Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (7 page)

Once there, they were overtaken by Miss Bingley come in search of Miss Eliza to show her to her room. In place of a goodnight kiss and profession of love, Elizabeth was led away by her cunning, chattering hostess. Hence, she could only take a fleeting glance over her shoulder at Darcy, hands hanging uselessly at his sides.

* * *

Troubled, Elizabeth sat in the middle of the plump mattress in her rather fine room at Netherfield and considered seeking Jane for a talk. But the house was asleep and she was not certain to which room Jane had retired. It would be imprudent to sneak about the halls knocking randomly upon doors in her dressing-gown. A light rap upon her own door stole her attention from pondering propriety. She brightened. Perhaps Jane had found her. Then darkened. Perhaps Miss Bingley wanted to inquire as to the suitability of her accommodations. By the time she padded across the room, she had steeled herself for the cloying sweetness of -Caroline’s solicitations.

Therefore, the expression she bore when she opened the door to Darcy was not a particularly inviting one.

So dramatic a change did her countenance make, it was quite obvious his appearance was not anticipated. Her alteration of expression did not influence his, thus revealing he expected her astonishment. Automatically, she put her hand to her now vacant neck. Had he come to retrieve his mother’s necklace?

Without hesitation, she took a step back with the door, in mute acquiescence to his admittance. In any other circumstance, she would not have acted so rashly, supposing the probability he came to wish her goodnight. But he was in his shirtsleeves and his face still bore stifled traces of the wretchedness she had seen in the mirror; hence, her reaction had been instinctive.

He stepped into the room. She closed the door, exceedingly aware that the single layer of muslin cascading from her trembling shoulders was beginning a shimmy over which she had no control. She endeavoured to halt it by leaning back against the door. One must suppose that he took note of her gown as well. For once in the room, he stood very still and took a lengthy study of her person, from her loose hair to her bare toes (which curled under the inspection).

Unexpectedly, he turned and walked away from her into the middle of the room. He reached out and rested his hand upon the top of the post at the end of her bed, and, looking more into the air than at her he spoke.

“I fear I must apologise for taking leave so suddenly and without explanation…”

At this, he glanced at his own hand reposed atop her bedpost and, rather self--consciously, removed it and placed it upon his hip. Elizabeth gave a slight nod, but did not speak.

He continued. “I could have sent my man for the necklace, it is true. But I chose not. I had to take leave…from you, us…lest I…forget myself. Compleatly.”

With an unlikely blend of contrition and indignation, she said, “I supposed you had made your escape from the shameless libertine you have ascertained your intended to be.”

At this, he looked at her in sudden realisation that she thought that he had gone, not in defence of her honour, but by reason of her comportment.

“It is myself I do not trust, Elizabeth, not you.”

It took a few moments for the magnitude of his confession to settle upon her mind.

But, it ultimately did. Evidently, his passion was more indocile than her own. Both relieved and amused, she asked, “You came to me in the night to tell me you do not trust yourself alone in my company?”

As she said this, she walked toward him, feeling a little giddy at his expression of confoundment. Furrowing his brow slightly, he deliberated upon that for a moment.

“It appears, indeed, I have.”

By then, she had reached him and taken his hand. The coldness of hers allowed him to change the subject from dissection of the reason why he stood in her room at that hour to the mundaneness of the chilliness of it. He busied himself demanding she find her slippers, robe herself, come stand by the fire, none of which she was able to do, for he drew the duvet from the bed and wrapped it about her shoulders.

All this fussing did not persuade Elizabeth of his self-appointed stewardship of her health. But the solicitude was not unwelcome. She climbed upon the end of the bed, tucking her bare feet beneath her. Upon her knees, his chest was just the right height for her to nestle her head there.

“You are right, Mr. Darcy. It would not do to stand up with a bride with a red, sniffling nose.”

Smiling, he stroked her hair and whispered, “I left here to protect you from the fever in my blood, Elizabeth.”

He lifted her chin.

“Only to return here to find you steps from me all night long.”

It was unlikely that Elizabeth had cuddled against him guilelessly, for they still had not kissed. It is just as unlikely that she did not understand that his sense of honour would not allow him to take the initiative of seduction with an innocent, even if she was his wife-to-be. Hence, she assumed the reins of her own chastity, threw off the quilt and kissed him upon the mouth.

That might have startled him, it might not have. Regardless, the gesture was understood compleatly and was hardly spurned. And from her knees upon the edge of the bed, the stratagem of bodies and lips was at an optimum. Still, each anchored the other with a firm grasp of hair and kissed repeatedly, each one deeper than the last.

When he had explored her body that day against the oak, there was the considerable hindrance of corset and petticoats. Hence, even though his search was diligent and had not been without reward, it remained ultimately futile. Her night-gown, however, offered no such impediment; any pleasure he received when he slid his hands across the fabric was exceeded only by her own. All of which demanded their wrestling about escalate into a feverish near-frenzy.

The only obstacle of costume was his, for, although he had doffed his coat before he sought her room, his waistcoat and tie were still in place. The tie was no true impediment to sate her desire for his body, but his waistcoat was. Had his hands not been so diligently employed, he might have ridded himself of it. But since they were, Elizabeth’s took upon that task, barely executing the violation of his buttons before their bodies toppled back onto the bed.

In all the candour and impertinence of truly united desire, he climbed atop her, his hands searching for the hem of her night-dress. That found, thus were her calves, knees, and backs of her thighs. And each was stroked to quivering, unadulterated surrender.

Now, into this fray, arrived a little argued presumption. When very nearly embarked in flagrante delicto, it is postulated that the female of the species’ attention is less, shall we say, monopolised. And in this specific instance, that truism was validated. For Elizabeth was the one who heard the knock upon her door and Jane’s voice.

“Lizzy? Lizzy? I cannot sleep. May we talk?”

Elizabeth stiffened, then lay still. Her quitting the embrace alerted him to outside intrusion. It was testimony to his determination to have her full participation whilst he luxuriated in her embrace that bade him cease his quest to possess her as well.

Jane repeated insistently, “Lizzy!”

They looked at each other, chests heaving. “If I do not answer, she will believe me ill and awaken the house,” Elizabeth whispered.

He dropped his head to her shoulder in frustrated acknowledgement, then advised her, “I will not hide under the bed, Elizabeth.”

“I would not marry a man who would,” she answered matter-of-factly. He kissed her for that, very nearly rekindling their passion.

Then he rolled away, sat up and said quietly, “Can you give me a moment to…collect myself?”

The reason he needed that restoration had been fully apparent, and Elizabeth, having no knowledge of such matters, wondered how long it would take for him to become…presentable. Even with Jane rapping at the door once more, she granted him whatever time he needed to…settle his ardour.

Elizabeth called out, “Coming, Jane.”

She rose slowly, followed by Darcy whose arousal had subsided, but who was fumbling with the buttons on his waistcoat. When they reached the door, neither had compleatly collected themselves, but they were intact. Elizabeth opened the door boldly. Jane looked apprehensively at Elizabeth, then her gaze over-swept her sister’s shoulder and stopped. Her eyes widened at the startling sight of Mr. Darcy, who loomed quite large behind Elizabeth in the doorway. He bowed to Jane curtly, revealing a head of thoroughly mussed hair, and spoke quite formally.

“Good evening.”

Thereupon, with as much dignity as one could muster in such a situation, he walked out of the room and down the hall.

Jane watched him as he took his leave, then tilted her head just a little to catch every last glimpse of him as he rounded the corner to his own room (possibly to make certain she truly witnessed what she thought she had). Then, still in the doorway, she looked at her sister’s equally dishevelled tresses.

“I feared you and Mr. Darcy had quarrelled.” She again looked down the hall, now vacant of Mr. Darcy’s passage, “But I dare say any disagreements betwixt you have been mended?”

Indeed.

Nary a word had passed betwixt Elizabeth and Jane regarding the blatant impropriety of Elizabeth entertaining Mr. Darcy in her bedchamber (and in her night-dress). This was not by way of censure, but because Jane and Elizabeth’s sisterly bond was unusually strong. Jane endeavoured to find goodness in all God’s creations and she loved Elizabeth unconditionally. Hence, no matter what her eyes told her, she did not for a moment believe anything untoward had occurred that night.

This benevolence allowed Elizabeth a reprieve from explaining that if it did not, it was not for want of trying.

* * *

The day Mrs. Bennet married off her two eldest daughters in extremely advantageous matches was cold and bright. As the two couples stood in the vestibule (Jane aglow with purity and Elizabeth wearing quasi-vestal white) Mr. Bingley’s eyes were almost as fulgent as the winter sun, but Mr. Darcy was quite solemn.

This august occasion was well-nigh put into a pother by reason of another relative. For the obsequious, obtuse (and far too ubiquitous) Mr. Collins waited as long as he dared for the request. It being not forthcoming, he then hied from his vicarage in Kent to apply for the exceedingly illustrious duty of presiding over the wedding of Mr. Darcy to his cousin, Elizabeth Bennet. So very anxious was he to officiate, Elizabeth thought it fortunate that it was she who happened upon him first, lest his fawning embrace have to be pried from about the illustrious Mr. Darcy’s knees.

For, as he was wont to announce upon the heels of his introduction, Mr. Collins came under the personal condescension of Darcy’s aunt, the Mistress of Rosings Park, Lady Catherine de Bourgh (a distinction he embraced a bit too acutely). His own self-satisfaction with the felicity of his situation was exceeded only by his compleat ignorance of public regard. This happy alliance of oblivion and conceit made Mr. Collins an unusually contented man.

There was, however, a single cloud upon the perpetually sunny sky of his disposition. Indeed, it was a forbidding one. For Lady Catherine’s extreme displeasure over her nephew’s engagement to Miss Bennet rather than to her daughter, the bilious Lady Anne, was vocal and virulent. And for a sycophant of Mr. Collins’s well-rehearsed sensibilities, it was a fiendish dilemma. But, ultimately, with whom he should ally himself was not a really difficult decision: Rosings Park was closer, but Mr. Darcy richer. Hence, just days before the wedding he stood before Elizabeth, his handkerchief mopping his perpetually bedewed upper lip.

“Dearest Cousin Elizabeth, perhaps you feared it too much to ask of me, thus I take it upon myself to offer my services at your wedding.”

Human folly had always been a great source of amusement for Mr. Bennet and, as her father’s daughter, Elizabeth as well. As the most ridiculous of men, Mr. Collins should have incited considerable merriment. However, Mr. Collins had expectations. Upon Mr. Bennet’s death, by reason of the unforgivable sin of begetting five daughters, Longbourn was to be entailed to his sister’s son, the said same vicar from Kent. The magnitude of this particular injury was compounded by Mr. Collins’s once entertaining the notion of uniting Longbourn with the Bennets by marrying Elizabeth.

Disabusing the tenacious little vicar of that idea was no easy endeavour. Her eventual success was but a miserly triumph, for she only managed to deflect him upon her good friend Charlotte Lucas. (Charlotte may well have been plain, twenty-seven and not of romantic sensibility, but Elizabeth believed even those desperate straits were not enough for her to sacrifice herself upon the altar of insipidity.)

Hence, it was with little compunction that Elizabeth disencumbered her toadying cousin of the considerable vagary that he would read them their vows.

“I thank you, Mr. Collins. You are very good to offer. But we did not wish to impose upon you, as a member of the family, any other duty than that of honoured guest. Bishop Peel shall perform the ceremony.”

Thus Mr. Collins could boast (and did regularly, as he was always in need of a new boast) that he was passed over only for a clergyman who sat in the House of Lords.

* * *

A festooned high-flyer took them from the church to a commotion-filled wedding breakfast at Netherfield. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy bade their farewells that forenoon.

The Bingleys were to honeymoon there in the bosom of his family, the Darcys to travel first to London, then make an early start for Pemberley the next day. That was as one would have foretold. Mr. Bingley wanted to share his happiness; Mr. Darcy sought to enjoy his in privacy. Hence, for the trip to town the sporty open carriage was exchanged for a closed Landau, brandishing two postilions, two footmen, six horses, and a fully laden boot.

* * *

It was early evening when the resplendent coach arrived at the Darcy London townhouse. The newlyweds’ egress from it was appropriately consequential, but for a courtship so rife with unrequited passion, it had been a strangely torpid trip.

Forasmuch as their simmering desire had seethed into a teeming boil at Netherfield, one should anticipate that once the union had been blessed by God, there would have been at least a minimal exchange of affection. That occurrence would have been quite unobjectionable to Mrs. Darcy.

That amorous juncture did not occasion.

Howbeit Mr. Darcy held her hand tightly and even kissed it several times, her glove was not removed. What little conversation occurred betwixt them originated from her. So barren of passionate inclinations was their journey, she concluded (a little petulantly) that marriage evidently stifled both her allurement and his abandon. Little time did she have to nurse injury, for they were whisked to a lavish supper.

Pemberley was certainly a stately home, but its grounds and gardens were not -formal. The townhouse was swimming in recherché glory. Much in want of appreciating the distinction of the meal, Elizabeth had not the means.

Once again, her appetite had vanished. The only consolation for her disquiet was that Darcy was afflicted as much as she. They sat in reserved acceptance of the soup and fish, but partook little. By the time the second entrée made its appearance, he waved the rest away. Had there been other guests that would have been scandalous. As it was, she issued a silent prayer of thanks. They rose from the table, her hand upon his forearm, and from thence, he forsook her to the stewardship of a maid.

Her heart beating resoundingly in her ears, Elizabeth followed the plump lady-maid to her dressing room like a dutiful schoolgirl. There she found the night-dress she had meticulously embroidered carefully arranged. Upon it lay a silver-encrusted comb, brush, and hand-mirror. As it was unknown to her, she premised it another wedding gift from Darcy. It bore no note. Without invitation, the maid plucked her hairpins out and set about putting the brush to good use. Elizabeth watched the doings in the looking-glass and dearly wished she could talk to Jane.

For all her self-possession, she suddenly felt a strange longing. In the cavernous house, her body and soul entrusted to a man whose nature she had not a notion of unravelling, she missed her home. Or at least Jane.

The leap from fiancée to bride seemed a little too precipitous just then. Was that not test enough, a decision fraught with possible mortification begged to be made.

Should she get into their bed and await him, or should she give him time to precede her? When she peeked through the door, she saw there was no resolution to be reached.

* * *

Howbeit she opened the massive door only a crack, the glare behind released a shaft of light rendering it impossible for her to behold what lay within the dim candle glow of the bedchamber. When she opened it a bit wider, a form was revealed stopped -mid-motion next to the bed. At first, Elizabeth could not discern who it was and, in her embarrassment, very nearly leapt back behind the door.

Only sheer will (admittedly fortified by a finely honed inclination to curiosity) induced her to take a second look. Propitious fortune allowed her to descry whom the crepuscular light yielded.

It was her husband.

In his hand, he held a silver bowl, the floral scent wafting from thence announcing the rose petals it contained. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she beheld an odd expression upon his face, one she did not recollect of him. His gaze undefined made her uneasy and she shifted from one foot to the other, uncertain should she flee back to her dressing room or close the door behind her.

Abruptly, he set the bowl upon the table and hastily began to tuck in the tail of his shirt. For she then saw, howbeit he was dressed, it was not properly. His feet were bare and he appeared to be wearing only his shirt and trousers. His being en déshabillé should have assured her he was tie-less as well, but that conclusion was not the one that was drawn. For that was what she noticed above anything else. Neither his bare feet, nor his prevailing shirttail, but that his collar button was undone, thus exposing his neck. His neck being under such diligent study, it gave her a start when he strode to her. Hence, he was upon her before she could do more than gasp.

With a swoop, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. But she did not truly remember him lifting her, nor any scenery upon the excursion. She was brought to her senses by the overwhelming redolence of roses that engulfed her body and thereupon by his mouth when it covered hers. Whatever reticence had been in his charge was surrendered to her with a ferocity quite unparalleled in her exceedingly explored imagination. Only then did she perceive his wetness, but she did not question what discaution of his bath bade him rise and come to their bed before her.

She was only sensible that his shirt and small-clothes clung to him, hindering her hands from sliding across his body. Evidently, this was an irritant to him as well. For he rose from her and begat a fierce struggle to divest himself of them.

Because she had felt of his body in full cry, and therefore appreciated the ampleness of his…credentials, Elizabeth had harboured a certainty she would not be taken unawares when she saw them. Yet, she could not help but stare (by reason of its tumescence, his torch of love just so happened to be trained directly upon her and it was difficult to disregard). When she finally wrested her eyes from thence, she raised one eyebrow slightly as if to question the viability of what nature insisted was, indeed, possible. In that he sought refuge from her gaze beneath the counter-pane with considerable dispatch, she concluded that her dumbfounded expression was less subtle than she hoped.

Her attention to passion, however, was reclaimed from the distraction of the size of his instrument for it forthwith. For he commenced to industriously explore beneath her gown.

As those caresses became increasingly urgent, she understood an escalation of affection was called for.

Having viewed just what would be inserted into her person to effect the eagerly anticipated act of copulation, it occurred to Elizabeth (in the very small part of her consciousness not compleatly swamped by desire) that there might be some heretofore undisclosed manoeuvre for her to accommodate such a commodious organ.

In light of how very commendably he was executing everything else, she surmised he would know that as well.

She bid, “What am I to do?”

Gentle, guiding strokes influenced her to allow him betwixt her thighs (an objective she found quite tolerable), this demarché culminating in the discovery of her womanly portal. Due to his exceedingly admirable ministrations, therewith, her womanly portal was quite anxious to be traversed. She moaned. However, he did not rush to possess her. The firm but gliding caresses she had enjoyed ceased.

“Elizabeth, you are so very small. I cannot bear to hurt you.”

Relative size of aperture and appendage were hardly lost upon her. Pain, at that moment, did not seem quite so insurmountable to her.

She whispered, “You must.”

Undoubtedly he knew he must. Undoubtedly, he knew he would. Even for a man with no experience piercing a maidenhead, innate wisdom, one must suppose, would tell him to do it slowly, gently. Ultimate desire, however, often obliterates discretion.

Unrehearsed as she was in coupling, when his body became quite taut as he -initiated ingress, she conjectured it took a great deal of concentration upon his part to emit his seed. Therefore, it was quite unexpected when his restraint finally collapsed. He grasped her hips and thrust into her, hard. With repetition.

Most anxious not to cry out in pain, she very nearly did. Fortuitously, she was -rescued from it by an assiduous search of her throat by his tongue. Needlessly, he murmured words of love and regret against her ear. For after the initial concussion of their encounter, the injury to her person was overridden. Indeed, her blood was stirred in a most unseemly manner, prompting her to run her teeth down his exceedingly admirable neck. This, regrettably, incited from him another newly invigorated impaling assault convincing her she was not quite as benumbed as she had begun to believe. But she bit her lips into silence and clung to him as he reached some sort of tumultuous crescendo, whereupon he gasped, shuddered, and moaned simultaneously.

In the quiet that followed, little was heard but the deep heavy breaths of expended exertion. He rolled from her. When he did so, she looked over to him and witnessed the back of his hand sweeping to a rest across his eyes. His chest was still heaving from the mingling of their bloods and he had already retreated from her.

So this was the act of love.

She felt as if she had just fallen off the roof of a barn and he had not extended his hand to help her to her feet. Lying there, desolate and resentful, she was uncertain whether to turn her back to him in a sulk, or simply smite him with a pillow.

In fortune, she had not the time to exact either recourse when he reached for her and drew her tightly to him.

He buried his face against her neck and stroked the small of her back, saying, “Forgive me, Lizzy. Forgive me.”

Even in the winter night’s chill, perspiration crept down his neck, and his damp hair now curled into sweaty ringlets. Instinctively, she wiped his forehead with the hem of her gown (which had lodged conveniently beneath her armpits), silently granting it best to withhold judgement until better informed of just what had come to pass. But forgiveness should not be an issue. Pain was the price to be paid of becoming a wife. She knew that. He must as well.