Beginning, Previous Section, Section III, Next Section
Chapter Seventeen
Along about the third week of March, Mrs. Reynolds approached Elizabeth, obviously distressed.
"It is my sister in Worcester, Mrs. Darcy," she explained, a letter held tightly within her fingers.
"What is it?" Inquired Elizabeth, surprised at seeing the normally serene housekeeper in such a state.
"She is very ill, and as I am her nearest relation, she has asked that I come to her. I hate to leave just now, ma'am, what with you being so close to your time, but I see no other way."
"How long shall you be gone, then?"
"I cannot say for certain, but I hope not more than a fortnight. If it is to be longer I shall give my notice."
"Nonsense. I will not hear of it." She chewed her lip thoughtfully; then, "Mrs. Reynolds, you must go to your sister. We shall manage here somehow. Do not worry about my baby, for I suspect that I shall have another month full before it's arrival."
"Are you certain, ma'am? I would not go at all, if Dr. Fielding were not in the neighbourhood."
"Even should this child come early, I would not have you remain here. You must go and care for your sister. Hopefully, she will recover fully and you shall, very soon, be back with us." Elizabeth rose and taking Mrs. Reynolds hands into her own, squeezed them fondly. "One must see to their family in times of hardship."
"Thank you, ma'am," the older lady replied, appearing to be genuinely touched; yet turning away before any unseemly emotion might be displayed.
Mrs. Reynolds had enjoyed the happy circumstance of performing her job so well, that until she was gone, no one realised all that she had accomplished. Now, in her absence, the household did not run quite so efficiently. Still, the remaining staff managed to fill the void left in her wake, in as satisfactory a fashion as possible.
As the days passed, Fitzwilliam returned to his former healthy aspect; the only hindering after-effects of his injuries, a slight catch in his side at those times of extreme weariness. The second blow to his head had, indeed, left another scar. This one just slightly to the right of the first, and although unable to remain hidden beneath his hairline as the other had been, it was not so prominent as to mar the evenness of his features.
Meanwhile, he continued to suffer occasional headaches. Generally in the evening; yet, severe enough that he would be prevented from attaining sleep for some time. On one such night, he was seated upright in bed; his head resting upon his upraised knees, his thoughts gloomy, when a light knock sounded upon the doorframe. He knew at once who it was, although he did not lift his head as she entered.
"Fitzwilliam," she asked softly, "You are unwell?"
"It will pass," he replied between gritted teeth.
He felt the bed sink where she climbed onto it. Then, she was kneeling behind him, her hands gently massaging his temples and descending in a soothing pattern down to the nape of his neck. Slowly he relaxed, and feeling this, she told him, "I shall move so that you may lie down upon your stomach."
As he did so, she positioned herself beside him, continuing her ministrations with even, steady strokes. The rhythm of it was so soothing, that he felt himself soon dozing off. When she stopped, he hardly knew, but later...much later apparently, he awoke abruptly to darkness and solitude.
Oddly, this knowledge filled him with something very much like desolation. "And yet," he thought to himself, "This was my choice. If I am going to sleep alone, I had better become used to it, and, if not...," It was the first time that he had consciously considered altering his strategy. Yet, even then, some part of him continued to resist. "You shall only be made to agonise further," he reminded himself. "If you yield to this, you shall be lost once more."
He lay there; his headache gone, yet his own conflicting desires waging a silent war within him.
The morning found him in his own bed still, but he felt little triumph at this accomplishment. In fact, he was so dispirited that he deliberated remaining where he was for the day; a circumstance so unheard of, he was certain that the staff would suppose him of being near to death.
At last, he arose, rang for his bath, and while waiting, considered his options. He was miserable, that was certain. And, what was worse, it was a misery of his own making. It did not have to be this way. She loved him still. She demonstrated that fact countlessly every day, and yet...
There was, indisputably, a definitive step to be taken, and he found himself unwilling or unable to take it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And so, the remainder of March passed quietly enough, with neither Mr. or Mrs. Darcy altering their behaviour. But, while one of them strongly anticipated and desired such a change, the other still wavered.
April brought with it, storms. First, an ill-seasoned blizzard which tore through the countryside ruthlessly; then, by the second week, driving rains. The tempests succeeded in tearing up roads and fields; leaving rivers where there had been none before, and lakes in places guaranteed to cause extreme inconvenience.
Through all of this, Fitzwilliam worried for Pemberley's surrounding properties and its tenants. The weather affected the land directly and the people hardly less so. With this on his mind, he would take to riding out in the afternoons; against his sister's, wife's, and even his doctor's advice.
"He should not be astride a horse yet," Dr. Fielding repeated for the umpteenth time to Elizabeth during one such occurrence. "A concussion may lead to bouts of dizziness and disorientation long after any discernible recovery."
"You hardly need tell me that," replied she, gazing ruefully from her window. "But, he will not listen to me, nor to anyone."
"No," he conceded, "He will not." Studying her for a moment, he inquired, "And, what of you, Mrs. Darcy? Any headaches, sleeplessness, or unaccountable periods of disquiet?"
She smiled, "None other than of my own making. No, Doctor, I find myself inelegantly healthy, and can only hope that the delivery shall be as easy."
"Yes," he agreed, but carefully, "We must, certainly, desire it to be such."
"You expect problems?" Even though a bit taken aback by his tone, she did not feel overly concerned by it. He tended to demonstrate an excess of caution, and she, as a result, to anticipate the opposite.
"No," he assured her, "Not problems, specifically. But, remember Mrs. Darcy, all births are dissimilar."
"That much, I do realise," she returned. "I, somehow, recall being present at the two previous."
At last he smiled, "Well, I anticipate that this shall be, at least, as successful. We shall have to wait and trust for the best."
A letter arrived from Mrs. Reynolds informing them of her sister's condition improving little, and that she must beg a longer absence. She also reiterated her offer of turning in her notice. But, Elizabeth, in her reply, insisted that they would not even consider such a step, and that she should remain in Worcester as long as was required.
In the meantime, Mrs. Evans, who had served as Mrs. Reynold's assistant and clerk, was temporarily granted her mentor's role until the time of her return.
Although the lady was competent, she lacked the housekeeper's general warmth and agreeable outlook. She was only about two years Elizabeth's senior, yet, she pursed her lips and could easily look as severe as any woman twice her age. She said little; other than "yes, ma'am," or "no, ma'am," when given some direction, and when Elizabeth would make light of a situation, responded by merely staring at her unblinkingly in a most disconcerting manner, before finally excusing herself.
"I believe," observed Mrs. Darcy to Miss Darcy, following one such episode, "That she can boast of no sense of humour at all."
"Well, perhaps," returned Miss Darcy reasonably, "She has little reason to possess such a trait. I have heard that she is a widow, after all."
"That is tragic, of course," conceded her sister-in-law, "Yet, I have found, that people don't so much, lose their own facetiousness, as they simply ignore it altogether. I suppose this must be a case, therefore, where the poor woman was never blessed with any to begin with."
"That is a possibility."
"But, would you not think that a sense of humour, or at least a sense of the absurd, would be a prerequisite for this particular position?"
"How so?"
"Well, certainly, simply attending to so many and varied self-important personages, such as ourselves, must surely provide provender for all kinds of nonsensical musings. I know that if I found myself in a similar situation, my imagination would be running rampant."
"Elizabeth, you do profess some odd notions at times."
"Yes, well...Still I am unsure if I shall feel comfortable with Mrs. Evans when I should go into labour. She appears rather...cold."
"She seems perfectly competent. If you truly feel thus, however, then perhaps someone else ought to be requested when the time comes."
"No, I would not wish to cause further complications. I shall just have to discover a way to see past her thin lips and inimical eyes."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The following day, Elizabeth received this letter from her father.
My dear child, it read,
It was with some consternation, whereupon the receipt of a missive from your sister, Mrs. Bingley, I learned of your husband having suffered a most unfortunate accident. I do trust that he is improving as I have heard little from you of late. Pray, reply and bring me up to date on the substantive particulars as soon as is possible.
I hope, my dear, that you understand how fond I have become of Mr. Darcy over time, and look upon him as a kindred spirit in many respects. I believe, of all of my son-in-laws, he is the only one with whom I could make such a claim.
Realising that I am the last person who might offer criticism for any deficit of timely communication; I, yet, feel the need to remind you of how I live in anticipation of your letters as, oftentimes, they are the only distraction from my regular, rather tedious existence.
The words, although written in a tone of affectionate understanding, still filled Elizabeth with some guilt; although, as she reread the reference to her husband, she could not help a surging of pride, as well as a great deal of pleasure.
"I only hope," she thought, "He shall choose to remain as my husband." Despite their recent troubles, she was not truly concerned with his divorcing her. Yet his extended absence from their bedroom caused her to harbour far less assurance than previously. On more than one occasion, she was compelled to bolster her own spirits when they would lag from his lack of acquiescence.
He had fallen in love with her before, why was it so difficult for him to do so again? Perhaps, it really was hopeless. Perhaps he wished to remain in this state of celibacy, of detachment, indefinitely.
For herself, however, she knew that she could not subsist quietly under such a harsh and cold edict. There were too many nights when she lay awake, thinking of his kisses, the depth of his passion; his own body against, and ultimately, within, her own. These feelings were like nothing else, and she was not willing to sacrifice any of them.
No, she would win him back. She had to, for life without his regard, his love, seemed not to be a life at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Eighteen
"Georgiana, I am stepping outdoors for a breath of fresh air," Elizabeth told her sister-in-law as she left her in the drawing room, stitching industriously.
Barely lifting her head, she inquired, "Oh? Has it stopped raining?"
"Yes, thank Heavens, and I cannot wait to breathe it in." Drawing on her coat and bonnet, she headed, not for the courtyard as was her usual haunt, but to the vast gardens along the east side of the house.
There were already a few blooms visible: crocuses, violets and daffodils poked through the soggy ground, firmly establishing their places in the Spring beds. As she walked among them, she inhaled, deeply, the scent of damp earth beneath fresh, green grass.
Having been plagued throughout that day with an aching down her back, she hoped that the exercise would alleviate some of the stiffness.
"Oh, little one," she murmured just below her breath, "Once you are born, I shall not take a sound constitution for granted ever again. I cannot recall when last it was that I felt in good health, all over." The baby within her moved as though in reply, causing her to smile to herself, and continue the conversation. "Perhaps you shall be Melanie this time, and bring a light to your father's face. God knows he displays little to me these days."
She picked a broken tree branch up from the ground before her; using it to help her return to a standing position. Then, handling it as she might a walking stick, she resumed strolling and talking to herself, or in this case, to her child, in a leisurely manner. "I would not have you think ill of your father, however, for he is quite loving and considerate when he chooses to be." Emitting an involuntary sigh, she added, "He is not, just now, choosing to be thus to me."
Absent-mindedly, she broke the stick in half as she walked, throwing the pieces into a pile of brush intended to be burned later, after it had dried.
The slow rhythm of her steps stirred a long forgotten song from her memory. She began to hum, her mind labouring to recall the lyrics.
Tis the April of the year,
The lark, she boasts of her three hatchlings,
One grey, one brown, one of sky blue,
All sing of love so fair and true.
"There is more...," she mused, "Why cannot I remember?" After a moment, another line let itself be known, followed, at length, by the remainder.
Tis the April of the year,
My love, he comes to claim my hand,
His eyes, they promise all things new,
He sings of love so fair and true.
Tis the April of the year,
The lark laments her long-lost children,
My love is gone to someone new,
There is no love so fair and true.
"Sad," she thought, feeling, suddenly, a bit despondent. "Why is it, that the majority of love songs seem to end so unhappily?" Then, answering her own question, she said aloud, "Drama, of course. It is far more interesting to hear of tragedy than triumph. I suppose it reassures us that we are not alone." As if to refute her own words, she sighted yet another figure moving rather aimlessly through the garden.
"Melanie," she whispered (For, sometime during her monologue, she had already decided that this child should, if at all possible, be a girl), "I believe your papa is deep in thought. We do not wish to disturb him." Taking a step backward, she turned to leave, but the stick which she had abandoned had somehow found its way into her path, and she trod firmly upon it; breaking it with a resounding crack.
"Elizabeth?"
Turning back to watch him as he approached, she sighed again. She was not in a mood to face the coolness displayed toward her of late, but she could not, with any dignity whatsoever, run away; so, lifting her chin, she waited for him in silence.
"Is it not a bit damp for you to be out?" He inquired, as he neared.
"Less so than it was," she replied, challenging him to order her inside.
But, instead, a strange look passed over his face, almost of regret. He was quiet for a moment as he considered his next words. Finally, he spoke, "I did not mean to appear arrogant...You may certainly walk where you wish."
"Thank you."
"You are well?"
Closing her eyes briefly to the formality in his voice, she answered, "Yes, I am as well as can be expected."
"I am...glad."
After another moment of silence, she amended her statement, "Well, not so much, you see."
Looking confused, he studied her face before he inquired, "I am afraid...that I do not understand."
"No." Pulling her gaze away from him to mask the despair in her eyes, she agreed, "No, you do not. You could not."
"I...," he began uncertainly, then, shaking his head, he said only, "I find that I understand less every day."
"And I," she said, keeping her voice low to prevent its breaking, "Have brought you to such a state. I am sorry, Fitzwilliam, if my conduct has increased your unhappiness. Perhaps after...after this child is born, I should take the children to Longbourne. You deserve the rest, and I am sure my parents would be ecstatic to see their newest grandchild."
"You would leave?"
Something in the way he asked caused her heart to perform a short, but most definite, leap. "Not long...a fortnight, perhaps?" She nearly whispered, hardly daring to look at him.
"Elizabeth," his voice faltered, "I cannot..."
She said nothing, waiting for him to finish, while against her better judgement, she allowed herself to hope.
"Elizabeth," he repeated; then, "Don't...please, do not go away."
"Why, Fitzwilliam?" The question emerged on a breath of air, so that she was unsure if he had even heard her.
He had. His answer, however, satisfied neither; "Because, Pemberley would miss you."
"Pemberley?"
"I would miss you." The admission seemed to cost him everything, for abruptly he gathered her into his arms; burying his face into her hair, and holding her so tightly that she could not move.
As in all moments of high emotion, she had begun to cry; yet, she managed to speak semi-coherently through her tears, "Then, you do still love me, after all?"
"My God," he choked, "Is it not obvious?"
"No. Nothing has been obvious. Say that you love me."
"Elizabeth, I love you. I have never stopped loving you, despite my best efforts. It is useless. There is no defence and nothing, apparently, that I do, will change this."
"Thank God," she breathed, rivulets still running freely down her cheeks. "I have been so very frightened."
"Frightened?"
"Frightened that I had lost you for good,...that my reason for being had been taken from me,...and frightened, as well, for this child."
"Tell me...," he urged, all the while placing gentle, tender kisses upon her hair and face.
"With Jamie and Ethan you were always here...always with me, even when you were not. I mean, I could feel your love through every pain, every second of my giving birth. You were my strength, and without that, I...began to doubt whether I should even survive such an ordeal, this time."
He had quieted at her words. Now he promised her, his voice fierce, "You are not to be afraid, my darling Elizabeth. I shall leave you no more."
"Do not," she smiled shakily, "Promise what you cannot grant."
"I shall not leave you again," he insisted, "Will you believe me?"
"I believe you for now, because you wish it, but my common sense tells me other things."
"What things?"
"That...Oh, it does not matter. Fitzwilliam, I do believe that you love me. I know that I cannot live without you, and that we must strive to never doubt one another again."
A shadow crossed his features, but he answered readily, "All I need do, is to recollect this past month to prevent me from ever wishing to resurrect such misery again."
"As do I," she concurred, allowing her eyes to look into his directly. As if by design their faces neared, and, carefully, hungrily, he kissed her. In the depths of that one kiss, their lips told without speaking what was truly in their hearts.
At some point in time, it started to rain again. That, and only that, finally separated them. Keeping one arm around her, he led her into the house, and for the first time, cared little if anyone inside might be observing their every move.
They did not stop until they had reached the privacy of their room. Then, taking her into his arms once more, he confessed, "Countlessly I have dreamt of holding you thus, only to awaken to emptiness. I swear, I shall not sleep without you again."
"Yet, if I had come to you, as I had thought of doing so often, would you have rejected me?" She asked, her own arms around his shoulders.
"In my madness, I might have; hating myself all the while. Oh, God, Elizabeth, can you ever forgive my stubborn pride?" This was spoken while he kissed her eyes, her face, then began to cover her throat with heady thoroughness.
"We shall speak no more of forgiveness," she decided, closing her eyes in ecstasy at his caresses. "Our behaviour has been lamentable, however human. It is long past time to move on to other matters."
"Yes," he agreed, sliding her coat from her shoulders. Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, she let it drop to the floor, just before his lips, again, covered her own.
That was how it continued. The dampness of their clothing did not hinder its eventual removal, and between each article falling, another kiss was blissfully bestowed.
He hesitated only once to ask, "Elizabeth, are you certain? I would not bring you, or our child, to harm."
She had managed a weak smile at this, somewhat, belated offer, "You would bring me to far greater harm if you stopped now. I fear I am long past acting rationally upon such a conviction."
Accepting this as assent, he made love to her. His lips; sparking flames of desire in their wake, his hands; touching, stroking, leading her to a place she had not dared dream of for so many long weeks.
Afterward, as they lay in one another's arms, she languished in the joy of burdens lifted and vanquished. He loved her, still, and that was all she would ever need.
For his part, he fell into his first natural sleep since the evening of their quarrel; brought on by a fulfilment found nowhere else, with no one else.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They did not appear for dinner. Georgiana, unsure whether to regard this as encouraging or not, remained by herself at the table. In her mind, she imagined the worst and best of possibilities; none, however, coming close to the reality abovestairs.
Chapter Nineteen
After being awakened in the night by a deafening clap of thunder, he experienced, as he realised where he was, that relaxed contentment which always followed in the aftermath of making love to his wife. This, however, was quickly followed by concern, for she was no longer lying beside him. Instead, she was now sitting up against the headboard, her face a study of carefully repressed suffering.
"What is it? Elizabeth, are you ill?" He asked, becoming fully alert at once.
"It is nothing," she replied, her voice taut, "It is only this catch in my back that refuses to leave me be. Do not attempt to stay awake, my love...You can do little to ease it, I am afraid."
Despite her protests, he was soon beside her, his voice soothing, "What may I do then? I shall not sleep if you are in distress."
Smiling at him tolerantly, she answered, "You may talk to me, if you insist. Your conversation might help take my mind from the discomfort."
"Fine," he agreed, sliding his hand behind her to gently massage the muscles there, "What topic would you like?"
Laughing softly, she suggested, "Tell me of what you were dreaming. You spoke aloud several times, you know."
"What did I say?"
"Nothing of sense. Something about a horse named St. Joan and someone called Molly."
He had become still at her words, his face suddenly thoughtful, "Anything else?"
Surprised by his change of mood, she asserted, "No, nothing else that I could comprehend. Why, Fitzwilliam?"
"I don't know if I merely dreamed it, but, while I was ill, I imagined such a beast. A horse named St. Joan, and as for the woman, Molly,...someone spoke of her, or to her; many times, in fact. Perhaps it was the man who had discovered me."
"Mr. McGuire?" She asked, studying him fondly.
He appeared mystified by her knowledge of this. "Yes, how did you know?"
"He came here to Pemberley with Mr. Bingley to tell us of your accident. When they would not allow me to go to you, he offered me some comfort...," She had taken his free hand into hers to stroke it softly. "He said that you did want me there, but that you did not know it yet. He said...that you had called for me. Is this true, Fitzwilliam?"
"I hardly know," he admitted truthfully, "I recollect dreaming of you constantly. What I might have said is anybody's guess."
"Well, I had hoped...prayed that it was so, for, I never stopped thinking of you." Made unaccountably shy by this confession, she, with some reluctance, lifted her eyes to his. In a moment, his lips were upon her own, relieving her fears with their silent affirmation.
This tender expression of affection was interrupted when she unexpectedly gasped aloud. At once, he withdrew, his expression alarmed, "What is it? Did I do something?"
A strange look had come upon her own countenance, even as she assured him, "No,...but I think it is time to send for the doctor."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once the messenger was dispatched with all due alacrity, Fitzwilliam returned to her side. A chambermaid had been set, by then, to dab Elizabeth's face with cool water from time to time, but she subsided as he entered; leaving only Mrs. Evans, who, watch in hand, stood guard at the door as though she were a sentry on duty.
Aware, therefore, of the housekeeper's presence, he kept his voice low. "How are you, my darling?" He inquired, smoothing her hair away from her damp forehead.
She smiled weakly, "I have been better. On the other hand, I could say that I have been worse." This last ended abruptly as she was overcome with a contraction. As her breathing slowly returned to normal, she asked, "Would you stay awhile, Fitzwilliam? I find when I am distracted, the pains pass more quickly."
Pulling a chair closer to the bed, he asked, "What shall I do? Sing?"
Shaking her head in amusement, she replied, "No, I think we had better discuss names, as we have put off the task for far too long as it is."
"I had supposed that you had decided on Melanie," he said, feigning surprise at her reproof.
"Well, obviously, if it is boy, that will not do. I was thinking,...perhaps, Robert?" She peeked at him from beneath her lashes as she offered this suggestion.
"After your father? I was wondering when you would get around to that." The look he gave her bordered on mischievous, which caused her to laugh just as another contraction came upon her. This one lasted a bit longer, leaving her unable to speak for a moment following its passing.
As her breath returned, she remarked, "They are becoming stronger already."
His own face had paled upon witnessing her torment; now he answered unsteadily, "Harrison should have returned by now." Rising, he moved to the window, staring out at the darkness just as the sound of rain pelting the windowpanes was heard by all of them. "Where the devil is he?" He fumed under his breath.
As if he had been overheard, that gentleman was announced by the chambermaid, as, "just now coming down the hallway". He would not enter, of course, so Fitzwilliam excused himself to go speak with him.
Mrs. Evans chose this moment to declare, her tone, as usual, brooking no dissension. "At this time I shall summon the girls who will be assisting. Mr. Darcy should, most probably, wait downstairs."
"No." Whether it was because they had only recently been reunited, or, more likely, that Mrs, Evan's high-handedness succeeded in setting her teeth on edge, Elizabeth felt little obligation to comply. "No," she repeated, "I wish Mr. Darcy to remain."
That lady's countenance displayed no reaction as she inquired, "How long shall you desire his presence, then?"
"For as long as he is willing," Elizabeth retorted, not really sure if he even was.
For answer, Mrs. Evans merely nodded stiffly; excusing herself to ready the staff and prepare the articles which would, eventually, be needed.
When he returned, the aforementioned Mr. Darcy appeared to be agitated, frustrated, and even irritated, but he definitely did not look willing.
"What is it?" She asked, her eyebrows raised at the restlessness of his manner.
"Doctor Fielding has been called away. A message was left with his wife, but she had no idea when he would return...Blast it!" This pronouncement was followed by his pacing back and forth across the room several times.
Finally, in an effort to divert him, she begged, "Fitzwilliam, please, you are causing me to become quite dizzy." Her attempt failed, however, as another contraction distorted, what should have been an ingratiating smile, to something else altogether.
Immediately, he was beside her. "I am so sorry, Elizabeth," he apologised, once she had got her breath back, "I am being callous. Tell me what you would like. At least it will take my mind off...," he did not finish his concern aloud, but she saw the worry now visible in his face.
"I would like...," she hesitated, before making her request; uncertain whether he would instantly agree or be openly repulsed by the mere notion. "I would like you to stay with me."
"Until? He asked, looking puzzled; but not opposed, as she had feared.
"Until, he or she is born, or until you can stand it no longer," she replied, a trace of a smile on her lips.
"You wish me here?" He questioned again, considering the idea. "I shall be of little use, I'm afraid."
"You may talk me through the contractions. Mrs. Reynolds is not here, nor Jane. I cannot ask Georgiana,...and Fitzwilliam, I am not easy. I loathe to admit it, but Mrs. Evans does not inspire the highest of confidence." This last was whispered as they heard that lady returning; followed by two maids carrying various linens, pans of water, and an assortment of smaller items.
"I am certain she is harmless," he whispered back; then, his tone becoming thoughtful, he asked, "All I must do is talk to you?"
"Yes." She watched him as he pondered for some moments, pleased that he was even giving the appeal serious deliberation.
Finally, he met her eyes and smiled, "You do realise that as soon as this gets out, it shall be the scandal of the neighbourhood."
Returning his smile with one of relief, she replied, "But, why should it? You are, after all, Mr. Darcy; and who knows? You might even set a new trend."
"Doubtful. A gentleman may stay with his horse when she foals, but the idea of remaining with his wife through childbirth will never be acceptable."
"Of what use is it to be 'one of the most illustrious personages in the country', if you cannot do what you like?" She asked then, her eyes laughing into his.
"The...what?"
"Mr. Collins wrote that to my father when Lady Catherine exhibited her displeasure towards him in regards our engagement."
"Oh," he leaned back in his chair, "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means," she answered, lowering her voice, "That if you wish to stay with your wife in her time of need, no one shall dare say you nay."
And, so he did. Not because he believed Mr. Collin's nonsense, but because she had asked it of him. Holding her hand, he attempted to carry on an intelligent conversation; in itself difficult because of being constantly interrupted by the increasing length and strength of her contractions, the hum of activity going on around them, and his own preoccupation with the doctor's worrisome delay.
The time seemed to drag. He thought, many times, that the mantle clock must be defective as its hands never seemed to move. Each time Elizabeth cried out, he started; then, irrationally, she would apologise for alarming him.
At one point, she asked, her voice nearly spent, "Shall you ever forgive me, I wonder?"
He had leaned toward her, his heart in his throat, but managed, "Forgive you for what, my love?"
"For," and she had opened her eyes to smile at him, "Having you remain in here, when you might, otherwise, have been safely downstairs with a book and brandy."
At that moment, the realisation of his own selfishness (as well as every other male on the planet) swept over him. Swallowing, he replied, "If you wished me to see the error of my ways, you should have had me do so with James."
But, she shook her head, "If that were the case, I have a feeling he might have been an only child."
Meanwhile, the ladies around them were not still. One stood by the bed, wiping Elizabeth's brow from time to time, or placing cooling cloths upon her wrists, the other was kept busy by Mrs. Evans, whose voice, grating though it was, soon became simply part of the background noise in the room. Throughout all of this, played the steady beat of rain against the window, punctuated by lightening flashes or thunder booming.
Occasionally, when he would forget the reason for why he was present, Elizabeth would remind him weakly, "Speak, my love. I need to hear your voice."
He was in the middle of a rather rambling description of the process of animal husbandry (he was rapidly running out of subjects, and by this time, she appeared to be barely listening), when Mrs. Evans spoke from her place at the foot of the bed.
"Sir," she said, then louder when he did not respond, "Sir, it is time."
"Time for what?" He had answered with irritation before he realised what, exactly, she meant by it. While he had been concentrating on his wife, the housekeeper had been checking beneath the cover every few minutes. As her statement penetrated, he rose from his seat, agitated anew. "This cannot be. Doctor Fielding has not arrived."
"Whether he has or he hasn't," she replied calmly, "This child is ready to arrive now."
"Have you..." he began, hesitated, and finally asked outright, "Have you done this before?"
"Several times," she answered, folding the cumbersome blanket away from Elizabeth's legs and replacing it with a sheet. "Now, sir," she continued, "If you remain out of the way, you may stay with Mrs. Darcy."
Astonished by her presumption, he, nevertheless, took his seat without argument; his attention drawn once more to his wife. She was lying with her eyes closed, her breath coming out in short puffs. As he smoothed the dampened hair from her forehead, she smiled briefly, but did not open her eyes.
He found himself unprepared then, when she murmured something; her lips moving, yet, little sound emerging.
Leaning forward in order to hear her better, he asked, "What did you say, my darling?"
Swallowing, she repeated, "Did I tell you that I found it?"
"Found what?"
"The pendant which you gave me for Christmas." His mind, deeply involved in the matter at hand, had to strain to recall to what she was referring. But before he could reply, she continued, "Miss Covington had it all the while."
This perplexing revelation hardly had time to penetrate his already overtaxed grey matter before Miss Evan's voice was, again, heard behind him. Her head and shoulders were completely hidden behind the sheet, and from there, in the manner of a general leading his troops, she directed, "Now, Mrs. Darcy, push!"
Leaning upon her elbows, Elizabeth obediently complied; expounding so much energy in the process, that she soon lay back in exhaustion.
"That is not enough." This from Mrs. Evans, "Again, Mrs, Darcy!"
For answer, she gave a sort of moan, "I cannot."
"You must," came the answer, "Mr. Darcy, sir, you must assist her!"
Before he could inquire, how, precisely, he was to go about doing that, she ordered, "Hold her up, so that she may concentrate!"
Whereupon he, purposefully ignoring the housekeeper's incredible audacity, slid his arms behind his wife's shoulders, as a sort of prop. Then, without really knowing what he was saying, he whispered, "Push, my darling, push."
Whether his words in her ear inspired her or not, her next effort proved to be far more successful. With a final, shuddering gasp, she relaxed against him, even while the activity behind the sheet noticeably increased.
Immediately one of the maids was beside Mrs. Evans to assist her in the culmination of the whole, rather messy, as well as emotionally draining, business.
After a few moments, during which the only sound was Elizabeth's ragged breathing, Mrs. Evans emerged from her tent; the child already beginning to cry lustily in her arms. At that moment, a flash of lightening lit the very corners of the room, followed by a thunderous crack of thunder.
With this as the most dramatic of overtures, she announced, "Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, you have a daughter."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Twenty
Still in the position from whence he had supported his wife, Fitzwilliam Darcy gazed upon his daughter with an expression of both wonder, and disbelief; struck suddenly, and unexpectedly, speechless. Elizabeth, too, was silent; although whether from amazement or exhaustion, he did not know.
When he, finally did look at her, her eyes were closed as though asleep. Yet, one single tear was making its way, slowly, down her cheek.
"Elizabeth," he said, very low, after lovingly kissing away that tear, "We have a daughter."
Opening her eyes, she smiled at him, answering, "Yes, I know...Isn't she beautiful?"
This was, as luck would have it, the moment in which Doctor Fielding chose to make his rather soggy appearance. His eyes scanned, first, the infant, then Mrs. Evans, Elizabeth, and finally Fitzwilliam. Any shock at seeing him present, was quickly replaced by his immediate concern for mother and daughter.
He took off his coat and washed his hands at the basin. Then, without pretence nor time wasted, he began to examine Elizabeth, still modestly adorned by the sheet. "How is she?" He questioned Mrs. Evans, indicating, with a nod of his head, the infant in her arms.
"You shall have to determine that," was her reply, while wrapping the child in a blanket and preparing to hand her to him.
"May I?" It was Elizabeth, who had been watching the proceedings through exhausted eyes, "May I see her?"
"She must be washed," answered the doctor, but, amazingly, Mrs. Evans intervened. Carefully, she took the child to Elizabeth, holding her low enough so that both mother and father could see her clearly.
She was not, strictly speaking, beautiful, as her mother had pronounced just moments before. Still covered with the white, sticky, birth membrane, she squirmed and wriggled inside the blanket; her face pinched into an expression of great displeasure. Her hair was black and thin, plastered now to her head, and giving the impression of her wearing a monk's cap.
Her parents, however, noticed none of this.
"Melanie Elizabeth," breathed her mother.
"Melanie Elizabeth Darcy," corrected her father.
"Well, Melanie Elizabeth Darcy," Doctor Fielding interrupted, "You are due for your first bath." That said, he took the child from Mrs. Evans and, with remarkable ease, bore her to the maid who was waiting to assist him.
This left Mr. and Mrs. Darcy with a brief moment to themselves, for even Mrs. Evans had withdrawn to begin cleaning the room.
"Congratulations, my love," said Elizabeth, whispering, as his face was, yet, very near to hers.
"Elizabeth," he began, but because he was able to say little else, responded simply, "You are amazing."
"I feel I must thank you," suggested she, with a small smile.
"I did nothing."
"You were here."
"My God, Elizabeth...Right now I am only very glad that I was not downstairs with my book and brandy."
"As am I. Perhaps, my love, you should inform Georgiana."
"Yes, I should. You will be all right?"
"I am fine, and, most probably, shall be asleep before you have even closed the door behind you."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In seeking his sister, he discovered that he did not have far to go, as she was waiting directly outside of their bedroom.
When she saw him, she met his eyes expectantly, "Well?" She questioned, taking a step towards him.
Answering, "A girl. We have a daughter," he truly felt that if he smiled any broader, his face might split.
"And, Elizabeth?"
"Fine...Wonderful, in fact."
Georgiana studied him, obviously pleased. "You have reconciled, then? I am most relieved, as well as overjoyed for the both of you."
"Thank you." Standing in a state of preoccupation for a moment more, he finally thought to offer his hands, which she happily accepted.
"But, Fitzwilliam," Georgiana asked, once she had kissed his cheek fondly, "Where have you been? I sought you throughout the house, and was very nearly afraid that you had fled again, following another misunderstanding."
"No," he shook his head ruefully. "I...was actually with Elizabeth." Even admitting this aloud could not make it seem any less of a dream than it did.
Georgiana stared at him, openly amazed. "You were with her...the entire time?" Considering this silently, she decided that there was nothing really wrong in the concept, yet, she could hardly believe her brother would be so...unconventional."She did not mind?" She inquired curiously.
"It was her idea."
"Oh." Still deep in thought, she said no more on the subject. However, as much as she admired her sister-in-law, she remained uncertain that when her own time came, she could be quite so broad-minded. There were some things, she firmly believed, better left unrevealed between husband and wife. Childbirth, definitely being one of them.
Keeping her feelings to herself, she slid her arm through his, while inviting, "Shall we, then, drink a toast to my niece?"
Although fatigue was just beginning to let itself be felt, he agreed, and escorted her down to the drawing room.
As they passed the landing window, he was surprised to see dawn fast approaching . During the hours spent with his wife, he had thought the night would never end, but now, here it was,...morning. He was now the father of three, his wife loved him despite his many shortcomings, while his own heart swelled with the mere thought of her.
In short, he was a man, at last, content.
As their glasses lightly touched, Georgiana inquired, "She is Melanie, then?"
"Yes...Elizabeth, apparently, made her wishes known to you."
"To everyone, I think. She did so, wish for a girl."
"So she did. Georgiana," his expression suddenly appeared puzzled, "Do you recall that pendant I gave to Elizabeth at Christmas?"
"Yes, of course," replied she, watching him carefully and waiting for his next words.
"Why would it be in Miss Covington's possession, do you suppose?"
"Did Elizabeth tell you this?"
"She said something concerning her having finally found her pendant, and that Miss Covington had it all along."
"Fitzwilliam, you may want to ask her this, instead of myself." Georgiana appeared uncomfortable with the subject; her eyes avoiding his own.
"Why, Georgiana? You usually do not refrain from being candid...At least to me."
In spite of her unease, she smiled. "Your questions do not usually pertain to such an uncomfortable subject."
He appeared to be even more bewildered than before. "What is the subject, then? I believed it to be perfectly harmless."
She sighed, acceding, "Miss Covington, herself, removed the pendant."
"Removed it? Do you mean she appropriated it? Whatever for?"
"She was,...I don't know, perhaps still is, in love with you; or at least she believes herself to be," she admitted reluctantly. "She thought that by taking the pendant, she might discover some breach in your marriage. She hoped...that if you were unhappy or dissatisfied...you might leave Elizabeth for her. Do not look at me like that, Fitzwilliam, I am only recounting what I was told."
For, her brother's expression had gone from disbelief to anger, and then to the reserved iciness which she had dreaded ever since she could remember. He rose, paced the room and then reseated himself.
"Is this why," he asked, the tone of his voice almost causing her to shiver, "She accused me of deception, of...adultery?"
"If you are going to be angry at someone, you had better have it be me, as well; for I saw you together just as she did. Miss Covington apparently made it a point of seeking you out whenever you were riding...Did you never wonder at such frequent chance encounters?" Shaking her head, she came very near to scolding him, "Sometimes, Fitzwilliam Darcy, I must wonder at your common sense." As this was about as bold as Georgiana would ever dare to be, she now closed her mouth, fearful of having gone too far.
He was silent for some time. At last, he asked, somewhat chagrined, "How did Elizabeth reacquire it?"
"She went to Greenmont on the morning after you disappeared. She told me later that she did not really go there to seek you out, but to find out if Miss Covington might know where you would go."
"She spoke directly to Miss Covington?"
"Well, to Mrs. Covington first. Somehow her mother forced the truth from her. She had been planning this since she visited us on Christmas Day. I am truly sorry, Fitzwilliam, that I...we both leapt to the wrong conclusion. Yet, you must admit that it might appear suspect; to see you together so often."
"Perhaps, if you were unfamiliar with me, it might," he said, as a mild reproof; then, "However, I suppose I could understand Elizabeth's misinterpreting what she witnessed." Studying the rug, he acknowledged quietly, "Exactly what I should have believed if the roles had been reversed."
"By the time that she spoke to Miss Covington, she was already convinced of your innocence."
"But, by then, I was gone," he finished for her. "And, now that I have, finally, come to my senses, what must I do? Reprimand Miss Covington in public?" Although he spoke half in jest, there was a certain hardness in his tone.
"That would be difficult to do at present," replied Georgiana, "She has left Derbyshire to visit her sister in Suffolk for an extended stay...Recommended by her mother, I understand."
"Yes, I can well imagine...Well, Georgiana, shall we drink to, somewhat, wiser decisions in future, then?"
He lifted his half-empty glass to her ruefully, to which she replied, "By all of us, I believe." Smiling now, she added, "But, you look exhausted, Fitzwilliam. You must obtain your rest if you are to be a worthy father to the younger Miss Darcy."
Returning her smile, he agreed, "You see, a wise decision already. See what a fine start we have made." Then, bowing to her briefly, he left her; feeling that the past twenty hours had, certainly, proven to be a period of profound enlightenment.
Chapter 21
"She is much smaller than her brothers," commented Mr. Darcy to Mrs. Darcy upon regarding his daughter for only the second time in her young life. She was now five hours old, and after attempting a much needed, yet less than restorative, nap; he had returned to his wife's bedside to note any alterations in the child's appearance during his absence.
"She is much younger than her brothers," asserted Elizabeth, smiling at the pleasing sight of the infant being held securely within his arms. She was leaning back against a mountainous stack of pillows, having rested, herself; before his not altogether unexpected reappearance.
Clara, anticipating this as well, had made a point of brushing her hair until it shone, assisting her in donning a lacy bedjacket, and even, having bouquets of, what few flowers there were, brought in from the gardens to set about the room.
The maid knew, of course, of their reconciliation. In fact, as usual, she seemed to comprehend everything nearly as soon as it occurred; a circumstance which might have been deemed unsuitable, except that she had the good sense to keep such knowledge to herself. It was only through the efficiency of her services that Elizabeth realised how little was actually concealed.
At the moment, with her husband's attentions happily restored, she could only feel gratitude for this amazing insight; however, mysteriously it might have come about.
"Was Georgiana pleased when you told her?" She inquired now, as he settled himself in the chair nearest her, while still cradling Melanie against his chest. His sister, she supposed, had, out of consideration, refrained from disturbing her repose; even though she was undoubtedly, quite anxious to meet her niece.
"Yes," he answered, gazing down at the sleeping infant. "She appeared to be delighted that we have a daughter, for a change." As his eyes lifted to meet hers, he added, "She also told me something of particular... significance."
"Oh?"
His countenance took on a look between embarrassment and remorse, yet, he continued in spite of his apparent unease. "She enlightened me of Miss Covington's, less than honourable, dealings."
"Oh." Without realising it, her cheeks reddened; "I had hoped that she would not."
"I suppose I must owe you, yet, another apology, Elizabeth," he concluded, doggedly ignoring her protest.
"No...don't, Fitzwilliam," she intervened, as he opened his mouth to say something more; "I cannot recollect the whole affair without considerable mortification. If I had behaved as I should have, many of our troubles would not have taken place. I cannot truly blame Miss Covington for all of it...Indeed, if my imagination had not gotten the best of me, we might not have had to endure such misery."
"Your imagination, as you put it, went exactly where she intended," he argued. "If I had been alert, to, even suspecting her of such a scheme, I might have..."
"What?" She interrupted, "You might have done what? It is said that nothing is so flattering, nor so seductive to a man, as to know that a woman desires him. Could you, so easily, have turned her away?"
In nearly one movement, he lay the sleeping Melanie into her bassinet, and returned to seat himself on the edge of the bed. His expression, rather than displaying anger or impatience in the face of her uncertainty, had become deeply earnest.
"Elizabeth, there is no woman on this earth capable of luring me from you...I do not know how to make you understand this fact. Even in the midst of my outrage, I did not consider such a prospect, nor would I." He was holding onto her arms as he spoke; as though he might shake her, but instead, he drew her against him urgently. "I have taken my marriage vows as just that, and I have no expectation of forsaking them, or you!"
"No," she gasped, mainly from the vehemence of his words, "Nor I."
"For you, to not comprehend,...to know this, was equal to your driving a knife into my very soul. Yet, inasmuch as I hated you for it, I loved you as well. There can be no torture so painful,...so hopeless." He pulled back enough to search her eyes, "How many times did I dream of you, Elizabeth? How many hours did I long for your presence? And, all I could do was endure it; wish for it to end. Why do you think I behaved as I did when I returned from Lambton? I loved you still, yet I could not allow myself such a lack of restraint,...of regulation, again."
"But, now you have," she reminded him, unwittingly holding her breath as though he might, yet, contradict her.
"Yes. God help me, I have." Closing his eyes at the memories unleashed, he lay his forehead against hers.
"Fitzwilliam," she whispered, swallowing back a sob, "Shall we truly be able to put this behind us? Might we not begin anew? I would wish...I would desire us to start afresh...pretend that all of that thoughtlessness was rendered by two other people."
"Two foolish people?" He asked, not moving.
"Perhaps. Yet, perhaps a bit wiser now, too...Do you think that we might?"
Lifting his eyes to hers at last, he replied, "I can guarantee little wisdom, you know."
"No." She almost laughed before the impulse caught in her throat, "But, at least we should not perpetrate the very same crimes over again."
After a heart-stopping moment, he smiled; albeit with some weariness, and even a certain amount of preoccupation. Yet, the sight of it lifted her heart immeasurably. "Fitzwilliam," she suggested, suddenly feeling lighter, more carefree than she had in many weeks, "Should we not seal our bargain?"
"As we used to?" Asked he, smoothing a curl from her damp cheek.
Her expression left him with little doubt as to her meaning, and so, he lowered his face until their lips met.
As they parted, she gazed at him expectantly. "Are we in agreement then, Mr. Darcy?"
"The agreement being...?" He inquired, while studying her.
"That, I shall not doubt you again," she promised, sliding her arms around his neck, "And, that, even if you are seen dancing in the streets with every manner of female, I shall think nothing of it, and will only adore you all the more."
After smiling briefly at her words, he cleared his throat, returning,"And I shall not leave you in the heat of the moment, but stay and hear you out. Obviously, it has done me little good in the past to charge off into the night. Either one or the other of us, seems to end up becoming injured in some unfortunate mishap. Perhaps I should take this as a sign that it is not, necessarily, the best choice."
"Perhaps you should...Fitzwilliam?"
"Yes, Elizabeth."
"Do you love me?"
"You know that I do."
"Well, say it anyway. Humour me."
"I love you, my darling Mrs. Darcy."
"And, I, you, Mr. Darcy." She did not have to request his kiss a second time, for before she was even finished speaking, he had covered her mouth quite firmly, and for a gratifyingly extensive period of time, with his own. The sensations incited by this act produced such a quivering deep within her; that as they separated, she felt more than a little shaken.
Her voice, despite her best attempt to control it, betrayed this emotion when she, finally, found herself capable of speaking; "It is well that you cannot read my mind, I think."
"No?" He had replaced his forehead against hers; their faces remaining very close.
"For," she confessed, smoothing his cravat, "Despite the rather fatiguing events of earlier this morning, I find myself dealing with several overpowering inclinations; which, I fear, must be regarded as highly improper, as well as most definitely unwise."
"Elizabeth," he groaned softly, straightening away from her. "You insist on making this more than difficult, don't you?" With a visible effort, he rose to walk to the window, as though suddenly feeling the need to increase the distance between them. At the same time, while emitting a small sigh, she lay back against the pillows; her one consolation being, that, he would likely be suffering as greatly as she.
Each was so involved in the arduous task of suppressing their own ill-timed desire, that the hesitant knock upon the door caused them to start at the same moment.
"It is Georgiana," announced a soft voice from the hallway, "Are you awake, Elizabeth?"
"Yes," she replied, attempting to quickly replace her expression of resignation with one of welcome. "Pray, come in."
As the door opened, Georgiana's gaze slid immediately to the bassinet. "Please, may I not see her?" She requested, already moving in that direction.
"You may even hold her, if you wish. I am sure she will not mind," Elizabeth invited generously.
"Oh, but she is perfect,' Georgiana marvelled, as she stooped to lift young Miss Darcy gently from her bed. With great care, she held the still-slumbering infant close to her; her eyes taking in every aspect of her tiny frame.
She glanced up at her brother who remained near to the window. "Did you notice the length of her fingers? Perhaps, someday she might excel at the harp or piano."
"Then, it is fortunate that she has such an accomplished aunt to teach her," replied Elizabeth with a smile.
"I have little doubt of her mother being just as able," returned Georgiana, blushing at the compliment.
"Between the two of you, I am certain she shall, indeed, perform flawlessly," put in Fitzwilliam, and with that, he bowed to the three of them, departing with unprecedented haste.
Georgiana watched his exit, her eyes round with amazement at his leaving so rapidly, "Is he unwell?" She asked. Then, as an idea occurred to her, she followed this inquiry with an embarrassed, "Pray, did I interrupt something?"
"No," her sister-in-law assured her ruefully, "And, that in itself is probably for the best."
Somehow, word reached Brindlewood of Pemberleys newest occupant, so that by that very evening a messenger arrived with a letter from Jane. She wrote that they were overjoyed, of course, "But," she scolded, "Why did you not send for me, Lizzy? I cannot abide the idea of your having had to bear it alone, and without someone to offer you comfort."
"She cannot know," Elizabeth remarked contentedly, upon reading this section aloud to her husband, "That I made use of a very great comfort, indeed...In fact," she considered him as he sat in the chair near her bed, "I would have to say, that this was, by far, the most agreeable of my three labours."
Meeting her gaze with one of mild disbelief, he declared, "Of all the descriptions which I might attribute to this morning, agreeable would not be my first choice."
"Why," she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows, "Your part of the task, surely, must have been the simpler!"
"Much of it, undoubtedly, was," he returned, "However, in pure, unadulterated fear and panic, there would be little to dispute."
"Really?" She pretended to be surprised, "You disguised it so well." After a moment, however, she abandoned teasing him; her countenance taking on an air of subdued appreciation. "Seriously, my love, you shall have no idea of how much your being present last night, and this morning, meant to me."
"I am glad," was his reply, "That I could, finally, be of some use."
Meeting his eyes then, she let him see, clearly, the true depth of her gratitude. The silence between them following this interchange, was broken only when he, at length, cleared his throat; while at the same time, moving as though preparing to leave.
Confirming this, he explained apologetically, "Much as I abhor doing so, I must bid you good night, Elizabeth. I fear that I can hardly keep my eyes open."
"Yes," she agreed, striving to subdue her wish for him to delay, "You must be very tired, indeed."
Bending, he kissed her chastely upon her cheek, straightened, and, without another word, crossed to the door which led to the adjoining bedroom.
For some reason, however, he found himself unable to sleep. After two hours of tossing restlessly; he rose, slipped on his robe, and noiselessly opened the door to her chamber. In the moonlight, he could see her lying there; her hair spread out upon the pillow, her hands folded across her stomach.
He had not moved when she inquired in a whisper, "You could not sleep, either?"
"Too much to think about, I suppose," he contrived.
"Perhaps," she hesitated, then suggested almost shyly, "Perhaps, you might lie in here for a while...until you are more tired."
"Elizabeth...," he began, but the words caught in his throat. Swiftly, he moved to the bed, although he did not disrobe; some wise presence within, reminding him that it would be safer if he did not. Once on the bed, he drew her into his arms, her body melding to his in a way, both, familiar and wondrous.
"I was hoping that you would return," she said after a breathless moment.
"It may not be the most intelligent decision I have ever made, but I can endure being apart from you no longer," he admitted, basking in the scent of her hair, her skin.
"If you had not, I might have been inclined to come to you; a far more hazardous proposition in my condition. Would you not agree?" She inquired, happily settling her cheek against his chest.
"You know as well as I, that you should be resting..., and alone," he reminded her. "Yet, somehow, lying without you another night seemed unbearable."
Following a pause, he added ruefully, "We may, however, be, foolishly, tempting fate. Even now, I long to do more than, simply, hold you."
"If you kiss me, I shall not become overtired," she suggested with false innocence.
"If I kiss you, it shall not be only once."
"More than once would not harm me."
"It is the feelings stirred within me by your kisses, which concerns me."
"Then,...we should resist?"
"I am afraid so." As he professed this, however, he turned his head just enough to find her lips. Because of his fears, the kiss remained gentle; both of them well aware of the risks; if, for even a moment, they should relinquish their self-control.
Chapter 22
One week following the birth, Elizabeth, who was still restricted to her bed, was deeply involved with arranging the details for Melanie's christening. After some discussion, it was decided that, unlike those understated and quiet affairs provided for James and Ethan; they would invite the entire family for the period of a fortnight; holding the ceremony one week before Georgiana's wedding.
As the chosen date was only a month away, there was much to be done beforehand.
Bishop Peadmont, who had presided over nearly every occasion for the Darcys since before even Fitzwilliam was born, would do the same in this case. As Elizabeth, herself, could not meet directly with him for at least another week, her husband and sister-in-law had gone in her stead.
They returned with the favourable news that all would be arranged according to plan, leaving Elizabeth both relieved and apprehensive.
"Good Lord, what have I done?" She moaned later to Georgiana, amidst letters, invitations, and lists scattered across her counterpane. "This might turn into the most insensible event ever to be contrived by a female in the whole of Britain."
"Or, it might not," argued Georgiana soothingly. "It shall all turn out fine, I am sure. These are not strangers whom we must go out of our way to impress, but friends, who shall have this happy occasion to remember in the years to come."
"Yes, well. Let us hope that when they do so, they do not find cause for too much mirth. I should hate to provide overmuch entertainment, and not be able to share in it myself."
"Elizabeth," Georgiana smiled tolerantly, retrieving a stack of invitations ready for posting. "I wonder at your wishing to go through with this, if you are, already, so anxious." Picking up one from those before her, "Oh, look. Here is a letter for you. It must have been placed in the wrong pile." She handed it over, her expression curious, "It is postmarked from Germany."
Elizabeth accepted it, a bit surprised herself, saying, "It must have arrived this morning....," Breaking the seal, she unfolded it to read silently. Finally, she glanced up at Georgiana; "It is from Dr. Brecht...the physician who treated me last year." Reading on, she remarked, "He shall be travelling to Manchester next week and asks to call. He is desirous to check upon my progress while he is in the neighbourhood."
"He should be pleased, should he not?" Georgiana inquired, studying Elizabeth's preoccupied countenance.
"Oh, yes...I believe so," was her careful reply. "However, we left Frankfurt in such a hurry, that we did not take the time to thank him properly."
"I am certain he understood at the time."
"I hope so. It is just that,...that period of our lives was so distressful; right now I am uncertain if I even wish to recollect it."
"Elizabeth," Georgiana suggested, as the idea occurred to her, "Perhaps, it was meant to be. For, if you had not left Germany when you did, and in such haste; you, most likely, would not have stopped near to Tellerone, and, thus, would not have made the fortuitous acquaintance of Mr. Berrick."
"So, you are saying," she replied, amused, now, "That all of the awful events of last spring were initiated, simply, to bring you and Mr. Berrick together?"
"Well, it does sound rather selfish when you say it like that. But, if we are here to make sense of life's misfortunes, than why not? Furthermore, he did assist greatly when Fitzwilliam summoned him to Pemberley."
"You are right, Georgiana, Mr. Berrick has, indeed, been a valuable acquaintance, and, despite the dreadful circumstances which led to our meeting, I cannot regret that much," conceded Elizabeth laughing at her sister-n-law's discomfiture. "Very well. We shall welcome Dr Brecht as an old and dear friend, and hope he shall not remain overlong, so that he may continue as such."
The days seemed to fly past, while the tasks allotted were completed in relatively efficient fashion. Elizabeth was allowed to leave her bed after two weeks, with the following day marked by the welcome return of Mrs. Reynolds.
That lady was appalled at missing the birth of Miss Melanie; chastising herself continuously until Elizabeth presented her to the child so that she could see for herself, the infant's apparent good health. On the other hand, her sister, Mrs. Rand, had taken a turn for the better; permitting her to leave Worcester under happier circumstances than, even she, had dared hope.
After the initial greetings, yet before Mrs. Reynolds had donned her customary apron and cap, she requested a private word with Mrs. Darcy.
"Yes, Mrs. Reynolds?" Elizabeth asked, wondering at the housekeeper's sudden gravity.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am to have been absent when I should have been here. I do hope Mrs. Evan's service was satisfactory."
"She was...," recalling the birth of her daughter, Elizabeth answered truthfully, "She was quite satisfactory, and I believe, proved herself to be a most capable substitute. However," she added at noticing the conflicting emotions now affecting the older lady's expression, "She could not replace you, Mrs. Reynolds."
"Thank you, ma'am," was the grateful reply, "Then, I should be returning to my duties."
"Yes,...and Mrs. Reynolds?"
"Ma'am?" The housekeeper turned obediently and stood waiting in silence.
"Welcome home."
"Thank you." With a duck of her head, she curtsied and left; keeping any outward emotionalism carefully shrouded.
As it turned out, Dr. Brecht's arrival coincided with the very day that they were expecting Mr. Berrick, his sister and his niece.
The reunion of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy with the physician was altogether cordial and gracious. Upon meeting Georgiana, he was, by every standard, most polite. But, other than studying her in relation with her brother and sister-n-law, paid her little special attention; until, that is, the arrival of Mr. Berrick.
For, at that gentleman's entry to where they had been seated together in the drawing room, Dr. Brecht emitted a cry of complete and delighted surprise.
"Michael! Michael Berrick! Is it you, then?"
Mr. Berrick, himself, had started in amazement, then, in a voice not quite so delighted as the doctor's, returned, "Brecht? What are you doing here in England?"
The whole company had risen by this time, their attention turned upon the two gentlemen. Mrs. Paquin and Bernadette had followed Mr. Berrick into the room and so had missed the initial moment of discovery. Now, they stood back as well; awaiting some explanation for this unexpected familiarity.
Dr Brecht, however, appeared to have forgotten anyone else in the room. He had taken Mr. Berrick's hand and had begun shaking it enthusiastically. "Berrick!" he cried, "I had thought you dead. Yet, here you are, after all. Helen shall be so pleased!"
Meanwhile, Mr. Berrick seemed to be undergoing an odd set of reactions. His face had gone from ashen white to crimson in a matter of minutes, and he, the most easygoing of men, looked to be struck speechless.
Elizabeth, watching silently from beside Georgiana, found herself both curious and concerned. The obvious distaste of Mr. Berrick to this unexpected reunion promised no good outcome. Still, Dr Brecht obviously felt little of the same abhorrence. His manner, on the contrary, bespoke a man completely at ease. It was Mr. Berrick's own response which had stirred this foreboding within her.
Without realising it, she stepped back, taking Georgiana's hand into her own protectively. On the other side of her, Fitzwilliam did the same, so that the three of them were linked; as a fortress against whatever storm might be destined to descend upon them.
Chapter Twenty-three
At this point, Fitzwilliam spoke, his voice a calming influence in the growing confusion of the room. "Ah, Dr Brecht, I see you already know Mr. Berrick; my sister, Miss Darcy's, betrothed."
Dr. Brecht stopped shaking Mr. Berrick's arm abruptly at this pronouncement. He turned and gazed, at first, to Georgiana, then back to Mr. Berrick. "You are engaged?" Appearing to be taken aback, he followed this with a far cooler, "Oh, I see."
Glancing at Georgiana, Mr. Berrick cleared his throat, "Brecht, if you will allow me a moment, I shall explain." He looked to Fitzwilliam, "Darcy, do you mind if we use your study?"
"Not at all," replied he, in a tone belying the suspicion now growing in his mind. As the two gentlemen turned to leave, he followed them deliberately. At the door of his study, he drew Berrick aside. "Whatever this is about, I hope you have no intention of misusing my sister." The warning was unmistakable; the promise behind it, daunting.
"That is the last thing on my mind," Berrick responded, suddenly angry. "Despite what you may think of me, Darcy, I do love her."
"I have no idea what to think, Berrick. I have found, however, that people are not always as they appear."
They glared at one another for a full moment, until Dr. Brecht spoke from behind them, "Berrick, shall we?"
Berrick turned then, preparing to follow Brecht into the room, when Fitzwilliam spoke again, "I do expect to hear this, as well."
"Come in, then," Berrick conceded wearily, "I fear it shall be public knowledge soon enough."
Closing the door behind them, Fitzwilliam turned to face the other two; who had taken chairs facing each other, as though to represent opposing views.
Dr. Brecht appeared to be in a state of irate confusion, yet, seemed unable to ask a single question.
Finally, Berrick, himself, began the conversation. Looking at Fitzwilliam, he explained, "Brecht and I were at Eton together, you see."
"Eton?" Fitzwilliam seemed surprised, "I had thought you credited Oxford as your alma mater, Doctor."
"Both," he answered shortly from his place. "Eton first. I actually received my certification from Oxford."
"In any case," interrupted Berrick, impatient now to get on with it, "We were the best of friends. I don't suppose you recall my story of love lost, do you Darcy?"
"Vaguely," he replied, "Something about you parting amiably, I believe."
"That much is true to the best of my knowledge. However, it was not nearly so simple as I led you to understand."
Brecht seemed to wake up at this, "What are you saying? My sister,...we both, believed you dead. You left her with just a note, explaining nothing."
"Your sister!" Exclaimed Fitzwilliam, now astonished, himself, "The Baroness?"
"She is a Baroness?" Asked Berrick, almost as surprised as Darcy.
"She married a Baron," supplied Brecht irritably, "That does not excuse you going off and leaving her broken-hearted."
"No," he admitted, "If I even did such a thing. But, as she is now happily married, than, it seems that everything has worked out for the best."
"You abandoned her?" This from Darcy, who was studying Berrick as though he were a stranger.
"Not abandoned," corrected Berrick, "Please, I shall explain all of this, if you will but listen."
"I, for one, am listening," Darcy assured him, his voice distant. Drawing a chair by the other two so that they formed a sort of triangle, he settled himself, and became quiet.
"As I believe I had told you, Brecht and I were quite thick in school, and, when we were in town, his sister would often accompany us on our outings. We did fall in love,...or what I believed to be love."
When Brecht opened his mouth to argue, Berrick raised his hand so that he might continue without interruption.
"You must understand, we were very young. I was not yet twenty-one, she was seventeen. Love was one of those words...those states in which everyone wished to be. If you were not already involved, than you were on your way to being so. Love was wonderful, tragic, dramatic, and exciting, and, quite simply, all the rage."
"Perhaps that is how you perceived it," intervened Brecht icily, "My sister, however, held a very different view."
"Admit it, Brecht," Berrick challenged him. "Even you, yourself, at that time, most probably broke a few hearts."
"If I did, it was totally unintentional. I did not suddenly vanish without word," was his retort.
"I wrote her a farewell letter. Believe me when I say that I am sorry, if it was misunderstood. By that time, we had both cooled down considerably."
"You honestly supposed her to have done so?" Brecht asked, mistrustfully, "For she appeared to be quite the opposite, when next, I saw her."
"She had relayed no such burning passion to me. Could it be possible, Brecht, that there might have been someone else for whom she grieved?"
"Pardon me," interrupted Darcy, who had followed this exchange with growing bewilderment. "Not that it matters, but how long were you...involved?"
"Six months at most. Neither of us were willing to commit anything further to the affair then that," Berrick replied, then returned his attention to Brecht, "The point is, that it had run its course; both of us agreed to move on...And, so I did."
"This is when you departed for Belgium?" Darcy questioned, keeping the chain of events clear in his mind.
"Soon after...I received a copy of my uncle's will some weeks later. Having no better prospects, I set sail within a few days. Helena understood."
"She mentioned something of being engaged," stated Brecht, eyeing Berrick coolly.
"Engaged?" Darcy repeated to Berrick, "And, you were ignorant of this?"
"We were not engaged...definitely not engaged."
"You are calling her a liar?" Brecht had risen as he spoke, his countenance dangerous in its fury.
"No, I am not," argued Berrick, rising as well.
"Then, you are lying."
"I am speaking the truth, I promise you." His face took on an air of perplexity. "How can I explain this? We were not engaged. I...we were...actually married."
Darcy was the first to speak, his tone one of reproach, "How does this make the situation more acceptable? Good Lord, man, you deserted your wife!"
Brecht had frozen in his spot, now he sunk back into his chair, speechless.
Taking advantage of this temporary reprieve from a scene sure to be unpleasant, Berrick spoke quickly, "Married, yet, not. That is, we were not living together. It was in name only, you see, because she was..." Here he stopped, looking desperate, then doggedly continued. "It is hardly my place to tell you this. In fact, come to think of it, it is really none of your business!"
Brecht, however, only turned a deeper shade of red at this bold statement, and arose again threateningly "Sir," he growled, "It is my business, and I will know it all, or God help you, Michael Berrick!"
"Gentlemen," Darcy suggested mildly, "Let us sit and sort the facts out as civilised people."
Berrick, considering his companions, wisely sat, followed by a silently fuming Dr. Brecht.
"Now, Mr. Berrick," Darcy continued in the same calm manner, "I suggest that if you wish to put this matter to rest, you begin at the beginning."
"Yes," he agreed. Glancing at Brecht, he cleared his throat, "She had sworn me to secrecy, you know." However, as neither gentleman appeared to be swayed by this, he sighed and started again. "As I said earlier, we'd agreed to go our separate ways, remaining friends, of course. But, two, maybe three weeks after, she came to me, noticeably upset. She...she confessed that she was with child...Not mine, I promise you," he added hastily at seeing Brecht's immediate reaction. "She would not say who, other than, that, he was not in a position to marry her. She was miserable, and I must admit I felt sorry for her. Between the two of us, we concocted a plan. We would marry secretly. Make sure the baby had a name and all that. Later, we would quietly seek an annulment. We discovered, after some research, that such a decree is far less difficult to obtain than once it was; that we could simply blame our youth...our inexperience. Following this, she thought that she might travel under the pretence of being a young widow with a child. The idea did seem reasonable at the time, anyway," he defended himself, as Darcy raised his eyebrows sceptically.
"In any case, we went," he continued after a moment, "To a vicar who owed me a favour; had a very private, quick ceremony and then parted as though nothing had been altered."
"And what, exactly, was the point of this little charade?" Asked Brecht, his brows drawn.
"Well, as it turned out, there was none; for two days later, she miscarried," his face had clouded as he recollected this, then, meeting Darcy's eyes, he asserted, "Even though it was not my child, I did, for her sake, mourn it's passing. You must believe that."
"How did I not know of any of this?" Questioned Brecht, who had stood and begun pacing the room restlessly.
"She could hardly tell you. What would you have done? Locked her in her room? Shipped her back to Germany? Her greatest fear was to lose your respect. That is why we kept the whole business between us." He sighed, "We agreed, with the baby gone, we should go on as before. That was when I received the letter from my uncle's attorney. I offered to take her with me, but she wished to remain in London. I did not understand the reasoning for it then. In retrospect, I believe I do, now." Meeting Brecht's gaze, he explained, "She was still in love with the baby's father. No doubt, she had hopes." He was silent for a moment, his mind on that day only six years earlier. Then, "I offered to apply for a dissolution before I left. However, because of the little time left before my departure, I signed a paper allowing her to do so in my absence. She promised that she would take care of it. As it was, I never heard if she did or not." He shook his head, "Strange...my not recalling any of this when...when I proposed to Georgiana. It all seemed so long ago, as though it had happened to someone else entirely."
"Then, her emotionalism after your leaving, was not due to your separation, but to...other things?" Brecht questioned, still appearing confused, although no longer angry.
"I must suppose so. She did not contact me after my arrival in Belgium, though I sent her the directions. I had not imagined her to have fallen in love again, married again; selfish of me, I know."
Darcy, meanwhile, was contemplating Berrick grimly. At length he spoke, "There is a direct consequence of all this, which you seem to have disregarded." Leaning forward, he continued, "Supposing she did not follow through with the annulment, how do you intend to marry my sister in two weeks time, while you are yet married to the Bar...I mean, Dr. Brecht's sister?"
"For that matter," Brecht exclaimed as the idea came to him, "Is Helena even actually, legally married to Baron Von Wold? If her first marriage was never invalidated, then she could not, in the eyes of the church and state, be wed again."
Rising, Darcy eyed Berrick, not without sympathy, "You are in a definite bind, sir, and I suggest you go about setting it aright as soon as possible...Beginning with confessing all to Georgiana, before she might inadvertently hear it from someone else."
Chapter Twenty-four
When the gentlemen returned, the women arose as one, their faces reflecting the questions they longed to ask.
Speaking before the awkward silence might overwhelm them all, Fitzwilliam turned to his sister, his voice low, "Georgiana, Mr. Berrick has something he is desirous to tell you. While he is doing that, perhaps tea?" This was suggested with a meaningful glance at his wife, who comprehended at once.
"Yes, of course," she agreed, pulling the cord. Then, with a quizzical look, she watched as Georgiana nervously followed Mr. Berrick from the room.
No sooner had they exited, then Fitzwilliam informed her, "I fear the wedding may have to be postponed."
Dr. Brecht, who appeared to be in a sort of daze, had only just settled himself into a chair, making it quite obvious that no further clarification was to be expected from that quarter.
After glancing briefly at him and then back to her husband, Elizabeth inquired with grave concern, "Pray, why, Fitzwilliam? What has happened?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Georgiana," his eyes met and held hers as soon as she had seated herself in the chair opposite his own.
"Yes, Michael," replied she, concentrating on disregarding the fluttering in her stomach.
He swallowed, looked away; then reaching over, drew her hand gently between his. "Georgiana," he started again, "Do you...recall my telling you of a certain lady in London, whom I knew before I moved to Belgium?"
"Yes?" She managed.
Keeping his eyes fixed upon their hands, still clasped, he continued, "Well, I'm afraid...I fear, that my past has, at last, returned to haunt me."
"What can you mean?" It was with some effort, that she was able to prevent her voice from trembling.
"I am sorry to tell you, but,...I omitted a particular part of that story when I related it to you."
"Oh?"
"Mainly," he went on as though she had not spoken, "Because I believed it to be over and done with...Apparently, I was mistaken." Leaning back, he unconsciously released her hand, leaving it feeling very cold.
"What, exactly, did you omit?"
"Well, for one thing, the lady in question was Dr, Brecht's sister."
Not having prepared herself for this, she could only look surprised.
"I understand," he continued, "That she is now married to a baron and living in Germany."
"Then...I do not...Michael, what has this to do with you, now?"
"I told you of how we had all been friends while in London, and how she and I ended up falling in love."
"I remember."
"After we had agreed to part as lovers, yet, remain as friends, she came to me. You must understand, Georgiana. She was terribly frightened, helpless...I could not turn my back on her."
"No, of course not," she agreed, still not comprehending where he was leading.
"She found herself in...a rather awkward situation."
"A situation...Do you mean...?" Sometime during her question, her heart had stopped, preventing her from even taking a breath.
"Yes," he admitted, but seeing the expression upon her face, he frantically amended, "It was not mine, Georgiana, I swear to you, it was not." He had leaned forward, both of her hands now firmly ensconced within his own. "She had found favour with another at the same time as myself. When I discovered this, I was no longer of a mind to care. My own ardour had cooled some weeks earlier, I was quite willing to have us go our separate ways; until...,"
"Until she came to you for help," she finished for him, the first suggestion of sympathy beginning to form in her breast. Still, she found herself overcome with shock at his next words.
"We...we were married that day."
"Married?"
"Georgiana, I told your brother and Brecht, and I swear it to be the truth; it was in name only. We did not share a bed at anytime. At the very least, I can recollect this much of the story with satisfaction. We married only to assure the child legitimacy, and for the sake of our friendship. Nothing more than this. Say that you believe me, Georgiana."
There was such a sense of urgency in his voice, and in it, a heartfelt plea for her to understand, that she nodded painfully. "Yes, I believe you, Michael." Lifting her eyes from where they had been concentrating on their hands, enfolded together, she searched his face. "What happened, then?"
"Well, then," he suddenly rose and moved to the window, staring out at nothing, while attempting to put into words all that had happened. "Not so very long after, she lost the child; making our intentions to part once more, quite simple, really."
"She...lost the child?" Now there was, definitely, sympathy in her tone, "How dreadful. How could she bear it?"
He sighed, stared at his boots for a moment, then replied, "She bore it, because both of us knew it to be for the best. There was no good to be had from our marriage. Of course, we were already well aware of that. Still, it was, as you say, dreadful...a dreadful time..." For several moments he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, then, as though only just recollecting his audience, he proceeded with his narrative. "Even before the wedding, such as it was, we had intended to seek an annulment as soon as the child was born. With that single reason to wait, out of the way, we decided to get on with it. By then, I had news of my inheritance in Belgium, and so, made plans to leave London for good...or so I thought at the time."
"So your marriage was annulled?"
"That is the problem, you see. I don't know if it is or it isn't. I made certain before leaving London that she,...Helena, could go ahead with the proceedings. Frankly, I never heard if she did or not, and that, my darling Georgiana, is the conundrum we are in."
"You mean if..."
"If our marriage is still valid, then I must see it nullified as soon as possible. I just...I am simply not sure it can happen before our own wedding day."
"Oh." She could think of nothing else to say. Yet, somewhere in the back of her mind, a small flame flickered. How long had it been? Six years, he had said. He had passed six years of his life married to a woman whom he never saw...never even heard from. Had shown up here, causing her to fall in love with him, proposed, and, not once, considered establishing whether or not he was still married to another? It was, she decided as that flame glowed brighter, unconscionable,...unpardonable, and incredibly selfish.
"Georgiana?" His voice interrupted her thoughts. "Won't you say something?"
Rising, she faced him. "What would you have me say, Michael? You tell me today, ten months after asking me to be your wife; that, oh, I suppose we must postpone our wedding because I forgot that I am married already! How could you overlook such a thing? How could you be so self- centred,...so irresponsible?"
He stared at her in disbelief, and for the first time in her presence, could think of nothing to say. As it was, she gave him little chance; for, by now, she had drawn herself up to her full height.
Straightening her shoulders, and lifting her chin boldly, she declared (her voice shaking just a little), "Frankly, Michael, you may as well not bother with your annulment. I am not certain that I wish to marry you any longer." With that, she turned and fled the room, leaving him in a state of intelligible shock.
Chapter Twenty-five
Elizabeth said nothing, at first, when Fitzwilliam finished telling her of Mr. Berrick's present predicament. Knitting her brow as she considered the many ramifications, she, at last, met his eyes and released a sigh; "Good Heavens. To think, he is married to the Baroness. How odd that we should have met both parties, befriended them, and never even had a clue as to their connection. It is beyond coincidence."
They were now alone in the drawing room. Mrs. Paquin had tactfully excused herself soon after her brother's exit with Georgiana, while Dr. Brecht simply arose with no word to anyone, to disappear in moody introspection.
"The whole mess is unfortunate, but more than that, it might have been easily avoided," Fitzwilliam replied in muted frustration. "He struck me as being an intelligent man and yet, to have disregarded something of such import...It is incomprehensible."
She studied him for a moment. "How do you think Georgiana will react?" She asked, attempting to imagine such a scene.
He smiled ruefully, "The way she always does, I suppose. She shall, undoubtedly, forgive him, and then wait patiently for everything to be straightened out."
"She has little choice in the matter, really. Either do as you are presuming, or end the engagement; an option which I don't expect will even enter her head."
"I just cannot understand," he mused, "How being married can completely elude one's memory."
"Fitzwilliam," suggested his wife; an idea occurring to her, "You do not suppose that she, the Baroness, forgot on purpose...I mean, we both witnessed her unhappiness when we were in Frankfurt. Perhaps discovering that her marriage is invalid would not be such unwelcome or unexpected news to her."
"If that is the case, it would have required some devising...some formulation," he said, considering her words, "When, by marrying the Baron, she had hoped for a way out of the union later on." Meeting his wife's eyes, he asked, "Do you believe her capable of such a plan ?"
"I...," she faltered trying to recollect all she could about the Baroness. At their first meeting, she might have thought so; yet as they had begun to become truly acquainted with one another, she had been convinced otherwise. "I would sooner conclude her of being terrified of the Baron, and wishing to keep the first marriage as a means of escape, if need be," she decided at last. "When I miscarried after the Doctor's dinner party, she was everything that was kind and considerate. Now that her own, similar experience has come to light; I can understand, much clearer, her being so. No, I cannot comprehend her being so cold...so calculating."
"You believe her fearful of her husband?"
"You, of all people, should sympathise with her in this; after the way he treated you. He tried to have you killed, for God's sake; it would have been either you or his brother. Anyone who could behave so, out of a need for revenge, would not exclude attempting an act just as heinous upon his wife. After all," she added, "He was well aware of how Mr. Von Wold's feelings were reciprocated by her. I cannot believe he would avenge himself upon him, and yet, forgive his wife."
"You might be right," he conceded, "Still, for her to have expected such an outcome before they were even wed, suggests a cunning I would not have assumed."
"Perhaps, more caution than cunning," she proposed. Lapsing into a momentary silence, she bit her lip thoughtfully. "Fitzwilliam, you don't think Mr. Von Wold might have been the father of her child, do you? You had mentioned him spending some time in France and England when he was younger."
"If that were so, why would she marry his brother? No, it does not follow," he dismissed her theory, but returned to it almost involuntarily, "Berrick had said that whoever the father was, he was not in a position to marry her. He would have had no such impediment that I know of."
"But, she would not have known that," Elizabeth argued. "After meeting your cousin, I would not put it past him to feign a marriage, or some other convenient obstruction, instead of acting in an honourable manner towards her."
He said nothing to this, but after several moments of pensive silence, he shook his head slightly. "None of this signifies, however. The problem at hand is not who the father of the Baroness's child was, nor, even, she or Berrick's reason for neglecting to nullify their marriage. But, whether there shall be any obstacles to it being annulled after such a lengthy period of time."
"Yes, of course." Leaning back, she took a deep breath, "I do hope we shall not have to postpone the wedding. The amount of inconvenience entailed shall be horrendous. There are well over two hundred guests to be contacted, to say nothing of the food, musicians, and rescheduling poor Bishop Peadmont."
He did not answer, his mind on many of the selfsame complications upon which she was now pondering, combined with a certain irritability towards Mr. Berrick. Against these disturbing deliberations, he closed his eyes.
"You are taking all of this rather mildly," she remarked, breaking into his thoughts. Opening his eyes, he saw that she was watching him; a tiny smile visible at the corners of her mouth.
"What would you have me do? Shake Berrick until his brains rattle as I am tempted? Or, better yet, knock his head together with the Baroness's? I would just as soon not lay eyes on either one of them again, for the remainder of my life."
Smiling fully now, her dimples well in view, she arose and moved to stand before him. Bending, she kissed him on his forehead; then as she straightened once more, she said, "But, for the sake of your sister's happiness, you must do so."
"I must?"
"Oh, yes," asserted she, while effortlessly insinuating herself onto his lap. He did not reject her, but instead, assisted where he could, by sliding his arms about her waist in order to draw her nearer. Once there, she draped her arms over his shoulders, and since they were now at a more convenient proximity for such activity, kissed him several times upon his lips. With each kiss, she could see his mood improving, as she had fully intended.
Finally, she spoke in a near whisper, her eyes holding his, "There is no avoiding it, my love. You are an excellent brother. A fact which you have proven endless times by seeing to Georgiana's comfort and felicity throughout her life. And, which has increased my regard for you a hundredfold over the past four years. But then," she conceded, tracing his cheek with her finger, "I knew it to be so, on the very first occasion of my meeting her."
"Oh?"
"Yes, for she told me herself. Although, it was not so much in the words she used, as the manner in which they were spoken."
"How were they spoken?" He asked, not because he wished to know, but because the timbre and intimacy of her voice was having an intoxicating effect upon him.
"There was a light over her whole countenance when she talked of you, as though someone had lit a candle and held it up to her face. I recollect feeling envious, and told her so."
"Envious, why?"
"Because she could boast of such a brother while I could not. I thought then, how wonderful it must be to have someone on whom one might depend so implicitly...But, Fitzwilliam..."
"Yes?"
"I am very glad that you are not my brother."
"As am I," he smiled at last, his features relaxing in the presence of her unguarded affection.
"You are, by the way, a tolerable husband, as well," she added, pretending to be serious.
"Only tolerable?"
He had begun, sometime while she spoke, to kiss her softly; fleeting, light kisses which should have affected her little, were, instead, causing her to feel slightly dizzy.
Closing her eyes, she replied, "Well, perhaps, a trifle above average."
"Trifle?"
His fingers slid with deliberate intent to the neckline of her gown, where they languished maddeningly over the curve of her breast.
"Fitzwilliam," she breathed.
"Yes, Elizabeth?"
"You are an excellent husband."
His lips, covering hers thoroughly, were, for some time, too busy to reply. The kiss, itself, deepened until both quite forgot where they were; and, only the sense that they were no longer alone, succeeded in distracting them.
"I beg your pardon..." It was Georgiana, standing just within the open doorway. Hastily Elizabeth slid from her husband's lap, feeling strangely embarrassed. As she stood, while attempting to repair her gown and hair, she took a deep steadying breath. Glancing at him, she saw that he was labouring to regain his own composure, as well.
Finally, he arose in concern, for he had seen what Elizabeth, as yet, had not. Georgiana's eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, were not even upon them, but on the soggy handkerchief clutched within her hand.
"Oh, Fitzwilliam,...Elizabeth," she cried out, "I fear I have made the most dreadful mistake!" With this admission there erupted a fresh burst of tears, muffled only when her brother went to her to draw her into his arms. Meanwhile, Elizabeth rang for a maid, whom she instructed, "Bring cold compresses and a bottle of wine, at once!"
Soon, Georgiana was seated between her brother and sister-in-law on the settee, a glass of wine held obligingly before her by himself, while compresses were placed gently against the nape of her neck and wrists by Elizabeth.
When she could, at last, speak without sobbing, she managed, "I shall never see him again, and it is all my own fault."
"Georgiana," asked Elizabeth, her voice serious, "Did you call off your engagement?"
"I am afraid that I did...although I cannot remember exactly what I said," she confessed, her eyes threatening to spill over again. "It is not something which I had intended, but, I am afraid that I simply could not understand such..." This recollection, was, apparently, too much, and she buried her face in the now useless handkerchief in despair.
"Where is Mr. Berrick now?" Inquired Fitzwilliam; then in a tender voice, he offered, "Would you like me to speak with him?"
"I am afraid that he is gone. I watched him leave from my window. Oh, Fitzwilliam, I shall never be happy again...," she moaned miserably. "How could I have been so heartless...so cruel. I know he shall not return."
"Georgiana," begged Elizabeth, as the younger woman began to cry once more, "Please, you shall make yourself ill."
"Excuse me," Fitzwilliam said abruptly, suddenly rising and quitting the room without explanation.
"I am sorry," apologised Georgiana, hiccuping, "I shall stop, I promise...only, I cannot seem to do so just now."
"It is all right," sighed Elizabeth, sliding her arm about her sister-in-law so that her face was nestled against Elizabeth's shoulder, "You may weep as long as you need to." Then, while silently contemplating why, exactly, certain gentlemen should be allowed to exist in the world at all, she continued to offer her comfort for the afternoons duration.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Twenty-Six
Riding away from Pemberley and towards London, Michael Berrick reflected upon his latest personal crisis. From the time he was a boy, his relaxed attitude to whatever life had to offer, had inevitably turned about to seek its revenge. He did not understand it then, and he still did not, now.
His father had died when he was fifteen, his mother, just before his nineteenth birthday; although the matter of his education had been taken care of long before either passing. It had been his father's wish for him to become a barrister. He would have been happy doing almost anything, yet, he could not deny a certain intrigue with the employment, once he had begun his studies.
The law was a complex and fascinating machine, and when applied properly, meted out justice in a most satisfactory fashion. But, as almost everything he had attempted, his interest in it had flagged over time.
The fateful affair with Helena Brecht served as a diversion for several months, however, even her company had become tedious, after all. The idea to marry had been impulsive and, admittedly, a poor choice, but at the time, appeared to be a convenient answer to their problems. Helena's child would have a father, albeit a temporary one, and he would have something else, or someone else with which to occupy his mind. There was no actual love remaining between them, but they liked one another well enough, and marriages had certainly been endured with far less than that. Hadn't they?.
He had not neglected to annul the union (if, that was what it had actually been) on purpose. Like every other blunder he had ever committed, he expected it to take care of itself...to be forgotten and forgiven with the passing years.
It had not, and he knew he had only himself to blame.
Until meeting Georgiana, he had considered women as, simply, pleasant company; a way to pass the time as agreeably as was possible. There had been nothing even close to what he had felt in those first heady weeks with Helena. Perhaps, after all, that was what had deterred him from giving up his heart. If love was only temporary, than what was its purpose? Procreation only?
His sister, Lorraine, had loved, and deeply; and what had it gained her? Granted, she had given birth to Bernadette, a bright and thoughtful child, yet, she had also earned the inescapable pain of a broken heart. Her husband, cruelly taken at the young age of five and twenty, had been earnest, caring, and always, quite serious. He was a soldier at heart, and when struck down with rheumatic fever, had died with the consolation that he had given his life for the sake of his country.
If love was sorrow and yearning, than, again, what was the point? Where was the fun, the lightness, that feeling of wanting something or someone, beyond your own happiness? Of a bond so deep that words were, at times, completely unnecessary?
Living, tucked away in the near isolation of Tellerone, he had found sparse evidence that it might, indeed, be something else. The villagers and farmers around him treated their spouses with indifference, or, worse yet, contempt. Their lives were a succession of drudgery and tragedy; birth, a life of toil, and then death. Granted, his uncle's legacy had left him comfortable enough so that his toil was little, yet, the very rich were almost as bad. They married to strengthen alliances. Then, dallied with either, others in similar situations, or, servants, who had no say in the matter.
He, Michael Geoffrey Berrick had wanted something more. His dissatisfaction with the status quo had made him an object of curiosity among his neighbours. His failure to take a bride was viewed as, practically, a sin against nature.
And then, almost as an omen, the Darcys had appeared. Their accidental tarrying on his grounds must have been fortuitous; for, from it, had risen a friendship based on mutual respect and consideration. Best of all, in their marriage, he had finally witnessed what he had been seeking all along; clear evidence of something stronger, more substantial, than any he had come across before.
Mr. Darcy adored his wife, and she, although at times bordering on the impertinent, obviously loved him deeply, as well. Their eyes had only to meet, and a wish, a desire, a need, would be understood, as though they could read one another's minds.
It was impressive, and it made him long for just such an interdependence in his own life.
When Darcy requested his assistance in retrieving his children, he went without question. He wanted to see again, their regard, to remind himself that it could be attained. Residing at Tellerone had left him feeling flat, bored, and as dull as the people around him, and he gladly welcomed the return to Britain.
Georgiana Darcy would not have been, perhaps, his choice of companion in his younger days. She was very shy; her timidity making her appear plain; yet, when she smiled,...truly smiled, her countenance altered dramatically. Her eyes would alight from within, presenting a beauty breathtaking to behold. He had enjoyed, greatly, bringing about that smile. In the early days of their acquaintance, he had even considered it a personal challenge, for she, herself, barely spoke beyond her duties as hostess.
Later, when she became used to his presence in the house, she had even grown so bold as to tease him in return, and it delighted him as nothing else had for some time. When that delight had grown into love, he could not have said. Yet, the thought of leaving her there, without him, seemed suddenly, unbearable.
His proposal had not been on impulse; although, he had only known her a few weeks when he made his feeling known. No, he had spoken it silently to himself countless times. Always, in his mind, she would reject him, because she was reasonable, practical. She had no need for frivolity, humour, fun in a marriage. She would marry well, but sensibly; someone of her own station and character; someone of like temperament.
But, at night, when he tossed and turned, her face ever in his thoughts, he knew that he must speak. Did she feel anything for him at all? Would she miss him when he left? Could she love him?
Her acceptance, then, had granted him a sense of triumph, of relief, but more than that, an anticipation for things to come. He intended to keep their love fresh. She was to live, as his wife, in a constant state of surprise and joy. He would send her flowers daily, he would whisk them away to Europe without notice, he would remind her constantly of his affection, so that she would never suffer a moments doubt.
The shock he had experienced at seeing Brecht at Pemberley had not been so much fear of discovery for his injudicious act of six years earlier (Well perhaps, just a little), but more, an abrupt reminder of that act. He had not lied when he had claimed to have forgotten about it. The whole incident had slipped from his mind as completely as what clothes he had worn last week. In retrospect, this very oblivion was embarrassing. How could a man put aside one marriage so absolutely, so as to not recall it until two weeks before a second marriage was due to take place? Perhaps, he argued with himself, it is because it never really was a marriage.
He did not blame Georgiana for being angry. She had every right to be so. But, because he had never witnessed it before, her wrath had succeeded in catching him unawares. And in the end, spurred him into action.
And, so, to London he was bound, on a quest to find that vicar...What was his name? Laurence...Laurence Chase, that was it. Was he still in London? Would he remember the ceremony? And, most importantly, was it binding? After all, they had no witnesses. Helena had not her parent's (or in this case) her brother's consent. Perhaps, there was a chance that it had been all for show, that there was no marriage. With a prayer, he urged his horse to hasten its speed, lying low in the saddle as assistance.
Having only left the city that morning, he felt no sense of happy returns. His mind was fixed upon other matters. Even if he succeeded, if the marriage was discovered to be invalid, would she take him back? Did she despise him for his stupidity? She had sounded as if she did, yet, he could not believe it...He did not want to believe it.
"Georgiana," he prayed under his breath, "Please, do not turn away from me." He could not imagine a future without her, nor did he want to. The procession of these grim thoughts were producing a definite dampening of his spirits, and so, for his own peace of mind, he concentrated on not thinking at all
The streets, in early evening, were already thick with the night-time trade, and he wended his way through the crowds carefully. Upon reaching Gresham Street, where the little church had been located, he experienced a staggering blow when his eyes perused an empty lot.
Still seated atop his horse, he asked a passing tradesmen who looked to be on his way home, "Excuse me, sir, was there not a church here at one time?"
The tradesman glanced in the direction indicated, nodding in a disinterested sort of fashion, and replied, "Aye, St. George's...but, it burnt down two years ago."
With a sigh of frustration, Berrick silently pondered his next move. Any letters to Germany would take far too long to arrive there, especially in considering the time required for a return response.
At last, making a decision, he turned his horse toward Holborn and the residence of Mr. Rutherford Nelson.
Mr. Nelson was an imposing individual of questionable years. His fine mane of hair bespoke him to be but forty, yet his girth and complexion gave evidence of at least ten years more. He had a reputation for shrewdness in matters of law, and that very shrewdness was what Berrick sought at that moment.
After a terrifyingly imposing servant showed him into a small parlour, Berrick paced nervously, rehearsing what he would say, if the great man even deigned to make an appearance. When, after an endless wait of fifteen minutes, Berrick was ready to concede defeat and leave, Mr. Nelson, in fact, arrived.
In one hand, he held a snifter of brandy, in the other a newspaper. "So, Berrick, what brings you out so late in the evening?" He inquired coolly. "I do not recall sending out an invitation for such a honour."
"Pardon me, sir," Berrick apologised, "For trespassing upon your privacy. I would not do so if it were not an emergency."
"An emergency? For whom? Not for me, surely."
"No, sir. For myself." He took a breath, "I came to enlist your help, if you would consider it."
After studying Berrick briefly through half-closed eyes, he shrugged and turned away, "I shall hear you out, at the very least. Come into the drawing room where there is a decent fire." Once there, he ensconced himself into a chair of generous proportions, while indicating Berrick be seated upon the settee placed directly opposite him. "Now then," he directed, "Out with it."
"You know that I am engaged to be married."
"Is there another kind?"
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind. Go on."
"Well, there is a certain complication which has arisen."
"She regained her reason and changed her mind?"
Mr. Nelson was well-known for his biting cynicism, a trait Berrick was choosing to overlook just now. "No, I mean yes, but only because of my stupidity some time ago."
"You are no longer stupid?"
"Apparently I am." He sighed, burying his face into his hands.
"Tell me." The older gentleman's voice had taken on a note of something akin to sympathy.
"It appears I am already married." This admission was made reluctantly. Was he really confessing this to the one man who controlled his future career?
"Ah,...and, how did this come about?" He did not appear to be surprised.
"I thought, at the time, that we were doing the right thing, the most prudent thing. Lord, I must have been insane."
"I have found marriage and insanity are, often, not far apart." As he was a confirmed bachelor, this statement was not a surprise.
"And, it appears that neither my...wife, nor myself went to the trouble of having it annulled before we parted company."
"How long ago was this?"
"Six years...it seems like six hundred."
"You are only just discovering this now?"
"I...have no excuse. It is only my desire to be married now, that has even recalled the occasion to me."
"So, if you were not engaged, you would, yet, do nothing?"
"It is probable that I would still be in a state of disregarding it entirely."
Mr. Nelson leaned back in his chair leisurely. At length, he asked, "And, what would you have me do?"
"Please, can you not help me attain the annulment?"
"After six years? On what grounds?"
"We have never lived together as man and wife. I have not even seen her since that time. Surely that is ample grounds."
Nelson was studying him astutely, "It might be, if you could prove it."
"I have been living in Belgium until last year. Is not that proof enough?"
"You could have been in India for all I know. It is not myself you shall have to convince."
"Then," Berrick spoke, his eyes reflecting some small hope, "You will help me?"
"I have a strange penchant for taking on lost causes. I shall help you as far as that goes. I cannot, however, guarantee you success."
"I...thank you, sir," Berrick said, rising, "Then, I shall see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow? What, already?"
"Sir," he hesitated; then continued unhappily, "My wedding to Miss Darcy is set for two weeks hence."
"Two weeks? That does not give us much time. To a Miss Darcy, you say? Is she related to the Darcys of Derbyshire?" For the first time, a trace of respect seeped into his tone.
"Yes, she is. Her brother is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy."
"Berrick," Nelson spoke suddenly, his eyes gleaming, "I tell you what. If you can secure Mr. Darcy as a fixed client for us, I shall not only take on your case, but win it, as well."
Chapter 27
When Mr. Darcy left his wife and sister alone to comfort one another, he did not long remain idle. To his study he went directly. Taking a sheet of paper and laying it atop his desk, he dipped a quill into the opened ink bottle and blotted it thoughtfully. For the heading, he wrote the direction;
Mr. Donald Radcliff, Brougham, Derbyshire, England, n.
Then, after a moment, he continued on in deep concentration.
Dear Sir;
I find myself requiring your incomparable talents once more...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Please, Mrs. Darcy. Might I have a word?" Mrs. Paquin touched Elizabeth's arm hesitantly as they left the diningroom together.
Dinner had been noticeably subdued. Georgiana, still flushed with grief, had kept her eyes fixed upon her plate, while Dr. Brecht stared moodily out of the window. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy barely spoke two words between them, leaving Mrs. Paquin, bewildered but polite, tactfully refraining from disturbing the troubled silence. Now, having secured Elizabeth's attention, she appeared determined to discover the cause for the general air of despondency.
"Yes, Mrs. Paquin," replied Elizabeth, even while her eyes followed her husband and sister-in-law as they, with heads together, engaged in some unheard conversation.
"I do not wish to pry," Mrs. Paquin continued reluctantly, "But, I must know...Has there been some impediment to my brother's union with Miss Darcy?"
For the first time, Elizabeth stared at her companion with astonished comprehension, "No one has informed you?"
"I know only that something dreadful must have occurred this afternoon," explained Mrs. Paquin, "Please, Mrs. Darcy, I beg you, leave me ignorant no longer."
"Then, I must ask your pardon!" Elizabeth cried, drawing Mrs. Paquin into the unoccupied conservatory. Turning to face her, she continued with ill-concealed agitation, "There has, indeed been an impediment...It appears that your brother is already married!"
Mrs. Paquin, after blinking several times by this announcement, sank with amazement into the nearest chair. "No," she murmured at length, "I cannot believe it."
"He has attested to it, himself, I fear, and, if that were not enough, his wife is none other than Dr. Brecht's own sister."
"Dr. Brecht's sister? How extraordinary!" Appearing to be struck speechless, she said nothing more for a full five minutes. Finally, she met Elizabeth's eyes, "When did this all come about?"
"When he was but twenty-one and living in London, he said. In his defence, he admitted it to being a marriage in name only. Yet, neither party went about seeing it annulled before they parted." Elizabeth paced restlessly, for stating it aloud only made the situation seem far worse.
Mrs. Paquin sighed unhappily, "Poor Michael...poor Miss Darcy...Is there nothing to be done?"
"We are hoping your brother is seeing to this matter as we speak. He did leave Pemberley soon after breaking the news to Miss Darcy. We do not know where he might have gone, and, unfortunately...," she broke off abruptly.
"Yes?" Urged Mrs. Paquin her eyes fixed upon the younger woman.
"Unfortunately, Miss Darcy, in her shock, terminated the engagement. So you see, we are uncertain if he is righting this wrong, or merely gone off to lick his wounds."
At this Mrs. Paquin rose, "Mrs. Darcy, I can see you are angry with my brother, and heaven knows you have the right to be so, but, please, spare him some pity, as well. He foresaw none of this happening, I am sure."
"No," agreed Elizabeth ruefully, "I cannot imagine what sort of man would. Despite this distressing plight we now find ourselves in, I do still find it in my heart to like him." She sighed, "My opinion, however, is of little or no consequence."
"Thank you," replied Mrs. Paquin, "You may believe your estimation to be so, but, when this has been finally been settled, I fear Michael may need all the allies he can acquire."
They exchanged a meaningful glance before Elizabeth excused herself to join the rest of the party in the drawing room.
Mrs. Paquin, made restless by the information just afforded her, wandered instead out to the garden by way of the opened French doors. The night was mild and fresh; the scent of various blooms filling the air. She stood in the doorway for just a moment before leaving the confines of the house, to make her way down to a stone bench set several yards away.
As she settled herself upon it, her thoughts returned to her brother's current dilemma. They were very different, the two of them. She had always met life with a serenity and acceptance which surely must have been inborn, for she could not remember a time of her life when she had felt otherwise. Her father, she recalled, had shared a similar disposition, his death eleven years earlier of nothing but old age (his children were born as he was well into his sixties), an accepted fate. His widow, twenty years his junior, returned to her life of social good deeds with hardly a public acknowledgement of his timely passing.
When she, herself, expired only three years later of pneumonia, her children were already well away from the family home at Bristol, leading lives of their own.
By then, Lorraine Berrick was wed to the young officer, Laurence Paquin, and happily settled in their temporary residence at Newcastle, before he was transferred to his home village of Knokke in Belgium.
Meanwhile, Michael flitted from one area of study to another, nothing seeming to hold his attention for very long. When he, at long last, attained a barrister's situation in London, she had held onto the hope that he was finally settling down. But now, it appeared that he had not.
Married! She could hardly believe it. Perhaps, it was because she was four years his senior, but he had always remained merely a youth in her mind. Anything as final and serious as marriage had never even been imagined in relation to him; until last spring, in any case.
She had been pleased by his proposing to Miss Darcy. That young lady, so demure and quiet, would certainly be a calming influence on him. Now, she could only pray that he had not destroyed their relationship through his carelessness.
Her thoughts were disturbed by a noise only a few feet from where she sat. Startled, she glanced around to see Dr. Brecht silently leaning against the trunk of a large chestnut, his gaze affixed upon some object away in the darkness. She rose, wishing to escape without his notice, but her sudden movement must have alerted him. In a moment, he recognised her, bowing in her direction solemnly.
"Mrs. Paquin," he said, "Pray, forgive me. I did not mean to intrude upon your solitude."
"Nor I, yours," she returned, attempting a smile, "I was just considering retiring...It has been a rather trying day."
"Yes," he agreed wryly. "Certainly a surprising one." His eyes drifted to some vague shadow thrown by the moonlight before them.
"Dr. Brecht," she spoke softly, "You must accept my apology on behalf of my brother, for causing such upheaval. I...hardly know what to think of the whole business."
"Well, if it eases your concerns at all," he answered, "I must believe my sister just as culpable as he."
"What possessed them, do you think?" Normally, she would not have discussed something so private with a near stranger, but their shared misfortune acted as a sort of dubious kinship.
"Desperation, I suppose," was his morose answer.
"Desperation for what?" She questioned, not understanding his reference.
"You do not know?...At the time, she was with child." Although he admitted this with little expression, she sensed the chagrin behind his words.
"She...," realising that her mouth had dropped open most inelegantly, she closed it, then; "He...and she...?"
"He claimed the child to be another's...Not a rousing recommendation of my sister's character, would you say?"
She had sunk down upon the bench again at his words, her thoughts becoming even more confused. At length, she managed, "But, if that were true, why then, did they marry?"
"According to him, to save her from public humiliation. Damn...I have no choice but to take his word for it."
The unrestrained oath went unnoticed by both, as she asked uncertainly, "Then...you doubt him?"
He was silent for several moments, deep in thought. When she thought he must have chosen to ignore her question, he spoke at last, "I don't know...I hardly know anything anymore. I had supposed myself to be within her confidence, but apparently I was mistaken. How she could have behaved so, I cannot fathom. To give herself in such a way without benefit of marriage...," his voice trailed away helplessly.
"You cannot blame yourself, surely," she protested.
"Who else should be blamed?" He argued, "She depended on me for guidance, for strength...I must have failed her somehow."
"Each of us, in the end, must follow our own conscious," she reminded him reasonably, rising to face him in the semi-darkness. "What she did, was enacted through her own choosing."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" He asked, a rueful smile touching his lips.
"If it does, so be it, but do not continue to punish yourself over someone else's misjudgements...even your sister's. If she has learned to live with it, than so should you."
They were both silent for some moments, until she thought to ask, "What happened to...the child, then?"
"She miscarried." Again, his tone was purposefully impassive, even as his manner was not.
"I am sorry." She said it so earnestly, that this time he did smile.
"I believe you are," he observed, adding with some curiosity, "What would make you so?"
Despite the cover of the twilight, she felt herself blushing under his scrutiny. "It is always a tragedy to lose a child, even one subject to such difficult circumstances," she defended herself.
"So it is," he agreed abruptly, giving her the impression that he wished to put an end to the conversation. Sure enough, he suddenly faced her, bowed, and said, "We have tarried long enough...our hosts shall be missing us."
"Yes," she studied him quizzically, but accepted, without further comment, his arm as he offered it. Together, they re-entered the house, and, although they had only just shared a somewhat intimate exchange between them, he mysteriously avoided her company the remainder of that evening.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 28
Michael Berrick looked up from the writ he had been perusing to meet the eyes of Mr. Nelson, who had entered the room unannounced, as well as unexpected. Rising, he comprehended his guest's meaning immediately. "You have?"
"Close your mouth, boy," ordered Nelson good-naturedly, "You resemble nothing so much as a retriever primed for the hunt."
"Pardon me...Where is he, then?" He had to concentrate to restrain his enthusiasm for more information than Nelson might be ready to give.
"He is in service at a little estate church west of London in the county of Hertfordshire. The estate is known as Longbourne. Ever heard of it?"
"No, I..." Why did that name sound so familiar? Where had he heard it mentioned? He became so deep in thought, he did not hear Nelson's next words and the older gentleman was forced to repeat himself; a circumstance to be avoided at any costs.
"The least you could do, Berrick," he reproached coldly, "Is pay attention. Did you comprehend one word of what I've just said?"
"I beg your pardon, sir," apologised Berrick with carefully placed humiliation. It would not do, after all, to alienate the old barrister at this point.
"You will go there," Nelson announced, expecting no argument, and receiving none. "This afternoon. It shall, most probably, take but a few hours on horseback. There, you will have this vicar sign a deposition declaring that your marriage was false. Do you understand?"
"I only hope he recollects the occasion...We are speaking of a span of six years."
"Well, even if he does not, you can convince him that he does. Such is the skill of a truly gifted attorney." Nelson's tone implied that without such a talent, Berrick might as well accept a job as a chimney sweep.
He found the estate and church in good time; however, discovering the whereabouts of the vicar, Mr. Chase, was another matter altogether. After checking the rectory, where the housekeeper informed him that the clergyman was out on his "rounds", he roamed about outside for some time wondering what he should do. Eventually, he settled himself upon a stone bench very near the vestry door, and, glancing around occasionally, made himself as comfortable as was possible.
After a wait of some fifteen minutes, the figure of a lone gentleman strolling across the lawn caught his attention. He studied him bemusedly for a time before recognition came to him.
"Mr. Bennet!" He exclaimed, rising to his feet as he did so.
Mr. Bennet (for it was he) turned in surprise and spotted Berrick standing there before the church. "Pardon me?" He inquired drawing nearer in order to view his visitor better. Peering at him from above his spectacles, he questioned, "Mr...Berrick is it?"
Berrick, by now, had stepped forward to shake his hand, his enthusiasm upon seeing a familiar face, obvious in his greeting. "Mr. Bennet," he repeated, "What a surprise! Do you reside in this vicinity?"
"Directly," was that gentleman's droll answer. "You are, at present, on my estate."
"Longbourne is your own?" His astonishment was complete, "This is splendid news, indeed!"
"Well, for the time being, at least," Mr. Bennet amended cryptically. Then, smiling a welcome at last, he added, "So, what brings you to Hertfordshire, Mr. Berrick?"
"I have business with the vicar, Mr. Chase. Have you happened to see him lately?"
"I usually see Mr. Chase far more often then I might care to, but that is neither here nor there. For now, I could not answer in the affirmative." They began, almost unconsciously, to walk together, as Mr. Bennet asked in a conversational tone, "How did you leave everyone at Pemberley? All well...All happy?"
Berrick flushed uncomfortably, but answered only, "They were well enough, when last I saw them...Actually, I came here from London."
At this, Mr. Bennet studied him, his expression curious. "And, why, sir, is that? When, we, ourselves, are due to depart for my granddaughter's christening, and thereafter, your own wedding within three days time, and yet, here you are. You are not thinking of standing Miss Darcy up at the altar, are you?"
"No, of course not," Berrick assured him hastily, "Nor would I ever have any intention of such a thing. The fact is, that my wedding may not occur at all if I do not speak with Mr. Chase as soon as possible."
"Is Mr. Chase suddenly of such importance, then? I find myself intrigued by such a notion. However, since you insist on remaining discreet, I shall refrain from any further prying...Ah, he announced, as his eye lit upon the subject under discussion, "Here is the man, himself, just arrived."
They both turned to watch the approach of the clergyman, who appeared to be so deep in thought that he had not noticed the two gentleman waiting for him. Upon, finally, noticing them, he stopped, looked about him quizzically, then, after a moment, moved with some diffidence in their direction. He bowed briefly to Mr. Bennet, glanced at Berrick, and bowed again without, apparently, recognising him.
"Mr. Chase," Mr. Bennet greeted him, "Mr. Berrick here, claims to have pressing business with you. As he is very soon to be a bridegroom, I hope you may clear the matter up and send him on his way in good time."
"Mr. Berrick?" Mr. Chase repeated, staring now at the other, "Not, Michael Berrick, surely?"
"Well, if he is not, you may have some explaining to do to a certain Miss Darcy," Mr. Bennet declared affably. With that, he excused himself and left the two of them alone.
He has changed little, Berrick thought to himself, other than his hair retreating from his forehead. A tall, thin man of bony features, he carried himself with a nervous air causing him to start suddenly and frequently for no apparent reason.
They had known one another only briefly while attending Eton, for the vicar's education abruptly ceased upon the unforeseen passing on of his father. His mother, left with nary a penny, had called him home to the village of Watford to look after herself and his younger sisters. There, he had philosophically decided upon a life in the church, as nearly every other situation was now well beyond his reach.
After a year, he was granted a position in a small neighbourhood parish within the crowded streets of north London. One day, while sweeping dried mud from the vestibule steps, he happened upon Berrick, who had been passing by on some business in that area of town.
They had struck up a conversation, after which, when Berrick had required some assistance in dealing with the crisis concerning Miss Helena Brecht, he had recalled the young vicar.
Now, he studied that gentleman pensively, harbouring little hope of this visit proving to be fruitful. The clergyman's very stature did not inspire confidence, for his eyes darted from side to side, while his hands were never completely still. Even now, they were fingering and flipping the pages of the little book of meditations he held within them.
But, before he could talk himself out of the reason for his coming, Berrick spoke up, "You do recollect the circumstances of our last meeting, I trust, Mr. Chase?"
"I...," knitting his brow in thought, he struggled to do so, until, with some reluctance, he was finally prompted.
"I came to you with a young lady, whom I had wished to marry," Berrick reminded him, waiting for what his response might be to this.
"Ah, yes," was his vague reply, evidently relieved to not have to think any further; "How is she faring?"
"I must assume she is well. However, I did not come to discuss her health."
"No?"
"No, I must speak to you of the occasion of our marriage, itself, and it is of the utmost importance that you recollect every detail to the letter."
At this, Mr. Chase's eyes widened considerably before he swallowed and motioned to the church building. "I have a small office within. We may speak...freely in there."
Leading Berrick back to the stone edifice, he glanced around him anxiously, until, as they reached the door, he opened it to allow them entrance into its dimness.
Adjusting his eyes to the lack of light, Berrick hesitated on the threshold, and it was not until he felt a sharp pain against the back of his head, that he realised Mr. Chase was no longer within his view.
When he awoke, the room was in semi-darkness; the only light to be seen came from the three-quarters moon shining through the window. He was lying on his side against the wall, and he knew, before he had even attempted to move, that his wrists and ankles were securely bound.
"Now, what?" He wondered wearily. "Why would Chase do this? Good God, is there some ultimate reason why I should not marry Georgiana, that I am simply too dense to realise?"
And, so, lying there, his head aching from the blow dealt him, Michael Berrick could only ponder his recent run of bad luck, and, what on earth he might have done to deserve it.
He dozed, as there was little else he could do for the time being. On the third occasion of his awakening, he finally noticed the room growing lighter. Shifting about until he was sitting up, he observed, for the first time, the spare furnishings of the room before him. A desk and straight-backed chair were centred so that they faced the door, with another chair of little better comfort standing at attention before the desk. Beside the door was a cloakrack. Other than that, the room remained bare and unwelcoming. He could not see clearly the clutter atop the desk, but books and papers threatened, even now, to topple off from their haphazardly placed stacks.
He wiggled his wrists, attempting to loosen the rope wrapped around them; feeling some encouragement as the tightness pressing against his left, lifted a bit. At that moment, however, he heard keys turning in the hole of the locked door. As it swung open, Mr. Chase hurried through, shutting it nervously behind him. In one hand, he bore a tray holding a mug and dish. His eyes slid to where Berrick was seated upon the floor.
"You are awake," he noted unnecessarily, setting the tray onto a corner of the desk.
"Yes," replied Berrick dryly, adding, "May I ask why I am being treated in such an inhospitable fashion?"
Chase swallowed, glanced to the window and stammered, "Mr. Berrick, surely you have comprehended my dilemma."
"Your dilemma?" Berrick repeated, glaring at the vicar, "Whatever can you mean? I came to you for assistance out of my own predicament, and find myself, not only painfully assaulted, but held prisoner, in, of all places, a church."
"I must apologise of course, but I saw no other way. I can risk neither my reputation, nor my position here at Longbourne."
"What in the world are you speaking of?" Forcing his tone to remain calm, Berrick tried again, "I am afraid I do not understand. How would my coming here risk your reputation or your position?"
"You travelled here to confront me with regards your marriage?" Chase had turned the chair to face him, but, at the same time, made no move to release him from his bindings.
"I did come to speak to you of it, as a matter of fact," answered Berrick, "What call was that for you to react so violently towards me?"
"You came to expose me, did you not? For the shameful chicanery committed...admit it, Mr. Berrick, for I shall not believe you anyway, even if you should deny it."
"What chicanery? Are you telling me that you married us under a false pretence?" For the first time, Berrick felt a glimmer of hope.
"Please, Mr. Berrick, I shall be disgraced. Do not, I beg of you, speak it aloud."
"How was it so?" Berrick asked eagerly. "What circumstance caused it to be less than it should have been?"
But, Mr. Chase, apparently desirous of changing the subject, offered, "Here, I've brought you breakfast. Will you eat?"
Berrick studied him in disbelief, "Do you intend on leaving me here indefinitely? What if," he inquired suddenly, "I tell you that I have no wish to denounce you...That I would be relieved, instead, to know that my marriage was actually invalid?"
Staring at him doubtfully, Mr. Chase replied, "Why would you profess to feelings of such callousness? Have you come to me to seek a divorce? Why, I could never advocate such a thing with a clear conscience!"
"No, no, you misunderstand me," Berrick interrupted impatiently, "My wife...that is Miss Brecht, and I, have not, to this day, known one another as man and wife. That is, we have never cohabited, nor did we ever have any intention of doing so. You see, I married her as a favour to help her out of an unfortunate situation. It was never truly a marriage...Do you see?"
"How can I know this to be true?" Even though he appeared to want to believe him, Mr. Chase still looked dubious.
"Does it really matter? If, for some reason, the ceremony you performed was not binding, so much the better. Don't you understand, Chase, you did nothing wrong, because there was never actually a marriage."
"I fear you are mistaken, Mr. Berrick. Even if what you say is true, the fact that I had not officially been ordained as yet, shall still be accounted as a sin against me. I had no business officiating before you that day, however, I acted as though I did...A most grievous misdeed which I can never amend."
"You can begin making amends this minute by untying me," suggested Berrick, who had lost the feeling in his fingers by now.
But, Mr. Chase, apparently hearing some noise from without, arose suddenly, his manner one of alarm. Without another word to his prisoner, he turned and fled the room, yet, remembering to carefully close and lock the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-nine
My dear Helena,
It is with some distress and much self-loathing that I write to you this letter. I have only just discovered the wretched secret which you have been compelled to share with Mr. Michael Berrick these six years. He (after some outside influence) informed me of your untimely pregnancy, the misfortune of your having miscarried, and especially, of your rather frivolous marriage. Although he was reluctant to provide these details, I am afraid I left him little choice in the matter.
I do not intend to chastise nor otherwise wish you ill, in fact, I would desire at this time to apologise for what must have been a gross oversight on my part.
I can only assume that my failure to guide and support you was what, ultimately, led you on the path you chose. I take full responsibility for the pain and suffering you must have undergone during that time and in that place.
My dear sister, although it is too late for me to atone for the injuries you have endured, I ask of you one favour; Mr. Berrick is planning to marry one week hence, and it is crucial that he be free to do so. Can you, at this time, attest that your union with him is no longer of concern. Is it, or is it not, a binding and sacred contract?
As this matter requires the utmost haste, I beg that you reply through express post as soon as possible. If your answer is for the latter, I will do what I can here in Britain to set the situation aright, if not, then we may all rejoice in Mr. Berrick's and Miss Darcy's upcoming nuptials.
One other circumstance of considerable anxiety for me, as it should be for you, Helena, is that; if your marriage to Mr. Berrick is yet valid, than are you truly, in the eyes of God and man, married to the Baron? I hesitate to suggest this prospect to you, but we cannot ignore such an ignominious condition. If it be so, I fear that, if the Baron is still as unhappy in his marriage as he was when last I saw the two of you, he may use such information against you.
Again, I must beg you; please, waste no time in responding to this missive, so that the matter might be settled as quietly and judiciously as is feasible.
Your loving brother,
Franz Brecht
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Fitzwilliam?"
"Yes, Elizabeth."
"What shall we do about the wedding?"
It was the same conversation already attempted twenty times between them, and always, it ended in the same frustrating manner.
"I simply...do not know."
It was now only ten days until Georgiana was to marry Mr. Berrick, and nothing had been heard from him, since his startling disclosures four days earlier. None of them were willing to simply cancel the ceremony just yet.
Nevertheless, today was Wednesday. The Bennets were due to arrive in but two days for Melanie's christening.
Dr. Brecht had departed for his conference in Manchester, but he was planning on returning by Monday, next, to be at their service, if some small errand should be necessary. "For, after all," he told them, "I feel myself something to blame for all that had transpired in London so long ago...If by nothing else, than my own negligence."
Georgiana, herself, was in a state of constant despair. So much so, that even her music could not console her. She kept continual watch near the windows which faced the drive, and if anyone were seen approaching, she would turn white and tremble until they were positively identified as not being Mr. Berrick.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth felt herself to be moving about on eggshells. Her only means of escape were through long walks about the estate; sometimes taking her children with her, and others, when she desired to actually work away her tension, without. It was on one of the former that she came across her husband; seated upon one of the many stone benches set by the river, lost in some reverie, and quite unaware of her approach. She studied him until he sensed her presence, yet, even then, she found herself reluctant to break the tranquil silence of the woods surrounding them.
Finally, in a voice of utmost weariness, she asked the question they both dreaded, "Fitzwilliam, whatever are we to do about Georgiana?"
"I wish I knew," was his quiet reply. "It seems she will have Mr. Berrick despite his faults, and so, there is little we can do for the present, except hope that he will have her, as well."
"Yes," she sighed, moving to sit beside him. Taking his hand into her own, she studied the palm of it pensively. "Would it be asking too much," she mused aloud, "That we all might be well and happy at the same time?"
He did not answer, but as she had not expected him to, she continued, "I, by every woman's standard, ought to be content just now. I have three healthy children, a husband whom I love dearly, and no material wants, yet, not so long ago, it was I, who felt truly miserable. Georgiana, on the other hand, was, at that time, serene in knowing how she was adored and appreciated, and had nothing but a life of utmost happiness to anticipate. Now, she sits forlornly night and day, longing for her Mr. Berrick to make everything right again. It does not seem quite fair, you know."
"What is not fair, Elizabeth?" He asked, sounding bemused by her ramblings, "Life in general or simply the subject of love in regards to it?"
She smiled, glancing up to meet his gaze, "It seems we must depend upon ourselves to be finally happy, for love is an elusive and wicked little imp. When one supposes they have him caught, he dreams up some entanglement to befuddle us all once more."
"No doubt, to ensure that we are truly deserving," he stated, returning her smile.
Shaking her head, she reminded him, "But, who among us believe ourselves to be so. No, I am afraid love achieves the last laugh despite our struggles." Sighing again, she remarked dolefully, "Although I dread it, I would almost wish the next ten days to be here and gone. It is the waiting...the uncertainty which ultimately drives a person to madness, I believe."
He fell silent at this. When abruptly and without warning, he stood to offer her his hand, she gazed up at him in total bewilderment.
"Mrs. Darcy," he invited, bowing low, "Would you grant me the privilege of this dance?"
In spite of her surprise, she stood to accept his hand. "Fitzwilliam," she stated cautiously, "I hear no music."
"Do you not?...Listen, my love."
For a moment she stood very still, her eyes locked onto his; aware that his arms had slid around her waist, and that he had begun to move slowly in time, as if to a waltz. Without another word, she followed his lead, allowing him to whirl her about the clearing with uncharacteristic abandon. At some point, she closed her eyes against the dizzying motion, feeling for a moment as though she might be able to fly away from their current troubles.
It was not until they were stationary once again that she reopened her eyes. He was watching her, seeming to be waiting for some sign on her part.
At length, and still somewhat out of breath, she spoke, "I...I thank you."
"Did it help?" He inquired with the slightest trace of a smile.
"Yes, I am feeling much better. Was...that your object?"
"That...and this..." he lowered his face just enough to brush his lips against hers.
"And," she murmured, her arms finding their way around his neck, "The inspiration being...?"
"You, of course," he answered solemnly, "I have missed you, Elizabeth."
She did not pretend to be ignorant of his reference; "And I, you, Fitzwilliam." Feeling suddenly a bit reckless, she made a point of smoothing his lapel. "There is no one about but us," ventured she, glancing up at him in time to catch his look of amusement.
"Mrs. Darcy, is that a proposition?"
"I suggest, Mr. Darcy," she remarked airily, "You make of it what you will. We both know that Melanie shall be needing me very soon."
His kiss, this time, was neither light nor whimsical; the pressure of it causing her breath to cease and remain contained within her chest. Even when his lips left hers at last, his arms still held her tight against him, so that she could only stare up at him in a sort of blissful stupor.
Afterward, she might have blushed upon recollecting the picture they must, surely, have presented to any eyewitness. At the time, however, she did not care. His lips, finding their way over her skin, sent such flames of desire through her, that the actual site of their communion became insignificant.
He did not appear concerned, in any case, of their being discovered. After all, it was his home, his grounds, his wife. If he wished to make love to her in such a place, who would dare say him nay. And, if the servants should gossip, they would not do so within the hearing of their employer, or his wife, or even his sister, for that matter.
The midafternoon sun on her bare shoulders did not burn; instead, its warmth enfolded her. Yet, as each layer of clothing was drawn aside, neither did she feel a draught; only an occasional soft breeze which caressed her enticingly in much the same manner as he.
The stone bench, hard and unforgiving under normal circumstances, became their bed. This day, alone, it seemed to shed these ignoble traits, and welcomed them as tenderly as their own four-poster. With their garments spread beneath them as linens, any discomfort was cushioned, any section of cold stone, concealed.
They moved almost leisurely. This was not the red-hot passion which usually drove them until both lay back in sheer exhaustion. But something else. This was deliberate, precise; not simply a means to an end, but an objective in itself; every moment of which, was to be savoured.
Her every sense felt alive. Her still semi-impaired fingers, that in the past, had manifested a faithless insusceptibility, now took up every nuance of his fervour to transmit it directly into her. Her lips, returning the favour of his own, caressed each receptive sector of his body with the intensity of their touch.
The fever between them built and rose, ascended and redoubled. When, finally, they surrendered to its zenith, neither were cognisant of their surroundings. And, as she lay in his arms (somehow they found themselves on the ground beside the bench rather than upon it), each experienced a fulfilment brought about by more than simply the physical release just shared.
For the first time over the past four days, their thoughts were not immediately overtaken by concern for Georgiana; their minds were not plagued with a worry they could do little to alleviate.
"As soon," he promised between soft kisses, "As this is all over (he had no need to be more precise...They both knew to what he referred), we shall take the children to Ramsgate. I need you to myself, Elizabeth."
"Ramsgate," she repeated, turning the idea over in her mind, "It should be lovely just now, should it not?"
"Lovely is a relative term, I suppose. The roses will be in bloom, the water blue and calm; still, there is a certain wildness about the place which attracts me in other seasons."
"Yes," she agreed, smiling to herself, "I can understand that. How long did you have in mind?"
"A month...two perhaps. Would you mind?"
"Not at all." Lifting her head from where it lay upon his chest, she met his gaze, "We could use a holiday, I think."
They exchanged a smile then; its very intimacy a proper conclusion to an afternoon of intangible music and rapturous dance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Thirty
"I shall perish from starvation," he decided pessimistically, as he watched the shadows move and lengthen around the room. He found himself studying the patterns in the braided rug lain out beside the desk, until the repetition convinced him that he must, truly, be going mad. Inevitably, his thoughts returned again and again to Georgiana.
Georgiana, who smiled at him so lovingly, and continually accepted his foibles; despite what must, certainly, be her better judgement...With the exception of this, one particular instance. This time he may have destroyed her regard as surely as though he had intended on doing so all along.
But, he had not. Assuming he escaped from this sorry mess, he would persuade her that he had not. "She must forgive me," he thought, his throat closing at the idea that she would be well within her rights to despise him forever. God, what day must it be? He felt positive that he had only been here one night, so it must be Wednesday. Ten days. Ten days to set things right; to convince her, to win her back.
"Chase, I shall wring your neck if ever I get out of this..." Frustration and hopelessness combined to, alternately, berate and mock him. If he slept, he dreamt of her leaving him, of refusing to take him back, so that he would awaken with a start, his heart heavy with grief.
The room had been dimmed by the onset of dusk when he heard voices beyond the door. Carefully, he listened, straining to make out what they were saying. One was definitely Chase's; this realisation causing his stomach to tighten in repressed rage. The other, he could not place, although something about it sounded familiar. If he could, he might have yelled out, but, the lack of drink had caused his throat to become so dry and sore that speaking at all was the last thing he felt capable of doing.
His eyes lit upon the tray, its edges plainly visible over the edge of the desktop. Squirming until he was flat upon his back, he forced his legs to kick up toward it. His first effort only glanced the rim, causing it to tremble, but not to fall. His second proved more successful. With a clang, crash and resounding clatter, the tray toppled and rolled across the floor to land upon its bottom, followed by the mug and dish; their reverberations echoing back and forth about the room.
At this, the voices grew louder. The knob abruptly turned, but, of course the door did not yield; it being still locked.
Suddenly it flew open, wood splinters spewing in every direction from the force used against it. Berrick, his eyes adjusting to a greater light than he had witnessed all that day, recognised the gentleman standing there, and managed a raspy, "Mr...Radcliff?"
"Berrick? Michael Berrick? What the devil...?" He turned in astonishment toward his companion, "Mr. Chase, how do you account for this?"
That gentleman seemed to shrink before them. "I can explain," he stammered, "It is not as it seems, I promise you."
But, Mr. Radcliff had already moved to Berrick, kneeling beside him to loosen his ties. "Good God, Chase. What can you mean? Keeping a man against his will...holding him prisoner?" He muttered in outraged disbelief as he worked the knots loose. Freed at last, Berrick stood awkwardly, massaging his wrists while watching Mr. Chase with ill-concealed hostility.
"I had no choice," Chase was pleading, his eyes focused on Radcliff. "He was going to expose me...Have me removed. I could not risk it!"
"I was intending nothing of the kind," Berrick retorted, his voice still weak, and now quite aware that if he attempted to actually walk, he might collapse. Leaning forward upon the desk, he took a breath, willing the feeling to return to his feet.
Radcliff, still bewildered, but quickly regaining some of his usual assurance, remarked, "I was dispatched by Mr. Darcy to discover what might be done to expedite matters in regards your marriage, Berrick. I hardly expected to find you here, yourself."
"I must admit," replied Berrick, beginning to feel more composed with each passing moment, "I was a bit surprised myself." Then, realising what he had been told, he questioned, "Darcy sent you?"
"Yes. He is most anxious to have this business resolved before the date of his sister's wedding; seeing as it has not been officially cancelled, that is."
"It...has not?" Berrick swallowed. Did he dare to hope?
"Who is Darcy?" Asked Mr. Chase, his eyes darting between the other two, "And, what has his sister to do with you, Mr. Berrick?"
"If you would have allowed me to explain, Chase, you might have known this yesterday, and would not have felt the need to confine me in this draughty, unwholesome place. His sister, Miss Darcy, is promised to be my wife; that is if she is still speaking to me." Barely concealing his bitterness, Berrick glared at Chase coldly.
"Well, and now what, Mr. Berrick?" spoke up Mr. Radcliff, his voice smooth, "Shall Mr. Chase here be arrested? I am certain Mr. Bennet would harbour little reserve against sending for the local constabulary. What do you think?"
Mr. Chase had turned chalk-white at this, but Berrick, his wrists still smarting, could not invoke even one iota of pity. Nonetheless, having the scoundrel thrown into prison would do him little good. At last, he answered coolly, "I have a document in my coat. If Mr. Chase will but sign it, as I had originally purposed (or would have, if given half the chance), I shall not press charges." With this, he removed from an inner coat pocket a sheet of paper, folded in half, yet bearing no seal.
Staring first at the paper, and then back to Berrick's face, Mr. Chase inquired nervously, "You will say nothing to Mr. Bennet?"
"It seems to me, Mr. Chase," declared Mr. Radcliff, "That you have been offered a most generous proposition. If I were you, I should take it."
Seating himself weakly at the desk, Chase accepted the paper, reading it over with an air of distraction. When he had finished, he met Berrick's eyes. "This is all I must do?"
"Yes," replied he, shortly, while moving with some stiffness towards the opened door.
Over the next few moments nothing was heard but the sound of Mr. Chase's quill scratching on the paper. Then, rising, he held the paper out to Berrick, his hand trembling as he did so.
"That document," Mr. Radcliff inquired, "Is attesting to what, exactly?" He had turned to study Berrick as he took the paper back and carefully replaced it within his coat.
"This is Mr. Chase's acknowledgement that my first marriage was neither valid nor binding. I am now free to marry Miss Darcy...if she will still have me." This last was spoken under his breath, almost as a prayer.
"And, is it truly so?"
"I had desired it to be so, as at the time there were no witnesses but the three of us who were directly involved. Mr. Chase, however, confirmed it when I arrived."
"Oh? How did he?"
Listening to this exchange, Mr. Chase had reddened and sunk down into his chair to bury his face in his hands forlornly.
"He confessed that he had not yet been officially recognised as a clergyman in the eyes of the church. I admit, I was more than a little relieved to discover this."
"Yet, he felt the need to detain you in spite of your being in agreement on the subject?"
At this Mr. Chase spoke up in his own defence, "I acted too hastily, I realise now, but you must understand...My position, my situation, is all that I have. To lose this would be unbearable."
"Mr. Chase," remonstrated Berrick, who was turning to leave, "The next time you feel the need to attack an unsuspecting visitor, I hope you will recollect the inconvenience it has cost to both of us."
"And so, it appears that my work here is finished," remarked Radcliff, joining him in the doorway, "Then, are you headed directly to Derbyshire, Mr. Berrick?"
"Not as yet, I must stop in London first...Mr. Radcliff," Berrick spoke as the idea occurred to him, "Pray, how did you know to come to Longbourne?"
"I had stopped at your apartment in town, where your manservant instructed me as to your whereabouts. I really had no idea why you would be coming to Hertfordshire, but I retained a hope that it might have something to do with your problem. Upon my arrival, I met up with Mr. Chase, who I thought was acting very strangely. He behaved in as guilty a manner as any criminal I had ever come across. It is rather a good thing, Mr. Chase," he said good-naturedly to that gentleman, "That you were discovered by me, and so early into your transgression. Imagine if Mr. Bennet had found Mr. Berrick being held prisoner in your own office. Can you imagine what his reaction might have been?"
"I beg of you." Mr. Chase actually looked as if he might faint, "Do not speak of this to Mr. Bennet."
"I have one further question, Mr. Chase," Mr. Radcliff continued as if he had not been interrupted, "Why ever would you perform a marriage without the proper authority to do so?"
"A sense of obligation, I suppose," he admitted uncomfortably. "I was young, as were they. When they came to me, I thought it was the least I could do..."
"Obligation...for what exactly?" Radcliff's gaze had moved from Chase to Berrick, who appeared to be as mystified as he.
Turning away, so that they had to strain to hear him, he answered reluctantly, "Mr. Berrick had been...kind to me while we were at Eton."
Berrick no longer looked puzzled, but embarrassed, "That was your motivation? Good Lord, man, it was a long time ago."
"Yes, but the memory of it did not leave me. And so, when you came to me, both of you looking so desperate, I could hardly turn you away."
"But, Chase," exclaimed Berrick, "You knew we were not actually married. Did you not take that into consideration? What if we had chosen to live together as man and wife? What if we had, by now, five children? How would you justify your sense of obligation then?"
"If I had suspected such a prospect, I would have notified you. As it was, I knew you were not," was his astonishing reply.
"You knew this?" Berrick was now staring at him as though he had grown a pair of horns.
"Your wife...that is, Miss Brecht, came to me some days later and told me of your going to Belgium. She confessed to me your scheme, in an effort to ease her conscience; a disclosure, I must admit, which settled my own as well."
"But," burst out Berrick, who appeared more confused than before, "If you knew this, why did you expect the worst when you saw me? Why did you behave so irrationally? And why, did you pretend to be ignorant when I told you of it?"
"Mr. Berrick, I thought, upon the discovery of my dreadful secret, you were desirous of some retribution. You might have been plotting a revenge all of this time, and only now had the chance to act upon it. When you appeared here at Longbourne, I had no idea how long you had been back in the country, nor what your feelings for Miss Brecht had become over the past years. How could I know?"
"You might have asked," was his dour reply. Shaking his head in exasperation, Berrick strode from the building. Glancing around him, he inquired, his voice peevish, "Where have you concealed my horse? I must assume you kept it from plain sight while I was locked away."
"It is stabled with mine...You must know that I meant you no harm, Mr. Berrick," Mr. Chase proffered meekly by way of apology.
"Yes, well...We shall have to continue this discussion another time, Mr. Chase. Right now I must return to, with any luck, a fiancé who will actually believe this whole confusing business and agree to take me back...A prospect neither agreeable nor simple."
Chapter Thirty-One
Georgiana, who had done little but weep into her pillow every night since Mr. Berrick's departure, was not weeping now, yet, lay sleeplessly; her thoughts replaying the days revelations. The Bennets: Mr., Mrs., and Mary had arrived that afternoon, and no sooner did Mr. Bennet greet her than he relayed the surprising news that he had only just seen Mr. Berrick at Longbourne but three days earlier.
If she blushed and stammered, he did not seem to notice, and later, when everyone else was otherwise engaged, she mulled over what possible reason Michael might have to be at Longbourne. He had never visited there before, that she knew of. They had not discussed it as being Elizabeth's birthplace or that it was the Bennet estate. The subject had, simply, never come up between them.
Turning over for the umpteenth time, she sighed, realising that not only was she not going to solve this puzzle, but that she would, most likely, not fall asleep either. Restlessly, she arose, slipped on her dressing gown, and moved to the window. One pane had been opened, allowing a breeze to drift in, rich with the fragrance of blossoms and freshly cut hay. Placing her elbows upon the sill, she leaned out, taking in the softness of the night.
The promise of summer lay on it; of longer days, thunderstorms, and lighter clothing. An owl hooted somewhere; a returning call indicated that its mate was nearby. She gazed over the countryside pensively, thinking of the events of the past days. Fitzwilliam had explained to her that he had hired Mr. Radcliff to assist them in straightening out the labyrinth they now found themselves in. But, he had reminded her, the final solution would have to come from Mr. Berrick, himself.
The wedding, as some sort of unspoken agreement between them, had not been called off. No one even seemed to want to address the subject in her presence.
"They are afraid I shall burst into tears again," she decided, and, to be fair, why should they not? It seemed that was all she had done since that awful day. Was it truly only a week? How dramatically everything had changed since then. She did not know which was more painful; the idea that Michael had somehow deceived, not only her, but himself as well, or that she might have driven him away by the harshness of her reaction. If the former was to be the sentence for the latter, she felt herself to be punished quite long enough.
Below her, a dark figure moved, causing her to start as their actions caught her attention. Leaning out a bit further to get a better look, she noted that whoever-it-was proceeded cautiously between the three sets of French doors leading into the conservatory. He...or she, was trying each in turn, but as they were all securely fastened for the night, they, of course, met with no success. Had one of the guests wandered off for a midnight stroll and been inadvertently locked out?
For some reason, she felt little fear, as the person appeared to be not at all menacing...frustrated, perhaps, but not menacing. With this in mind, she called softly, "Hello, might I be of some help?"
At once, he( for, by now, she had decided by their garb, that it must be a gentleman) looked up towards her window, and the voice which answered, caused her heart to leap in an alarming fashion.
"Georgiana?"
"Michael?" She managed; after a breathless moment, "You are really here?"
"Georgiana," he repeated somewhere between a whisper and a shout, "My God, Georgiana, can you ever forgive me?"
"Just a moment...Wait for me!" With this, she turned from the window and flew down to the conservatory; possibly faster than she had ever covered the distance before this.
Impatiently, she pushed aside the bolt, flinging the door open with a reckless abandon which would have amazed and confounded anyone who knew her. Rushing out, she bumped headlong into something solid, yet, reassuringly familiar. At once his arms were around her, and, despite her own good intentions, she found herself weeping helplessly against his coat.
"Can you forgive me, my darling Georgiana?" He entreated in a near-whisper, "Tell me that you still love me. I could not bear it if you did not."
"Oh, Michael, I do love you, I adore you," she sobbed, "This has been the worst week of my life! Why did you not let me know where you had gone? Where did you go?"
Emitting a short laugh, he answered, "Where have I not been? If you'll allow me inside, my darling, I promise to tell you everything."
"Yes," she agreed, wiping her eyes with the sash of her robe, as she had already soaked the front of his coat, "Yes, come in."
Taking one of the tapirs from a wall sconce, she, her hand shaking with emotion, lit several of the candles about the room. When, she had finished, she turned to face him, feeling suddenly uncomfortable; for the now lightened conservatory made evident her state of semi-dress. Even wearing a sensibly-designed dressing gown, it was a condition totally unsuitable for an unmarried young lady when alone with a gentleman; no matter that he should happen to be her fiancée (assuming he was, still).
He, however, appeared not to notice; settling himself on the settee with a weary sigh, and drawing her down, rather unceremoniously, beside him.
"I had to see you...to explain," he began, while keeping her hand within his, as though fearful that she might flee.
"Michael, before you do, please let me apologise for what I said...about not wishing to marry you...I did not mean it."
"Thank God," he replied, placing a relieved kiss upon her fingers, "I had prayed for as much. Although, as usual, you are far too generous." Touching her cheek softly, he added, "You must, as I have long suspected, be an angel after all."
"Far from that," she disagreed, dropping her eyes in embarrassment as he studied her, his expression tender.
"Georgiana," he asked, his manner hesitant, "If you have truly forgiven me, will you not permit me one kiss?"
Lifting her head, she encountered such an aspect of humility in his countenance that she could not have refused him, even if the idea had occurred to her. Having nearly resigned herself to never enjoying such pleasure again, his kiss proved to be intoxicating, enthralling.
His lips upon hers were, at first, apologetic, than determined, and, in their acquisition, quite exquisite. She felt herself to be engulfed by the depth of that kiss; the essence of it capturing her very soul.
As their lips separated, she gazed at him in self-conscious wonder, unable to think of a thing to say. He, too, was silent, his finger lightly tracing the place where his mouth had just vacated.
When finally, he spoke, his voice sounded disjointed, uncertain. "All the while I was bound by ropes, I thought of you. If I slept at all, I dreamt only of your kiss. I have decided that there is nothing I would not do for you, Georgiana Darcy, and for someone such as myself," he shook his head doubtfully, "This is quite an admission. I...cannot recall being so willing to give up my life for another, before meeting you."
But, she had become fixated upon his first words. "What do you mean, bound? When...and who would do such a thing?" Her indignation was mixed with anguish. "Were you harmed? Tell me, Michael!" In her agitation she held his hand within hers, stroking and kissing it almost unconsciously.
"No, my sweet Georgiana," he assured her, while drawing her against him, "Other than missing a few meals, I was not. However," he added with a sly smile, "You cause me to regret not suffering twice as much, in the hope that you might feel the need to console me further."
But she was not to be distracted. "Were you treated so cruelly while in London, or at Longbourne?"
With a sigh, he conceded, "If you insist on my telling you, than I suppose I must." Then, tilting her chin until their eyes met, he established, "I must presume (since you are, obviously, in full knowledge of my whereabouts) that Mr. Bennet mentioned his seeing me there."
She nodded, and he continued, "Well, it is an odd coincidence, but, it seems the vicar who performed the marriage rites for Helena Brecht and I, just happens to be currently presiding at Longbourne."
"That is very odd," she allowed, looking somewhat puzzled; "So,...that is why you went there?"
"I had reason to believe the marriage was not valid, and, he, eventually, confirmed my suspicions."
"Eventually?"
"After some misunderstandings," he added, watching her lips until she felt herself blushing again. "Do you know, Miss Darcy," he inquired suddenly, "How bewitching you are?"
"Michael...," she protested, but before she could finish, he had covered her mouth once again with his own.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Elizabeth?" He did not know if she were yet awake, but having suddenly recalled that which he had forgotten to speak of earlier, he took a chance. Luck was with him, for almost at once, she turned over to face him; her voice somehow reassuring in the darkness of their room.
"Yes, Fitzwilliam?"
"Did I tell you," he questioned, while knowing full well he had not, "That I received an express from Mr. Radcliff this afternoon?"
"No, what did he have to say?" She situated herself so that she was well within his embrace, her head resting upon his shoulder.
"That, not only had he discovered Mr. Berrick, but that he is, at present, thankfully unmarried."
"Oh," she released a sigh of relief, "I am so glad for Georgiana. Did you happen to share this news with her?"
"I wished to inform you first, and...I had hoped that Mr. Berrick might come to Pemberley to tell her so, himself."
"If he does not arrive tomorrow, Fitzwilliam, perhaps you ought to tell her. After all, it might aid in easing her mind."
"Or," he reasoned, "Cause her further grief, as he has not appeared, as yet, to do so."
"I suppose it might...In any case, now I may feel better about liking him again."
"So long as he does not totally disregard her feelings in all of this," he concluded, his mind unaccountably shifting to something other than their present topic of conversation.
His fingers, which had been resting innocently atop her breast, began to stroke her in such a way as to draw a definite and immediate reaction.
In the space of a moment, she turned her head so that their lips were just touching. "Fitzwilliam," she breathed, her voice muffled against his mouth, "It is very late."
"Too late, Elizabeth?" His other hand, progressing lower as he turned to face her, gently caressed her stomach. With exceptional attention to her response, he proceeded to ease ever downward until she gasped aloud in unrestrained pleasure.
"I suppose," she conceded at last, her interest, more than slightly piqued, "Time is relative."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter Thirty-Two
Between Georgiana's questions and Mr. Berrick's answers, their discussion lasted well past three o'clock; at which time, she, not wishing to retire, but noticing his increasing weariness, merely curled up where she was, her head resting comfortably upon his chest.
This, then, is where they were discovered the following morning by Mr. Darcy, himself; having chanced to enter the conservatory on his way to the gardens for an early morning stroll. His surprise being what it was, he stood for some time debating on how, exactly, to behave.
After several moments he was duly joined by his wife, who reacted to the scene before them with no less amazement, yet, a great deal more understanding.
"Oh," she affirmed unnecessarily, "I see Mr. Berrick has arrived."
"So it would seem," was his pointed acknowledgement.
"It appears the wedding shall go on as planned," she continued brightly.
"I should certainly hope so."
"Fitzwilliam," she cautioned, and, after noting the austerity of his expression, drew him out into the hallway where they would not be overheard, continued, "Do not censure them...They have only just been reconciled."
"Elizabeth," he sighed, unwittingly affected by her appeal, "What would you have me do?"
Rising up on her toes, she placed a light kiss on his cheek. "All that I ask," she requested with an indulgent smile, "Is, that you recall one, particular couple's comparable state, but three years ago."
He shook his head, "My only recollection of that period, madam, is how I arduously avoided any situation which might have, even, hinted of impropriety."
"And, did such a fine job, that I, myself was very often frustrated by your success," she teased. "However, should we now condemn them for being less scrupulous than we, when it is only a week before they shall be husband and wife?"
"That we know of," he corrected her, "Something may yet occur to obstruct the process once more."
"Heaven forbid," she replied, rolling her eyes. "In any case, I believe that if anyone has earned the right to be happy; it is Georgiana and her Mr. Berrick. Even Fate could not be so heartless as to conclude otherwise."
"Let us, indeed, hope not...All right, Mrs Darcy, I shall say nothing of this...rather indiscreet scene, if you will do me the honour of joining me outdoors."
Laughing softly, she rejoined, "You are incorrigible, sir. May I remind you, however, that if you are truly desirous of my company, you hardly need resort to blackmail, you know."
"So you say," he answered, raising an eyebrow, "But, I predict that within half-an-hour you will be required elsewhere, and I shall see you no more until the christening."
"Well, then," she conceded, "Allow me to fetch my bonnet and coat, and you may happily enjoy my company for at least half-an-hour."
"Perhaps,...even an hour?" He then suggested solemnly.
"Perhaps, even an hour...or so."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Georgiana awoke, it was to the startling realisation that she was not in her own bed. Slowly she became aware that she seemed to be, in fact, lying with her head upon someone's lap. Then, as though a gate were suddenly opened, the memories of the night before flooded back. Instantly overwhelmed by mortification, chagrin, and even a certain amount of fear, she quickly sat up, dreading the idea of turning her head to actually look at Mr. Berrick.
In an effort to postpone the inevitable, she closed her eyes tightly, nonetheless, his voice, sounding more than a little amused, broke into her flustered thoughts.
"Am I so difficult to behold in the morning, then? This cannot bode well for our marriage, do you think?"
"It is not that," she cried, her eyes still closed, "I should not even be here with you now!"
"Georgiana," he whispered, his voice drawing nearer to her ear, "Despite your, somewhat, belated misgivings, you are here, as am I. We have done nothing to regret, you know."
After a moment, she cautiously opened her eyes, and turned, at last, to meet his gaze. Leaning toward her, he kissed her before she could hinder his efforts, and, she had to admit, it was a very pleasant method with which to begin the day.
"You are scratchy," she observed dreamily after a moment.
"I cannot deny it. I could use a bath and a shave," he agreed; then with one more quick kiss upon her lips before standing, he added, "I hope, my darling, that I will see you again, very soon; after I have become more presentable."
"Of course," she promised, as he bowed briefly and turned to leave. Following his departure, she sat for another moment, reflecting on how unusual, yet how glorious, the past seven hours had been, and, at the same time, wondering, somewhat nervously, if they might have been observed by anyone.
"Good Lord," she considered, "I hope Fitzwilliam did not witness us." It was not that she feared his reproach; it was that she could not stand to disappoint him...and, he would, undoubtedly, be disappointed.
As luck would have it, she did not see him until they were gathering to depart for the church that afternoon. As she descended the stairs, carrying Ethan in her arms, she stopped short as their eyes met.
Astonishingly, he said nothing, other than offering to take his son from her as "he must, really, be too heavy."
His son, actually, was not, but she yielded, grateful for any reprieve from the reprimand she fully expected.
When Elizabeth later mentioned in the carriage, that they had been so happy to see Mr. Berrick that morning, Georgiana stared at her cautiously.
"Did...When did you discover him to be at Pemberley?" She questioned, her expression anxious.
At this, Elizabeth studied her. "Georgiana," she explained, not unkindly, "You are very nearly a married woman. You shall, very soon, have to trust your own judgement in many things. It will no longer be your brother's task to watch over you."
This put a very different light on the subject, setting Georgiana to musing on the whole idea of marriage anew. She had known, of course, that she would be leaving Pemberley, as well as everything concerning it; yet, the realisation that Fitzwilliam would no longer be in authority over her seemed, somehow, startling.
Yes, she contemplated silently, and a little frightening, as well. Here she was, abandoning all that she had ever known or loved, for something altogether foreign. She would be a wife, a helpmeet, a partner, really. It was a state of being with which she knew nothing about, and her total ignorance of the matter suddenly terrified her.
"Elizabeth," she exclaimed, clutching Ethan who had been asleep on her lap, tightly to her in desperation, "Perhaps, I cannot do this after all!"
"Georgiana," her sister-in-law replied, her voice soothing, "It is not so difficult. In fact, there are many aspects which are quite...wonderful."
"Will you help me, Elizabeth? I mean, explain what I shall need to know. I realise that what I am asking is forward, but I have no mother, and Fitzwilliam, although he is a dear, cannot comprehend..." Her manner had gone from anxious to panic-stricken, causing Elizabeth to smile in understanding.
"We have a whole week yet, and I shall help you, Georgiana. How could I do otherwise? You have long been as dear to me as my own family. But, this much I promise you; there can be nothing to fear in a marriage when two people are as in love as you and Mr. Berrick."
"Thank you," breathed Georgiana, beginning to feel better; although as the week transpired, her apprehension would return far too often, threatening to overtake her common sense.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Melanie Elizabeth Darcy was duly christened without notable complications, save her eldest brother suddenly coming down with a noisy case of hiccoughs in the middle of the ceremony. Mr. Bennet then, volunteered to take him outdoors to recover; a situation proving to be satisfactory to them both. As, not only were they missing the majority of the seemingly endless discourse delivered by Bishop Piedmont, they passed this unplanned diversion in mutual appreciation of the countless butterflies fluttering about the cemetery stones which stood sentry beside the church building.
Afterwards, they all, including the flushed-with-pride Bishop (for he had outdone himself in the number of resplendent words and phrases included in his sermon), returned to Pemberley for a celebratory repast following this latest milestone.
The Bingleys, unhappily, had been forced to relay their regrets, it being so near to Jane's time, but they had sent a gift for Melanie, wrapped in pristine white paper and bound by a lavish pink ribbon, which had James fidgeting every time he saw it. When opened by his mother, however, it turned out to be a delicate porcelain doll, dressed in finest lace, and proving to be a major disappointment to young Mr. Darcy.
They were seated in the conservatory; the doors opened to allow the fresh breezes through, when Mrs. Bennet, during a lapse in the general conversation, spoke.
"Have you heard our own Mary's news, Lizzy?"
At this Mary turned a deep crimson, but remained silent, while Elizabeth, feeling some sympathy toward her, suggested, "Perhaps, Mary is not ready to share her news as yet."
Mrs. Bennet chose to ignore this not-so-subtle hint, persisting blithely. "Why, Lizzy, you are not the only one of us with cause to rejoice today. Mary has received an offer of marriage!"
Glancing at her sister, who looked as if she would like to flee, Elizabeth replied, "Why, that is happy news indeed, if she truly welcomes the offer."
"Of course she does!" Cried Mrs. Bennet, "Why should she not? She cannot remain an old maid forever, can she?"
Without a word, Mary rose and exited the room, her back as stiff as a poker. Mrs, Bennet, after observing this, sniffed, "You would suppose her to be overjoyed, but no...all she can do is continue on as though nothing has been altered. I cannot believe she is my daughter!"
As the others tactfully returned to their previous subjects of discourse, Fitzwilliam exchanged a glance with his wife, indicating that he fully expected her to keep her mother under control...by whatever means possible.
That lady, unwilling to relinquish her moment of glory, continued, just in case anyone might still be listening; "Yes, she shall be the next one to be wed, I daresay, and then all of my daughters shall be well taken care of."
Experiencing a combination of helplessness and frustration, Elizabeth inquired desperately, "Mama, have you heard how Jane is doing? I have not seen her these past six weeks."
"We are to stop there on our way back to Longbourne, but Lizzy, do you not wish to know to whom Mary is engaged? Are you not the least bit curious?"
As her mother's expression contained such open expectancy (and promised to pursue the subject until satisfied that she had said all she could about it), Elizabeth sighed, "No, I mean, yes, Mama. Pray, tell me, who is she to marry?"
"Why, that young vicar, Mr. Chase. Is this not the most delightful news, Lizzy?"
"Yes, delightful," repeated Elizabeth, glad that she had got that out of the way. Then, rising from her place, she urged brightly, "Does anyone desire more tea or wine?"
No one seemed to notice Mr. Berrick's sudden, odd demeanour; for his glass had frozen half-way to his lips, while his eyes had taken on something of a vacant stare.