Thanks for the reviews. I note that a couple people had trouble viewing either the story or the last chapter. FF will say at times that chapter is available before it actually is. If that happens, wait (I know it's hard) and try again in a half hour. Usually by then the problem gets fixed. I do believe that if you follow and access a new chapter via that link, that you may have access a smidge earlier than everyone else.

Mr. Darcy isn't done telling his side. I'm not yet sure how loquacious he's going to be in sharing his thoughts.

Btw, there is a fairly graphic discussion of disease and death at the end of this chapter, but it could be viewed as ultimately happy depending on your personal beliefs. I credit the turn this took from Guest who rightly pointed out that Darcy's letter to Elizabeth depicted a different father for Darcy than the one we met in the prior chapter; I took that to mean we needed an explanation for why Darcy felt the need to lie in the letter to Elizabeth about his father, when he generally would rather be blunt but honest.


9. Considering

That morning, try as I might, I could get no physical relief and finally gave it up as a lost cause, my ardor lessening enough that I could go about my day. As I roused a bit more, I was beset by worry about Richard's plans. I began calculating how quickly he might act and how soon he might receive aid from friends. I knew I had to get to Hertfordshire first, but was uncertain what I would do when I got there. But there was nothing to it, I would simply have to set off immediately and might decide upon the road. Therefore, I summoned my valet, directed the carriage be prepared, readied myself and then when he returned set him to packing.

I wrote Lady Catherine and my cousins a brief note, explaining that certain concerns required my personal attention and I had to leave immediately. I apologized for failing to give my adieus in person, signed my name and we were off before nine o'clock.

As the carriage rocked, I tried to organize my thoughts, recall my history with Miss Elizabeth, how I had finally gotten around to proposing the previous spring in Kent. I believed it important to review my past thoughts, to know how I should act now. I had once believed Miss Elizabeth to be almost the perfect woman, but for much of our acquaintance she existed on a plain in which she was untouchable: unfit for marriage, too elevated for the other role.

Even before I knew anything about Miss Elizabeth, her very residence near a town of no account told me she was no marital prospect for me; none of the woman at the assembly could be. Then, of course, Miss Bingley ferreted out the paucity of the Miss Bennets' dowry, their lack of connection to nobility, not even a baronet in their lineage, not even a knight. By doing so, I am certain Miss Bingley wished to elevate herself, but her dowry could not overcome her lineage, had I any marital interest in her, which I did not.

There was of course the last function of marriage according to my father's declaration, the bearing of an heir. The hardiness that led Mrs. Bennet to weather her pregnancies well, to successfully raise five daughters to maturity (although undoubtedly others had been lost to illness earlier, as was the case with most families) and still be trim and pretty, was a testament her line's ability to breed and survive. However, it seemed likely that a familial trait of only producing female kind might dwell with her loins and those of her daughters. I did not discount, of course, that it might not be a problem with Mr. Bennet, or even simply a matter of unlikely chance, but I needed sons.

But even in Hertfordshire, after discarding Miss Elizabeth despite her beauty, wit and light pleasing figure as being any kind of marital prospect, even then as I thought about my need for sons, I also thought about (should condescend I marry her) how nice it might be to have to visit her again following each daughter's birth. Remembering such thoughts during the carriage ride, soon led my thoughts to travel along a more sensual path, and had it not been for my valet traveling in the carriage beside me, I might have ventured to try to get the sort of relief earlier denied me.

I shook my head as if to clear my thoughts out of it. I had been thinking about the impossibility of marrying Miss Elizabeth back then, but her circumstances were far worse now, would taint all of me and mine by association, hurt Georgiana's marital prospects. How could I truly consider tying my fortunes to hers, let a woman from a fallen family have the children who would carry my name? Any thoughts of marriage were all but impossible now, for both me and Richard (although he was foolhardy enough to think of himself as some sort of hero from a novel).

I considered the alternative, if I took her as a mistress (assuming I could get Miss Elizabeth to accept such a degradation when she would not marry me before), given her mother's fecundity, I would certainly expect to have many natural born children unless I took certain precautions, but the idea of using preservatives was distasteful, seemed against the natural order of things. I also did not like to think of my children not having the benefit of my name.

I went back to thinking about why before I had proposed at the Hunsford parsonage. Prior to that time, I believed Miss Elizabeth to be untouchable because I had already rejected marrying her, but as the daughter of a gentleman, however minor, I could not with a clear conscience, take her under my protection. There was a danger to her family's reputation, to be certain, but that could likely be eliminated with a simple tale of her going to stay with relatives. Her being gone for too long would arouse certain suspicions perhaps, but in time she would simply be forgotten. Derbyshire was certainly far enough away that it was unlikely anyone would ever make the connection between a woman I would install in a cottage in the estate, under a fictitious married name to one Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Her prior life would vanish and she would simply be a being wholly devoted to my pleasure.

Still, back then, I believed I could not deprive her of the opportunity of a respectable marriage, children bearing a proper name, the welcoming of heaven's gates for living rightly. I had heard something of her possibly being matched with Mr. Collins, the heir to Longbourn and that made a certain prudential sense, even if I found the idea of such a match distasteful. Still, it would be her choice among the limited options available to one of her sphere. It was none of my concern.

Even while I considered back then whether Miss Elizabeth might prefer being my mistress to marrying Mr. Collins, I knew I could never ask it of her. Tempting her away from a respectable marriage, causing her to sin and sin and sin . . . I, too, would be a sinner of the worst sort, to do that to her.

So while during the course of my visit with Bingley I quickly acknowledged to myself my attraction to one Miss Elizabeth of the fine eyes, I knew naught could come if it. However, the very fact that Miss Bingley teased me about the possibility began to work on me that it might indeed be possible to marry her.

Still, I resisted. I gladly removed Bingley from the influence of her flaxen haired sister who was grasping too high (for while Bingley was soaked in the stench of trade, his wealth should still garner a woman of at least five thousand, more than likely ten, with better connections than to be found in Meryton) and had such vulgar relations. I was sure he could do better, and indeed it was necessary for him to do better to meet the goals his father had tasked him with accomplishing.

As for me, my father had wanted me to marry my cousin, to have the Darcy wealth and status grow further. I had put off doing so for many a year, but Lady Catherine grew more demanding every time I visited, while Anne in contrast seemed to diminish. I knew if I was to marry her and get a child on her, I would have to act soon.

I did not find my cousin attractive, was almost certain she would be one of those high bred ladies that would have trouble accepting the act (if I could indeed hold myself back from self-pleasure long enough to make my needs overcome my distaste). I did not want to marry her, but had virtually resigned myself to such a fate. I had planned on proposing to Anne over the selfsame Easter visit as when Miss Elizabeth turned out to be visiting the parsonage.

Oh, how relieved I was when I learned Miss Elizabeth had not married her cousin and how delighted I was when I learned of her presence there for a visit! Any thought of marrying vanished in that very moment that such intelligence reached me, While I would have denied to any and all that I loved her before then, when I saw her again I knew my heart. It almost felt that God Himself had arranging the circumstance of our reunion.

Every day I attempted to conquer my fascination, to deny I was in love. I told myself I would surely not attempt to meet Miss Elizabeth on a walk again. I resolved every night that one last bout of finding my release to her pictured mouth sucking upon my sugar stick, or her moans as I slid within her, would be enough to break me out of my insanity. Yet, I was drawn back again and again, a moth to a flame.

Rather than thinking of other things as my prick softened, each night at Rosings the year past, my mind still dwelt on Miss Elizabeth, remembering every clever remark she said in my presence, the feeling with which she played the piano forte, her very vitality and vigor as she walked. I wanted to be with her, to have her in my house, occupying the mistress's chambers at Pemberley, to visit her every night, to have her children be my heirs, to read together in Pemberley's library, to see her delight as she walked every new path, to ask her advice when resolving tenant disputes, considering planting a new crop. I did not want her off in a cottage under an assumed name; I did not want her to be merely my convenient for a time, diminish her in such a way.

Having been told all my life to have pride in Pemberley, in the Darcy name, in my noble relations, that it was God's will that I was in the elevated position that I occupied and that almost every woman would want to marry me, and given how often I had been in company with Miss Elizabeth and met her on a walk, I never doubted she would welcome with my addresses with heartfelt joy. In telling her all that I did, I wanted her to understand that only the deepest love could have overcome my concerns. I wanted her gratitude also.

As I made my way to the parsonage I certain we would be alone (for the Collinses and Mrs. Collins's sister were at Rosings, and their maid of all trade did not reside at the parsonage). I even indulged in the supposition that Miss Elizabeth had feigned a headache, hoping I would know to come calling then. I even believed, stupid, foolish man that I was, that after I gave my addresses and was accepted that it was likely that she would welcome my kisses, perhaps allow me further liberties. It would not be wrong to indulge a little after she agreed to marry me.

Never in my wildest imaginings had I considered Miss Elizabeth, the woman I had been certain would be my wife, might turn me down despite all the advantages of my suit to her and hers. Never had I felt such despair, not even when my mother died, not even when I feared George had stolen my sister's virtue, perhaps even plundering it against her will (fortunately he did not, he did nothing more than kiss her hands, mayhap believing her too delicate to endure his passions, perhaps simply have little bodily attraction for her coltish build, her womanly attributes not truly appearing until some time after that).

Had I been a lesser man, given Miss Elizabeth scathing refusal, I think I might have given into my anger, my frustration, my desire and sense of entitlement and forced my attentions on her in that very parsonage. Had we been caught, had we not, I could have forced her to accept me. But I knew my limits and left when I should.

Writing that letter to Miss Elizabeth afterwards was an indulgence, but even in saying what I did, I still acted to protect my family. While I laid out George Wickhan's perfidy, revealed my sister's most devastating secret, I would not have her think less of my father, of my legacy. Georgiana's mistake might garner her sympathy, while my father's never would.

When I wrote of him, it was easier to pretend I had a kindly and moral man for a father, who taught me good principles without exceptions for the two of us. It was easier to pretend that my father was not so dismissive of women, so prone to indulging himself and so accepting of this self-same quality in his godson.

Father was, as I think we all are, a mix of good and bad. He was a fair master, condescending and affable to the lower classes, generous with his money. He never flaunted his mistresses to my mother, was always discreet and gave her every respect before others. While he would drink to excess, he did not gamble or steal (and I do not think he knew that George Wickham did).

If Father's actions in respect to women were not the best, he fully paid for them. It was a closely guarded secret (I am fairly certain that George never knew), that not a year after Father hired Marie for us that he learned some troubling news about how own health. My father was enough of a man of the world that he could have no doubt when he found the canker, and indeed soon had confirmation from a doctor who treated him with mercury. I was not sure that the treatments did not do more harm than good.

As Father worsened from the French disease, he sent Georgiana away to school. Soon, I took over more and more of the management of Pemberley, my father's world narrowing to just his rooms for he did not want any (save for his valet, a single chambermaid, his doctor and myself) to see him as the disease ravaged him. All the rest of the household knew was that he had a stroke, was an invalid.

While Father was ill, we became closer than we ever had before during the course of my whole life. He became far more introspective, far more thoughtful than he had before. Perhaps he simply had no choice.

The eventual disfigurement that followed was not the worst to my mind. No it was the bouts of insanity. But even those might have not been as bad if they were not followed by periods of lucidity, in which he knew his life was becoming nothing but a torment, but was still trying so hard not to let it slip away.

During one such period he noted, "When my will is read, you will find that in addition to a bequest for my godson, I recommended a valuable living for him but left it to your discretion. I wrote all the terms when you were still yet boys, after your mother died and your sister was born. There is no need to change anything now, and I will not have the solicitor see me like this.

"Should George marry, settle down and be willing to act as a parson should, I still think it ought to be his, for he would read sermons well and enjoy many of the offices. He needs some kind of income and as your mother failed to give me another son, it may as well be his."

I worked up my courage then and asked him a question that had long been on my mind. "Is George your natural born son? Did you cuckold Mr. Wickham?"

My father chuckled and then winced in pain. "No, of course not. Do you remember how I have said not to shit where you live? It is much harder to replace a faithful steward than a nurse. That is not to say that I have no natural born children, but I sent them away. And who they are is no concern of yours; I will take that to the grave, you owe them nothing. I paid enough that they should make their way in life, if their mothers were sufficiently prudent."

Then after a period in which Father was not himself at all, had smeared his own feces on the wall, raved incoherently, hooted like an owl, tried to attack the maid (resulting in bruises to his valet as he intervened), had to be tied to his own bed, and not eaten in days, he somehow came back to himself.

I recall being fetched by his valet, who did not dare loosen the ropes without my instruction, and being told "Mr. Darcy seems rational and says he wishes to see you." When I arrived, my father in his struggles had pulled the ropes so tight that the knots would not loosen at all. Eventually I had to send his valet for a saw.

My father complained of hunger and thirst, so the maid fetched wine and porridge. My father had lost most of his teeth by then and was clearly displeased with the fare, but ate it anyway with shaking hands. Once he was finished he confessed "Living like this is a burden but I do not wish to die. I know you must believe me to be a Christian for I attended services faithfully my whole life before my illness, but I only did what was expected of me. I do not believe in a hereafter or a God. I think there is only nothingness, but what if I am wrong? I have no wish to face hellfire and eternal damnation."

I did not know what reply to make to him, for I believed. In truth that is why, other than the interlude with Marie, that I had not indulged myself with another. It would have been better if I had not had such a taste, for it had given me such an appetite (far greater than before when I could go half a week content) that I often gave myself self-pleasure more than once a day (even though I well knew that this, too, was wrong). Although I repeatedly repented, I allowed myself this lesser sin rather then seeking paid companionship.

But then, words came pouring out of me, perhaps gifted by the Holy Ghost. I heard the words myself as if for the first time as they fell from my lips. I do not remember much of what I said, other than that perhaps he had the faith of a mustard seed and if it could just be watered by the scriptures that it would grow, that he needed to earnestly pray for help with his unbelief, to ask and he would receive.

My father let me read from the gospels to him and I also read to him about Paul on the road to Damascus, how he went from Saul to Paul. Father's eyes brightened during this account, and though he had been bedridden during the latest period of his insanity, which has lasted for more than two weeks, he rose up in his bed to a seated position and, seemingly seeing someone who was not there, reached out with one hand and exclaimed in a loud voice, "My Lord, my God, I wish to follow you. I am the worst of sinners. Forgive me my folly, my selfishness, my unbelief."

Just then Father threw off his covers, slipped from his bed, took one step forward and crashed upon the floor. His legs could not bear the weight of his body and when he fell forward, his head slammed against the floor with a loud bang as he made no attempt to catch himself with his hands.

I ran to my father and saw he was still. His face was turned to one side and blood flowed from his scalp and his half missing nose. The faintest smile was upon his lips.

I fell on my knees then and prayed for his immortal soul. It is my hope that he had a deathbed conversion and was in paradise, rather than simply lapsing into insanity again and suffering one final accident. However knowing how the disease was progressing, his death was a mercy for the both of us.