decided, if this was to be the eventual outcome, she must make a habit of it.
When later they lay together in each others arms, satiated and quite at peace, she mentioned her thoughts, "I fear you have not discouraged me from disturbing your slumber, my love. If this is your method of returning to sleep in a timely manner, you might wish to reconsider."
"Is there something wrong with this method, as you put it?"
"That depends on what you wish to achieve."
"And if I have achieved exactly what I desired?"
"In that case, we are both satisfied."
"And you are no longer worried regarding Pemberley and our children?"
"Was I? I cannot recall."
"Then I think my "method" worked quite well, Mrs. Darcy, as I was not so much concerned with my lack of sleep, as your own."
"You are very clever, are you not?" she teased him, "What shall you do the next time?"
"Ah, but you see, there shall not be a next time, as you have promised to no longer concern yourself about anything...and I know, that you would not break such a promise."
"In other words, you no longer wish to be disturbed in the dead of night to console your poor neglected wife?"
"Neglected? Mrs. Darcy, you may wake me at any hour for any reason whatsoever, but do not refer to yourself as neglected at such a time as this."
"No...I am feeling anything but that at this moment...well, then, allow me to rephrase. May I awaken you if I have a need for your arms about me?"
"Like this?" He enquired, all the while encircling her in his arms until she was snug and very warm against him.
"Mmm, yes," she sighed, then, "...But what if I should require the touch of your lips upon my own? May I wake you then?"
"If that should be the only remedy which would appease you," he responded with a great show of reluctance, "Then, I suppose...if you must."
"And as a good and dutiful husband, you could not refuse me."
"That would be a possibility which should never be of any concern to you,"
"Never?"
"Insane or not, refusing you would simply not be within my capabilities."
"But if my sleeplessness was caused by a quarrel between us, perhaps you would not feel the same as you do now."
"Elizabeth, if, or should I say when, we quarrel, it could be precisely the anecdote needed."
"Do you mean to tell me that when we are upset with each other, all I should have to do is solicit your attentions, and you would comply without question...without recriminations?"
"You shall have to endeavor to do so one night, and ascertain it for yourself."
"Well, I would rather forego the quarrel altogether, although nothing would stop you from attempting the same course of action with me, you know."
"When next we disagree?"
"Yes. After all, I am usually quite willing to patch up our differences much sooner, it seems, then you are, my love."
"That, I cannot either prove or disprove, but, perhaps we should leave it between us, as whoever is of a mind first, should set aside their ill will, and make the effort to reconcile."
"Perhaps we should," she agreed, adding, "The results could be most interesting."
Chapter Forty-Five
When Fitzwilliam awoke the next morning, it was nearing eleven o'clock. Not surprising, of course, due to the late hour in which they had pursued their comfortable, yet at the same time, quite stimulating conversation.
He arose, dressed, and, as silently as possible, let himself out of the suite without once disturbing his still-sleeping wife. Quitting the hotel, he strode hurriedly to the express office, only three blocks to the west. Several troubling concepts were already being considered by him as he walked, for only just yesterday he had received a letter from Georgiana...a disturbing letter, an unsettling letter, the tone of it lacking his sister's normally serene and warm manner of expressing herself.
In it, she had assured him, not once but many times, that everything was fine; the children were well, the household running smoothly, the staff efficient...yet, it seemed to him to sound less than convincing, lacking a certain sincerity on her part.
Perhaps, he thought, it had appeared to be too reassuring, yet, more than that, it was almost distant...unemotional.
That was it, he decided, it sounded unlike her because she was usually incapable of such impassiveness. Of the two siblings, he had always been the one with the ability to mask his true feelings, not she. If she was unhappy or ecstatic, she did not hesitate to express it to him. Angry? Well, he could not recollect her ever actually being angry with him, but he doubted her nature allowing her to repress that emotion behind false words, even in a letter.
He had put the paper away then, without sharing it with Elizabeth, wishing to reflect on it in solitude for the time being while harboring a small hope that he would be able to allay his own misgivings as he did so. Her coincidental awakening last night, in the disquieting aftermath of her dream, or whatever it had been, had forced him to reconsider the letter in a new light, and he had slept fitfully thereafter, rising, at last, determined to discover what, if anything, might be amiss at Pemberley.
The express, although faster than regular posts, would still take at least two or three days to reach Derbyshire, and any forthcoming reply, the same. But at the very least, it might assist in quieting his growing anxieties., and he should finally know one way or the other. More importantly, he would be seeing to it, that something, anything, was being done to rectify this frustrating situation...other then speculating, worrying, and finally, imagining the very worst.
Entering the express office, he greeted the little man behind the desk shortly, his mind engaged in matters weightier then the continually dismal weather, or how spring was certainly late in arriving this year. The clerk, used to clients with issues more trying than his own (for otherwise, why would they come to him?), soon reverted to a more businesslike manner, copying the gentleman's message without further delay, and inscribing upon it the following direction:
Mr. Donald Radcliff, esq., Brougham, Derbyshire, England, n.
Once the express was sent, he could do nothing more but wait.
An idea at once unappealing, yet at the same time, necessary, and so, preceeding back to the hotel, he compelled his thoughts to concentrate upon any subject other then his immediate preoccupation with all things Pemberley.
After all, had he not instructed Elizabeth, while offering her loving reassurances as she rested within his arms, that she was not to fret over either real, or imagined crisis?
This logical self-reproach not only succeeded in restoring the memory of those enticingly seductive early morning hours to him, but also reminded him of the requirement for maintaining, at all times, his own prudent and sensible attitude, at least until Mr. Radcliffe could respond satisfactorily to his request.
It would not do for him to exhibit the very fears which he had so recently urged her to disregard. .
For, even after more then two years of marriage, he could not bear to see her agonize needlessly. If he could have his own wishes fulfilled, she would spend the whole of her life as free from such trials as humanly possible. Yet, some things, he had eventually come to accept, even he could not control, and Elizabeth, inarguably willful, yet at the same time, captivatingly generous, was unlikely to allow him to take on in her stead, all of the cares and worries which might torment her.
She was, indeed, stubborn, and, beyond that, could be elusive, vague, maddeningly provocative, purposely misleading,...in short, every female trait he had managed to avoid becoming entangled with, while yet remaining the elusive bachelor.
So long ago, it seemed, yet, not so very long at all...and now, here he was; the proud, unwavering, unyielding Fitzwilliam Darcy, willing to perform any feat, take on any foe, spend every pittance of his vast resources, all in an effort to ease her fears, soothe whatever spirit might appear to haunt her, remind her that she was, and always would be, truly safe as his most beloved Elizabeth.
Reaching the door of their suite, he hesitated, wondering if his expression would betray him, or, might he successfully mask his activities of the past hour from her scrutiny? He had no wish to withhold from her any circumstance of import, yet until he received a definitive reply from Mr. Radcliffe, there was little choice but to say nothing of the matter to her.
"Where have you been, my love?" She inquired as Fitzwilliam entered their room.
Seated at the dressing table, she lifted her eyes to meet his in the reflection of the mirror. Her question, spoken innocently enough, nevertheless caused him some discomfort, as he had not the will nor the inclination to reveal the truth to her at present. Unaware of his disquiet, she arose at once, moved to him and placed a well-aimed kiss directly upon his lips, rising up on her toes to do so.
Then, sliding her arms around his neck, she smiled warmly, "I missed you when I, at last awoke... I wondered what could have been so crucial to lure you from me so soon."
"Nothing of any consequence," he replied, making an effort to keep his voice as light as hers, "Merely sending off a post regarding some business at home."
It was not exactly a lie, nor was it the absolute truth, a fact for which he could not help but feel sizable remorse.
"Oh? To Mr. Ridgley?"
Clearing his throat, he changed the subject rather abruptly, in hopes that she might not take notice, "We must stir ourselves if we do not wish to be late to Dr. Brecht's."
She gave him a peculiar look, but did not comment on his odd behavior, saying only, as she moved her hands slowly down his lapel, "Yes, I suppose we must, although I might be tempted, with the right inducement of course, to remain here and invent some plausible excuse for being unable to keep my appontment today."
"No," he answered a bit too quickly, instantly causing her expression to transform from one of glowing happiness to that of shocked surprise, and finally, thinly veiled hurt.
At once aware of his tactical error, he amended lamely, "After all, if you truly wish to return to Pemberley as soon as possible, then we should take advantage of his ministrations while they are available to us."
"Yes, of course." Stepping back as if struck, her voice, when she replied, had altered from it's former warmth to a definite coolness, "How selfish of me."
She withdrew from the room then, leaving him to regret his hasty, and admittedly, poorly chosen words, in silence. Darcy, you idiot, he fumed to himself, what was the point of that little exchange? Couldn't you have handled the situation a bit more diplomatically? It was obvious what she had wanted, and he had blundered through it like a half-witted schoolboy. All because of this overwhelming guilt which had taken control him, and which was clearly caused by his not disclosing the whole of Georgiana's letter to her immediately. In addition was his own self-contempt at his cowardice where his wife's feelings were concerned.
He had very nearly decided to confess all to her, but by the time he joined her in the foyer, she had donned her coat, bonnet and gloves, and was waiting by the door, her gaze kept carefully averted.
Realizing that it would be an inopportune time to plead his case, he merely held open the door, followed her down the stairs, and out to the waiting carriage, where they silently sat opposite of each other. Somewhat similiar to, he could not help but imagine, two opposing armies.
Once or twice, he tried to begin some coversation, but all attempts faltered in light of her wounded countenance, and although he could not blame her, he chafed nonetheless under her mute reproach.
He no sooner had left her in the doctor's care, than he withdrew to wander about by himself in that general vicinity of town, with the sole purpose of considering his next course of action.
As he walked along the river front, he recognized in himself, true and unyielding misery. He had hurt deeply, although unwittingly, the one woman whom he loved above all things, and, unless he told her of his concerns regarding Pemberley, and by doing so hazard intensifying her own, she could not help but misunderstand the declination of his manner toward her since that morning.
Returning to the doctor's office, he had not come to any productive decision, and so decided to wait to ascertain if she might still be annoyed with him, for, if not, he might yet have earned a reprieve from the risk of divulging it prematurely.
As Elizabeth entered the parlor where he was waiting for her, she met his eyes briefly, then promptly looked away, as the servant helped her draw on her wraps, leaving him uncertain as to her current state of mind.
Dr Brecht had followed her out, a solemnity of expression dominating his person. Joining her husband, who was now seated on the settee, he said in a low voice, "She is doing well with her exercises, but her concentration was quite poor today. Mr. Darcy, unless she truly strives for this recovery, I guarantee she shall cease to improve very much further beyond what she is, at present."
Fitzwilliam flushed at the inference, but said only, "She is anxious to return home, as I am sure you can understand."
"I do understand, of course, but her first priority should be her own complete rehabilitation while she is here in Frankfurt."
The two men studied each other then, both of them well aware of the lady's own indomitable will; undoubtedly the final determinate factor for any decision affecting their immediate future.
Mindful of this, but wishing to receive some clue as to the doctor's intentions, Fitzwilliam inquired resolutely, "Can you at least tell me, Dr. Brecht, if she shall be improved enough any time soon, where we may begin to plan our return to England?"
"I cannot give you a definite date, if that is what you mean. She is ready when she decides to put the effort into it which is essential. This series of treatments is not intended to be instantaneous nor simplistic."
"So, you have no idea how much longer we shall be required to remain here?"
"I could not determine such by her manner this afternoon, but I sincerely hope I may find her with a more positive attitude tomorrow."
Sometime, during their low-voiced discussion, Elizabeth apparently became aware that she was the topic at hand, for she turned to glare at them both, her eyes clearly portraying her pique. However, she said not a word to either of them, only quitting the room with an overstated dignity while awaiting her husband's company at the front door.
Chapter Forty-Six
It was a small place, specializing in the local fare, but the prices were set high enough to discourage many of the working class from supping there routinely. The steward came and took their order, apparently unaware of the discord between them, unless it was evident through the extra flourishes he put on display while in their service.
After he had taken his leave, they sat in silence.
Elizabeth toyed idly with her fork, her expression working through several conflicting emotions, but giving nothing away. He, on the other hand, concentrated, at that point, on thinking very little, as his temples were beginning to throb mercilessly, no doubt from attempting to deal with his own mental quandaries.
Wearied of the misunderstanding between them, he spoke at last, "Elizabeth, you are angry." It was not so much a question as an affirmation. He wished to begin a dialogue, and by then, any topic would be better than none.
"Am I?" she responded, raising her eyebrows in that familiar way she had. "I have been many things this day, but angry is quite probably, the least of what I am."
As she expounded no further on the subject, he tried again, "Dr Brecht feels you are making good progress."
"He could not tell me so directly?"
"I had supposed him to have already done so."
"He informed you, no doubt, because he believes me to be a silly, incompetent, emotionally unstable woman with little or no common sense."
"Why would you surmise that?"
"Is it not obvious? He whispers to you about me as if I were not sensible, as well as speaking of me in the third person, similar to a very dim child."
"He was not aware of your being within listening distance of our conversation...I am certain he intended no insult."
"I am not."
He took a breath. This was getting nowhere. Attempting to appease her, he offered, "The next time, I shall make a more concerted effort to include you in the discussion."
"As well you should, considering any counsel with him has a more direct effect on me than on yourself."
"Yes," he assented, not knowing what else to say, but hoping she might be recovering her good humour.
The steward brought their meal and set it before them, leaving them to silence once again.
At length, Elizabeth asked in a much quieter voice, "Fitzwilliam, is this one of those times?"
He looked up from the glass of water which he had been perusing moodily, surprised by her question. She was watching him, her eyes thoughtful, while seeming to be waiting for his answer.
"I do not..." he began, but paused as he recollected their conversation of much earlier that morning. With comprehension dawning upon him finally, he felt the first ray of hope since they had left the hotel.
"For I must tell you," she continued earnestly, "Even though you seem to have gone out of your way to vex me today, I find I cannot remain upset with you."
"I am sorry if I have done so, Elizabeth. I assure you, it was not intentional." His expression, although somewhat penitant, betrayed his lack of proper humility, causing her to sigh in semi-amused exasperation, and reply, "My dear Mr. Darcy, you have not convinced me of any sincerity on your part."
"Mrs. Darcy," he responded, "I see I shall have to repeat my apologies constantly until you do believe me, although I must admit, the pursuading would be much more agreeable were it to be accomplished in private."
As her face was becoming warm, she knew she was blushing, and so, in an attempt to regain her composure, she admonished him, "If you cannot do this appropriately while in public, than I fear you are quite hopeless, and I shall no longer believe anything which you have to say to me."
"In that case. Please allow me to begin again. Shall I prostrate myself on the floor, or may I remain seated in this chair?"
"Seated is fine."
"Then, please, madam, do allow me to tell you how very very sorry I am for my past behavior, and in future I shall make a more concerted effort to deserve your affection. There, will that do?"
As he now looked exactly like a mischievous child, she laughed aloud, replying in the same tone, "Only on the condition that you should return the favour, for I fear my temper often times gets the best of me...it does not mean that I love you any less. I would not wish you to feel so."
"Thank you." Somehow, her generosity, although playful yet, was causing his spirits to take a turn for the worst, a state of mind becoming increasingly difficult to disguise.
He had very nearly blurted out the whole of his concerns, when they were interrupted suddenly by a large group of women, headed by Mrs. Schluter and Mrs. Feldtburg, who were passing their table while on the way to their own.
"Mrs. Darcy, Mr. Darcy! What a delightful surprise!" cried Mrs. Feldtburg enthusiastically, "Mrs. Schluter, see who is here...the Darcys!"
"Yes, of course. Delighted," replied Mrs. Schluter regally, as Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam rose to greet them.
The other four women waited politely while all were introduced in turn, then, just before leaving them, Mrs. Feldtburg inquired in a pleasant tone, "Are you enjoying your stay in Frankfurt, Mrs. Darcy?"
"Yes, very much," answered Elizabeth, glancing at her husband, "Although I fear our tour has been somewhat limited."
"Oh, but what a shame," tsked Mrs. Schluter, regarding them with something akin to pity, "Perhaps we should take you under our tutelage, Mrs. Darcy. Then you may share your new experiences with your husband before leaving our lovely village."
"Oh, yes!" agreed Mrs. Feldtburg with more enthusiasm then her friend, "Mrs. Darcy, you must join us for luncheon tomorrow, and from there we can show you all of Frankfurt and its neighboring burgs. You cannot return to England without fully appreciating the beauty of this country."
"Tomorrow?" Elizabeth faltered, then unable to think of a plausible excuse, finished weakly, "Thank you, that is very kind of you."
"We shall see you here tomorrow then...or, shall we call for you at your hotel?" Mrs. Schluter inquired, her voice just a bit patronizing.
"No, do not trouble yourself," Elizabeth replied, regaining her poise, "Our carriage can easily bring me. What time shall I arrange?"
"Twelve o'clock, just as every other week day. We do this quite often, you know."
No, I did not, Elizabeth thought to herself, amused at the older lady's blatantly superior manner. Aloud she said only, " I thank you again. I shall see you tomorrow, then."
After the group departed for their own table, Elizabeth frowned at her husband's ill concealed amusement.
"Yes, you may laugh. You shall not be doomed to an absolutely boring afternoon of being shown the "beauties" of this fair village."
"You cannot know it will be boring."
"Oh, I have met with ladies of Mrs. Schluter's ilk before. I fear I shall have to practice my pronouncements of delight and amazement before tomorrow, else she shall surely find me wanting."
"Who could ever perceive you so?" He disagreed gallantly, then in reassurance, "I am sure you shall not fail to charm them, as always."
She smiled, shaking her head at him as they returned to their seats, at last.
After some moments of an easier silence than they had enjoyed between them that day, he paused while buttering a roll, "What did you mean exactly, when you said that our tour had been limited? Have I not shown you the city adequately?"
"Some of it," she replied, a smile crossing her features, "Definitely some things more than others. I mean, really, Fitzwilliam," she continued, by way of explanation, "I am most familiar with Dr. Brecht's residence and our hotel rooms, as well as some of the businesses between, but beyond that..."
"You have been to the park," he reminded her, "And the opera house...oh, and the Baron's schloss."
"How could I have forgotten?" She teased him, "But, you must admit we have limited ourselves within the confines of this village."
"Where would you like to go?" He asked, made curious by her criticism.
"Why, to all of its neighboring burgs, surely," she replied, glancing at him from beneath her lashes.
Now it was his turn to shake his head.
"If you have an itinerary, Mrs. Darcy, pray, please share it with me," he urged, even as he stifled a laugh.
"That, unfortunately, shall have to wait until after I have undergone the tutelage of Mrs. Schluter and her friends, I fear," she replied, rolling her eyes in anticipation of the following day's activities.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The ladies had met, as arranged, at the restaurant, and after a light luncheon, were on their way out of town.
"See there? That is the home of Herr Schintgen," announced Miss Braun, a woman of perhaps twenty and seven, gazing out of the window earnestly.
"Excuse me?" Elizabeth inquired, preparing to answer Mrs. Feldtberg's query, and momentarily distracted.
"The artist. Surely you have heard of him. He might do your likeness if you are in town long enough," was the reply.
"I am almost certain we shall not be, but thank you," Elizabeth returned, then to the other, "Not yet three years."
"Not long then," Mrs. Schluter remarked condescendingly, her eyes meeting Mrs. Feldtberg's with some unspoken judgement, irritating Elizabeth, although she repressed any outward response.
"Do you have children, Mrs. Darcy?" Mrs. Noss, the fifth and final person of the party, queried.
"Two sons."
"Two...already?" Mrs. Schluter appeared to be shocked by this admission, "Why, I was a full five years into my marriage, before my own Henry was born."
How tediously predictable of you, thought Elizabeth. Aloud, she said only, "Oh, what a shame."
"There is the estate of Lady Gerstenberger...the Duchess," explained Miss Braun, the only one still watching out of the window, The others were now focusing their attention completely on Elizabeth, appearing to be momentarily dumbfounded by her last remark.
Mrs. Schluter broke the silence when she asked coldly, "I do not mean to pry, Mrs. Darcy, but how did your husband and yourself, happen to meet?"
She thinks I am beneath him, Elizabeth decided, amused, answering cooly, "We were introduced at a dance."
"Indeed?"
"He seems to be the perfect gentleman," offered Mrs. Noss, apparently attempting to act as peacemaker.
"Thank you," rejoined Elizabeth, "I believe he is."
"And, that is the foundry, where the most exquisite fencing swords are designed and produced," continued Miss Braun, oblivious to the tension around her.
'My own marriage, Mrs. Darcy," Mrs. Schluter declared, "Was arranged by my dear, departed parents...and quite successfully, I might add."
I have no doubt of it, said Elizabeth to herself, studying the older lady for a moment before commenting impudently, "Ah, yes. My husband was entangled in just such an understanding before he proposed to me. I do not believe his would have worked out so well in the end, however."
"Oh?"
"They were rather ill-suited. She is, unfortunately, of a sickly constitution, and as you have seen, my husband is quite...sound." She smiled with some triumph as the other three averted their eyes, and displayed deeper shades of red in their complexions. It does not hurt, she decided, to gloat a little, to turn the tables, so to speak.
"That is the boys' school, St. Boniface, and over the hill, although you cannot see it from the road, is the girls', St. Agnes," pronounced Miss Braun.
"Do you have sisters and brothers, Mrs. Darcy?" This from Mrs. Noss, desperately trying to discover a less personal topic.
"I am the second of five sisters," was her reply.
"And your parents, they are...?"
"Living in Hertfordshire County...in the south of England," explained Elizabeth, still indirectly watching Mrs. Schluter, who was now glaring out of the window.
"Have you had a chance, yet, to travel much? Other than to Frankfurt, of course," Mrs. Feldtberg inquired, taking a cue from Mrs. Noss.
"Not very much," Elizabeth supplied, "Only to London, so far."
"Oh, to London. Wonderful city. I know it well." Mrs. Schluter had deigned to reenter the conversation at that point. "Pray, perhaps you have met my very dear friend, Lady Fothingill-Grey."
Her tone of voice insinuated that, not only would Elizabeth not know her, but. also, the lady in question would have had nothing whatsoever to do with the impertinant Mrs. Darcy.
But, Elizabeth disappointed her when she answered warmly, "Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. She was very kind to me when we were in London soon after our wedding."
"Indeed?"
"I understood her to be quite close with my husband's family, and, that she knew him well as a child. She is," she finished, fondness in her voice, "An amazing woman."
"Yes," Mrs. Schluter agreed doubtfully, as she studied Elizabeth again, her expression one of cautious reassessment.
"How long have you known Lady Grey?" Elizabeth inquired, deliberately using the familiar in her reference.
"Let me see...twenty-five years at the very least. No, perhaps thirty," replied Mrs. Schluter, deep in thought, as she spoke.
"Then," Elizabeth suggested, "Perhaps you also were acquainted with my father...Robert Bennet?" She had few qualms bringing up her father's name for the purpose of discussion, so long as her mother should remain unmentioned.
"Robert Bennet...Mr. Bennet! He is your father!" An expression had come over Mrs. Schluter's countenance unlike any formerly displayed, and, in fact, the lady actually smiled in earnest.
"Mr. Bennet...such a dear man," she continued, her thoughts apparently engaged in some enjoyable recollection, "He was the most kind-hearted, yet had the liveliest sense of humour, of any of the young men in our circle. Pray, how does he get on?"
For the first time, Mrs. Schluter looked upon Elizabeth with real favour, taking her somewhat by surprise.
"He is well, thank you," she answered, astonishment apparent in her response.
"And, you are his daughter...well, what a small world it truly is! I had not thought of dear Mr. Bennet in so long, and now, here you are...this is beyond coincidence!"
While Mrs. Schluter continued with her happy ruminations, the other ladies were now viewing Elizabeth with the same amazement, which she, herself, was feeling.
"And, that," announced Miss Braun brightly, "Is the Cathedral of St. Vincent."
Chapter Forty- Eight
Six days passed before the anticipated reply from Mr. Radcliffe, who was, indeed, agreeable to accepting Mr. Darcy's assignment, and would forthwith, travel to Pemberley straightaway. At this point Fitzwilliam decided that he could no longer delay telling Elizabeth of all that had come about, and the motivation behind it.
She was reading before the fire in the sitting room of their suite, when he addressed her, "Elizabeth, I have something I need to speak with you about."
Due to his serious voice tone, as well as demeanor, she laid her book aside at once,and waited expectantly.
He handed her Georgiana's letter from the previous week without explanation, and other then raising one eyebrow quizzically , she accepted it in silence.
Reading it thoroughly once, and then again, she made no comment until finished, then she returned it to him, saying only, "It sounds unlike her,"
She kept her voice carefully neutral, even as she attempted to assess his own impression of it.
"Yes," he had settled himself in the chair opposite hers while she read, waiting to speak until certain of her being quite through. "I noticed the same immediately. Things are not right."
"Fitzwilliam," she spoke with some relief at this unexpected affirmation of her own fears.
"I am sorry, Elizabeth," he had leaned forward and taken her hand in his own, "That I did not speak to you immediately of this, as I wanted to sort it over in my own mind first."
"I am not aggrieved, my love. She is your sister, after all...how it must have worried you." unconsciously, her own fingers began to stroke his hand in a soothing pattern.
"To be honest, I was unsure of what to think until you awoke me that night, after I had received the letter, with your premonition concerning Pemberley. Somehow, you caused me to regard the implications more seriously than I might otherwise have done." He flashed a half-smile at her, as he continued, "You, more than anyone, are aware that I am not a superstitious man, but the two circumstances together forced me to face the possibility."
"That I could be right?" she asked, half in jest.
"Or, that I might have been wrong."
It was now the fifteenth of April. One month since Elizabeth had begun seeing Dr. Brecht. Fortunately for the sake of her own spirits, spring began to show some signs of arriving through the gradual snowmelt, where buds miraculously appeared on the once-barren tree limbs almost overnight. To add to her sense of optimism, the doctor began to hint at her being able to leave Germany soon.
"You have not improved so much as I would have liked in your left hand, but your right is doing extremely well," he told her, as though they were unconnected. "Even when you leave here, I should expect you to continue the exercises daily...and of course, you must return in a year so I may reexamine your progress."
So elated was she at the prospect of, at last, returning home that she would have gladly agreed to any stipulation put forth by him. If she smiled and nodded like an imbecile after, she was unaware of it, and no sooner had she reunited with Fitzwilliam in the parlor, than she broke the welcome news to him ecstatically. His resultant expression, although not as openly joyful as hers, nonetheless conveyed the happiness her information inspired in him.
Upon arriving back at the hotel, however, their exultation was somewhat diminished by a missive waiting for them from Mr. Radcliffe. As Fitzwilliam unfolded it and began to read to himself, his countenance sombered so radically that Elizabeth became instantly alarmed.
"Oh, what is it?" she cried, "What has he to tell us?"
Resignedly he handed her the letter, then waited in grim silence while she read it aloud.
Mr. Darcy: she read,
I am afraid my news is not encouraging. I am presently lodged at the Lambton Inn, and have just now come from Pemberley where I have spoken to your sister. Do not be alarmed, sir, as she is apparently well, although, seeming to be somewhat out of spirits, by my unannounced visit. Let me reassure you that I did not breech propriety in doing so, for, I felt it a requirement that if I were to receive a completely accurate impression, the household not know of my arrival beforehand. As I have met your sister only twice in my history, I shall relate to you the contents of our meeting, and allow you to draw your own conclusions on the outcome. She welcomed me graciously enough, and led me into the drawing room, where, Miss Benedict and another young lady, introduced to me as Miss De Bourgh, Miss Darcy's cousin, were having a discussion. Although, as I reflect upon it now, I must amend that charge to Miss Benedict only, as I never heard Miss De Bourgh speak in the whole of the time that I was present. Miss Benedict appeared to recall my acquaintance. and greeted me courteously, although not with any excessive warmth. Once seated, Miss Darcy also settled into a silence so complete as to be rendered immovable by any effort put forth by myself. Miss Benedict, on the other hand, conversed continuously, and when I directly questioned the other two young ladies, she took it upon herself to speak in their stead. I stayed only an hour, but I believe in that time I discovered enough to determine the unhealthy, and possibly even treacherous element now dominating Pemberley. It is my belief, Mr. Darcy, that Miss Benedict has some ambiguous and disturbing influence over your own sister and Miss De Bourgh. Please, instuct me as to what course of action you would wish me to pursue until your return, which I trust, shall not be delayed overlong due to the most somber nature of this letter. Patiently awaiting your reply ,
Your servant, Mr. Donald Radcliffe, esq.,
Lambton, Derbyshire, England,n.
As she finished she looked up, dismayed, to meet her husband's eyes, "It is as I feared...no, no, this must be a dream," she dropped the letter to the table and took a distracted turn about the room. He, meanwhile, appeared to be deep in thought, his eyes staring unseeingly at a painting upon the wall.
"This cannot be, Fitzwilliam...Georgiana has more sense than this, I cannot believe she would allow that..." she halted her outburst, seeing the disquiet on her husband's face, and aware that her unchecked agitation would not aid the situation just now. With the familiar lift of her chin, she rallied her natural tenacity, resolutely straightening her back and shoulders as she did so.
"We must leave, immediately," she stated in a firm voice which would abide no objection, "You must arrange it."
"Yes," he agreed, at once turning to draw on the coat he had only just removed minutes before, "I won't be long." He strode toward the door, but before reaching it, met her eyes briefly, his glance conveying the same unspoken anguish she was feeling.
It proved to be a very long night. Elizabeth slept little, and was constantly aware of her husband's wakefulness as well. At exactly five o'clock, by some silent yet simultaneous agreement between them, they rose and made the final preparations for their journey. The hired carriage would take them as far as Bonn, a distance of nearly one hundred miles, where they would then stop for the night. There they were to change rigs and drivers, and go on to Aachen, another fifty miles, before crossing into Belgium.
Any regret at leaving Frankfurt was far surpassed by the concern of what might be awaiting them at Pemberley.
The drive began silently as Clara appeared to be barely awake, and yawned behind her hand repeatedly as she stared out of the window. Preston was his usual unflappable self, but even he seemed to be fighting off waves of drowsiness this morning. Only she and Fitzwilliam remained alert, as well as impatient, almost to the point of climbing up on the driver's box to take over the reins in an effort to hasten their speed.
It would surely, she brooded, promise to be the most excruciating journey of their lives thus far.
They rested in Koblenz for the midday meal, and to feed and water the horses. A period of time when idle conversation would prove to be both unnecessary and unwelcome, and so as a result, few words were exchanged during the seemingly interminable wait.
Back in the carriage, fatigue from the lack of rest over the past twelve hours was beginning to make itself felt to Elizabeth. She did not understand how Fitzwilliam should remain yet unaffected, nevertheless he continued to be wholly circumspect with no indication of yielding to the lethargy now overtaking his wife.
Eventually, she slept, the rocking of the coach lulling her into an uneasy dreamlike state, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. This pastime proved to be less than rejuvenating however, as she was awakened frequently with ominous, disturbingly vague images invading her dreams. By the third occasion of being so abruptly aroused, she attempted to sit upright in an effort to withstand the ever menacing visions, but her exertion was in vain, and soon her cheek lay pressed upon the cushioned wall of the coach as she surrendered at last.
Whereas Fitzwilliam's own thoughts were so distraught as to guarantee his not succumbing to sleep anytime soon, his physical position did not falter once during the afternoon. Watching Elizabeth's ultimately hopeless struggles succeeded in producing a temporary distraction, but his mind would not relax, nor his anguish recede.
Why, he wondered relentlessly, why did I suppose they would be safe? I should have suspected, as Elizabeth rightly did, as soon as I'd heard of Mary Benedict entrenching herself at Pemberley. How could I be so naïve...so blind?
Over and over he chastised himself, so preoccupied that he was not aware, at first, of the coach coming to a sudden and unexpected halt. Hearing several men's heated voices, he peered out of the window cautiously. On the road ahead, standing about in a circle, were the driver and the two footmen, arguing enthusiastically in an unrecognizable German dialect. He stepped out of the coach, glad to be able to stretch his legs, and studied the situation.
Apparently, one of the horses had lost a shoe, and was standing lamely apart from the other three, it's head bowed as if in shame. Although he did not comprehend what the men were saying, he thought he knew of what they were in disagreement about.
Still, a good ten miles from Bonn, either the lame horse would have to be left behind, an expensive and risky proposition, or, a man would have to unhitch one of the unafflicted horses and ride ahead to a much closer shelter...perhaps a farmhouse or a village where the horse could be tended to and replaced by another. Either way, it would mean a delay, possibly an extended one, and his patience, he knew, was certain to be sorely tested.
Chapter Forty-Nine
"Fitzwilliam, what are you doing out here?"
He did not turn his head as he heard Elizabeth's voice behind him, too irritated yet to reply in an even slightly civil manner.
After the prolonged discussion between the driver and the footmen, one of them had finally approached him with several apologies for the delay, reverting once again to the high German he was familiar with, to explain, that as his wife's cousin lived only about a mile from whence they had stopped, he would ride over, taking the lame horse with him, and swap for a more fit specimen. Meanwhile, they should wait here, for he would be no more then an hour, at most.
In a fit of frustration and general pique, Fitzwilliam had left the confines of the coach to wander away from the road some fifty yards or so, to stop by a nearby pool, frozen over of course, but preferable to waiting uselessly in that "cursed" carriage.
There, he had made himself as comfortable as possible, perched upon an ice-cold boulder, glaring at nothing while repetitiously tossing pebbles against the surface of the water, as though it were to blame for his troubles.
He did not start when she spoke, he had almost expected her to find him...she usually did, somehow. Comprehending by his posture, his present level of ire, she moved silently near him, placing her arms about his shoulders in an attempt to ease his vexation. At first, he refused to be comforted, but her presence could not be ignored, and he finally allowed himelf to relax, just a bit, against her.
"I blame myself," he said, his voice tightly controlled.
"You are not to blame," she admonished him gently.
"I would not listen to you."
"You were being sensible...I was not."
"It appears to have been the opposite."
"We could not know that at the time. I appreciate that you were thinking only of me."
"Was I? Or was I merely being selfish?"
"No..." she was stroking his cheek soothingly, as she spoke, "I shall not let you languish in your misery alone, my love. You might as well accept that fact. If we are to suffer, we shall do so together."
"Oh, Elizabeth," his voice cracked as he breathed a great intake of air, and she knew, if he were not weeping yet, it was only through sheer will, for his strength was rapidly deserting him due to lack of sleep and the persistent distress of the past twenty-four hours.
Then, as she tenderly laid her cheek against his hair, one minor gesture of sympathy proving to be too much for his frayed and battered nerves, he wept at last, his agony pouring forth until her own tears of commiseration were copiously, yet unconsciously, shed along with his own.
Only the concern that they might be discovered in such an undeniably humbling and totally undignified situation separated them at last. Still, she was reluctant to let him go completely, her hands lingering on the lapels of his coat as he took out a handkerchief to remove from their cheeks any remaining impressions of the shared emotional release.
When he could speak, he said quietly, "I am sorry, Elizabeth."
"For what?" she asked, her own voice unsteady yet.
"For causing you pain as well...it seems the more I try not to, the less success I seem to have."
"If a man cannot share his feelings honestly and openly with his wife, than she is not of much value to him, is she?"
As he was still seated upon the boulder, she took advantage of the change in his stature, that is, being nearer to her own height, to kiss him repeatedly about his face, particularly where evidence of any grief lingered. "It only encourages me to love you more deeply," she added, placing her forehead against his as if to remind him of her unwavering attachment.
For answer, he gathered her to him so that she was able to rest her head more comfortably upon his shoulder, all the while a curious sort of calm began to encompass her heart.
They might have stayed that way, but for the faint yell of "Hellooo!" from somewhere behind them. Moving apart reluctantly, she brushed some invisible lint from his collar as he held onto her hand, perhaps a moment longer than of what propriety or seemliness might approve.
The driver had returned with another animal, but whether it was an improvement was yet a mystery, for the poor thing suffered a definite swayback, which affected it's gait in a most peculiar manner.
After being reassured that it had been hitched to a team many times, they remounted the carriage and were soon off again. Dusk was settling over the countryside by then, bringing with it a return to much colder temperatures.
Even under the lap robe, Elizabeth shivered slightly, but whether from the frigidity or from the emotionally draining scene just experienced with her husband, she could not have ascertained. As it was, she was very glad of his hands, now enclosing hers snugly beneath the robe, an assurance that her own might remain warm, even if the rest of her should like to freeze.
At long last they arrived at the inn at Bonn, several hours later than had been planned. A circumstance partly due to the swaybacked horse's step being more laboured than his fellows', and thus throwing off their rhythm, partly because a recent washout had toppled a large oak tree across the road, forcing all five gentlemen to abandon the coach, and aid in transporting it off of the traveled portion.
Supper, though substantial, did not appeal to Elizabeth, nor, it seemed, to Fitzwilliam, and they soon retired, exhausted, to their bed, although it was only nine o'clock.
The chimes from a nearby chapel had just finished striking three when Elizabeth awoke. Her first impression being, that she was wrapped up securely, much like a cocoon, her second, that it was her husband's arms causing her to feel so. Somehow, she gradually became aware of his being awake, and in the semi-darkness due to the full moon outdoors, he appeared to be watching her. He had not spoken nor moved, but she sensed his concentration as surely as if he had.
"What is it?" She asked, attempting to wiggle around in order to see his face more fully, "Are you unable to sleep?"
"For the moment, anyway," he replied.
"Is something wrong?" Then, considering the events of the past two days, she amended, "I mean, of course, since going to bed this last evening."
"There is nothing wrong of which you do not already know," he answered somewhat cryptically.
"Then...why are you watching me?" Curious now, she faced him, a smile beginning to force its way onto her lips. He was acting rather oddly, but not unpleasantly, for even now his fingers were tracing her cheek, with a sort of gentle puzzlement.
"Was I?" He did not appear to be half-asleep as she might have suspected, in fact, he was more responsive than he had been all day. Thus, it was not a complete surprise when his lips sought hers, although, instead of the intensity she had come to almost expect with him, he prolonged the kiss languidly until she felt as though she were floating.
"I love you, Elizabeth," he said then, much as he had countless times before. However, this time, the words made her stomach tighten, for he spoke as if he were truly saying them for the first time, as though she were hearing them for the first time.
Once she had regained control of her breathing, for it appeared to be stopping and starting in a most disconcerting fashion, she whispered, "You have only just realized that?"
"I have realized that quite often, actually," he answered, whispering also, even though there was no reason to do so. They were completely alone on that floor of the building, there being few travelers on the roads this time of year.
"And you felt the need to inform me of this at three in the morning?" It is best, she determined too late, if one is to tease, to at least regulate the steadiness of one's own voice while doing so, for her's unexpectedly began to shake.
"Are you nervous?" He asked her then, surprise in his own voice.
"No," she responded quickly, perhaps too quickly. How do you explain to the man who has shared your bed for over two years that he could, and did, still affect you as if you were yet a newlywed?
She should be much more blasé about it all, but as always, when he kissed her, she became fluttery, when he touched her, she melted like butter. He continued to stir within her, feelings which a married woman with two children should no longer be driven by. It was embarrassing, and yet wonderful, and every time it happened, it took her by surprise. Much like falling in love all over again each glorious day.
How could she say all of that to him aloud? It sounded foolish, flighty, and to her, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy, second daughter of the ever-irreverent Mr. Bennet, the worst sin of all, insensible.
"Elizabeth?" he murmured, "Do you know what amazing power you hold over me?"
She swallowed, wondering if he had read her thoughts as he continued to speak softly, "I had no idea how very much that I could love you...how infinitely, how limitless. It can be quite...intimidating."
"Yes...I know."
"Do you?" He was leaning up on one arm, his voice serious, "Then I have only one request to make of you."
"What?" She almost squeaked. Idiotic voice, she thought impatiently, hoping he had not noticed.
"Be gentle, my love."
With a start, she realized that he was quietly, although most definitely, laughing. Laughing? Instantly she was up on her knees, hitting him with her pillow, even as he was attempting to take it from her.
"Elizabeth," he said much louder and much more insistently, "I asked you to be gentle!"
Chapter Fifty
Following her husband's uncharacteristic playfulness so early this morning, they had made love until daybreak could no longer be disregarded, when they were compelled, although not inclined, to depart from their bed.
Most extraordinary of all, she mused in silent appreciation, was that they had managed to forget the many distressing reasons for this journey, if only for a few hours, and return to a spontaneity once enjoyed so frequently earlier in their marriage.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Fitzwilliam's low voice in her ear, "You are looking quite pleased about something, Mrs. Darcy. Might I inquire as to what has inspired such contentment?"
"Do not be impertinant, sir. You know very well of why and how my disposition has been affected, so do not pretend innocence." She kept her voice as low as he, although the two sitting across from them displayed no interest, whatsoever, in their conversation.
"You are feeling well, I trust, madam?" He inquired then, his manner formal, even as a smile let itself be shown briefly upon his lips.
"I am well, thank you...and you, sir?" Under the lap robe, his fingers were tracing light patterns upon her hand and wrist, and occasionally, seemingly by accident, the top of her leg, causing her stomach to tighten and flutter in a most discomfiting fashion.
"I am quite well...and, how did you sleep, pray?"
Answering as seriously as she could manage, she said, "I fear I slept very ill."
"I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps you shall fare better tonight."
"Perhaps," she replied, looking out of the window, and trying not to laugh.
Later, when Clara had nodded off, and Preston was adequately engrossed in a book to allow them some privacy, she asked softly, "Fitzwilliam, why?"
He transferred his gaze from the passing scenery to her face, as she attempted to clarify her question, "Why has your disposition changed so since yesterday?"
"Do you mean improved?" He inquired calmly.
"Well, improved as far as your spirits. You are not so...unhappy." The depiction sounded even her own ears, inadequate, but she faltered at anything more explicate then that.
"No, I am not," he conceded, refraining from further elaboration.
Studying him, and becoming somewhat bemused by his resistance, she persisted, "Can you not tell me what has motivated such a profound change?"
"I could, but I believe you already know."
Her cheeks, against her will, were displaying a deep crimson, as she recollected the events of the day and night before. Instantly she dropped her eyes to her lap, at once embarrassed by the allusion, and quite tongue-tied because of it. She knew he was diverted by her mortification, but seeing her decomposure, he apparently relented, for soon he leaned close to her ear and whispered, "It is all because of you, my lovely Elizabeth."
She smiled despite herself, and raised her eyes to meet his once again, "You give yourself no credit, sir?"
"Yes," he acceded, "However, any credit I may claim is only because I was determined to earn your regard in the first place."
"Earning was not so very difficult," she chided him, "Your gift is in keeping it so well and so completely."
"No, madam, the earning was the most difficult of all, and something I shall be thankful for every day of my life."
"Every day?" she felt compelled to ask, her dimples showing.
"Every day," he stated firmly, "Even when it is less obvious to either of us."
"You are speaking nonsense, now, Fitzwilliam. You are saying all of this only because..." Although, she had begun her speech in a perfectly sensible tone, her voice faded as she read the expression in his eyes.
"Because I love you madly, Elizabeth Darcy." This was spoken so near her ear that her breath caught in her throat at the unforeseen exhilaration of his closeness.
"You are causing me grave distress, you know," she said very softly.
"Why, my love?"
"Because, at this moment I cannot act upon my impulses."
"Can you not?"
She glanced across the coach just then to see Preston had also fallen asleep, his chin buried in his coat collar.
Returning her eyes to her husband, she only had time to smile blissfully as his lips covered hers, at long last.
They were stopped, as expected, at the Belgium border, however this time, their trunks and valises were unloaded and systematically searched.
"I am sorry, sir," one guard had the grace to apologize, "But we have had many instances of smuggling recently, both in and out of the country."
This process costs them precious time, but Elizabeth, observing her husband, became increasingly impressed by his apparent lack of impatience.
Perhaps, she thought, he was expecting such a delay, after all, when he booked them passage he must have been warned of the heightened vigilance along the borders. Yet, when she questioned him as they waited, he denied prior knowledge, and was evidently amused by her astonishment.
"Am I such an ogre then?" he asked her.
"No, not an ogre, but you generally have little time for such unplanned obstacles," she hedged, reluctant to disaffect his good humour.
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then he said, "I am truly sorry, Elizabeth, if this is your impression of me. I did not realize how I have intimidated you."
"You..." she was about to argue with the inference that he did anything of the kind, until she noticed his expression. "Mr. Darcy," she declared, just before turning on her heel to leave him alone, "You are incorrigible."
Once, the border guards were satisfied of the party's absence of contraband, they were, at length, allowed to go on their way. Due to the melting snow, the roads had become so prominent with ruts and holes, that their progress was further impeded, leading to their arrival at Verviers to be much later then intended. Seeing as twilight was already upon them, they were forced to stop at an inn for the night, causing them to totally revise their schedule as they had anticipated reaching Liege yet that day.
Lying in bed that night, Elizabeth was still finding it difficult to adjust to her husband's lack of real concern. No matter how long she thought about it, she could not comprehend how a man could have changed so drastically overnight. She did not mind, of course, as his present ease of manner was most agreeable, after the profound distress he had endured before leaving Frankfurt. Still, it was a puzzle, and as she was not one to simply let the matter drop, she felt she must delve into it yet again.
Tonight, there was no moon, as the clouds had thickened throughout the evening, leaving their room in total darkness, thus when she spoke, not only was she uncertain of his answer, she was also doubtful that he might yet be awake.
"Fitzwilliam?"
"Elizabeth."
As his reply was immediate, she knew him to be as restive as she.
"You are not overtired?" Unnecessary as the inquiry was, she wished to be sure of his willingness to talk at this late hour.
"Not so much," he answered, turning onto his side to gather her into his arms, "And you?"
"I would rather discuss something with you, if you don't mind," she said, letting herself languish in the warmth of his embrace.
"What concerns you, my love?" He was kissing her ear between words so it sounded a bit disjointed, nevertheless, she forced herself to concentrate on the topic at hand.
"You." Attempting to speak aloud the thoughts which had plagued her all day, she struggled for the right words. "You are...different."
"Good or bad?"
He was teasing her now, but she would not be distracted. "Good, of course. That is, not that you were bad before, but, you are baffling me, Fitzwilliam. I cannot understand why you are suddenly so lighthearted. What has changed so excessively since we left Frankfurt?"
"I have had time to think," was his unexpected answer.
"You have not had that in the past?"
"The time was there, the inclination was not."
"I do not understand..."
Unconsciously, he had relaxed his hold around her as he pondered his response, and she nestled against him helpfully. He sighed once, then reaccommodating her against him, he spoke very close to her ear, "When I received the letter from Radcliffe, I was reacting out of pure unadulterated fear. I did not stop to consider anything else at that time, nor would I have allowed myself to do so. Only you, my love...only you could make me see beyond my immediate panic."
"How have I done this?" She asked, a bit amazed by his disclosure, "I did nothing out of the ordinary."
"Did you not? You are all consideration and sympathy, Elizabeth. You consoled me when I was in despair, you understood my desperation, and offered me comfort in my hour of need."
"You are too generous, Fitzwilliam," she protested, feeling not a little embarrassed by his compliments, "If you truly felt so intensely, then you must commend your own strength of character, not mine."
"And yet, I could not have dealt with this situation, so far, without you. If nothing else, it has made me aware that I can do nothing until we reach Pemberley, and that matter is now out of my hands. I have done all that I can for the time being, now I have only to relax and languish in the great pleasure of your company."
"An agreeable prospect, I must admit," she sighed, turning her face towards him to receive another kiss. Later, she asked, "So you are not worried about missing the boat at Antwerp?"
"No, we shall make it."
"Nor, what we shall find upon arriving at Pemberley?"
"Will my worrying about it, affect it one way or the other?"
"Probably not," she had to agree with his logic, "You shall retain this confidence throughout our journey?"
"Well, I cannot promise, of course...but, so long as you are with me, the object is not unattainable."
"I may remind you of this later?"
"I shall welcome it."
As she could think of no other reply, she contented herself with tucking this knowledge away for future consideration, at a time when she was not being so pleasantly engaged.
Chapter Fifty-One
"What is it, Fitzwilliam?"
"There has been a problem with the carriage," he replied, agitation evident in his voice.
"Oh?"
"Elizabeth," he suddenly appeared unwilling to continue, but she went to him, resolutely sliding her hands into his, in an effort to calm and comfort whatever was presently troubling him.
"What is it, my love?" she prompted him.
"If we wait for repairs it shall cost us another day, " he acknowledged at last.
Her heart sank, "We could not make it to Antwerp on time, then, could we?" At his silent confirmation, she asked, "There is no other conveyance available?" But, even as she mentioned it, she supposed that if there were, he would have located it by this time.
He appeared to be sunk deep in thought until, at last, his eyes met hers, "Elizabeth, you told me once that you are not a horsewoman, so what I am about to propose, you are certainly not obliged to agree to, if you do not wish it."
"I can neither agree nor disagree if you do not make the suggestion," she reminded him, as again he hesitated.
"If you are willing, I can obtain two horses...which would be faster than a coach, at any rate. The servants could stay behind to wait for the carriage, and then meet us again in England..." his voice trailed off as he studied her expression in an attempt to discern her initial impression.
She did not reply immediately, contemplating the idea. Her first reaction was one of surprise. The fact that he would even suggest she ride with him was both flattering and also a bit daunting. His horsemanship was superb, and he had never even seen her on a mount! Before long though, with a sudden surge of practicality, she began to doubt the wisdom of the scheme.
"I have no riding habit," she reminded him, "Only what I have brought with me."
"That is of no matter," he replied, then, a bit amazed, asked, "You would consider it?"
"I have no choice, really. I mean, if I wish to return home as soon as possible, then this is truly the only way, is it not? And I know, you shall remain with me, and not let me come to harm."
. He pulled her so tightly to him then, that his expression of appreciation went unseen by her.
"What about our trunks, our clothes?" she questioned when his arms released her at last, even though she presumed he had, in all likelihood, thought of that as well.
"We can pack a few things into saddle bags, the rest we shall leave with the carriage...but, Elizabeth, am I...do I ask too much of you?" The return of his incertitude succeeded in settling the matter for her once and for all.
"No," she replied, "You do not...but, Fitzwilliam, I am sadly out of practice, and fear that I shall surely slow you down. I would not wish to detain you, nor cause you even greater delay."
"My love," as he spoke, he kissed her palms one at a time, causing her breath to catch in her throat, but alas, the sensation was distressingly suppressed by her new, and rapidly rising apprehension.
"I am certain, " he continued, his voice everything that was warm and tender, "That you shall be as capable in this as you are in everything else. " Although his confidence in her was rather alarming, she fell silent as his eyes looked deeply and solemnly into hers, "You know, Elizabeth, that I could not return to Pemberley without you."
"Well," inquired she, after taking a breath and smiling somewhat ruefully, "When shall we be leaving then?"
She hoped, no, prayed, that her years of avoiding the exercise would not occasion her to endure significant mortification before the very gentleman whom she would absolutely abhor disgracing. He did not notice her doubt, however, and with a final kiss placed lovingly upon her lips, hastened from the room to finalize the arrangements.
It was with some trepedition that Elizabeth emerged from the inn to meet her steed, which proved to be a graceful Arabian by the name of Apparition. An unusual name, surely, but fitting somehow, as it's coat shone pure white against the background of the grey streets and dull buildings. Somehow, Fitzwillaim had also acquired a sidesaddle, and after securing their bags, he assisted her in mounting as gracefully as she was able, considering her lack of any recent practice.
His own charger was pure black, referred to as Penumbra, of proud bearing, with a confidence attained only through care and gentle training.
The fact that he had obtained such flawless mounts in this quaint, rural setting, was furthur proof of her husband's ability to achieve exactly what he wished, at the time required, even in a place foreign to them.
Once he, himself had mounted, and discussed some last-minute instructions with Preston concerning the baggage and their passage across to England, he smiled at Elizabeth in encouragement, then, with a chirrup to Penumbra, moved forward at an easy walk.
She had no difficulty following at this pace, although it took some minutes to adjust to being seated so very high without any material support around her. Clutching the reins as if they were lifelines, she concentrated on becoming acccustomed to the horse's gait., an impression long forgotten, as it had, until now, been deemed unnecessary in her daily life.
After a mile or so of this, Fitzwilliam asked, "Are you growing more comfortable yet, Elizabeth?"
She smiled ruefully, "I am becoming used to the horse, but, the question is, is she becoming used to me?"
"Shall we find out?" he challenged her, and without waiting for an answer, took off at a trot. Elizabeth looked after him doubtfully, nonetheless, she took a deep breath, urged her horse forward as she had seen him do, and extraordinarily, Apparition complied without hesitation.
Remembering to lean forward just slightly so as not to lose her seat, she succeeded in remaining intact, although the increased jolting was yet another motion to adapt to.
They reached Liege easily by midmorning, and so only stopped long enough to see to the horses, and to stretch their own legs. An exercise sorely needed by Elizabeth by that time. Careful to keep any comments to herself, however, she was aware that Fitzwilliam was most likely enjoying the feeling of again being astride a horse, after such a prolonged absence.
As they were remounting, he invited her to quicken her pace, saying, "If we increase to a canter, we might have luncheon in Hasselt, and perhaps make Antwerp by tonight."
"Yes, " she agreed, all the while unwilling to reveal to him her uneasiness, now inflamed further by his inauspicious proposal.
Please, Lord, she prayed desperately, as she dug her heels into Apparition and leaned in a bit closer to her mane, don't let me fall off, break my neck, or otherwise disgrace myself. The horse, meanwhile, accelerated it's gait obligingly, her rider's prayers not impressing her in the slightest. For a while Elizabeth tried closing her eyes, so at the very least, the passing trees and landmarks would not appear to be flying by at so alarming a rate. This, unfortunately, only succeeded in making her feel quite dizzy, which was far worse, and she was finally forced to reopen them lest she tumble off altogether.
She decided, at this point, to keep her vision squarely focused upon her husband's back. This solution proved to be most favourable to both she and the horse, in that it happily distracted her from her current woes, thus allowing her to, unconsciously, relax in her seat.
They reached Hasselt about one o'clock, located an inn at which to eat their midday meal, and then continued on to Antwerp.
By now, Elizabeth was beginning to enjoy herself. She had long become accustomed to the horse, and had loosened up enough so that every step did not jar her spine, nor rattle her teeth. Therefore, she found herself surprised, but gratified just the same, when Fitzwilliam slowed to ride alongside her in the middle of the afternoon, and even more so, when after only a mile or two, he turned off onto a narrow side-road and dismounted. Seeing her puzzled expression, he smiled and suggested a walk.
"Are you weary, then?" she had to ask, yet unsure of his motivation.
"I have found, when riding all day, it is best to stop occasionally and stretch the legs," he answered by way of explanation, as he moved to assist in her own dismount. She was fully prepared to do so in the usual manner, but, before she had begun to move, he reached up, grasped her about her waist, and lifted her down easily. As her feet were set upon the ground, he did not remove his hands, instead he bent and kissed her, first lightly, then much deeper, with an unequivocal ardor which succeeded in taking her breath away utterly.
"What was that for?" she managed to inquire, once he had relaxed his hold, and she could again speak in a somewhat coherent manner.
He made no answer, and even appeared to be loathe to release her completely. In fact, his arms were encircling her still, and, so intimately that she had no choice but to slide her own around his neck.
His expression assumed a combination of speculation and desire, causing him to look as if he could not decide between kissing her a second time, or to respond aloud to her question. Apparently, choosing the former, his lips again covered hers, until she was no longer conscious of even the sunlight streaming down upon them between the surrounding evergreens.
The horses nickering softly behind her, acted as a reminder of how visible they would clearly be to any passing rider or coach. Believing she heard him sigh as they separated, she studied him, bemused, but his countenance remained calm.
In fact, without saying a word to her at all, he took hold of the horses' reins, led them twenty feet or so further from the road, and tied both sets to a small but sturdy sapling. She watched him all the while, wondering what, exactly, he was about.
When he had finished, he turned to her, and offered his hand, saying, "Shall we walk a while, Elizabeth? I would not mind some exercise on my own feet rather than the horse's."
She smiled, accepting his invitation gladly. The woods were really quite lovely and peaceful, and the sun was yet high enough where the delicate warmth permeated even the densest growth.
Here and there, as they walked together, bits of snow lay hidden beneath a mound of leaves or brush, but otherwise, the ground lay barren and brown, few signs of spring in plain evidence as yet.
After five minutes of absolute quiet, for the birds were even keeping their counsel here in the midst of the forest, Elizabeth spoke, "Fitzwilliam?"
"Yes," he replied, his eyes focused upon the remnants of a path before them.
"Why did we tarry here?" After all, she added silently, we could have stopped in any one of a number of countless little villages today.
"To walk of course," he replied, "And, to see how you are faring." then, in a tone of quiet detachment, "You seem to be enduring the ride exceptionally well."
"Today, perhaps," she allowed with a laugh, "I fear tomorrow shall not be so agreeable...I have no doubt there will be a rather painful price to pay for my laxity over the years."
"Elizabeth, " he had halted rather abruptly in his tracks when he spoke her name, and more than a little puzzled, she followed suit.
"What is it?" She asked, wondering if something had startled him, and at the same time glancing around with the expectation of, at the very least, meeting with a fox or badger.
When she returned her gaze to him, he was smiling at her. "You needn't worry, my love. If you would have been in danger, I would have seen you well out of it's path by now."
Before she could ask him of the cause for his hesitation then, for they still had not moved, he turned to face her, taking both of her hands in his. "The reason I stopped just now was for the opportunity to tell you...how very much I appreciate your doing this."
"What...the riding, do you mean?" She was surprised not so much by his words, as by the manner and mode in which he chose to deliver them. "You could not express this while on your horse?"
"I needed to say it to you directly," he explained, "There are some ladies, you know, who would consider such a proposition as indecorous, and, in fact, might even presume it as an affront against them."
"So," she inquired saucily, "Does this mean that because I did not react in much the same manner, I am lacking in some essential sense of proper decorum? Was it a sort of trial, then, in which I was found to be grievously wanting?"
"The only trial, if there was one, has been for myself," was his reply.
"And what, pray, can you mean by that?"
"Your acceptance of a difficult situation, as usual, has enhanced my regard towards you to the point where, if we were not required to be at the docks by tomorrow, I would be loathe to depart this place yet."
As there was no denying the desire now so obvious in his demeanor, she found herself torn between the need to reach Antwerp on time, or the totally shocking, yet at the same time, enticing, notion of making love in a wood which promised to offer very little protective cover, and therefore, limited privacy.
Weighing all of the risks such a proposition would entail together, however, finally restored her common sense, and she said, with true reluctance, "We cannot, Fitzwilliam. At least, not here."
"No," he agreed, then, bending to kiss her cheek, replied, "Not here."
But even as he voiced his resolve, their eyes met, and some unseen force succeeded in pulling them into each other's arms. His lips, warmed by his ardor, were suddenly covering her face and neck with frantic kisses, as all the while unable to check her own growing fervor, she repeated in ineffectual gasps, "We must not, my love."
It might have been only a matter of minutes before they both were in danger of losing all restraint, but for the sudden, startling, and coldly deliberate sound of a pistol being cocked behind them.
All activity between the two abruptly ceased as if frozen.
Looking up from his wife's neck, Fitzwilliam's eyes encountered a gentleman of a decidedly solid carriage, perhaps in his mid-twenties, his right arm straightened out before him while holding firmly onto a pistol aimed squarely at the two of them.