April, or What a Difference a Year Makes
Worry nipping at his heels all the way from his study to his wife's apartment, Darcy's feet pounded a staccato rhythm on the steps as he hurried to her first story bedroom. Fleeting and guilty, a small flicker of hope gnawed at the edges of his concern. Though he could never wish pain or illness upon Elizabeth, Darcy was anxious for the news that she would soon make him a father. He had taken to his duties as a new husband with vigor. When those efforts bore fruit, one of the first indications would be indisposition on the part of his wife. Hope and concern warring, he let himself into Elizabeth's bedroom, and seeing her absent, slipped into her dressing room.
In harsh contrast to the white silk of her dressing gown, a thick dark braid punctuated the curve of her back. When he had last seen her, Elizabeth's hair had been pinned up and tucked beneath a delicate lace cap. Her maid had helped her out of her morning dress. Bellamy was gone now. Perhaps she had elected to hang up her mistress's fine gown before it creased. Perhaps she had left Elizabeth to relax in silence and solitude.
"I have word from Mrs. Reynolds you are ill," Darcy announced.
Seated at her vanity table, Elizabeth drew her dressing gown tighter around herself and confessed, "I have the headache."
The disappointment he felt at such news was natural, but not to be lingered on. Their marriage was young yet. Children came in time. "Is there anything I can get you for your relief?" Darcy asked. From the mere sight of her, he could ascertain she had already been attended to by Bellamy. Solicitude in a time of illness was Bellamy's role, not his own, but after rushing to her side in a fit of anxiety, he at least needed to be of some use to her. It would relieve some of the guilt that picked at the back of his mind, at least.
Elizabeth was ill. He had thought not of her comfort, but of what he hoped to gain.
She smiled. "I thank you," she said graciously. "I shall rest and hope to be better by dinner."
Elizabeth did not appear at dinner.
The family party was an intimate group of four that did not stand much on ceremony. Dressed in their evening finery, they would congregate in the sitting room nearest to the small dining room and walk into dinner together. With one gentleman and three ladies, escorts and precedence was deemed entirely useless. If Darcy elected to offer his arm to Elizabeth one evening, Georgiana another, or no one at all on a third occasion, it did not signify. It was through his wife's influence that he was able to discard ingrained ideas about what was correct. Among family, Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the idea of a proper procession. Whatever conversation she had been having in the sitting room, she always intended to continue in the dining room. She would not stop for the sake of rank.
Without Elizabeth's guidance, Darcy stiffly offered his arm to Miss Catherine Bennet, and they walked into the dining room an awkward group of three. Georgiana appeared grossly out of place taking Elizabeth's position at the head of the table. She announced the meal so softly as to not be heard, and no one had much else to say.
When Elizabeth married him and moved into his household, Darcy had acquired not just a wife, but a permanent guest in the form of her sister, Kitty. The transition from maid to matron was easier on ladies if they brought a member of their own household with them. Since Mrs. Bennet had already lost three daughters to husbands and was not of a mind to let the remaining two each follow a sister, the decision had been made that Kitty should spend half of her year with the middle bride and half with the eldest. Her father had been an indolent guardian. Far from opposed to the situation, Darcy felt that moving to Pemberley was the best thing for the development of Kitty's mind and manners. The closest to being a guest in the house, and therefore the most deserving of special recognition, Kitty was his usual partner at the table. Though it had been a struggle in the beginning to find topics of conversation, Darcy had wanted to facilitate Elizabeth and Georgiana's sisterhood. They were free to speak with one another if he spoke to Kitty.
To-night, he was more occupied with thoughts of his wife than being a good host. Darcy spoke more to the footmen attending the meal than to Kitty, asking and asking again about Elizabeth. She continued to feel ill. She had asked for her dinner to be brought up to her rooms. Bellamy checked on her every half-hour.
After the meal, Darcy and his sisters withdrew to the music room. Georgina taking Elizabeth's seat at the table had put everyone in an odd frame of mind. Assumptions that the absence would be less keenly felt in the music room were soon dismissed. Though Elizabeth had not the proficiency of Miss Darcy at the instrument, they shared their love for music. The two were often together at the piano-forte, singing duets or turning one another's pages. With no one to turn her pages now, Georgiana sat awkwardly at the bench. Kitty could not read music and would make a useless attendant. Darcy was too preoccupied with his wife to think of assisting his sister.
Finally, he curtly requested that the ladies allow him to leave them for the evening. Both indulged him with wishes that they would soon hear that Elizabeth was feeling better.
Though Elizabeth had already taught Darcy how foolish his pretensions truly were, he felt a measure of relief at having the blessings of Georgiana and Kitty to put his duties as a husband above his duties as a host. Foolish. They both lived in his great house. They neither needed his presence nor his permission to find ways to amuse themselves. Without him staring darkly into the fireplace and interrupting their every thought by asking any passing footman for news of his wife, the girls would probably get on much better.
The apartment had changed since his last visit. Half-drunk wine glasses and a decanter of water told of Elizabeth's attempts to relieve her pain. The remnants of her dinner had yet to be cleared away - a plate of half-eaten ham and tureen of soup sat abandoned on the table.
On his last visit, Elizabeth had been helped out of her morning dress, but still retained her multitude of layers underneath the dressing gown. Now, she had discarded her chemise, stays and petticoat in favor of a nightgown. She was curled in a chair with her eyes closed. He wondered if she had fallen asleep in such a position.
For as long as Darcy had known her, Elizabeth had always seemed to him to be a powerful figure. She was fearless and strong. She had made him question everything he thought he knew about himself, question everything he thought he desired in life. But in this moment, she appeared very small. She was so frail and young, with a sweet preference for the simple and familiar. There was much said about the delicacy of ladies, but this was perhaps the first time Darcy truly saw Elizabeth as delicate.
Struck by all of these things, he said (stupidly), "You are not well."
Elizabeth opened her eyes. Bright and alert, she had been awake. "You have learned a terrible secret," she replied, removing herself from her chair and striding to him. "One I had hoped to hide a little longer."
"Pray," Darcy said, "tell me what dreadful secret I have learned."
She favored him with a chaste kiss on his mouth, and moved toward the bed. "I am as susceptible to the frailties of the body as any other woman." With this grave pronouncement, she slid under the counterpane.
Though she had been awake in the chair, Darcy realized, she did intend to sleep. Though he had seen her in her bed before, it had always involved some attempt on his part to importune upon her person. Her illness made this normally inviting sight one not fit for his eyes. "I shall leave you to your rest."
"No," Elizabeth protested. "Come lie with me." She stretched out a hand to him, which Darcy, unable to deny her anything, took. "I do not mean for you to give over your entire evening," she added. "Kitty and Georgiana will expect you yet for supper. I only mean to say, my illness does not imply that your society is unwelcome."
Darcy squeezed her fingers gently. "I do not wish to disturb you," he confessed.
"You could not," she said.
Though uncertain of her expectations, Darcy made what efforts he could to more properly attire himself without assistance. His tight evening jacket was a struggle to remove. Amusement danced in Elizabeth's eyes, but she did not laugh or offer to help. That suited his pride, for he did not think he could bear being an object of both ridicule and pity. When he had finally removed it, Darcy draped his jacket carefully over her chair. Thankful she had made this request after dinner, rather than before, Darcy toed off his shoes. The cuffed top riding boots he favored in the morning would have created another spectacle. Satisfied, he gingerly laid down beside his wife.
Holding himself very still, he waited for some instruction. Elizabeth had nothing further to say. She only curled against him and closed her eyes.
His presence elsewhere was not to be expected again. Darcy had made that much clear when he left his sisters. At the time, it was because he was poor company. Evidently, he had forgotten how to be an attentive conversationalist without Elizabeth's laughter easing his way. He had felt absolutely no interest in another person as long as his mind was preoccupied with his wife and her damnable, persistent headache. Now, he simply had no intention of leaving her side when she was unwell and his presence was all she asked of him.
Though he congratulated himself on his determination to be all that Elizabeth wanted, Darcy soon found it quite dull to lie silently in a dark room and not move. There was some enjoyment to be had in her body curled around him, her petite hands moving slowly and without purpose on his chest, but he soon found himself searching for some employment, some way to occupy his mind. His wandering thoughts eventually began picking through his impressions of the last book he had read, a dreary novel about a virtuous woman and her miserable relatives. The author was a great favorite with Elizabeth and Georgiana both, though based on this novel, he could not understand why.
It was very dark. Elizabeth's meandering hand had burrowed underneath the hem of his waistcoat, pressed flat against his abdomen.
He had fallen asleep.
The bed curtains were drawn, though neither he nor Elizabeth had done so before lying down. He nudged them apart with an outstretched arm. The candles had been put out. The fire burned low. He did not have the light needed to read the clock face, but it had been hours since anyone had last attended the fire. It must be past midnight.
The activity was sufficient to cause Elizabeth to stir. With sleepy confusion, she muttered his name. The sound was rather precious to him, but not so much so as to prevent Darcy from briskly instructing her, "Go to sleep, Elizabeth."
Her independence of mind was not so easily foiled. Her quickness threw off the veil of sleep. Coming to the same conclusion he had about the hour, and doing so with less investigation than he, Elizabeth observed, "Your valet will not thank me when he sees the state of your clothes."
Darcy was not much concerned about his valet's opinions. The man was too mindful of his position to make any uncharitable observations about the master's clothes within his hearing. Darcy did have to agree, though, that his dinner dress was too fine to be slept in. He slipped out of bed, made quick work of his trousers, and crawled back underneath the covers.
Since they were both awake now, he felt some conversation was in order. Hoping for good news, he said, very quietly, "I hope you are feeling better."
"A little," she said, stretching. "I thank you."
They resumed their former position; he on his back, she, with her hand worked into his waistcoat and her head upon his shoulder. Elizabeth was soon fast asleep. In repose, she was so still and small. Darcy hoped sleep provided her some respite from the pain. His former hopes for news of a child struck him as selfish now. How appalling it had been, that when he heard his wife was ill, he had thought of what he hoped to gain from it! Elizabeth, of course, longed for children has desperately as he did. She knew pain and danger were the inescapable partners of motherhood. When the time came, he had no doubts she would face the trial bravely. On this occasion, however, she had suffered for no grand purpose, with no reward in sight. She had a headache, accompanied by hours of suffering.
Were she awake, he knew, Elizabeth would tease him out of this mood, tempt him to forget his own selfishness. Instead, he was left with only his own mind for company, a mind far less inclined to overlook his selfishness than Elizabeth. It was ironic that she, once the first person in his life to censure him, had become the first person to absolve him.
Darcy drifted back to sleep with those thoughts running through his mind. He awoke again, sometime before dawn. No dappled sunlight filtered through the bed curtains. He did not dare try to open them. Simply nudging them apart had roused Elizabeth before.
His stomach rumbled and he tensed, anticipating a sign he had disturbed the heavenly creature that still slumbered, curled against him. Darcy was not accustomed to going to bed as early as they had, or going to bed without taking any supper first.
But she was not disturbed and Darcy forced himself to relax. She would laugh at him, if she saw him so fearful of causing her the slightest discomfort. And he would frown and huff, pretending to be offended that she found his concern diverting. With a small smile on his lips, he vowed to tell her later, when she was feeling better, so that Elizabeth could laugh at him and roll her eyes. He tried to give the phantom Elizabeth in his mind dialog, but his imaginings never had the sweet sting of the real Elizabeth's wit. She would say something clever and teasing, her smile making him forget everything else.
It was not only her smiles that made him forget any other concern in the world. Her pain had done so as well. He had had business to complete yesterday. As soon as he had received her news, however, he had forgotten it all. He was a new husband yet. They had been married scarcely over six months. He could not be faulted with being concerned about Elizabeth above all else. Letters had gone unwritten. Now that he thought about it, there had been some concern of his steward's that had gone unheard. There would be much to accomplish to-day, to make up for yesterday's lapse.
With a cold pit where his stomach had been, Darcy realised to-day was Friday, the twenty-ninth of April. Elizabeth had made him cheerfully forget that, as well. His arms tightened around the slumbering woman he held. A year ago this day, he had asked her to marry him and had his heart rightfully broken.
She stirred.
He cursed himself.
"Elizabeth," he ventured cautiously, "how do you feel?"
"Better," she answered just as quietly, conscious of the late hour. "My headache is gone."
He was relieved. She curled against him, and went back to sleep.
Darcy awoke with Elizabeth hovering over him, her eyes taking up his entire field of vision, her nose brushing his. Remembering how she had been rid of the headache late last night, but fearing a recurrence, he asked again, "How are you feeling?"
"Hmm," she hummed thoughtfully. "How am I feeling? I feel in love with you, my dear."