A/N: I could write about all the reasons why this chapter was delayed, but writing it would be as boring as living it. All I can say is that I am sorry, and that being a wife, and a Mum often means that your time is not your own.
Copyright © 2017 Felice B. This story, the author notes and comments are copyright protected and all rights are retained by the author. Any form of plagiarism or copyright infringement, for profit or otherwise, will be actioned.
I have some very special Beta love for Lenniee (you are so damn thorough), Skydreamer (even though you took away some of my favourite words!), Primprenelle (so much dedication), Dr. Breifs Cat (yikes that will could have been a mess without your timely advice), and the lovely Miss Phryne Fisher (who also stole words. Damn etymology sucks sometimes).
Please leave reviews, I love them so.
The weather had turned and yet his home was full.
The combination of ubiquitous estate concerns and the unrelenting social invasion meant Darcy had not found the chance to take his wife up on her invitation to the library, ostensibly to discuss books, although he harboured a distant hope that her offer could encompass… more?
Snow had proved to be no impediment to the callers. The sleety rain did affect a moderate drop in the number of visitors, even if it had not been sufficient to halt them altogether.
One could never fully trust in the veracity of recollections from childhood, but Darcy was certain that his townhouse had never been so… busy.
Darcy drummed his fingers on the highly polished surface of his desk. He stilled the digits, lifting his chin a little and also moving forward in his chair, straining his ears. The murmur of voices was below the requisite range to identify specific individuals, let alone the words they spoke, but still, even just knowing they were there… he could not concentrate. He ought to give up, give in to temptation.
Yes, there was a glut of company, as there had been yesterday, the day before that and the day before that. Darcy had naturally anticipated a degree of interest to carry over from his aunt's ball. Whether innocent curiosity or more nefarious intrusiveness, a mere evening out would not be sufficient to weigh and measure the new member to their rather inbred society, or subtly express their concern—or rather disapproval—at his marrying outside the ranks.
So it had been with no surprise, but equally no genuine welcome, that the crossed young ladies and their flinty eyed mothers were admitted. A provocatively shallow bow accompanied by a twitching jaw had greeted the numerous swains who availed themselves of his hospitality. Reluctant but unwilling to make a scene, Darcy had also observed the requisite social niceties with the true wolves who dared encroach upon his domain, but even a simpleton could have detected more steel than warmth in his words. He would sooner eject the predators from his home than watch his wife serve them tea, while their eyes crawled all over her body, a body that he had not enjoyed following the ball, nor the many nights that had passed since.
A twinge of pain drew his attention to his hand, clenched around the ornate handle of his letter opener. He dropped it onto the desk with a clatter and idly massaged his abused palm.
They came, they drank tea, they traded thinly veiled insults and presumably told their friends, and thus the process began anew. The whole of the ton seemed to be cycling through his previously quiet drawing room, monopolising the attention of his formerly idle wife.
Elizabeth, far from objecting, continued to be all graciousness and elegance itself… beautiful too. What she had never been, however, was naïve enough to take any protestations of friendship or affection at face value. Nor was she inclined to credit the guests with any benign motives without further observation. He had watched her watch their guests with her lips curled in a warm smile, but her eyes had been quietly wary, ever searching.
These already fraught interactions had become further complicated by the arrival of her own… for lack of a better word... 'people'. A strange, motley, and yet engaging crew.
Darcy had engaged in enough introspection in days recent to acknowledge—if not justify—his feelings of superiority over his wife's situation and likely connections.
Moving as she had in the confined society of her locale, it was not unreasonable to surmise that her intimates would come from that same restricted group—for which he had no respect or liking. And yet, he often felt something akin to a mental itch, uncomfortable and yet not entirely tangible. The little he had come to know of his wife did not support the notion of her being happy or inclined to pursue intimacy with the simple—oft times uncouth—people who surrounded her home. Nor could he imagine her growing into the woman she was with their ilk as her examples of breeding.
He had had some vague idea of her spending some time with her aunt and uncle, lately of London—though not in the best neighbourhood. It would follow that she would have a London circle, and this circle, in proximity to their life at present, might not be so easily avoided, nor dismissed.
He had imagined the town equivalent of the Meryton crowd, but her London friends, as it happened, had turned out to be a very different kettle of fish.
They were on the balance educated, cultured and a vastly more intelligent bunch than perhaps even those Darcy counted among his own close acquaintance. Artists, authors, musicians, and—to Darcy's great alarm—a peppering of political agitators, these were his wife's friends. They boldly rubbed shoulders with the cream of the ton, and for all they lacked in elegance or quality of dress, they more than made up for in rich, scintillating conversation, the like he had not engaged in since his university days.
They had not troubled themselves to court Darcy's good opinion beyond showing good—even impeccable—manners, which he found a novel and comfortable development. There might be a vague and half-formed idea in some that they might like his patronage, but at the same time none seemed inclined to belabour the point. And he estimated that even if they had, they would not be asking more than he could give.
A subtle rope of tension that he seemed to carry into most interactions had unravelled when he had been in their company. He had not found himself fighting the urge to cross his arms. His neck could sit naturally, absent its habitual tension. His thoughts had flowed into words almost effortlessly and he had found himself thoroughly enjoying discussions that often edged into arguments, many of which they—not he—had come off the victor.
He was not the only one who revelled in the eclectic mix of company. Against such minds, Mrs. Darcy's own keen intellect shone.
As for the rest… it should have been an unmitigated disaster, the combination of creatives with the excessively critical London elite. And yet, like a master painter with his colours in oils, his wife had a way of combining personalities, forming little coteries of conversation. In addition, her deft hand directed their discourse in a way to gratify those parties concerned, or in some cases no-one but herself.
The unattached ladies were intentionally paired with the omnipresent single men. A masterful move; blunting any hatred of the ladies, their mothers' also, and directing the superfluous flirtation of her male admirers down a potentially more constructive course. To these couplings she might add others, one of her outsiders, to gently prod them out of the well-trodden and uninspired pattern of their usual interactions.
He had observed Elizabeth, with an impish grin and a highly suspect spring in her step, direct her politically minded callers to take a seat with a reluctant coxcomb and then proceed to lead over a mulish girl to round out the tableau. The discussions could not help but become heated; however, he noted Elizabeth always intervened if they appeared to venture into the prelude to explosive. Darcy had shaken his head on seeing couples who had entered their drawing room inexorably set against each other leave loose allies. It was truly astounding, what the introduction of a common enemy could do.
Would Mrs. Darcy be credited with a rash of marriages over the coming months? It was possible, and in terms of her social standing, it would not be a bad thing. Was her matchmaking intentional? His scalp prickled whenever he considered the question, which was not often; it made him uncomfortable.
Her methods were novel, but apparently effective, as far as he could tell in such a short period. If she were so accomplished at pulling the strings of virtual strangers, should he fear her? What games might she play with him—might already be playing? He shivered.
The question of intention took on a more unsavoury note when applied to the other matches that seemed to be forming over tea and cake. The matrons appeared to find the company of Elizabeth's various creatives utterly fascinating, and not in the way Darcy had.
Mrs. Gibson's eyes had sparkled as she talked to the dashing Austrian musician Elizabeth had introduced her to on Friday, and the throaty laugh the woman had given at a seemingly bland statement had made Darcy cringe. It was a scene oft repeated that never failed to set Darcy on edge, though if he were wander into the drawing room at this very moment, Elizabeth, and perhaps his aunt, would appear none too bothered. Based on precedent, he might go so far to even describe them as complacent.
Thankfully, not everyone seemed to be part of these two related and yet disparate pageants. More often than not, Lady Matlock joined his wife for much of the calling hours. He had found it a relief when he could not be there to oversee the barely restrained chaos.
Darcy had previously noted that Elizabeth had also made a handful of what appeared to be genuine friends; mostly young married women like herself, with an occasional as yet unmarried lady or one of Lady Matlock's more open-minded contemporaries.
A tiny contingent of wealthy tradesmen's daughters and wives had come, but for the most part had gone away directly, and he could not discern if they made any subsequent visits. Darcy also understood that two older businessmen had come to pay their respects; he had been out, but it was one of the mornings Elizabeth had encouraged his sister to join her.
Georgiana was another factor that made his jaw twitch, the unease striking at odd times. His sister had requested that she be permitted to reschedule some lessons—or perhaps beg off a few—in order to spend more time participating in the calling hours.
In light of the compulsive shyness she had exhibited to date, he was, on the one hand, pleased to see Georgiana's enthusiasm, but conversely he would be lying if he claimed that the company did not engender misgivings.
Had she been a different girl, with a different history, he might have trusted her to dispassionately assess the people around her, fitting them into the framework of her life, and thus keep the boundaries of each association parallel to society's expectations. There was room for affection, or even love, in her choice of a future partner, but only amongst her relative equals. Even then, he would advise caution, lest she be taken in by a well disguised fortune hunter or a silver tongued rake in want of a compliant wife.
For Georgiana gave the illusion of compliance, of deferring to her guardians in matters of importance. She went to school without complaint, and it was only through a third party—Lady Matlock—that they discovered she had never desired to attend in the first place, and that her ostracism at the hands of the titled girls had left her deeply unhappy.
And then there was Ramsgate, a revelation. Once the fever of his anger had broken, Darcy had found himself able to look past the obvious cause—that blackguard Wickham—and apprehend Georgiana's culpability.
At how many points in the wooing could she have turned away his attentions? There was a great distance to be traversed between childhood acquaintance and passionate love, and many barricades in the form of propriety to prevent such an attachment. She could not have been ignorant of the ineligibility of George Wickham as a match. She must have known she had not been sent to the seaside to engage in an illicit romance. And yet, she had acted in a manner both reckless and duplicitous. He was relieved that she had confessed before she crossed the proverbial Rubicon, but she had also written him several letters which made no mention of Wickham and his attentions, though they had been ongoing at the time she put pen to paper.
That she had bemoaned her lack of perception was in no doubt. It was an important lesson delivered most cruelly, her suitor abandoning her upon learning that her dowry could be withheld by her brother. Georgiana's extended depression of spirits had worried Darcy greatly. He had hoped that this experience, painful as it had been, might help her approach her upcoming debut with a dash of cynicism and more faith in the teachings of her family. His wish appeared to have been gratified when, upon coming out of her fog of despair, Georgiana had expressed her intention to be guided by her brother in all things.
Yet, he found her to be acting in direct contravention to his strictures regarding her education but a few months later; neglecting important language lessons and concealing it from him whilst he was distracted with other matters.
Could he trust her in a room full of dashing artists? Just as penniless as that blasted Wickham but arguably with more substance and appeal?
Not born to wealth and privilege, would Elizabeth be sufficiently wary to the dangers posed to his charge? And even if she were, with such a full room could she adequately supervise and direct his sister? The slightly immoral air to the gatherings suggested not.
There were two courses of action available to him, neither of which would endear him to his womenfolk. As he saw it, he could either deny his sister's request out of hand, perhaps forbidding further forays into the forming salon altogether, or direct Mrs. Darcy to be more selective in the company she kept.
He was justifiably apprehensive about initiating the latter option.
The deluge of callers had not been their only social interaction since the night of his aunt's ball. Darcy eyed the large pile of invitations neatly stacked in the corner of his desk. No, they had attended dinners, musicales, and shared a memorable night to the theatre. That Elizabeth had acquitted herself to perfection on each and every occasion was indisputable. Darcy had felt taller walking into a room with his wife on his arm. She had drawn eyes, sometimes covetous, sometimes lustful, frequently curious, but the disapproval was dissipating. With Elizabeth's effortless welcoming manner, overlaid as it was with her fine wit, her talent for conversation, and her drawing room campaign, she was quickly gaining acceptance.
That was the rub, though. As she carved out her place in society she relied upon him less and less. The distance yawned wider at the end of each night, each event, and he was at a loss for a method of recovering that brief shining moment of intimacy, even though it had been based on dependence.
If he could be certain of but one thing, it would be that telling her to bar her friends from his house would not improve their marital felicity.
Uncharacteristic as it was, Darcy dithered. But the imperative for action had never been more apparent than the day prior, when Lord Byron had graced them with his presence.
They had not met often, but Darcy had never liked the man and long believed the feeling to be mutual, though neither was overt in their antipathy. Nevertheless, the man had appeared on his doorstep to wish him and his new bride well.
Even the memory made Darcy growl. Lord Byron had swanned in like he owned the place, bowing theatrically over his wife's hand and he'd even had the gall to place a lingering kiss on the bared skin of her knuckles. She had blushed very prettily while Darcy felt his face heat with anger.
That all the company had re-aligned themselves to orbit the fool had done nothing for Darcy's temper. His Lordship was intelligent, he could concede that much, but his conversation—thereby everyone else's conversation—had kept circling back to the same unpalatable point.
"We have devolved from the faithful reproduction of beauty to the butchering of the female form. The fashions can be tolerated, but this ideal of a preposterously wide expanse of chest, further emphasised by absurdly tiny feet and hands in painting makes my stomach turn," had said that swarthy Haygarth fellow.
Elizabeth had laughed at this, the delightful tone made up slightly for what followed. "As opposed to the fashions and the depictions of the generation prior?" she had said, her eyebrow raised. "Powdered wigs so voluminous as to snap one's neck? Skirts so wide as to prevent ladies from making it through the door except sideways? Stomachers tied so tight as to give even the most voluptuous girl the lines of a flat chested waif?"
Darcy had not been the only one caught by the pert response. Though, to his cynical eye, the way Lord Byron had looked at Elizabeth, with his eyes glazed, his lips parted, had been excessively exaggerated. Even though he was not of that illicit persuasion, Darcy could still recognise that rapture—no matter how contrived—looked well on the man, a conviction that had been confirmed when half a dozen feminine sighs had followed closely behind the breathy sigh of longing Lord Byron had emitted.
"Fashion is a cruel beast," Lord Byron had said, once he seemed to have recovered from his acute bout of adoration, Darcy had thought sourly. "I would rather render myself blind than presume to diminish your beauty through dress or brushstrokes. Perhaps you should shrug off these deprecating conventions for your wedding portrait and be captured in all the glory that God has decreed… you ought to have Mr. Etty here paint you."
The young artist had spluttered into his tea, his face taking on a dramatically red hue, reminiscent of boiled lobster. Elizabeth had merely pursed her lips and looked apologetically at Mr. Etty.
Darcy had quickly catalogued his previous conversations with the young man. Did not his interests tend more towards historical scenes? Darcy had then said as much.
Mr. Haygarth had sniggered, earning a brief flash of consternation from Elizabeth, but it had been Lord Byron who answered, "Mr. Etty's great talent lies in painting flesh tones, a skill he employs in both his historical paintings and portraits. I must say, in either category, his nudes are exquisite, sublime even, there is no better hand to capture the classical unadorned beauty of a woman in bloom."
Darcy had felt his jaw tighten, it twitched again now in remembrance. How dare he? Here in his own home, practically announce a lewd interest in his wife! There was every chance that it was not just idle flattery either; how many married women had been lured by the Lord's dashing melancholy and supposed poetic brilliance?
Darcy had looked at Elizabeth to gauge her level of interest in the preening lordling, but her eyes had been affixed to him. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. "I am all for the pursuit of truth and beauty in art, but to suffer for it? I think there must be boundaries. One such boundary that I must insist upon is remaining fully clothed in the winter months lest I catch a cold. A swollen red nose is becoming on no-one," she had said with an arched brow, which had been followed by a chorus of laughter.
And with that the talk had moved on to other less salacious topics. Toward the end of his call—that had already run over long—Lord Byron had brought up his soon to be published canto. "Oh my dear, tell me you like but one of my humble offerings or I will have to leave this house a broken man," he had said.
"Your vanity ought to be glutted with the praises of every maiden and fair widow the upper ten thousand has to offer. What difference can my praise make?" Elizabeth had replied.
"But your good opinion is rarely bestowed and therefore more worth the earning."
Elizabeth had leaned back in her seat at this, seeming to look Lord Byron over; speculation in her eyes. An infinitesimal shrug had lifted her shoulders before she said sweetly, "I will allow your grammar to be very good, although I find your predilection for hyperbole does not suit my sensibilities."
Darcy had taken some savage pleasure in the tittering that followed; firmly pressing his lips together to repress a smirk at the way the man had clamped his hands over his heart and groaned. But any lingering light of triumph had been instantly dispelled when Lord Byron had clutched Elizabeth's hand to his abused heart, before planting another kiss upon it, a kiss that had once again lingered.
A full day later, and the burn of jealousy had diminished but not abated. Were he to venture forth into that room again he would find another man fawning over his wife, no doubt offering her the pretty words he should have spoken in the weeks following their wedding. That she had to date thrown all such overtures back in each gentleman's face was an insufficient comfort.
Would there one day be a man to pierce through her afore unassailable morals and into her heart, just as his sister had thrown over all of her childhood teachings to follow Wickham's tune of seduction?
Darcy buried himself and his fears into his work, until the changing light in his study and general quiet in the house signalled that the guests had all departed. As he rolled his shoulders and stretched his back, a groan escaped his lips. Tonight was free of commitments beyond a quiet dinner with his sister and his wife. And if his luck was in ascension, a short interlude of privacy with his wife, an interlude that he hoped would not be marred by the discussion they must have.
In an uncharacteristically sensitive move, Darcy decided to seek her out rather than request her attendance in his study.
A sharp jab of disappointment made itself felt when he found the library absent his quarry, though a shawl thrown carelessly over a chair spoke of her recent presence, and the still hot tea service and a plate of biscuits of her intention to return.
Darcy drifted over to the low table adjacent to her obviously preferred seat and the neat tower of books situated on top. Curious, he picked up the five or so volumes, shuffling through them.
He first opened an anthology of John Donne, not perused for a decade and even then indifferently.
His chin, a thorny, hairy unevenness
Doth threaten, and some daily change possess.
Thy body is a natural paradise,
In whose self, unmanured, all pleasure lies,
Nor needs perfection; why shouldst thou then
Admit the tillage of a harsh rough man?
Men leave behind them that which their sin shows,
And are as thieves traced, which rob when it snows.
Frowning, Darcy placed the tome back on the table before opening another, even less familiar than the last, an embroidered placeholder directing his page choice.
For proof of this contention examine history:
we all remember Helen,
who left her family,
her child, and royal husband,
to take a stranger's hand:
her beauty had no equal,
but bowed to love's command.
As love then is the power
that none can disobey,
so too my thoughts must follow
my darling far away:
the sparkle of her laughter
would give me greater joy
than all the bronze-clad heroes
If anything, his brows drew tighter together. He turned the book over in his hands, Fragments of Sappho, the title read. As he began to sift through the rest, he heard the door click open. He stood still, barely even breathing, listening to her light footsteps get closer.
The tap of her advancing feet stopped. He turned slowly. The expression he was met with was difficult to decipher; her head was tilted to the side, her eyes were warm but her lips could be described as pouty.
Looking for something to fasten onto, he dropped his gaze to the book pressed against her chest, wrapped in her arms. Above and below the encircling limbs he could see a rich leather cover, the tips of letters written in gold and more gold embellishment around the edges in a classical style. Although his partial view prevented him from identifying the book specifically, he could readily recognise it as one of the more precious volumes contained in the family collection.
"Of course you could not have known, but we keep the first editions and rare manuscripts to the library… for their preservation…"
~~~v.-O-.v~~~
Elizabeth pulled the beloved copy of Herodotus tighter to her chest, her vision beginning to cloud. Her mind was a whirlpool with a liberal dose of confetti thrown in, the emotions flashed like many coloured pieces of paper; rage, sadness, fear, disappointment and grief.
As she took a deep breath, she found she could banish the fear, the rage, and some of the others too, but the disappointment lingered and swelled. She manipulated her heavy limbs into a shallow curtsey and tried to step around him but he caught her arm. And with that simple touch, neither forceful nor rough, her ire came pouring forth.
The flavour of her emotions must have shown on her face. She noted the way he shrank back, dropping her arm is if it had heated along with her temper.
"I thought when I suggested we speak of books in the library I might be treated to a discussion of our preferences, not another lecture. If that is your purpose in coming here I bid you good day, sir," she said, taking a step back.
She watched him reach out a well formed hand before letting it drop to his side again. "Forgive me," he said quietly and then nothing more.
It took several somewhat laboured breaths for him to continue, "I handled that poorly… forgive a man whose primary female interaction has been with a sister, a sister he has raised almost like a daughter. My intention was to speak to you, not to lecture… if you would grant me the pleasure of your company?"
She couldn't help put purse her lips. Yet another admission of wrongdoing, offered with every evidence of genuine regret, but with no accompanying apology, he was predictable but still wearying.
He must have taken her hesitation as agreement, for he sat down, eyeing her in such a manner that conveyed his expectation of her compliance. She took her own seat, laying Herodotus aside reverently and draping the shawl across her shoulders, letting the long ends fall across her chest.
Her husband leaned over and picked up the treasured book. Her first instinct was to snatch it back, but she merely clutched her hands in her lap. She watched him trace the cover and lettering with curiosity. He fingered the pages with respect, and yet watching him handle such a personal memento made her scalp itch.
Fortunately he offered up the book shortly thereafter. She murmured a quiet thank you and wrapped her fingers around it. Looking up she noticed him eyeing her with narrowed if not unfriendly eyes.
"That book is not from the library, is it?"
Tracing the cover of the book with her fingertips, she shook her head lightly. He let out a huff of air but she kept her eyes down.
"It is magnificently illustrated, I can see why you treasure it so."
She grimaced at his statement and felt her eyes roll. "Yes. I do like the pictures, both for their own merit and in so far as they support the story."
"You are the familiar with the classics then?" he asked; she wondered if he was teasing or if he was genuinely so thickheaded.
"I ought to be, as I was reading them but moments ago."
She doubted he was aware of the incredulous expression he wore. "You read Greek?"
"Indeed," Elizabeth said with a smirk. He looked at the stack of books at her elbow. "And Latin," she added, when it appeared he would say no more.
He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his fingers kneaded his forehead. She braced herself for a lecture on appropriate pursuits for a lady, but instead he just looked up through his hair—which was getting a bit long—with a rueful smile.
Her breath caught involuntarily. It was surely just the surprise of seeing an expression so far removed from his anticipated response, nothing more, wasn't it?
"I have begun to realise how little I know about my little wife. I would like to attribute the appalling regularity with which I manage to put my foot in it to this lack… further I hope you will be gracious enough to share a small portion of your history with me, if for no other reason than to prevent my suffocating on my own poorly chosen words… We might start with how you learnt Greek and Latin?"
Her skin flushed. He was not looking away, and though his smile was wide, he swallowed as the seconds passed in silence.
"My father taught me."
Her husband nodded at this, then watched her expectantly. His attitude persisted, and she began to fiddle with the end of her shawl under his scrutiny.
"Unconventional, I know, but I think my father missed his intellectual pursuits and, without a suitable peer in learning about, he sought to train one."
Her husband sat up straighter before leaning back in the chair, completely at ease. The faint quiver in her stomach stilled when the predicted disapproval did not rain down.
"So he received a university education?"
Normally such a statement would ignite her temper, for of course her father had attended university. He was a gentleman and from a family of some importance in the area, but her husband had spoken with no disdain.
"Yes," she might have left it at that, but his expression of polite interest prompted her to add, "He was offered tenure in the classics department, I believe he was inclined to make his life at Oxford before circumstances intervened."
He finally did frown, but the expression had no heat, just mild confusion. "Why would he ever consider his place anywhere but upon his family estate?" he wondered out loud, but a pointed look in her direction indicated the question was not actually rhetorical.
Elizabeth shivered, pulling her shawl more tightly around herself. She contemplated how much she wished to relate. A good deal of it was mere conjecture, but even the bare facts painted her mother in a bad light and her father as a fool.
She took a deep breath.
"My father was not the first son, his older brother was disinherited. Grandfather Bennet's will was in favour of my father to the exclusion of all others."
Darcy whistled under his breath. "That would have caused a great to-do, I imagine."
"I understand it did, though of firsthand knowledge I have none… it was before I was born." She licked her lips, making a decision. "None of the family knew of the provisions of the will until it was read… even though it had been signed a twelve month before his passing."
"That would have been quite a secret for a country attorney to keep, being in close contact with someone whose circumstances are set to change so drastically, for ill or for good, depending upon the brother. I applaud his professionalism."
Elizabeth flinched but grasped her composure firmly.
The attorney who had drafted the will had had in his employ an ambitious young clerk, a clerk by the name of Phillips who was engaged to one of the Gardiner girls, a clerk who had since risen to take over the firm.
The specifics of her mother's ascent from Frances Gardiner, girl of inferior pedigree, to Mrs. Bennet, mistress of Longbourn, had always bothered Elizabeth. Her shoulders drooped as she shied away both mentally and physically from the unsavoury topic, it was not a confidence she wanted to share with an oft times antagonistic spouse.
The silence lengthened between them, her feet shuffled under the cloak of her skirt. It should not be this difficult; he should not make it this difficult.
"My earlier mistake notwithstanding, please tell me, have you found the library to your liking?" he said.
She blinked her eyes; that had been surprisingly tactful.
She lifted a hand to tap at her lips. "You must be fishing for compliments, Sir… or rather trawling? I declare there to be no sport in it whatsoever, for who could in their right mind disapprove of your magnificent library?"
The smile that lifted his lips was warm like the fire. A small dimple appeared briefly in one cheek, before her eyes were drawn down to his hands, where his fingers traced first one thumb and then the other lightly.
"It is the work of many generations. I believe if I were to covet praise I would like it to be something of a more personal or… intimate nature," he said. His voice, infused with good humour, became husky on the last few words.
Elizabeth felt suddenly warm, and with equal abruptness she felt her heartbeat both increase in rapidity and volume. "Surely you must claim some credit? I noticed many newer volumes, and even apart from those, the preservation of the collection itself and the interests that support it must take some effort?"
His smile turned a bit rueful. "You shall praise me for lacking the skill to fritter away my family's colossal fortune? Next you will expound upon my startling ability to breathe in and out…"
Elizabeth shook her head. "Town abounds with costly fascinations for those with a fortune, no matter how great. I'll own that I do not know you well, but your avoidance of excess is something I believe I can admire. I also suspect it is not mere maintenance of your family's fortune that keeps you chained to that desk… raising it perhaps?"
And at that he loudly clapped his hands together like a snapping crocodile. "And I believe you have taken the hook, my dear!" he said laughing.
Though the heat in her face strongly suggested she was blushing yet again, she laughed along with him. His playful side was endearing and his expression very favourable.
Her husband pointed to the books on the table next to her and said, "Your little collection is completely devoid of any of my contributions, and I think the Woolstonecraft book is another of yours."
For the first time she realised that the order of the books had been altered. She considered some of the more expressive poems she had perused in recent days, and the thought of her husband reading—or knowing she had studied—them caused her to squirm.
"You are correct, though I am disappointed that your library did not boast such an important work." There was a hint of challenge in her voice.
"My father found her way of living objectionable."
"What bearing should that have on the value of the ideas contained or the artistry with which they are expressed?" she asked.
Darcy gave a sigh and waved his hand in a dismissive manner that immediately re-ignited her recently curbed anger.
"I did not say that I shared his sentiments, I merely explained why you have not found a copy in this room. Though I would like to qualify that I have read A Vindication of Women's Rights, and further that there is a copy of Mrs. Woolstonecraft's book in Pemberley's library."
"Oh," she said, acutely aware of the inadequacy of the sound as a statement or apology; it was met with a silence that lingered beyond comfort.
Mr. Darcy ran his hands through his hair, shedding his earlier flirtatious manner like a snake shrugging off its old unwanted skin. He muttered something under his breath—she suspected it may have even been a curse word—before he lifted his chin. That was where the tension started, or maybe it was his eyes. Nevertheless, the unpleasant stiffness slowly progressed down his body, his shoulders climbed, his fists clenched and he even widened his legs in a strange parody of a pugilist's stance for all that he was seated.
It was natural for her to brace herself also; it seemed their pleasantries had come to an end and that the quarrelling part of their programme had been reached. Well, quarrelling was the result when she challenged him, a lecture if she did not.
"Georgiana has requested that she be permitted to participate in the calling hours more frequently and for a longer duration."
That was all he said. Elizabeth gave a huff and then another. She touched the base of her neck briefly, then asked, "And what did you tell her?"
"I have told her nothing yet," he replied.
Her bafflement continued, he seemed unduly grim.
"I had some concerns I wished to discuss with you first," he continued. "About the company that she would be exposed to."
At this her eyes narrowed. At least he is sensible of his own haughtiness, she thought uncharitably. But he also seemed so tense, so miserable bringing it up, that a sharp retort died on her lips.
She inclined her head for him to continue. With all the appearance of a cur on the edge of a whipping he said, "Your friend Lord Byron springs to mind."
She laughed. She bit her lip and then laughed again. "I would hardly call him a friend, and you need not worry yourself, I do not expect him to visit again."
He sagged against his chair momentarily, but ere long the resolved tilt of his chin was back. "Can you be sure?" he asked.
"Only as sure as his character can be read… You will forgive my candid assessment but I believe Lord Byron to be a very vain creature. I denied that all-pervasive vanity its praise, starving him of what he considers—rightly or not—his due. He has many admirers in town. He will not return."
"You do not favour him?"
She tilted her head sideways. "No, I do not. As I made quite clear during his visit, I believe."
Her husband exhaled in relief.
"I thought we were talking about Miss Darcy," she said levelly.
"I find myself concerned with the great number of men making themselves at home in my drawing room," he said.
Elizabeth could almost feel the tension thrumming through him. She inched forward in her seat until she could reach out and touch his arm. He seemed to melt into the whisper soft contact, and it stirred something deep inside her also, a fluttering that she did not wish to address now—or perhaps ever. She pushed the sensation away and instead focused on her words.
"It must be very frightening to you, to see the girl that you view almost as a daughter on the cusp of womanhood, but you must not hold too tightly. She is safe in our drawing room in a way she will not be once she is properly out in society. I will be present, her companion also, we can observe and direct her interactions. If you would permit her small follies now, you may prevent the greater disaster, which, I am sorry to say, is likely to result if you persist in sequestering her."
Her husband grabbed the hand still resting upon his arm and brought it to his lips. A warm shuddering breath ghosted across her knuckles making her shiver and then he kissed her hand in a way that made her ache. "Is that what I have done?"
She gently extracted her fingers, shaking her head, less in denial but more in the manner of clearing it. "You have not done anything yet, as far as I can tell. And I do appreciate your willingness to include me… in making decisions for your… well, our sister. I… it must be quite an adjustment… after so many years of acting alone."
His arms fell limply. She could not see his eyes, but every line of his face spoke of pain, a pain very disproportionate to their discussion.
"You may be correct, but what sort of guardian would I be if I did not worry to some degree? If I did not wish to shield her from the ugliness in this world?" said he with a doleful smile. "I see you did liberate a handful of treasures from the shelves. Tell me, are you a devotee of Saphho?"
His inflection was light and humorous again but there was an edge to his countenance. Her inclination was to oblige him in his desire to change the subject—as he had done earlier—but to make such a suggestion… even in jest…
"There is so little left of her writings and I daresay much has been lost in the passage of time, I find it very difficult to form an opinion," she said, waving her hand airily.
He did not seem to enjoy her attempt at levity, for his jaw had set hard, that little muscle in his cheek twitching.
"I would rather that Georgiana's learning and corresponding reading material err towards the traditional and it would please me if you did not expose her to your more risqué literature, or more risqué company," he said.
Her eyes narrowed even as she felt the blood rush to her face. "And we find ourselves back where we started," she said calmly, though it was a paper thin veneer over her turmoil. "Why not let her learn more of the expressions of love from the safety of the written word? One cannot elope with a book…"
"Books can provide ideas, dangerous ideas that just may take hold in the fertile mind of a young girl, ideas that may blind her to what is right, ideas that may lead her into temptation and set a course of misery to persist for the rest of her life. The same can be said of the examples laid out for display in your engineered tête-à-têtes," he said scathingly.
His chest was rising and falling with heavy inhalations and stuttering exhalations. Would it be wise to match fire with fire? Slowing her own breathing, she waited for him to calm.
After a time his breathing was almost apace with hers. His knuckles were still white as they gripped the arms of his chair, his face was pinched, but it had lost that frightening colour.
"Those are valid concerns," she said and watched his head snap up in surprise. "But a lack of knowledge can also lead to foolhardy decisions. In a society presided over by one such as our Prince Regent, excessive innocence can be nothing but a liability. She ought to be made aware of a wide variety of the permutations of love, perhaps educated in the difference between love and desire, or the merits of congenial companionship that breeds contentment rather than a wild passion that can over time spawn contempt—and thus lead to temptation in some cases."
"Do you deny that you enable those who may wish to succumb to such dalliances?"
She winced. "I facilitate good conversation, if the parties take their association from intellectual to immoral, that is between them and God."
Elizabeth felt tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. It was a tight rope she walked, courting the approval of those she did not approve of, whilst trying to retain some thread of connection between those she knew before and who she was before her marriage. Her choices were not perfect, they never could be. Georgiana had every possibility open before her, if she could but exercise some discernment, and if Elizabeth could simply keep to her role.
Even before her marriage Elizabeth's choices were very limited, a vulgar mother and no dowry saw to that. She had eschewed a wild intemperate passion and resigned herself to life as a spinster before her great accident. She would wish for Georgiana to have the best, but she knew that with great opportunity came great risk. "Might I suggest a compromise?" she said.
He gave a slight—almost imperceptible—nod, and yet his crossed arms demonstrated his inclination to resist.
"What if we agreed in advance upon the books I might include in her reading list? And if we could discuss what she has read together? After dinner perhaps? Would it grieve you greatly if we reduced our evening engagements? Leaving an evening or two per week for family dinners at home?" she asked in measured tones, albeit at a halting pace.
"It would not grieve me in the least," he said with a smile, before quickly pushing his features back into neutrality.
"And the rest of the plan?"
Her husband tapped his fingers against a knee. His expression was tight and his eyes were turned inward, but he was also nodding absently; a good sign. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead of his masculine intonation Elizabeth heard soft chimes announcing the hour.
"We best get ready for dinner," he said.
Once again, very sorry for the delay. I loved all the encouragement you gave in my long absence, please tell me what you thought of the new chapter in a review.