Elizabeth dried her tears with the pillow clutched tightly in her arms. Curled up in bed she stared expressionless at nothing in particular, keeping a brutally obstinate hold on her emotions while her cushion bore the brunt of physical harm she currently wished upon her husband.
She could hardly discount the sublimeness of the performance, and by no measure was the performer to blame for agreeing to the stakes and then accepting his due reward. Elizabeth, while yet ignorant of that particular detail, had actually initiated the applause at the solo's end, shouting "Bravo!" as Matthew and the children enthusiastically joined in. As their clapping faded, she then noticed her husband's smile had likewise done so, his look of almost fatherly pride replaced with something closer to terror as he met her worried eyes.
"Dearest," she had said, "whatever is the matter?"
William solemnly excused the similarly altered Miss Baxter (who appeared all too glad to quit the scene), and then halfway granted the children's wish to personally congratulate his Lordship with a call for them to each write out their praises in an individual note to be delivered with his dinner tray. Matthew quietly offered to contribute his own compliments before turning and walking away, his resolute expression leaving Elizabeth with little hope, let alone a promise, that his mind was changed about departing; and sure enough he did just that once his note was added to the rest.
Once the hall was empty of all but her and William, Elizabeth was further surprised when he gripped her shoulders, stared deeply into her eyes, and then said he loved her as if he were a soldier about to march into the frontline. Her momentary loss of how to respond was then rather meanly taken advantage of, and before Elizabeth knew it she was facing a closed door. No sooner had she decided to barge in demanding an explanation, than George suddenly appeared at her side to ask for her particular help in selecting a book to read. Given that he had never before made such a request, Elizabeth felt more obligated than inclined to acquiesce. Another twenty or so minutes were spent in the library, during which she received yet another shock when George not only said nothing of the music having just echoed through Pemberley's halls and many chambers, but assumed a look of complete ignorance when she herself mentioned it.
Of course, the greatest shock of all came later in the day when she and Darcy had reunited. And now, having entered into a state of grief, Elizabeth was truly unsure of how to proceed; for the pain in her heart was heavy, and her understanding was sparse. Her husband begged to hear something from her—anything—but no words would come. Not a sound escaped her lips despite her heart's cry, its much higher volume muting his repeated plea for forgiveness.
Eventually, Darcy's voice trailed off into silence during which she felt his escalating dread with the intensity of pinpricks. She rubbed her fingers over her wedding ring, for some moments contemplating the notion of removing it and hurling it at him, across the room, or, better still, over their balcony. It was a sorely tempting concept despite all awareness of the petulance behind it, as the only form of retribution afforded to a wife in her circumstance was the infliction of emotional pain upon the husband, and it was assured that such an act would succeed to shattering and, more to the purpose, instructive effect.
And therefore it would not be an act of cruelty, but a well-earned punishment and just consequence.
In the midst of this thought, Elizabeth caught from the corner of her eye his slow approach which halted less than a foot from where she lay. She pretended not to feel his presence right next to her, eyes blazing down on her, undoubtedly set on weakening her with his smoldering stare. When at last he reached out to her, she recoiled, knowing well in advance how deeply this would pain him. Good! exclaimed the devil on her shoulder stalwartly commanding her to prolong the torture.
"What has he won from me?" Darcy asked after she slapped away another attempt to touch her, struggling (as usual in their quarrels) for the appearance of composure and holding himself rigidly in check until ready and able to continue. "Tell me what, other than metal, did I surrender to him in that wager. Lizzy?"
She returned his gaze for a slight but significant moment, long enough to lose herself in a yearning pair of eyes shimmering like liquid amber in their candlelit quarters. That face, that look, had the power to crush the Tempter himself like a bug.
"What has he won away from me?" William pressed. "Tell me. Darling…"
He reached out again, this time catching her shielding hand in both of his. He fought her resistance, squeezing, kissing, and then pressing her palm to his cheek, letting, urging her to feel its warmth, its life, his love. "Darling," he repeated, breath hot against her skin, "give me your eyes. Look at me. Please, I must have you look at me, if only to disparage me. I welcome all of your wrath so long as I have your attention. Cut me with words or the sharpest object! Strike me with both hands, shout, scream, but do not…Lord above, do not deny me." His desperate, wretched voice forced her from the devil's grasp; her expression softened, and in effect she felt his grip on her hand constricting. "You know that I have no taste for his infernal vice. What's more I have explained the method in my madness, and therefore you must believe that it was borne out of no lack of respect or love for you. And I do love you, Elizabeth." Another kiss to her palm. "So very much. And you love me, too." The last statement was posed almost as a question, or rather a bid for reassurance. Another dirty trick of his in such moments.
Damn those eyes! It is unfair! Her anger flickered anew; the devil snatched hold of it in one hand with the other wrapping over her mouth, stifling her heart's urge to comfort him. No! It is I who have been wronged! Make him suffer as he deserves, just a little bit longer!
"You have astonished me," Darcy whispered. "Never at your angriest have you reacted this way. What could be the meaning of it? I still have your love, have I not? Affirm it!" Receiving yet another round of silence, his passion rose as he lowered himself onto the mattress, gaze fixed on her face and complexion pale. "Is it less?...It cannot be. And if it is, then tell me so at once." With one more stubborn refusal to answer, his appeal swiftly advanced to a sharp scolding. "Elizabeth Darcy! I must insist you tell me that you…that your love for me is not in fact equal to what it was before the bet was made so that I may take immediate action." There was an animal look in his eyes now, his measured tone fraught with wild energy. "Just one degree less will compel me to his door. I shall offer more money, and when I am again refused shall move to take the ring back from him by force. And though he has not the strength of a bled calf, he will fight me to his very last breath and will lose. Quickly."
She knew William meant every word. His expression was frightening, sobering, stilling her clenched hand moistened by the firmness of his grip. "Say that you no longer love me and mean it," he reiterated, "and this will be done. I am your instrument, indelibly yours to master. This I have made plain to you since our honeymoon. Seeing as before your love I was nothing and without it am nothing, it is your heart, Mrs. Darcy, that decides everything."
She glared at him then, finding her own animal strength to shoot back, "Do not dare unload what you have done upon my heart, Mr. Darcy."
Unexpectedly, he smiled at this and wiped a hand over his tired face, his exhale one of profound relief. "I am convinced. She is livid but loves me no less; I know it, I feel it, even though I've hurt her deeply, and for the first time in our marriage, consciously." He kissed the hand he held so tightly, deliberately brushing his lips over her ring. "Never again, my wife, so help me God! It is not worth the risk." He loosened his grip and tugged gently. "Now come to me, please, my dearest love. Come here."
She pounded her pillow in frustration. Sometimes it was so vexing how well he knew her, and in such cases as this, better than she knew herself. In grudging resignation she raised from her dampened pillow and went into his beckoning arms that immediately enfolded her like a winter coat, warming her body, melting her anger, scorching the devil, refilling her heart. She breathed in his unique orange-and-leather fragrance, hugged him harder, and uttered weakly, "You are fully aware, Mr. Darcy, that I can stop loving you for about as long as I can hold my breath. No matter how egregious your offense."
Delicately he replied, close to her ear, "That is simply not so, Mrs. Darcy, and I am glad of it, for I can no more bear to be loved unconditionally than that look—that indescribable look in your eyes when I have disheartened you, that unnerving but ever useful reminder that your regard for me is contingent upon my conduct. With this act, it is acknowledged that I have abused all credit and must therefore work doubly hard to earn another ten years' worth."
He kissed her hair, then buried his face within, inhaling her lavender scent as they held on tightly and rocked together. She softly chuckled into the white muslin of his shirt, knowing it was useless to argue. "Work as hard as you like, Mr. Darcy. I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours." She pulled away slightly to inquire, "Why would you take such a risk? It is not like you at all."
He resumed their embrace before answering, "My faith in your constancy enabled me. My hope for him inspired me."
"Dearest…"
"Not hope that he will get well. I have surrendered that one and can say now, undeniably, that he has not the slightest chance of recovering."
"But where is he to die?" she asked, feeling his muscles tense.
"Shhhh, I need a minute, darling," he whispered. Her curls were moved aside so he could rest his chin upon her shoulder.
The silence was heavy. She stroked his back. "William?"
"I was just thinking of the last time I saw my mother. I was leaving for school, and in the process of doing so paid the routine visit to her room for our farewells. So frail she was, seven years ill and the last two bedridden, ever on that slow but steady decline. I kissed her cheek, outwardly cordial while secretly scorning the absurd amount of blush applied to give an appearance of good health. Nothing was said out of the ordinary. We smiled and played make-believe, though at our heart's core knew this meeting was to be our last. I could have remained at home. Father gave me the choice to suspend my studies, to see her through her passing, and I refused. I feared it, and so I ran from it. Just five years later that act of cowardice was duly punished. No choice on that day, for he expired so suddenly that I was thrown into a state of shock and subsequent detachment…for many weeks afterward." She felt and heard him swallow. "You are so much braver than me, dearest. Your sisters, too. Despite your own fears and sorrow, you stayed and offered comfort. You watched your father take his last breaths, and then Lydia—"
"Jane and Kitty have the softer hearts to counteract those feelings of fear and sorrow. And Mary is not soft at all but solid as oak in the face of death (Lord knows her mission meets with plenty of it). But you and I are not so different, my dear, nor am I so very brave. I gave much thought to retreating just as you did."
"And as George did, remember? On the day Lydia passed, he hid himself in the garden maze till almost nightfall."
"And you easily forgave the act as one borne less out of cowardice than helplessness. You too are forgiven, my dear. What is most important is that she did not die alone, and that she felt loved."
"That is not a consideration that comes easily to the so-called stronger sex." Darcy pulled away to look at her. "Yours has a different sort of strength that is better formed for coping with the imminent death of someone dear, would you not agree?"
Elizabeth pondered a moment. "Not better, I think, and only different in terms of what is expected of us. As we sit about the home, we are thus at liberty to weep for ages. You have neither that curse nor that luxury. Armies spend little time mourning the fallen when a battle is lost. They move on to the next fight, the next purpose. That is what holds you men steady, keeps your hearts beating."
"Yes!" he cried in passionate agreement. "There is indeed one more challenge before he leaves us, and with any luck, a triumph to sustain me afterwards. It is his challenge to me, his real dying wish, though he is incognizant of it." He squeezed her. "You feel that." He kissed her forehead. "You feel that. Even when we are miles apart, you feel it. As I do. Loneliness is easy, almost favored, until it is replaced with a feeling so much sweeter, more intoxicating, indeed most addictive once it has been sampled."
"Then he should rather not sample it," Elizabeth observed.
"Oh but he has, my dear, and he has been longing for another drink of it ever since. We may thank our cousin Anne for wetting his beak. She was selfless to the very end, I daresay the bravest of all, laying down her life and every bit of her love for the paltry reward of his cold, irreputable hand in marriage. He realized too late what a treasure it was, that her money was nothing to it, that it had been the fortune of all fortunes, the largest and luckiest of his life, far more valuable than a sprawling nuisance of an estate like Rosings Park making the sort of browbeating demands of him his father made." William paused for further reflection, and then added, "That performance stirred him, but only a little and very briefly. I shall have to work harder, and there is so little time to do so. Imagine all the decades Thornhaugh spent sharpening the senses most essential to his survival, and yet having never once known that of belonging."
"But that has always been his preference, has it not? to belong only to himself?"
"By now I should call it less of a choice and more of a habit."
"And like all of his other compulsions, he cannot be broken of this one like Hodges breaks a wild horse. Even Anne knew better than to even try and decided rather to accept him as is, wholly and completely. She said as much to Richard just before she died, that as love cannot be conquered, he therefore chooses not to feel it at all, far less return it."
"Not chooses. Pretends. He is an excellent actor." Smiling into her eyes, Darcy raised one hand to stroke her cheek. "But then so am I." His smile extended to expose two rarely revealed dimples. "Am I not, darling? Did I not fool you for over half a year into believing me contemptuous of you?"
"But that was never your intention." In a manner more maternal than intimate, she smeared away the remnants of moisture from his flushed cheeks. "You said that disguise of every sort is your abhorrence."
"Oh, and I meant what I said in principle. But when do we ever rise to the height of our ideals? It is so rare." He kissed her lips, ostensibly to denote her as one of a precious few exceptions. "Disguise, while an admitted form of cowardice, is necessary. It is safety. It is the best means of protecting the human heart, like a wall of ice."
His dazzling smile compelled her to mimic it with her own. "But music melts it away at every turn." She ran her fingers through his unkempt hair, making him purr like a kitten.
"Mmmm…it ever calls to mind that glorious summer those dear Gardiners brought you back to me, when you played and sang in my home which I then and there called your home (if you would only accept me!). I could hide behind the mask no longer, nor did I wish to. It fell away so easily, effortlessly."
"Fearlessly?"
"Not a bit of fear in that moment," he said with pride. "I was too lost. Lost in your song, lost in you. It was the most magnificent, most invigorating feeling of my life. And when the song was over I went mad with the desire to capture that feeling again. Forever."
Elizabeth let her head fall upon his chest. "We are such fools," she murmured before lifting back up to cry out, "Oh, let him have the bloody ring! It can be reforged a thousand times over."
His brow raised in eager expectancy. "You will have another made for me?"
"You have credit to earn, remember? No ring until then, Mr. Darcy. For now, I give him full leave to punish you with that one."
"Which he shall; and it will sting badly. His punishments always do. But yours, my dear…" He cupped her face and kissed her passionately. "Yours have been known to drive me just about insane. I think you ladies sometimes forget the power you have over us men." William then scoffed at the absurdity of this statement given the laws which decreed the very opposite. "Well, the men who truly love you."
She returned his kiss, and then proceeded to undress him, slowly, in lieu of confessing that she had not forgotten and could never forget. To reveal such a well-kept secret would in fact be a disloyalty to her sex so frequently lauded these thousands of years for its superiority of compassion, and therefore she would allow men to, in time, puzzle the truth out on their own.
Author's note: This chapter ran so long I decided to split it into two. If the slow pacing is treading on your nerves, feel free to let me know. I edit constantly, and your feedback helps me in this process. For those patiently waiting for the fun to start, Frederick versus Thornhaugh is up next.
