B006O3T9DG EBOK (30 page)

The candlelight caught William’s eyelashes as they fluttered in recognition. Still labouring to breathe, he turned his head towards his father. Darcy smiled at him and for the sparest moment, the baby smiled in return.

Placing the back of his fingers upon his son’s pink cheeks, Darcy then looked at Elizabeth. Their gazes were briefly locked. In that moment, they united in both desperation and dread. Darcy longed to see reason for encouragement, but she seemed to have none. Every breath little William made was a struggle.

“We should have taken him to Brighton as we did the twins...,” she fretted.

“I shall never forgive myself for not being here...,” he said, as if he could forestall illness by his very bearing.

It was not to be.

Chapter 40

The Beauty of Ice

In the first salvo, Juliette realised that she had made a serious misstep.

At the Pemberley ball, she had vowed not to speak ill of Darcy’s wife, but desperation had moved her to make a generalisation that did not suit him. Juliette learnt from her mistakes. At Pemberley, she had been too forward. Was she to have him, he must come to her.

Unfortunately, her husband had forced her to hie to London immediately after the ball to attend more bloody political meetings. In the field of amour, it was the woman who should have had the upper hand in some fashion. It was difficult to have a hold over a man who spent much of his time upon the other side of the country. She fretted that Darcy was, quite literally, beyond her reach.

Months upon months of her fertility had been usurped with her husband’s concerns. She had to engage him connubially often enough to maintain the ruse that he would father her child. Whilst enduring that chore, her time had been employed overseeing the repairs and refurbishment of their country estate. As she seemingly committed herself to these projects, her scheme
la manifique
had improved until it was nothing less than an obsession. She no longer meant to escape her marriage via Mr. Darcy’s seed, but that their child would keep them connected evermore. Perchance, they might even resume their previous association.

Then, abruptly, it seemed to have utterly fallen to pieces.

Initially, she had been gleeful that his wife had birthed a son—
another
son. It was further validation that he would gift her a male child. However, her mind on the subject had suddenly altered. It had seized on the notion that the child he begat was not hers. It
should
have been hers. Had she had her way, it
would
have been hers. She could not think of it without near suicidal regret.

So close, dear Darcy, yet so far.

Desperate to regain his good graces, it was by her design that she and her husband would host a ball honouring the Bingleys. Her husband adored the notion, for he would have say over the guest list. Howgrave had been unable to work on Mr. Darcy at Pemberley as he had hoped. He was much in want of another go at him and others like him. As if a school girl, Juliette awaited their next engagement with bated breath.

She had not been disappointed.

When she saw that he had come without his wife, she had been faint with anticipation. She had no doubt that he had come alone in want of her. The only astonishment was that his wife had relinquished him. Her belief that even the greatest of romances eventually cooled under the constancy of a nagging wife and bawling children was borne out. Mr. Darcy did not move upon the whims of his wife. He followed nothing but his own wishes. He wanted her.

Unsurprisingly, his arrival at newly deemed Howgrave Hall caused a great commotion amongst the ladies. Not unexpectedly, he was reticent, speaking to only Bingley and Jane. Even when that little toad, Beecher attempted to have his ear, he was rebuffed. Whilst the Bingleys danced, Darcy prowled the edge of the room with his hands folded behind his back. He struck a fine figure, tall and aloof. Granted, he was a handsome man. Other men were far more handsome; almost all of them more charming.
Riche
, he was too. That was not his allurement. It was less tangible. His was an enrapturing combination of arrogance and
étalege
.

When he bit into the succulent peach, it was as if it had been her flesh he had pierced. He was but a half-step from her arms when that bloody billet arrived. Had she thought of it, she would have given her footmen instructions against such an intrusion. It was disastrous. The expression upon his countenance barely altered as he read it. Yet she knew, the moment he took the note in his hand, that all was lost. Some yawing panic authored her words just then.

“He beats me!” she had declared.

It was all she could think of to keep him by her side. It did not appear that he had heard, or that he had comprehended what she had said. Had she just had more time, he would have been hers.

Rather, he evaporated like the mist.

It left her longing for him ever more urgently. Her only hope was that, in time, he would recollect her words. Perchance he did even then. He was in no way an impetuous man. Now he would need additional time to gauge what she told him and decide upon a course of action. It was not the guarded Darcy she hoped to engage. It was the unconsidered act, the improvident response that she was in want of inspiring.

It was a great pity about the child.

But, no misfortune came without compensation. It had been her experience that when faced with such tragedies, men often sought solace from others than those closest to them. They would rather forget than wallow in grief. It was that sort of succour she furnished to many gentlemen over the years. If Darcy had come to her when all was well, he was ever more apt to seek her out to escape the weepers and forlorn countenances at home.

She would be there with open arms, an alluring smile, and her own sad tale of woe. In his heart, he was a rescuer and she most certainly was a damsel in distress.

Chapter 41

The Whistle

When death did arrive, it did not come roaring, but on little mouse feet, silent in the night.

Each breath William took was a struggle. Was prayer enough; was love enough; he would not have died.

But he did.

His last breath left him with a low, soft hiss. The little chest, which had quivered so valiantly to breathe, ceased.

A sob hung in the air. Unclaimed, communal, it lasted a lifetime.

Slowly, William’s eyes became sunken and still, as if the angels lifted his soul and with it, the reflection that had so often danced in them. As one of her last motherly chores, Elizabeth closed her son’s eyelids.

Unable to stop herself, she continued to tend him, smoothing his hair, straightening his gown, folding his blanket....

Darcy stood next to her, his hands clasped behind his back. When he saw that she was consumed with a task that had no end, he took one of her hands in his. She dared not take measure of his countenance as much for his sake as for hers. (Desolation had not yet set in, but it was on yon horizon.)

Darcy’s expression could not be called grim, for that would ascribe an emotion to that which was truly ineffable. His aspect was at once stoic, resigned, forbidding, and, above all else, near compleat disintegration. After a moment, his mind stumbled from the twilight of inertia. He cleared his throat. What he said was a denouement. It came out as a command.

“Bring the children, for they must say their goodbyes.”

Elizabeth did not hear his order as such, but as he meant to speak—kindly. His words were a part of an unleashing of sorrow. Indeed, only through vehemence could he manage to speak at all. There was nothing else to be done, but wait for their two living issue to assemble. As they stood, the tick of the large clock that stood on the first landing infiltrated their sorrow. Mr. Howard sent a maid scurrying to stop the pendulum.

Knowing that her sorrow would try her husband’s composure, Elizabeth still could not stop herself from turning to Darcy then. She hid her face against his chest, curling her arms within his.

He patted her awkwardly, saying, “William joins his brother. We must think of them hand in hand, waiting and watching over our days left on earth.”

“Yes,” she said, endeavouring to keep that image in her mind. “They are together.”

It had been oft said that men, by reason of their sex, avoided life’s disagreeableness. Elizabeth did not subscribe to that rule. If her husband did not weep, it was not because he cared so little. It was his duty to stand erect and endure. Women were given leave to mourn, despair, and wail all they wished. A man was not to expose his sensibilities. He must be strong when the world about him has been rent into tiny pieces.

Pressing the back of her hands to her eyes, Elizabeth reclaimed her composure. That was imperative, for within his embrace she had felt a faint quiver and knew his resolve was weakened by her tears. All about them, Georgiana, Jane, servants cried openly. (Easily stirred, Bingley fled to the parlour when he saw the end drew near.) Only the curate was dry-eyed.

The arrival of Janie and Geoff galvanized the others. The twins had been awakened from their sleep and were slightly puzzled as to what had come to pass. Elizabeth took each one in hand and led them to William’s bedside. She whispered to them that they must say their goodbyes to their brother. Both looked stricken. Geoff did not gaze into the crib, but Janie came forward.

“Is Willy still sick?” she asked.

It was her fervent wish to tell Janie that her little brother no longer suffered, that he was in heaven looking down upon them all. In time, Elizabeth would relate those and other, more eloquent, sentiments to her children. Just then, she was struck silent.

Standing very straight, Mr. Darcy announced, “We had him with us for eight months, seven days, and a bit more. William Darcy now abides in God’s loving arms.”

———

When the time came, the little coffin was to be carried to the cemetery in a small waggon. Before the lid was closed, Janie tugged at her mother’s sleeve. In the girl’s hand was a whistle. It had not William’s favourite toy, but hers. Elizabeth understood.

“Yes, my sweet,” she said softly.

She did not dare look at Darcy, sensing that their daughter’s gesture bid him turn away. (Just then, accepting condolences was a welcome escape for him.) Taking the whistle in her hand, Elizabeth tucked it beneath the shawl swaddling William’s body. Elizabeth could not bring herself to look at her youngest now that his body had gone grey and cold. She wanted to recall him pink and healthy, bubbling with laughter.

Geoff stood next to his sister, wounded by the same stoicism as his father. When Janie began to cry, Elizabeth knelt to comfort her. As she did, her brother took Janie’s hand in his and led her away. In an hour foreshadowing life’s bold inexactitude, that was a great comfort for their mother. She meant to tell Darcy of it in their next private moment. Perchance it would sooth him as well.

Their procession was orderly, well-used emotions finally tethered. It was only after prayers were recited and they turned to go that it all became too much for Elizabeth. Her knees buckling, she wanted to cry out. She kept her silence, but placed her hand atop the coffin.

Whispering only to her husband, she said, “How can we abandon him to this desperate corner?”

“We must,” he answered.

She steadied herself for him and for the two little faces that remained.