Tempest
IV. First Drops
cool against one's skin
-~o~-
Elizabeth walked briskly back from the village, relishing each breath of crisp November air. It had become routine to hand her letters to the post boy in person every Sunday morning. This one was no exception.
She was, however, in more of a rush to return than usual. George had been fussing when she'd left. That in itself had been unusual. George was a remarkably easy baby. But the mail service operated on a schedule, and she'd regretfully left him in the care of one of the maids.
Lost in thought, she collided with a flurry of lavender.
"I'm so sorry!" Mortified, Elizabeth reached out with a gloved hand to help her victim up. "Are you alright?"
"Perfectly so, other than my pride." The young woman moved to brush the dust off her wool coat and winced. "I spoke too soon. Regardless, I suppose we're past the stage of formal introductions. Felicity Trent, a pleasure to meet you: I'm rarely blessed with the occasion to encounter a lady with such a mean elbow jab."
"Mrs. Darcy. I apologize for my clumsiness."
Miss Trent's eyes sparked with interest. "There is no need. After all, it has given me an excuse to speak to the mysterious Mrs. Darcy herself. You are the talk of the county."
Elizabeth was not unaware that her hasty marriage would spur gossip – but nor had she thought the talk would last so many weeks. "Does the county have nothing better to speak of?"
"No," Miss Trent stated cheerfully. "You are famous for being elusive even during the short calls that you pay, and for being equally so when people return them. It's the reason I never left my calling card."
"I did not realize that I was such an enigma."
"It is not you, not really. The previous Mrs. Darcy did not pay many social calls, and Mr. Darcy has become rather reclusive himself. You're just the latest in the whole saga."
"The saga?"
Miss Trent winked. "Oh, nothing concrete, of course. All speculation. But there are some incredible rumors floating around. Miss Fletcher, for one, is quite convinced that you're a magnificent heiress whom Mr. Darcy married to keep Pemberley from ruin, while Miss Turner firmly believes you to be a scullery maid in disguise."
Once, Lizzy would have laughed. Even now she could not help but smile faintly.
"If it helps, I can assure you I am neither."
"As if I needed such assurance. I am certain you are a lost princess hiding from a malicious uncle set on preventing you from inheriting your rightful throne."
"Royalty – now you've superseded even runaway heiresses."
Miss Trent giggled. "I know, I know. Mother always tells me to stop reading those sensational penny novels of Mrs. Radcliffe's, but I can't help it. With plots like that – all that's missing is the dashing knight to save the princess, really – it is entirely too difficult not to. I am an aspiring writer myself, though, so I can rationalize it by considering it studying the competition." She wrinkled her pert nose. "Come to think of it, I can write a better novel – a child, for instance, a secret baby prince who is not really a prince, just that everyone believes he is a prince – "
Children. George.
Elizabeth's eyes widened. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten.
"My apologies," she cut in as soon as Miss Trent paused – it was astonishing how many words the other woman could get out in one breath – "but I must be going."
"Oh! I completely understand. I do run on at times," the blonde said ruefully. Her bright green eyes, however, lost none of their sparkle. "But please, Mrs. Darcy, do call tomorrow afternoon. Otherwise I shall die of boredom having tea with Mother and her friends – 'Felicity, dear, sit straight! Felicity, do not chatter so much – it is unladylike.' Felicity this, Felicity that!"
The smile came to Elizabeth's lips with only a little beckoning, a rarity since her life had changed so drastically. There was something so irreverently cheerful about Miss Trent.
"I shall. Have a good day, Miss Trent."
"You as well, Mrs. Darcy."
With that, Elizabeth hurried back to Pemberley.
.
.
.
.
.
"And he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, 'I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling." Elizabeth gently set the book down by the candleholder. Capable of understanding the words or not, George seemed to greatly enjoy the story, cooing and gurgling noisily at the beginning, then gradually drifting off into sleep. Elizabeth quietly blew out the flame and made her way out of the nursery.
As the days had inched by – the three weeks since she'd first come to Mr. Darcy felt more like three years – she had quickly discovered little George to be her saving grace at Pemberley. His was a face usually smiling to see her, his tantrums easily pacified, his laughter sparking a reciprocal lightness in her steps.
The same could not be said for his father.
Since their argument, they had avoided each other entirely too successfully for it not to be a mutual effort. He rose early at dawn to conduct his business and did not attend meals with her. Her inability to rest soundly meant that she awakened early as well, but she always feigned sleep for another few hours until she was sure that he had finished his breakfast. Afterwards, they performed their separate duties: she presumed he took care of the estate and various investments, though she never asked, and for her part she hosted social calls and slowly tried to familiarize herself with the running of the household. In short, they rarely saw each other at all.
For this she was glad. She did not know what to say to him – she regretted losing her temper the last time they'd truly spoken. So much, she had thought wryly, for being a good wife. In hindsight, she was aware her dislike – although that she did not think baseless – had colored his every action in her eyes. If they were ever to coexist in any semblance of contentment, that had to change. Marriage was forever. She had spoken her vows, and now there was no way out.
She shivered a little at the finality of it and quickened her pace. The end of the corridor quickly approached. Left, she remembered, from her first day exploring the labyrinth of Pemberley –
There was no left turn.
Elizabeth stared. She was sure that there was supposed to be a left to take her back to the main foyer. Lifting her candle higher to cast light on the hallway, she spun to examine her surroundings – and found she had never seen that particular bust of Achilles before in her life.
No. It wasn't possible. She could not have been as foolish as to have gotten lost.
Except, three equally unfamiliar rooms later, it was apparent that she had.
She sank against the wall. Both hands covered her mouth to suppress the laughter. She was not hysterical. Truly, she was not. But it was just too much. The man haunted her at every turn. He turned her into a shrew in his presence. He made her an imbecile in his absence. She simply could not win.
A giggle fought free despite of her best efforts to contain it. It echoed, ricocheting around the tapestry-covered walls, unbearably loud in the dead silence that pervaded this part of the house. To Elizabeth's shock, she barely recognized it. She realized that her throat-muscles felt rusty from disuse.
She had not laughed since her father passed.
It suddenly occurred to her that of all the wicked things she had done since his death, this may have disappointed him most.
There is always laughter. Remember, from the ridiculous to the sublime is but a step, she remembered him saying to her, only a year ago. He had been hale and hearty back then. A whole man, one who emitted quiet strength if not overt vitality.
You must be approaching your dotage, Papa, she had teased him, to so misuse the words of our dear petit caporal – it is 'from the sublime to the ridiculous.'
He had quirked an eyebrow in response, eyes dancing with amusement in the way only Papa's could. If it is merely a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, then wouldn't it be a single step the other way as well?
God, how she missed him.
The same dull ache in her chest sharpened. There was a faint wetness on her cheek. When her fingers reached up to swipe it away, she was not surprised to see the sheen of tears on her skin.
She gritted her teeth and straightened. With all the internal strength she could muster, she pushed away the thoughts, although the muted pain lingered as always. She would not wallow in her grief. It had already taken her mirth – she would not let it take anything more.
Picking up her candle from the ground, she began walking. If she simply wandered, eventually she would come across one of the staff, or a room she recognized. Until then she could pretend this was an adventure. A chance to explore. She slipped into the next hall. Intending to move on, her legs carried her quickly across the Persian carpet – until she froze at the sight of the softest grey eyes she had ever seen.
She raised her light higher. It was a rendition of a boy no more than twelve. The artist's skill was displayed in each delicate stroke forming the small smile, the still-delicate nose, the already stubborn chin. Still, there was something more. An understated self-assurance in the squaring of his shoulders, perhaps, or the kindness in the curve of his lips, or even the upward slant of his gaze, as if he was dreaming of something far away. Drawn by something in her that she couldn't name, she leaned in closer to make out the inscription in the bottom right corner: F. Darcy, William Houghton in 1796.
Her eyes widened in disbelief. It couldn't be. But as she examined the portrait again, this time cutting past to the individual features themselves, she found unmistakable signs of the man she knew. The sharp jaw. The shape of the lips, full, but not feminine. The hints of diamond-sharp cheekbones.
But this mirage had none of the arrogant posture, the taciturn frown, the deep circles around his eyes. Nor did it possess the cold silence, the curt manners, the enduring gravity. What had changed? The two were impossible to reconcile. Yet, that they were the one and the same could not be denied.
Suddenly, inexplicably compelled to feel the layers of paint under her skin, to persuade herself she was not imagining it all, she reached out towards the boy's brow –
"What in God's name are you doing?"
She jumped. The candle teetered precariously in her grip as she whirled around. Stepping too quickly in her fright, she tripped on the hem of her skirt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Her elbows went out to brace herself for impact.
A firm hand gripped her arm, drawing her close and steadying her on her feet. She could tell he had made the motion without even thinking.
"My apologies, Mr. Darcy," she muttered, flushing a deep red. She rather wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole. "I didn't see you."
He ignored her attempt to relieve her embarrassment. This near, she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the curt line of his mouth. "The entire household is in an uproar looking for you."
There was a furious bite to his words. Bristling, Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort – then caught sight of the gaze of the boy in the portrait. The anger dimmed. She looked closer at the man. The tight frown, the intent stare – was that worry?
He had been concerned, she realized. For her.
Incredibly, her heart beat a little faster.
"Not only have I succeeded in misplacing utensils and paper at every turn, but apparently now also myself," she said self-deprecatingly, feigning lightness. "I'm sorry for any trouble."
"How did you wander into the gallery, of all places?"
"I was – distracted." As she was now. It was enormously difficult to concentrate, with his hand upon her elbow, his standing so close to her. Her face heated. She might not like him, but she could not deny that he was an attractive man. She took a deep breath to clear her head. It was a mistake. He smelled of shaving cream and sandalwood and pine needles, of clean linen and patchouli.
Desperately seeking something else to focus on, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "The woman painted there. Who is she?"
He turned to follow her line of sight to a likeness of a tall woman sitting regally atop a chaise, features handsome rather than pretty. "My mother." At the widening of her dark eyes, he answered her unspoken question: "She passed away when I was eighteen."
"Oh."
His eyes softened at her obvious regret for broaching the topic. "It was many years ago. I've made my peace with it."
"The time, then? It makes it better?"
"To some extent."
"Really."
He hesitated, shoulders stiff with discomfort, but plowed forward anyway. "The grief fades, although it never goes away. For some, at least. And there are occasions where it is impossible."
She imagined the pain of Papa's absence dissipating, until living without him became like breathing, unnoticed except on specific occasions such as his birthday, or the anniversary of his death. Like castles in the air, the image remained just out of reach. And even if she tried to move on – what if she forgot? It had only been a matter of weeks, and already she could not remember the exact way he smiled. One day his face might vanish entirely.
The candle flame blurred. Damn it, she was not crying in front of Mr. Darcy. She turned her face away to hide the overly bright sheen of her eyes. Too late.
"Is something wrong?"
No, she meant to say. I'm fine. Don't concern yourself. But no one had asked her in the weeks since the loss finally hit her.
She was so alone,here at Pemberley.
And then she was weeping, like an idiot, hiccupping and sobbing, and all she could think of was that Papa was gone and he was never coming back. She was barely aware of Mr. Darcy gently plucking the candle from her hand and pulling her to him, bracing her against his chest. He said nothing; she appreciated the lack of meaningless platitudes.
They stayed that way for a long while. She rested against him, listening to his heartbeat, until her breathing finally evened out and some semblance of rational thought returned. And then it hit her.
She'd broken down in the presence of Mr. Darcy. And he'd held her while she'd cried.
And it had felt so, so good.
Awkwardly, she stepped out of his embrace. "Thank you for taking the candle." Her voice shook a little at the end. "I might have inadvertently burned down this side of the manor."
"It is quite alright. I was never particularly fond of the east wing anyway."
She blinked, embarrassment forgotten. Was that – a joke? She scanned his face. It was blank, polite, except for the faint amusement in those steel grey eyes – it was a joke.
And it was there, standing in a forgotten portrait gallery, her sporting swollen eyes and a red nose, Darcy's jacket distinctly wet near the collar, that Elizabeth felt the first stirrings of hope.
A/N: Updated 5/15/15 for same reason as previous chapter (correcting the living situation).
As always, thanks so much to everyone for reading and reviewing. I'm still trying to get over the level of response this story has received - it's certainly an inspiration. Hopefully, this chapter was a little less gloomy than previous ones.
-Saelia
