CHAPTER XL

Breakfast together was now a rare affair. Most days she would lie in and miss him. It was an easy ruse, claiming her condition made her poorly in the mornings. No one with any knowledge of babes was going to question it. That Lady Matlock's malady often cleared itself up just around the time Lord Matlock set off for Westminster was a coincidence the more experienced members of the household staff did not care to lose any sleep over.

Sunday was the exception. As she walked into the morning room Lady Matlock prepared herself for the muted delights of her husband's company. She was surprised then when he reached for her hand, the touch of his skin against hers, and the shudder of disgust that ran through her. If he noticed, he covered it well.

"I've had a notion," he began.

"Indeed?"

"That once Parliament breaks for recess and the Season is over, we might spend some time by the sea. The children would enjoy it, I'm sure, and I believe we would find it restorative."

"I should like to see my sisters. Besides," she said with forced vigour, "it is not fair to keep Georgiana at Pemberley. Surely she wishes to return to the Lakes?"

"She writes that she is quite contented now Miss Butler has joined her. She's wanted to show her Pemberley for some years."

Poor Kitty, Elizabeth thought, caught between a would-be and an actual Mrs. Wickham, without even realising. She hoped she had the sense to keep Lydia away from Georgiana – and then berated herself for not giving her sister more credit. She really did owe her the whole truth of it all, when she finally got home.

She sat and straightened her back. "I think we are better returning home. That will be restorative."

"As you will," he said cutting into his gammon, then added, with what passed for brightness in his tone: "I saw a card from the Foundlings in the stack; Sidmouth mentioned they were having an exhibit. Goulburn and Jane are planning to attend, perhaps we should join? There is slim chance of there being anything good to purchase, but if we end up with anything awful it can go to Scarcliffe, so we at least will not have to look at it. And I thought you might like the opportunity to make a donation. I know you believe it to be important."

Her heart stopped. Just for a moment, but it was enough.

"Elizabeth?" He sounded concern. "Elizabeth, are you quite well? You look–"

"Fine," she said too quickly. "I am perfectly fine." Her mind went completely empty: she could not think of anything, let alone a sensible reason to decline. "That would be pleasant."

As she sat in St. George's church, she wondered just how damned her thoughts made her. Was it a sin, to wonder what it would be like to not be married to one's husband? Was that in itself an infidelity? It certainly was not honourable. And given she knew that, why did she find herself doing it more and more? In company, and alone; during the day, and late at night.

Bennet fidgeted softly next to her. Her William, Kirkdale, sat still as stone next to his father. Both boys had lost their easiness of late; she suspected they sensed the tension between their parents, even if they did not understand it. She needed to get them and Catherine outdoors again; it was what they needed, far more than lessons in Greek.

The weather allowing for it, she made a start that afternoon, but it was not till she had the three of them alone that evening that she saw their happier selves. On an impulse, she gathered the three of them close, and told them that by Christmas, they would be four. She could not remember her mother telling her the same for Kitty, but she remembered Lydia. Mrs. Bennet was so certain the four girls would have a brother.

"I think it should be a girl," William whispered, as if this were a grand conspiracy. "So that Catty can have someone, like Benny and I."

"Sisters are wonderful," she whispered back, thinking of her own – and the fact that husbands wanted sons. Three might be enough; it was thrice what Lady Anne managed. He might leave her alone after a third.

In her other life, the one she pretended not to live inside her head, she had three already; the twins, of course, Catherine-who-was-now-Lydia, and then an Edward, for her uncle. He had said he was one of seven, and with her one of five, it would make sense they would easily have a large family. Strangely, she did not mind the thought in that life. She had decided they would have enough for a maid, but not so much that she did not have to do her share of the chores. She would still assist him at the infirmary every once in a while: the whiles growing less as their family grew. She would raise and educate her children herself, until they were old enough for school. With another mouth on the way they would probably start to worry that their income was not quite enough, but they would make it work, somehow.

The evening of the Foundling's exhibit arrived; she directed each one of Annette's attentions to herself with meticulous care. She chose pearls, which might remind one of the sea if one was familiar with it, while having the benefit of being fine enough not to rouse a suspicion of dressing down, but not in any way ostentatious. And they complimented her new gown, a light seafoam green skirt and bodice, cut to show off but not scandalise. Her body was just beginning to round and soften, and while she did not normally like the change, that evening she fancied herself almost as fashionably attractive as Jane, which pleased her vanity. She rouged her lips and blushed her cheeks, then finished with a simple Grecian style ribbon wound through her curls. The whole look had been the subject of two day's thought, and when she saw her husband's look, she knew it was time well spent.

Of course, the intended audience might not even be there: the governors and benefactors were hardly his set. If he was there, they might not even talk – the circumstance of their last conversation did not bode well for future acquittance – but he might still see her. And if he did, she wanted to leave him with a vision of herself at her very, very best.

The governors' rooms at the Foundlings were as grand as any in Mayfair. Cannier benefactors may have wondered how much of their goodwill went towards those rooms, instead of the poor souls for whom their beneficence was intended. That miserly thought crossed Lady Matlock's mind as she took in the art on display. Her husband and the Goulburns had ungenerous opinions on each piece. She kept her own counsel and sipped at her drink every time the urge to say something sharp fell on her.

As they entered another room, Elizabeth cast an instinctive look around. There were familiar faces, but not the one she hoped to see. What she did spy, however, gave her almost as much joy. Breaking away from her small group, she walked across to a small, delicate painting, in a style completely alien to everything else on display. An old man, with a long white beard was teaching a distracted young boy, while a young women in a gown of blues and reds sat reading in front of them. She found it completely enchanting.

"What do you think, Lady Matlock?" A warm voice besides her asked. She turned and her heart leapt.

"I like it very much indeed."

"Blake really is a visionary," Mr. Weir said. "We will never have another like him. He illustrated one of Mrs. Wollstonecraft's book, you know?"

"I did not. What a meeting of minds that must have been!"

"It's a wonder the whole country did not fall into ungodly anarchy that very day." He mimicked Lord Sidmouth's affected manner so well that she could not help but laugh: a loud, clear laugh that rang out through the room. She recovered herself and – with all the relief of knowing he probably did not hate her – whispered softly: "I had hoped to see you here."

A beam of a smile flashed across his handsome face, but it disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a far darker look. His eyes fell on something behind her, before he took a step back and made an awkward bow. "Lord Matlock."

All joy suddenly left her. She turned and looked up at her husband, who was looking down at her, eyebrow cocked.

"Husband," she said with affected gaiety, "you will remember Mr. Weir." Given he clearly did not, she added tactfully: "Mr. Weir volunteers some of his days at the infirmary here. He was just telling me how his young charges could likely paint better."

That elicited a smirk. Her shoulders eased.

"A generous undertaking, Mr. Weir," her husband began. "One of which I'm sure the Foundling is very grateful. Would that all physicians were so charitably minded."

"I would rather that all physicians did not have to be so charitably minded, my lord."

That did not elicit a smirk.

With no small sense of urgency, Lady Matlock declared that she needed some air, and requested the physician might show her the best place to take some, so she did not get lost. Promising her husband she would return soon, she guided one away from the other. Glancing back, she saw Matlock return to the Goulburns, with seemingly no suspicions. The tension in her chest eased.

Her companion led her through to the next set of rooms. Being unoccupied no candles were lit, but the moonlight from the large windows bathed everything in a silvery glow. Mr. Weir walked over to one such window and opened it, letting the cool of the evening in, before turning back to her. She shivered.

"Are you unwell or was that a tactful retreat?"

"Can it not be both?"

His grin conceded her point. They stood facing each other, neither knowing quite what to say. For Elizabeth's part, she was simply content to be in his company.

Finally, he broke the silence. "I thought you might come tonight. I hoped you would."

Hearing what she had so wished for, she now did not know how to respond. With her right hand, she rubbed at her wedding band under her glove. William Blake and Mary Wollstonecraft would not let such a small thing stop them. But they were far more radical than she. Or maybe she was simply a coward.

"I thought you would stay away," she admitted. "I imagined – You must hate this all."

"I do," he conceded. "But there is growing evidence that a small amount of exposure to harmful elements builds one's resistance."

"How is Mrs. Davidson?"

"As you would expect. I had a daft notion actually. I thought I might offer her my hand–"

"In marriage?"

"Yes. There is nothing romantic between us, but she is a friend. William was my friend. And she is now left unprotected."

She stood for a moment, trying to determine if it was sense or selfishness that guided her thoughts. "It is a very noble intent. But, do not make her feel beholden to you. It may be easier where there is no romantic attachment, but you would still have a power over her – both legally and from a sense that every security she has is owned by you. But then, that will be the case in any match she makes. And I know you will not mistreat her."

"No," he said gently. "I would not." She could sense his eyes on her, but she could not meet them. "It – it is not what I would choose."

She kept her eyes down. She was in danger of wearing right through her glove. His footsteps echoed: the window shut. The thought of returning to the other room – and the life that waited there – caused her courage to rise.

"What would you choose?" Her eyes shot up to him. "If you could, with no impediment or fear, or obstacle of any sort? What would you choose?"

He looked over at her, then slowly began crossing the room. Her blood pounded in her ears. She looked into his eyes. Not up, just into. He reached her and, lifting his hand, carefully brushed aside a stray curl, his touch leaving a trail of lightning on her skin. It stole her breath. He was so deliberate: leaving her room to stop him at any moment. But she did not.

He leant forward and placed the gentlest of kisses on her lips. She did not pull back, so that first became a second, and then a third. She lifted her hands up to his neck and pulled him deeper, closer, drowning in the smell of him –rosemary and sage. His hands were on her waist now, then one travelled lower; the other higher, to her breast; caressing. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream for the joy of it all. She pulled him in deeper: this kind, sweet, uncomplicated man who wanted her. She needed him. To hell with every consequence. To hell with honour, duty and obedience–

His lips moved to her neck, then to her ear. His hands holding onto her just as tightly as she was holding onto him.

"Oh Bess."

She froze – then pushed away and stumbled a good two paces back.

"I – I can't. I'm sorry Rob– Mr. Weir. I – we – I need to go."

Without looking back, Lady Matlock hurried through the door, back to the main rooms. How could she tell him how much she ached when she heard that 'ss'? How much it reminded her of when someone else had first whispered the 'zz' of 'Lizzy' against her ear?

She had the presence of mind to fix her gown and hair before returning. Goulburn remarked that Lady Matlock looked flushed. She claimed one glass of red wine too many: a common enough condition and set the groundwork nicely for turning to her husband and asking that the carriage be called, please. Having seen enough questionable art for one evening, Lord Matlock agreed.

Why he chose that night of all nights to make small talk with her, Elizabeth would never know. Feigning an interest in his friends' summer plans was the most difficult thing she had ever done. Including birthing twin boys. All she wanted to do was crawl into her bed and cry herself to sleep so hard she would never wake up. What had she done? What had she left behind?

He must have noticed her mood. He leant across and placed his hand on the slight swell of her stomach, startling her frayed nerves. "This babe has put you entirely out of sorts. Perhaps you were right; it was too soon."

"I do know my own self."

He did not seem to hear her. He was lost in his thoughts, his thumb rhythmically caressing her belly.

"Elizabeth, do you love me still?"

It was such an unexpected question she hardly knew what to say. "You are my husband, Fitzwilliam. I swore before God to honour, obey and love you."

"You are poor at at least one of those."

Panic gripped her just as the carriage door opened. He stepped out and handed her down himself, something he had not done in years. Placing her arm through his, he walked them into the main hall and up to their chambers. He seemed determined to hold onto her. A feral thought flashed through her mind: he knew. Surely, he must. Terror crept over her: she was damned.

They came to a stop outside her door. She fought to keep herself from shaking. "I have been thinking," he started, "since we spoke on Sunday. I do not have to return for the next session."

That caught her off guard. She kept her eyes level on his chest. "You would resign your post? The King will not allow it."

"If I simply do not return, he will not have much choice."

"What of your vow? Of duty?"

"That is to the Crown, not the King. The danger is passing. I could return to Derbyshire, knowing I have done my duty by my country, and that is it time to do so by my lands, and my family."

She bent her head back to look up at him. "Why do you say the danger has passed?"

"Brougham's sent word that he's convinced Caroline to take the King's settlement and stay in Europe. Wood will be all out of causes soon. Cato is done. It is time for the whole country to restore itself. Including us."

Broken, she forced a smile. "I have only ever wanted to be home, at Pemberley."

"I am pleased to hear it." He brushed the same unruly curl from her forehead. "I should still like to share your bed, Lizzy, if you will have me."

He did not know. Her mouth went dry.

"I cannot possibly say no."

He led her through to his bed chamber. He was gentle, but she still made herself cry out 'Fitzwilliam', lest she call out the wrong name. He fell asleep with his arm over her, looking more peaceful than he had in weeks. She lay awake, counting the chiming of the clocks and letting her tears fall. Returning to Derbyshire had been her dearest wish for so long: now the opportunity had arrived, she would give anything not to go. Pemberley could not be as it was, because they were not as they were. But what good would staying do? Her aunt had been right: every decision could only end in heartbreak.

Historical note: The Blake piece is Age Teaching Youth. You can view it on The Tate's website.