Apprehension and Desire: A Tale of Pride and Prejudice (32 page)

He sat down beside her on the bed and pulled her into his arms. “Listen to me. It was not your fault. Such things happen sometimes. You could not stop it.”

“I feel horrible,” she whispered brokenly into his chest.

His arms squeezed her to him. “I know, love, I know.” He kissed her head. “I love you.”

She cried silently.

***

Darcy woke up the next morning with a dull pain in his back. He had slept half sitting on the bed, in his clothes, his head supported against the headboard at a strange angle. Elizabeth was snuggled to him. It had been very late when she had stopped weeping and fallen asleep.

Carefully, he removed her arm from his waist and got out of bed, ignoring the stiffness in his muscles. He covered her with another blanket and quietly walked out of the room.

He hurried with washing and shaving and ordered a breakfast for both of them to their private sitting room. As the food was brought, he checked on Elizabeth. She was still dozing. He returned to the sitting room, leaving the door to the bedroom open. Should he wake up her, or let her sleep?

“William?” he heard a weak, raspy voice. “Where are we?”

He hurried to the bedroom. She sat in the middle of the bed, disoriented, her curls sticking in the all directions. Then her hand went down to her stomach and the tears ran down her face.

“No.” She sobbed, “No...”

He was beside her in a second. He pulled her to him, trying to soothe her somehow, whispering endearments, though he was, himself, on the verge of breaking down.

When she quietened down a  bit, he cupped her swollen, red face. “The breakfast is waiting. I will ask to bring hot tea.”

“I am not hungry,” she answered in a dead voice, her arms slumping.

“Please, love, you have barely eaten anything for the last days. Do you want to make yourself seriously ill? You must eat, for me. Please,” he begged.

She nodded and tried to get up on her own, but he did not allow it, only scooped her in his arms and carried to the other room.

He sat her down and put some ham and bread on her plate, making a sandwich.

She began to chew mechanically. As she ate, new tears began forming in her eyes. Darcy felt helpless. It was not Elizabeth, he knew. She was always so lively and enthusiastic, and now he was almost afraid to look in her eyes.

“I ordered a bath. I assumed you would wish to refresh yourself.”

She nodded. “I washed myself yesterday after the doctor went to talk with you and burnt the bloodied nightgown in the fireplace, but a warm bath would be nice.” There seemed to be no emotion, no feeling in her voice.

The bathtub was carried to the bedroom and the servants brought the buckets with hot water. He did not want the strangers around, so he sent the maid out. Elizabeth wanted to wash her hair, so he assisted her with it, pouring the water over her head several times to wash down the suds. She trembled the entire time, and he knew it was not because she was cold.

He dried her, helped her into a fresh nightgown, wrapped her hair in a towel, and put her back to bed.

They were silent as the servants took the tab away.

“Tell me now.” He took her hand. “Are you in pain?”

“No, not at all. We can go tomorrow.” she said, her eyes focused on some nonexistent point in front of her.

“It is too soon, you should stay in bed for a few days.”

“The doctor said we could go as soon as I feel well. I do not want to stay here any longer than necessary.”

He nodded. “I understand. As you wish.”

She looked at him. “I have a favour to ask you.”

“Anything, love.” He lifted her hand to his mouth. “Anything.”

“Do not tell anyone. Anyone.” She sat up, her eyes burning. “I do not want them to know what happened.”

“Of course. No one will know.”

“Your people witnessed me being sick yesterday. Could you tell them that I ate something bad, and that is why we needed to postpone our journey?”

“As you wish.”

“Thank you.” She dropped back on the pillow. “I will sleep now.” She closed her eyes.

Darcy gave his horse to a stable hand and hurried inside the house. He had been away the entire morning, having left early, when the house had been yet asleep. He had ridden to one of the more distant parts of the estate and had a final conversation with a troublesome tenant who had developed an excessive liking for liquor in recent years. His farm was situated on a good plot of land, but had not given any profit for a long time. Darcy had thought of himself a generous and fair Master, but he did not like when somebody tried to abuse his trust and good will. He dreaded situations like these, and even though they happened rarely at Pemberley, it was still his responsibility as a landlord to deal with them as they occurred.

He felt the muscles in his face drawn so tight that it nearly gave him physical pain. He made an effort to relax; he did not want to show his scowl to his family and servants. His true worry was not about the lazy, useless tenant, but only about Elizabeth. Six weeks had passed since they had come from London, and she was far from being her old self.

“Where is Mrs. Darcy?” he questioned the butler from the threshold. When he had been leaving early in the morning, she had been in deep sleep, warm and flushed, buried under numerous blankets.

“She left for a walk about an hour ago,” Peters answered as he took his hat and greatcoat.

“Then she should return soon,” Darcy murmured more to himself. “When Mrs. Darcy returns, please ask her to come to my study.” He spoke formally to the servant.

Peters bowed. “Yes, Master.”

In his study, he noticed a fresh pile of correspondence waiting for him. Two letters were for Elizabeth, one from Jane, and the other from Charlotte Collins. Perhaps they would cheer her up.

Involuntarily, his face tensed back into a strained mask. After what had happened six weeks ago on their way to Pemberley, he had expected her to be devastated, to mourn the loss. He was mourning as well. There had not been much evidence of the babe’s existence yet when the miscarriage happened. Nevertheless, he had already managed to envision this child in his mind; a bright eyed girl with bouncing curls, just like her mother. He had imagined how he would show her around the park, making small steps, her tiny hand in his large one, or carrying her around in his arms for everyone to admire the little beauty. He did not know why he had thought the child to be a girl, perhaps because his only experience with infants had been with Georgiana.

Elizabeth suffered more than he. It was understandable; she was a woman, and it was her body. At first he had been amazed with her. He had expected her to stay in her rooms, abed for a few days, even longer. But from almost the first day, she had begun her new life as a Mistress of Pemberley, and his wife, as if nothing had happened. Every day she conversed with Mrs. Reynolds, learning the matters of the house. She had asked him if there was some part of the correspondence that she could help him with, answering it as the Mistress instead of him. She admitted guests who came to Pemberley curious of a new Mrs. Darcy and visited them in turn. She spent at least some part of the day with Georgiana. All that she did with a constant smile on her face and kindness in her voice. Even her light laugh, he could hear from time to time.

Darcy was not fooled with this façade. This was not the Elizabeth he had known and fallen in love with. Her eyes were different, changed, more conscious and, above all, sad. When she thought that nobody was looking, they lost their sparkle, and she stared blankly in front of herself.

What bothered him the most was how their relationship had changed when they were alone, in the privacy of their rooms. She did not avoid him, or shy from his embrace, but she was not the same either. She had become passive and quiet. She could sit for an hour in one place, without speaking a single word to him. Such behaviour on her part would have been unthinkable in the past, when at every opportunity she had climbed onto his lap for a kiss or to tell him something interesting that she had seen, heard or read about in her sweet, uplifted voice.

The worst of all, however, was when she cried, and it happened almost every single day. For instance he would come into their bedroom in the afternoon to check on her, only to see her small body curled on the bed, sobs shaking her. When he tried to talk her into calming down, begging her not to weep, the result was the opposite, as she would wail even harder, nearly turning hysterical. A better way to handle her, he had discovered, was to simply lift her up into his arms and hold her as she gradually cried herself to sleep. At such moments, he wanted to shed tears with her, fighting  hard the dampness dangerously itching his eyes. He knew though, that his breakdown would not help her. She needed him strong and in control, not wallowing in despair.

The knock on the door brought his attention to the present moment. With the back of his palm, he made sure that his eyes were perfectly dry.

“Enter,” he said, his voice thicker than usual.

“You wanted to see me?” She stood in the open door; her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were rosy. She always looked like that after a physical exertion.

He put on his best expression. “Yes, love. Please come in.”

She closed the door with careful movements and walked forward, stopping in front of his desk. She looked very pretty. He was a lousy bastard to think about it so soon, but he wanted her back, not just sleeping next to him at night, but loving her fully, being inside her.

He handed her the letters.

She took and examined them. “Thank you.”

Her lips stretched in a smile and for a change, it seemed genuine, not forced. She played with the envelopes, her small fingers tracing her name, handwritten on the top, Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

She turned on her feet, making an indication that she wanted to leave. “I promised I would join Georgiana in the music room so we could have tea together. I will read my letters while she plays. If you do not need me...”

“You can read them here,” he interrupted her. He hated when she was so formal, so proper with him, and it happened too often nowadays, as if some kind of barrier had grown between them. “The light is better here at this time of the day than in music room,” he added lightly. “Georgiana will not mind; you know how engrossed she usually is in her practice. Besides, I thought about having tea as well. I have just returned myself.”

An understanding dawned upon her face. “Ah, yes. I should have remembered. How was the meeting with Mr. Kirby? You seemed so worried about it yesterday.”

“Not good. I think there is no other way than to terminate the lease the next spring if nothing changes.”

She walked closer, her expression of real concern. “I imagine it must be a very unpleasant situation for you.”

“Well, yes...” he agreed soberly, staring into her face. His expression changed suddenly and he grinned boyishly. “I think that a cup of tea with my wife will improve my mood vastly.”

Her face lit up for a moment, and  she stepped to him, brushing lightly against his torso. “I will be back soon.”

He looked after her with warmth in his eyes as she strolled out of the room. Her spirits seemed to be higher today, he judged with relief.

As she had promised, she was back with tea before long, just as he finished answering the first letter.

“You may go,” Elizabeth said to the maid who carried the tray. “I will call you later to take the dishes away. Thank you.” She smiled at the girl, who shyly smiled back and hurried out of the room.

Darcy sat by the small table, as Elizabeth busied herself with the teapot and the cups. He very much enjoyed every time she served tea to him, entirely occupied with his comfort, paying attention only to him.

“Perhaps you would wish something to eat?” she asked as they began to drink.

He shook his head. “No. Thank you. I had a hearty breakfast before I left.”

As his eyes locked on her, he noticed her falling into her absent minded mood again. With her half empty cup of tea on the saucer in her hands, she gazed emptily out of the window.

Wanting to distract her, he set his cup on the table and touched her arm. “I am very impressed with you, very proud.”

She blinked her eyes repeatedly. “With me?”

“Yes, you are doing excellently as the Mistress of  Pemberley.”

She blushed. “Thank you.”

“I appreciate all your care, work, devotion and effort,” he assured.

Her head lowered and she shrugged her shoulders. “At least there is one thing I can do well as your wife.”

“Do not say so.” He tried not to sound angry. He took the cup away from her hands and touched her cheek to make her look at him. “Elizabeth, you cannot carry on like this.”

She looked away from him. “I did not believe in that child from the beginning.” Her voice was no more than a whisper and a shaky one at that. “ There was no joy in me. I did not feel the way I was supposed to feel, so the babe died.”

“That is the biggest nonsense I have ever heard,” he hissed, ire in his voice palpable. “No good can come from such thinking. On the contrary, you only make yourself more depressed.”