A/N: So chaos abounds at my house, what else is new? This chapter of course!
Mad props to my tireless and wonderful Beta Lenniee and some for my chat chicks L & K who also ran their discerning eyes over my draft in an effort to make it more polished for you.
As always: Jane Austen rocks and this will never be as amazing as the original, nevertheless, this story, all chapters and author notes are copyright protected and all rights are retained by the author. I do not grant permission for this work to be copied, reprinted/republished in full or any parts. Any form of plagiarism or copyright infringement, for profit or otherwise, will be actioned.
Enough of my blather and on to the good stuff, new chapter ahoy.
Chapter 8
The lemon coloured slices of sunshine falling across his bed, and most importantly his eyes, made Darcy's head hurt. He groaned theatrically, flopping onto his belly… His naked belly?
Blinking gummy eyes, Darcy tried to remember the night before. The hammersmiths at work in his skull strongly indicated that drinking –and a lot of it – had featured heavily in his recent history. How much had he consumed last night?
He remembered dainty little hands nicely curled around a green tinted roemel glass, fingers rippling and shifting to avoid contact with his own as she handed it to him. Shaking off the extraneous recollection, for a mere pre-dinner drink was certainly not to blame for his present state, he tried to focus.
A glass of wine, perhaps two, with dinner. Again within normal bounds, nothing to cause intoxication. Wincing, he remembered the rapid rate at which Richard had plied him with spirits as he told the sordid tale of his engagement by ambush. He groaned again. His cousin kept military hours. If he was not already downstairs, he very soon would be.
But once again, Darcy was no gauche school boy; certainly no Reginald Hurst either, but he could still boast of being able hold his liquor with the best of them. The drinks he had consumed with the brother of his heart could have carried him half the way to this hammering misery, but not pay the full fare.
A hazy semi-formed impression tickled the edge of his consciousness, but every time he tried to catch it, it swished away like a school of little fish, evasive in the shallows.
Massaging his temples, he willed his throbbing head to desist in its adamant complaints and concentrate. Remember. Remember. Remember! And surprisingly he did… just in little flashes though: peaty whisky… more confessions, grossly candid… a pair of robin's egg blue pumps with a clover shaped gold buckle, and a man's ring of dulled ancient gold with a tiger's eye in the middle belonging to...
"James!" he hissed, wondering how much he had said in his corned state and what Lord Carbeck might do with the information.
"Dreaming of me cousin?... How singular!"
Darcy's head shot up. A terribly painful manoeuvre for one in his present condition. "Ohaaaggghhh!" he cried plaintively, slumping back over the edge of his bed, his left arm hanging limply off the side.
Lord Carbeck gave a merry laugh that seared like nails being driven into Darcy's scalp. "Will you shut up, man!" he groused.
Two feet clad in deep brown hessians, the left one swinging aloft from crossed legs, was all he could see of his facetious cousin who continued chuckling, albeit more quietly.
The boots moved. The soft sound of their progress on the carpet was not as offensive to his senses, but the drink his cousin shoved under his nose certainly was.
"Ye Gods, what is that? It reeks!"
"A cure, dear cousin. A very effective cure – for what ails you."
This time Darcy was much more careful in getting up. Lifting his head slowly he was thus able to minimise the spinning, if not eradicate it. He rolled sluggishly to his side and propped himself up on one elbow to accept the foulsome brew.
With one hand Darcy lifted the generous glass to his lips, but Lord Carbeck did not entirely let go either. When Darcy's mouth opened, he saw his cousin lift the bottom end sharply, sliding the entire concoction in.
As soon as it hit Darcy's tongue and taste buds, his mouth, nay his whole body rebelled. It tasted the way cut grass smelt, fresh but acerbic, an unpleasant metallic tang warring with heavy spices. There was a sour undernote also, and another that hinted at spoiled food floating in a viscous texture. All he wanted to do was eject the maelstrom of foulness.
Presumably sensing the imminent reaction, or from prior experience, Lord Carbeck clapped his hand firmly over Darcy's mouth and dropped the near empty glass harmlessly onto the bed, using the recently liberated hand to firmly pinch Darcy's nostrils together. Bucking and arching, Darcy was forced to swallow. As soon as the remedy was down his throat, his cousin released him, letting Darcy collapse back into the bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Darcy opened his mouth to bellow at his rather officious cousin, hang the headache, but the man now held a glass of fruit juice that he had acquired from God knows where, and in place of his usual gloating countenance, James' soulful blue eyes and bunched brows communicated a mixture of sympathy and contrition.
After gratefully accepting the juice and swilling repeatedly, Darcy finally spoke, "Does one dare ask what was in it?"
"My best headache powders, spinach juice and ginger powder. Hair of the dog that bit you, of course. A dash of vinegar… And one raw egg."
Darcy winced. "Why a raw egg? Or the vinegar, for that matter?"
"While the other ingredients are medicinal, the vinegar and egg were instructional."
"Instructional?"
"I have high hopes that any time you consider drinking with those far more adept at the art than you, a memory of sour decay suspended in a slimy mess will give you pause. Teach you caution, if you will. You will never pull this charade off if you do not learn to exercise a little more caution and better acting skills."
"Charade?" Darcy had flopped onto his back. Loath as he was to admit it, the drink had already made him feel better. It may have just been the juice, hydration and such, but he could feel a spreading coolness on his brow, as if a very large, damp and chilled cloth had been laid upon his face and head. "How much do you know?" he finally asked.
"Everything," replied Lord Carbeck. "Including what you did not tell me."
"I beg of you to keep it to yourself, it has the potential to cause a great scandal."
Lord Carbeck sat back down and looked at his cousin solemnly. "Because of Georgiana and Ramsgate?"
Darcy's eyes widened in utter shock. He had never imagined he would give up Georgiana's secrets, even under vile torture. What a poor excuse of a brother he was, meddling with drink rather than guarding the treasure.
Lord Carbeck shook his head, the movement vehement enough without disturbing his well styled golden hair. "I have known about that for months."
"Richard, then?"
"Not intentionally. The pair of you think you are terribly clever, but you are just terrible at covering your tracks. I went to Ramsgate, interviewed the servants… It took virtually no prompting for their chatter to turn indiscreet. Thus the staff at that house have been separated and scattered to the far ends of the kingdom. I told them some cock and bull story about a French noblewoman hiding from a licentious general, completely ridiculous, but exciting enough to eclipse the real tale. I also gave them full warning that my wrath would be satisfied by nothing short of blood if they dared open their mouths again. The foolish will repeat the more torrid tale and the wise will say nothing at all. By the way, I will be keeping the stallion I rode home last night, consider it payment for my timely intervention."
Darcy felt his stomach drop and his skin chill at the thought that the Ramsgate affair could have so easily been exposed. It was a strange counterpoint to the lightening in his tight headache and general easing of the drink-induced malaise. He snatched up a shirt that lay discarded at the end of the bed, pulling it over his head and settled it loosely on his torso.
"I fail to understand how you even knew enough to go to Ramsgate. Or further, why you have any interest in me and my marriage," said Darcy, his expression dark, though his lingering headache prevented him from executing a truly menacing furrowed brow.
"You know, Richard may like you, but I think you are an even bigger shit than you were when you were younger… For days I saw my brother walking around in a daze, like he had lost the most important person in his life. Since I had not come across your obituary in the paper and my mother had seen neither hide nor hare of Georgiana in the weeks following her return to London, Ramsgate seemed the logical place to seek answers. I was not proven wrong…
"Now as for my interest in your marriage… That is a thornier branch of enquiry… I defy any man to honestly claim to have had a worse wedding night than I did. Even you Darcy. Even you…" His cousin's blithe attitude had been stripped. The pose was still affected but rang hollow. James' voice was tired, and as he sat there, determinedly staring at his tiger's eye ring, he looked all of his thirty six years.
"I followed every rule laid down by God and man, followed every stricture of my esteemed parents, because to do so would give me the perfect life, or so I believed. I am aware that my polite, compliant demeanor garnered me more affection than my brother's constant questioning of everything and his occasional defiance. Yet more proof that my approach was correct. Small joys, few sorrows, my life as a child and young adult was idyllic you could say, exactly as it should be.
"I did not even balk when the family pushed for me to come up to scratch with Lady Cynthia. There were other debutantes I liked better perhaps, but I was not enamoured of any of them. I never felt that Lady Cynthia had much interest in me, but she seemed quiet enough, docile, and I had been given a directive. I had no great compunction to fight the bit that had never steered me wrong before."
Darcy forestalled his intention to tell his cousin to quit his private rooms. He had long wondered what could have affected so great a change in James' personality. Even Richard had little clue how the undeniably terrible marriage could have wrought such an all-encompassing alteration in the young Lord's outward manners, thoughts and very nature.
Not daring to even move, Darcy sat silently, waiting for his cousin to continue.
"Following the rules. Always following the rules… I went to my wedding night very chaste. My wife did not."
Darcy was not entirely able to suppress a hiss of surprise. Lord Carbeck looked up with a grim smile, but his expression returned to a blank mask that spoke more eloquently of his pain than any grimace, as he picked up his story again.
"I never thought that Lady Cynthia was above my touch, even with her monstrously huge dowry and her connections with every old family worth cultivating. I should have known her parents would have desired more than the son of a mere third generation Earl, albeit a well behaved one. And the haste in which our nuptials were pursued should have caused alarm, but I was such a complacent little prick, I did not question what I determined were my earned dues.
"The evidence of her despoiled state was easily discerned… Without all the ruffles and other neatly sewn distractions her burgeoning belly was patently obvious," said his cousin in measured tones. James' jaw was discernibly clenched and a little vein throbbed, much like Darcy's own when he was struggling for control. Darcy continued in patient silence, taking shallow breaths, and was rewarded with another confidence ere long.
"The cad had seduced her promising marriage, but engaged himself to another society miss. A younger, prettier chit apparently. Thus Cynthia's parents wanted her married, and quickly. I was the dupe… though my bride treated me as if I had contrived her misery for my own amusement and also as a very pathetic creature beyond her notice or concern. My chaste state persisted through our wedding night and for many months after.
"So I may still have been –married but not quite a husband, a Lord but not truly a man –were it not for a very kind, discreet and persistent widow, whom I met not long before the one year anniversary of my marriage."
"I am very sorry," said Darcy.
"Do not waste your sympathy. Because of my wounded pride and my intense bafflement that everything had not gone my way, I was rather cruel to my wife. She was hurting, she was vulnerable and therefore lashing out at the only person within striking distance. I struck back in kind and cemented our enmity. I could have been a better and more temperate man. I humiliated her with my affairs as she humiliated me on our wedding night." His cousin fiddled with his ring.
"But what of young James and Andrew, are they…?" Darcy could not bring himself to fully articulate the question.
"Oh yes, they are mine. I learnt a great deal through my amorous pursuits. And we certainly know that my wife was a fool for seduction before, I made her my fool for a span of years, and it was almost too easy, though distasteful in the extreme… I watched her too, or rather had her watched… No, the little rascals are mine, I would bet my life on it." Lord Carbeck's voice was complacent but his fingers roughly massaging his other hand told a different story.
"And the other babe?"
"Fostered out. My wife has admirably taken a special interest in the 'distant Fitzwilliam orphan'. I would hazard a guess that most of the townsfolk think it is a by blow of mine, since the child is small for her age and speciously paint my wife the saint. Oh the irony!
"I allow her this concession, but I struggle with it. She is devoted to that whey-faced child but shows no interest in ours, none at all. The days leading up to the birth were the darkest of my life: all manner of thoughts and solutions were running through my mind, some more evil than others. I could not allow her misbegotten whelp to steal the birth rights of my children. I would like to claim that I am no monster, but as it was a daughter not a son, we shall never truly know. After what she put me through, if she died tomorrow, I don't think I would mourn her, and if I could strangle her scheming parents without bringing down the law on my head, I would."
"I am sorry," said Darcy, simply. Though unimaginative, the sentiment was sincere.
"Oh don't be! I have quite enjoyed dabbling in the hedonistic lifestyle. If I had remained as I was, I would have blundered through a life but half lived. I set my own rules now and determine my own choices, tempered only by the needs of those I truly care about. A handful of individuals at most."
The jovial and slightly irritating mask was back up, but it did not arouse the same ire in Darcy as it had the night previous, rather he felt like a lead weight had taken up residence in his stomach.
"Why would you share your history with me?"
His cousin seemed to mull over the question for an inordinate amount of time. "Perhaps because I made myself welcome to the secrets of your marriage… Fairly intimate secrets… Tut tut tut, three times in one night, you beast!" He winked. "I could also profess a desire to help you, but for all that you are blood, I find myself more concerned over the fate of the delectable Mrs. Darcy… But if I really think on it, I enjoy pointing out the hypocrisy of your stance in recent years. All but cutting me for my love interests when you yourself have been no saint and for far less cause than I."
His cousin paused, peeling back his lips in a feral smile that showed his eye teeth before adding, "And I never had to pay any of my paramours."
Darcy felt a flush begin to wash over his features. His hand involuntarily curled into a fist, but he only said, "What type of help?"
That feral smile flashed again. His cousin no doubt knew the shot had hit its mark. "Firstly, the benefit of my experience and wisdom. These are the crucial days of your marriage. Set a pattern for cruelty now and you will never be able to crawl your way back into her good graces."
Ticking off one finger, his cousin held up a second, wiggling it at Darcy obnoxiously. "My second piece of advice: put aside your petulant rage and actually look at your wife. Without prejudice. She is a diamond of the first water, and if she had been born to our sphere you could never have secured her: she would have gone to a much greater man than either you or I."
Darcy stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest. Lord Carbeck climbed languidly to his feet, walking towards the bed till he stood at the edge of the mattress. Darcy stared determinedly ahead.
"Third point. Until you can muster some genuine feeling for your spouse, you need to perfect your acting. Try to show some chivalry to your purported lady love, if you even know how," his cousin sneered before leaning forward to loom over Darcy, bracing himself with one arm on the headboard, forcing Darcy to look up into his glittering eyes.
"If you continue in this manner, clinging to the preposterous notion that your wife, a queen among women, is a mercenary, be prepared for the coming storm, Cousin. The rakes of our circle will go mad for her, and if you treat her badly enough, one of them just might succeed in conquering her. If you were not family, and were I not reformed, you can rest assured I would pursue her myself. I still might."
Darcy turned his head to the side, made angry by the scolding, the taunts and by the uncomfortable truths his cousin had forced into focus. "Are you quite finished?" he muttered.
In a mercurial shift, his cousin righted his posture and slapped his buckskin-clad thighs. "Not nearly. Since I have arisen so early to save you from your folly, I think I shall enjoy a hearty breakfast at your table, and if I make haste perhaps bask in the company of your womenfolk."
As his tall and undeniably handsome cousin reached the door, he paused briefly, turning his head on a jaunty angle. "Don't be too long in coming down, you never know what mischief I may get up to!"
Darcy scowled at the closed door, but not for long: the light threat was still ringing in his ears. He rang for his man, who seemed a little more subdued than usual. As he should be, allowing his master to wake up to an intruder, family or not!
Darcy was not one to abuse his servants, but instead of his usual thank you or comments on his valet's well thought out choice in attire, he merely nodded at Hayes. The man scurried off like a whipped cur.
Darcy's arrival in the breakfast room was marked by six individuals. His sister's companion who sat beside her charge, politely acknowledged him and added "Merry Christmas" in a sedate tone, naturally triggering Darcy to return the sentiment and greeting. A similar exchange was made with Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated upon Georgiana's other side.
His sister was much more enthusiastic in greeting him, acting as though she had not seen him in twelve days rather than twelve hours. His normally valiant wife seemed disinclined to meet his eyes when she mumbled a flat "Good morning Husband, I hope you slept well."
As for Lord Carbeck, he shifted his seat a little closer to Mrs. Darcy, to lean in and speak close to her ear. Darcy was pleased to note that she shied away from the proximity, but nevertheless, his aristocratic cousin directed a cheeky smirk his way.
There was a palpable tension at the table. Darcy could sense it from the moment he took his own seat, and the source was no great mystery. Lord Carbeck was shamelessly flirting with Elizabeth, complimenting her dress, her complexion, her hairstyle, the breakfast spread, and, in a rather absurd turn, the shape of her teeth.
"The well of inspiration seems to be running dry, Cousin. Although I find your flirting diverting, you must try to spread it around. I could not ask you to flirt with your own brother, but perhaps Georgiana could benefit from your attentions. With her upcoming debut, she could use some practice in light flirtation and of course in heading off pernicious suitors." Elizabeth took a small bite of her muffin at the end of this speech, flicking her tongue to capture a stray smear of strawberry preserve on the corner of her lip. The move was irrefutably provocative, but appeared more unconscious than intentionally seductive.
Laughing at the barb, Lord Carbeck replied, "Practice? To become a flirt? Is it not a skill young ladies are born with?"
Georgiana had turned a bright red, and Darcy could see that Richard was clutching his mug of coffee rather tightly in embarrassment or anger, perhaps both.
"Go home, flirt with your own wife, and leave mine alone," said Darcy, feeling any lingering charity towards his cousin evaporating.
"Such an ungracious attitude, when I have been pouring my heartaches to you and giving you the benefit of my greater experience in the wedded state." His older cousin then turned to Mrs. Darcy. "He is an ungracious brute don't you think?" said His Lordship, looking pointedly at her and making no move to quit the table.
The girl did not look at Darcy, though she shared a brief glance with Georgiana and Richard. "Whatever he is, he is mine, and thus I shall not speak a word against him, no matter how you try to provoke me, My Lord."
At this, the gnat finally departed with a great deal of flourish, hovering over his wife's hand for a great deal longer than was necessary. He could even see in Richard's stiff posture that he was less than impressed with his brother's antics.
Even after Lord Carbeck's departure, the lingering memory of his vexing presence made the quiet of the remaining company appear stilted. After a span of minutes, Richard cleared his throat loudly. "If you ladies would excuse us… Cousin, I would like to take this opportunity to speak to you in private, if I may?"
Seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, Darcy quit the table gracefully and led his uniformed cousin back to his study.
The interview that followed was short and predictable.
Everything about it was predictable, from the uninspired choice of his study, to the ponderous way Richard paced on the carpet and the commanding tone of his voice. His cousin admonished Darcy for his lack of consideration towards his wife, reminded him to control his temper and blithely questioned his judgement in proclaiming Mrs. Darcy a mercenary.
Darcy was still too distracted with the early morning revelations to assemble an anger appropriate to Richard's interference, though his irritation was piqued.
"Brother, do not let your temper carry you further down this road to unhappiness. In one evening I saw much to admire in your bride. I implore you to drop any prejudice this next week and simply observe her, before it becomes too late for you to woo her."
The imprecise but intimate family appellation did head off Darcy's growing annoyance. He raised himself from his chair, taking a step towards his cousin. Despite his rigorous military training, the Colonel flinched slightly, but Darcy did not lash out with words or fists. He took Richard's hand within his own, shaking it firmly.
"You have my word, I will think upon what you have said… Brother."
But as the day wore on, Darcy found himself frequently dwelling on Lord Carbeck's history, and thus he took his advice to heart.
In between the writing of some personal correspondence, he dropped in twice to see how his wife and sister were getting along. The first time the waters were calm, the smiles warm and everything perfect. After watching from the parlour door for a few minutes, he slipped away on silent feet.
His second foray into the music room was not as pleasant. Upon noticing his presence, his sister implored him with eyes full of tears to intervene. Intervene in what? was his immediate thought. But Georgiana, with the confidence of a sympathetic audience, had started blubbering, and the coherence of her speech had suffered as a result. Darcy simply could not help himself, he cast an accusatory look upon his wife.
Rather than being intimidated, Elizabeth pursed her lips and patted his sister on the back rather sternly. Proceed with caution, or else, was the message conveyed by her expressive eyes.
It turned out that Georgiana was bitterly railing against a suggested change in the routine of her lessons. It transpired that she had eschewed her language instruction for the past two months in favour of spending more time at the piano. Darcy had been surprised by the oversight and even more surprised by his wife's commitment to remedying it, and perhaps a little angry.
Who was she to come into their lives and begin to order his sister's education according to her whims?
Yet there was no doubt she was in the right. Though it pained him to admit it, he agreed with Mrs. Darcy's strictures and sternly told Georgiana so. The look of unbridled surprise that graced his wife's little face was almost as great a reward as doing the right thing by his recently indulged sister. No, he confirmed, the language lessons would recommence, and if Mrs. Annesley was not satisfied with her progress in French and German by the end of January, her music lessons would be curtailed until she caught up.
Georgiana's tears were replaced briefly by a mutinous look before she slid back into a mope that would last the rest of the day.
As a nod to the season perhaps, Mrs. Darcy appeared at dinner in a dress of deep crimson and with a very deep neckline. Mrs. Annesley had gone to spend the night and dinner with her extended family in Richmond, so, with the still subdued Georgiana, there was little to distract him from his wife's fine assets. The familiar battle raged within Darcy's chest: she was so desirable, painfully so – as the strained state of his trousers affirmed –and yet everything he knew of her family, and his experience of women in general, cautioned him against surrendering to her allure.
The meal was simple: roast goose, vegetables two ways, and a game pie. It was more than enough for the three of them and cooked to perfection. He raised a brow at the simple fare, she replied with a shrug and said that she had lightened the meal to allow a portion of the staff an early evening to celebrate. It was the least she could do, she added.
Foregoing the second remove completely, the meal moved straight to the final course, also simplified with just a seasonal pudding and a selection of fruit. The lone cheese on offer was fortunately his favourite, but Darcy wondered if that was mere coincidence.
To his great disappointment, Georgiana persisted in her sulk throughout the meal. Darcy noted his wife's placid attempts to draw her out, but she did not pander to his sister's childish mood. As they quit the table, Georgiana sullenly enquired if she might retire early. A hearty assent was hovering on his lips, when a small hand descended on his arm, completely distracting him. His wife's honeysuckle scent washed over him, as did her words to Georgiana. "Certainly you may retire early, Sister, but come first to the music room. I have a small gift for you."
To Darcy's great surprise, his wife retrieved two parcels from a table in the far corner of the room. He fingered his petite but neatly wrapped package with guilt; it had not even crossed his mind to get a present for his wife, small or otherwise.
Georgiana peeled back the paper on her rectangular package, and could not conceal a curl in her lip. Leaning over to determine what had disgusted her so, Darcy saw her scrutinising the title of the book in her hands. The book itself had clearly been well loved, as it bore the telltale marks of frequent use, yet it was the title, written in French, that offended. Georgiana gave a scathing look to her new sister, who laughed gaily.
"Oh, I suppose it is in poor taste, given our earlier disagreement, but Georgiana, it is the most wonderful story, full of intrigue, romance and great folly. Please take the gift in the spirit in which it was given. As my father used to say, all the best novels are in French."
Her voice was light, and the playful smile that curved her lips reflexively included him. Though the sparkle in her eyes dimmed somewhat when she noticed his fingers still curled around her unopened gift.
"I promise the contents will not bite. I doubt they will inspire either, but in any case, Merry Christmas… Husband."
Her blithe mood suffered further as she uttered the last word, and he was sorry for it. Darcy tugged the bow loose and slid the seam of the paper apart. His hand encountered soft fabric. He gently extracted four handkerchiefs, fingering the fine quality of the white linen. Looking at them more closely, he noticed they were not plain: in the corner of the topmost square, instead of an embroidered pattern of initials there were a few artfully placed lines that depicted a gentleman fishing. Turning over the corner to look at the next, he saw the fisherman repeated, every stroke the same, right down to the smallest detail. He touched the pattern with his finger: a slight stiffness, but it was not raised.
Mechanically he lifted the next, expecting the same pattern, but instead it depicted a gentleman asleep under a tree with his legs crossed out in front of him and his hat pulled down over his eyes. Once again it was truly astounding how much had been conveyed and with so much character, in just a few thin lines.
"I have never seen the like," he said, lifting his eyes from the pattern to capture her own.
She licked her lips, shifting slightly on her spot at the far end of the sofa, before speaking cautiously, "I made them… with my seamstress' help of course. Her grandfather uses this very interesting woodblock technique… I drew the lines but my hands were not up to cutting the…Well they are not much..."
"Thank you," he said gruffly, more than a little shamed by her generosity.
To give her a gift or not? He had never even considered the possibility of sourcing a holiday gift for his wife.
The Fitzwilliams barely noted the customs of the season. He and Georgiana had given up the practice of exchanging gifts at Christmas years ago. Not that he did not treat Georgiana, and frequently, but aside from birthday gifts, they did not limit their exchanges to holidays or special occasions.
And would not a gift from him, given the strained state of their marriage, appear disingenuous? Or worse, as if he were playing into Mrs. Darcy's hands?
He had a horde of family jewellery in the safe in his study, he debated whether he ought to choose a piece and bring it to her rooms this evening.
Darcy reminded himself of both of his cousins' assurances that the girl was not mercenary and his promise to view her objectively from this point onwards.
Georgiana quietly made her goodnights, leaving him alone with his wife and his thoughts. Lustful, but wary thoughts.
It was near impossible to be objective. That dress, it truly looked very becoming on her. Clearing his throat, Darcy tried to calm his mind.
"It has been many years since Georgiana and I put much effort into celebrating the season. With just the two of us, stirring up sufficient holiday spirit often seemed beyond our capabilities. If I were perfectly honest, I would say that our naturally reticent personalities also shoulder a share of the blame. This must be quite sombre compared to your typical Christmas." His speech was halting, and he was not sure it conveyed what he wished, he was not even sure what he wished to express.
A rueful smile lifted her mouth, then she dropped her gaze to the hands she was wringing in her lap. "I do not think there is a common thread in my experiences, except perhaps the Christmas service. We missed that today."
"I thought a trip to church would have put us under a great deal of unwanted scrutiny, I should have been more sensitive to your wishes." Darcy got up from his own seat to take up a position next to her on the sofa.
He became aware of how her body seemed to incline just slightly away from him. Upon seeming to realise she was inadvertently revealing her discomfort, her posture became erect, her shoulders expanded. But the torture set off by her little show of bravery! Did she know that such a posture caused her bosom to protrude in a rather alluring way? No, that was his suspicion talking. He had agreed to mute these thoughts and observe her without preconceptions.
"Is there anything within my power that could make the night more pleasant for you? I feel it incumbent upon me to remedy this oversight." His voice was hoarse.
There was a long pause before she could answer. Even the time it took to simply draw her eyes from her hands seemed endless. "I would like to retire early."
A wide grin spread across his face, the expression was very nearly a leer.
"Alone," she added, the words washing over him like a bucket of ice cold water. "With the preparations for last night's affair and then the debacle of the dinner itself and—"
Her stumbling speech made his ardour falter further. Darcy wrapped a large warm hand around her own, trying to calm her, but the contact only seemed to send tiny tremors up her arm until her whole body was vibrating with some strong emotion. He could not readily decide what would bother him more, if she was quaking with anger or apprehension? Neither did him credit.
"I do not wish to quarrel," she added.
Much like their wedding night, he was again struck with how young she was. He knew that outward appearances could be deceiving, but with the remonstrations of the morning, he wondered if she were just as she appeared to be: a young woman swept up in a situation beyond her experience or capabilities.
She had opened to him, once, but perhaps it was never to be repeated. The thought set off an ache in more than just his loins.
"Have I ever struck you? Ever forced you? Or in any way given you reason to fear physical violence?" His tone was gentle and his words intended to soothe, but had the opposite effect.
"You accord me no respect as an individual and have shown a blatant disregard for my feelings on more than one occasion. You must forgive me if trust is a scarce commodity," she hissed. The volume of her voice was well modulated, but the tone scathing. "You have complete legal dominion over me. Without even a thread of affection I live on a foundation of sand, any comfort apt to crumble beneath me on a mere whim of my husband's, and you have shown yourself to be a slave to your whims."
"You were not my choice in a bride!" he snapped back, still reeling from the rather sharp turn their discourse had taken.
"So I am destined to be punished with your contempt for the rest of my life?" she scoffed, clearly unrepentant. "Or once I have performed my office of brood mare, will you ship me off to the country to moulder away out of your sight? You must forgive me if on this night I wish to assert my existence as an individual of sensibilities, if not independence. Come to my room if you must, it is within your rights, but do not delude yourself into believing I am willing or that you are welcome."
Darcy's eyes widened at the offensive picture she painted of his character. Why would she goad him so? What could she hope to gain? Was she merely out of her senses? Alternatively, perish the thought, was he truly the unpardonable cad that both his cousins, and now his wife accused him of being?
"So this is your opinion of me?" He had not intended to speak the words, and the pathetic plaintive tone in which they were uttered was certainly not deliberate.
Elizabeth pursed her lips and crossed her arms, but her voice when she spoke was noticeably milder. "My opinion of you is not yet formed. I know so little of you, you have been everything but forthcoming. Perhaps my vanity has been pricked by your complete disregard for me as your spouse, your capricious performance on our wedding night or your cold disdain thereafter and ongoing for all the days of our union so far."
"Then what is it that you desire, Elizabeth?" he asked.
That she was taken aback by the question, and likely the intimate use of her name, was easily apparent. He watched her facial features morph from irritation to stunned surprise, and then the subtle signals of anxiety. Her teeth fastened onto the corner of her bottom lip, her brows drew marginally closer together, but most obvious was the glassy quality of her eyes.
"Everything has changed so quickly and so extensively, I could barely tell you," said his wife.
Choosing his words carefully, lest an inappropriate phrase raise her ire again, Darcy ventured to say, "I have not behaved in a manner I am proud of. I anticipated a very different sort of marriage… wait! Please let me finish," he urged at the sight of her posture stiffening again. "I will take your reproaches under consideration," he added.
When she did not attempt to interject, he continued, looking steadily at her, even though his inclination was to shy away from her searing gaze and his failings in the past week. "I propose a truce… I shall attempt to be more considerate and more forthcoming. Could you agree to the same?"
She searched his face for what may have been just a few seconds, but felt interminable to him, her dark eyes tracing over his expression, reaching into his own eyes to draw out his meaning and motives. When her ebony orbs narrowed, he anticipated a curt and negative response, but instead her head bobbed slightly.
His wife reached her soft, feminine hand as if to shake, but changed her mind before he could return the gesture. She jumped to her feet swiftly.
"I agree," she confirmed verbally, giving a shallow dip of a curtsey, then she was through the door in the dramatic style she often adopted after a peak of marital disharmony.
Her approach sparked a small flicker of curiosity in Darcy. Had she become proficient at making an escape by living in the perpetually chaotic atmosphere at Longbourn?
She had not been at Longbourn when his party had arrived in the neighbourhood. Was her absence a routine visit with her London relatives? It did not explain the uncharacteristic reticence of the generally loquacious Bennet family, though; was she in some sort of disgrace? He also wondered at her language skills: she spoke French, but how well?
Darcy took longer to make his way up to bed, and longer again to find sleep. His wife was much more complex than he had allowed upon their marriage, a true conundrum.
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