"When I came back into Hertfordshire," Darcy says, on one of their walks. "When I came back into Hertfordshire, the second time. I…"
He stops. She waits.
Crocus are appearing in the fields around, piercing the frost. They are very yellow.
The rest of the sentence doesn't come. Elizabeth tries to guess. The problem is – she doesn't want to think about that time. Her childhood, yes. Her youth, yes. After the death of her father…no. It's all a blur anyway.
Around them, crocus everywhere. Bright, violent yellow.
Egyptians revered them as a symbol of the return of the sun. (Her father explained it to her.)
Silence. Walking. Silver air, silver cold. Breathtaking winter dawn.
He changes the subject.
"That night, Elizabeth. Our wedding night. I…"
He hesitates, and she says, quickly. "I am not particularly keen to revisit the subject, sir."
He doesn't say anything after that.
Crocus are beautiful but leave her with a taste of dread.
Not that subject. It would destroy everything.
He would apologize politely, coldly. Not really meaning it. Maybe he would tread a little more about how unsuitable she is (in a polite, reasonable way.)
It would destroy everything, rip off all the delicate silver threads. Rip off "dearest," and the blue shirt, and the tender smell of his skin.
No.
Of course the unfinished conversation is a new thread connecting them.
A yellow one. Like the crocus.
The day passes. It's not a pleasant one.
The yellow thread is pulsating. The other beautiful secret bonds (all delicacy and grace) are shattering – no, not shattering. Vanishing. No. Dimming. Disappearing from view like faraway stars erased by the glare of a blazing sun.
Elizabeth wants to retreat in the grey. Grey is safe.
She can't.
In the grey she can rest.
She's restless.
Of course their chambers are connected. She has her bedchamber (a grey one), her parlor (charcoal), her dressing room (no particular color). He has the same, she supposes. The two main rooms are connected by a door. Always closed, of course. She locked it after their wedding night, she supposes. She doesn't even remember doing it.
They both hear noise through the door, sometimes. Often. Steps. The floorboard creaking. The muffled sound of voices – his conversation with his valet, her conversation with her maid. (Those are rare. The maid is hard grey.)
It's night. Her maid is gone. She hesitates. On the other side of the door. Her chamber is grey, of course, as is the air outside, as is her future slumber.
She knocks lightly. She opens the door. She enters.
It's all golden and brown on the other side.
The fire is still burning, candles are lit, the valet is folding garments. Her husband is sorting books on an oak sideboard. They both turn to look at her.
Mahogany tables, brown (maybe dark green) walls, golden light. A lot of books, scattered. Leather bindings, brown or dark red. Maroon drapes. The fire.
She wonders if it's what the inside of her husband's soul looks like.
She's not moving. "James, can you leave us?" her husband says, in a casual, polite voice.
The valet vanishes.
"How are you tonight, Elizabeth?" her husband says. "Do you want me to ring for some tea?" (In a casual, polite voice.) (Like his wife in his bedroom is an everyday occurrence.)
"Tea would be lovely, thank you" she says, smiling, and then she enters the room for real. (In a casual and polite way.) (Nobody will say that Elizabeth Bennett – Elizabeth Darcy – is not always perfectly polite.)
I wanted to say how much I enjoy our walks together, Mr. Darcy. And I do hope that the slight unpleasantness of this morning will not prevent us from walking together again, is what she came here to say. With a light smile, to pretend the topic is less serious than it really is.
But now the words won't come out.
"This is a beautiful room," she says instead.
"I think so too," her husband answers. He is in his shirtsleeves, not completely undressed yet. "It was my father's."
Elizabeth looks at the books. Memorizes the titles. She looks at the mahogany table.
He looks at her.
Her hair prepared for bed. Under the dark grey dressing gown, a sophisticated silk shift and a bed jacket. Off-white, both. Off-white feels intimate.
It feels true.
It fills him with despair.
She looks at the other table. Where the valet left the garments. "Oh, this is the light blue shirt," she says. Lightly.
Every artificial sentence of small talk she utters pains him a little more.
He feels like ending it all. No he doesn't. A gentleman never would. A Christian never would. But he understands why people do it. When everything is meaningless, a shallow and cruel image of what it's supposed to be. When the fire is so near, it would warm you up, but you raise your hand to it and the wind freezes your heart.
"You know," she says, "I have this silly idea…" She turns to him. She smiles. She walks to him. He pays attention. Her tone is light again, breezy, but a little too breezy. Like she's going to say something important. "I have a… liking for… I notice… colors," she explains.
He nods. "I know you like red."
Now she is near him.
"Yes." Facing him. Very near. "And also," she says, "I like your blue shirt. Because, you were wearing it when you freed me from that closet." She raises her hand.
No icy wind blows.
"When you opened the door, and I…"
She puts her hand on his chest.
He stops breathing.
She stops breathing.