So I had planned to write Darcy's response to Elizabeth confronting him in the carriage, and then this chapter came out instead. Then I planned to save this for later, but Darcy says that's no good either, for everyone to be thinking the worst of him without knowing more of his background. He insists that you all do him the honor of listening to his account. This chapter of course is just the beginning of it.
II. Darcy's POV
8. Becoming a Man
After a restless night following learning from my aunt during our Easter visit to Rosings that Miss Elizabeth's sister had borne a bastard child, trying to talk Richard out of trying to pursue Miss Elizabeth, and talking to his brother the viscount as to how to tame my obsession with the woman, I must have finally fell asleep in the wee hours. I awoke on the morning of April 23rd, before eight o'clock in the morning, soaked in sweat, with a large problem jutting out from between my legs.
I had awoken so suddenly, that my dreams were fresh in my mind. The first one involved having Miss Elizabeth naked in my bed at Pemberley, as I drove into her. There was no prelude, the dream began mid-act, my glorious desire being given wings, on the cusp of full fulfillment. Her arms and legs were wrapped around me and she moaned as I moved ever faster. Her tight grip and cries urged me on, and then she declared "More, faster, oh oh! Oh how I love you, Fitzwilliam and oh how good that feels!"
But then before I could gain my satisfaction, the dream was replaced us walking together, fully dressed on the streets of London. I carefully guided her around some dung, but then London became Paris and she was snatched from me. I hurried after, but she was rapidly disappearing from view, her dark clothed captors whisking her away faster than I could follow. I grabbed and mounted a skeletal horse, but then she was shoved within a carriage which sped off while my horse would barely walk. In the dream I knew she had been falsely accused of a horrendous crime and was on her way to face "madame guillotine."
In my panic I awoke, panting, terrified, but still hard from the previous dream. As I recalled all that I remembered, I tried to focus on the first dream, of how good it had all felt, as I took myself in hand. But the terror that woke me, the final image of her disappearing from view and knowing what would follow, kept interfering.
Too, my logical brain could not help but interject that Miss Elizabeth would never welcome me to her bed, and even if she would, I had no idea what she would look like or feel like. The face might have matched her, but the body, the body belonged to another, the French Marie.
I met Marie and partook of her services one summer when home from university with George, when I was twenty and George nineteen. My father called us both into his office and had us sit before his desk. He announced "I have hired someone to educate you in the ways of the flesh, to take you from boyhood to manhood, assuming you have not already done so yourselves." He turned to me an inquired, "Fitzwilliam?"
I had not. I blushed, stammered and then confessed as much, then I asked "Does not the Bible say we are not to fornicate?"
Father studied me with his dark eyes to see if I was in earnest, and then apparently concluding that I was, swiped his hand derisively, "Pshaw. Your mother had entirely too much influence on you. That is what they tell women to keep them chaste for their husbands. Men, men of consequence, are certainly not bound by such rules. Too, it helps to know what you are doing when you bed your virgin wife. To have two virgins fumbling in the dark? The deed might never get done."
Father turned to George, "And you, son?"
George laughed. "Do you not remember the whole incident with Georgiana's nurse? The housekeeper caught us in flagrante delicto and came to you, and then I denied the whole thing."
"Yes, you did." Father frowned and scratched at his chin. "She did also, but of course I had to send her off. She was a good nurse, too. It was some trouble to replace her. Do you not know that it is not good to shit where you live? Good help is hard to find."
"But I did not live at Pemberley."
I was not sure if George didn't really understand what Father was getting at, or was simply being humorous.
"Still," my father rejoined, "it was badly done. You were quite a young cock of the walk at the time, too, so while I suspected something had happened, I wasn't sure that you could manage the act itself."
"Yes, I was but fourteen," George bragged, "when I became a man." He declared, "I had her half a dozen times before we were caught." George seemed inordinately proud of himself with this declaration while I wished I were anywhere else.
I recalled the unexpected leaving of Miss Ann. I had been half sweet on her, for she was lovelier than any nurse had a right to be, with long blonde hair that was always tightly coiled and bright green eyes. Added to this, she was quite intelligent, too. I had stumbled in saying but a few words to her and likely during that self-same time . . . .
"And since then?" Father leaned forward, curious, and seemingly anxious to hear more about George's lascivious behavior. I had heard plenty of rumors of what he had gotten into doing while at school and university, but none of them from the horse's mouth.
George proudly told tale after tale. I had a feeling that some of his exploits were exaggerated, but was not exactly sure. My father seemed to enjoy every one of them, even reaching across his desk to slap George on the shoulder a couple of times, in the sort of camaraderie I had never had with my father, though I should have as his son.
Father also exclaimed, "I miss my youth, when there was so much delight for the taking."
When George concluded, Father began telling tales of his own. I did not want to hear any of it, but I also knew I was obligated to, as I had not been dismissed. They were all rather ribald, and included a tale about a time when he kept two mistresses and kept messing up their names, requiring that he appease them with gifts. He finished that tale by saying "After that, I resolved to call them all 'My Love' and had no further problems."
I thought my father might finally be done, but then George asked him "And how were things with your wife? Did you enjoy being the first to plow her field?"
I expected my father to reprimand George for his familiarity, or to at least realized that such a subject should not be canvased before me. But Father instead determined to give him a serious answer. My mortification was complete in being forced to listen to how my kind, gentle mother had been deflowered. This, more than anything, I have never been able to forget.
Father shook his head, sighed and then said "There is not much enjoyment to be had in bedding a virgin, especially when she asks 'What are you doing?' and then cries and shakes with terror during the act. Apparently no one told her anything useful. Having denied myself of the usual pleasures for three days before, I suppose I acted a bit precipitously, but how was I to know?"
He shrugged. "She served her purpose though, gave me an heir within our first year of marriage. Once it was clear she had caught, I was happy enough to return my attention to those who would be more appreciative of me."
I felt an anger rise within me. I very much wished to defend my mother, to castigate my father for using her so ill. What man of honor would treat his marriage so lightly?
Father looked over at me then and, perhaps seeing something of my anger, noted "Marriage is about acquiring wealth and assuring the continuation of the line, nothing more. The idea of marrying for love, of a man needing to be faithful to his wife is ridiculous. Women are only useful for what they can give us. The ideal wife supplies connections, wealth, and sons; the ideal mistress supplies nothing but pleasure. The very breeding necessary for a woman elevated enough to take to wife, excludes her from existing to give a man delight.
"Fitzwilliam, you would certainly do well to marry your cousin Anne. That notion your mother and aunt had of marrying the two of you is a very good one. If you are fortunate, Anne will catch quickly and die the same day she gives you your heir, her purpose fulfilled. "
I made no reply and Father resumed telling of his exploits. I believe I was purple from embarrassment by the end.
Then Father said "Well George, I hired Marie for a fortnight. I had planned to have Fitzwilliam take the first sen'night and you the second, but perhaps we ought give the whole fourteen days to him. It hardly seems that you need more of an education."
George laughed, "Oh Mr. Darcy, I think your son would be mortified to be in such company for so long and I would hate to insult your fine gift by denying it. Perhaps she can teach me some advanced skills that I have missed, and I can test how much stamina I have. Too, my pocketbook's a bit light at the moment for paid company."
"Alright then," Father conceded, "we will proceed as planned."
Father then looked over to the left, toward his adjoining sitting room where the men would meet some evenings during the separation of the sexes. Father loved his port and cigars. I noted that this door was cracked open.
Father said a little louder, toward the door, "Marie, you may come in now."
The door opened further and through it came a lovely voluptuous woman of perhaps thirty who had light brown hair and hazel eyes. He introduced us all, and I recall that her French accent was quite charming. Father dismissed George and then told Marie and I to become acquainted in his sitting room.
Marie took my hand and led me inside; her first comment to me that I was acting like a scared rabbit, although as she did not know the English word for "rabbit," she said "lapine." My French was sufficient to know that not only did she call me a scared rabbit, but a female one at that.
In looking back upon the whole thing, I recall wanting to reject the arrangement but I did not dare to defy my father. Too, I had long wondered what it would be like to have a woman's touch instead of my own and this finally gave me an opportunity to indulge my curiosity, to indulge my carnal side which had long been repressed.
The week I spent with Marie in the old gamekeeper's cottage gave me quite an education. I recall that in the middle of our intimacies, she always declared how she loved me, how "magnifique" I was. Though I knew it was false, I enjoyed the lie.
But, naturally, I could not leave well enough alone, ended up questioning her assiduously about why she said what she said. It did not take long for her to confess her deception.
"Of course I not love you. It part of performance, and you need much work in knowing what une femme want. It not matter for your wife. She not know different. A mistress want better unless you pay more, more money, more jewels, may find un homme meillure."
I then asked to be taught how to please and she taught me. However she warned, "If you learn this for your wife, may not be good. Too much. Not expected. Break her, too delicate, porcelaine. Wifes learn accept a man's sword, no more."
By the end of the week I felt fairly accomplished about what I had learned and thanked her, even giving her what I thought were generous funds on top of what my father had paid her. I hoped, rather than believed, this might be enough to get her to leave before George's week, but it was not.
During the week she was with George Wickham, I rarely saw her. But one day I caught them copulating out in some fields. She was murmuring, "Comme c'est magnifique. Your cock is enorme, plus enorme que monsieur Darcy junior."
At the time I heard her words, any confidence I had gained in my skills and anatomy vanished. It was not until many years later that it occurred to me that Marie was just telling George Wickham what he wanted to hear.
