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42. Finding My Courage
Frank helped me prepare for bed, dressing me in a nightgown and robe that she brought with her, doubtless another gift from my husband. As I had already grown to expect in my brief time as Mrs. Darcy, as with the clothing and shoes ordered for me the set was of the finest quality. The nightgown and robe were a fine, peach colored silk but without any lace or embroidery which might feel itchy in the night. They went on smoothly, felt light, and when I surveyed myself in the looking glass I noted that they were modest enough not to arouse any suspicions in me that they might portend my husband's desire to visit me after I donned them. In this, they were truly a gift for me and not him. They were also loose enough for comfort and would still fit well after I regained my prior figure. Truly, this had been a most kind gift.
"Lovely," Frank told me. "They suit you well."
I silently agreed.
Then Frank turned down the bed but I shook my head at her silent invitation that I should climb in and let her pull up the bedding over me. "I am not ready to turn in just yet,"I told her.
"Is there anything else you need?" Frank asked, a look of concern upon her face.
I shook my head again. There were many things that I needed but none were something that my lady's maid could provide. I still felt out of sorts, peevish, angry at my uncle, wary and uncertain about what to think of my husband's most recent behavior. A hint of a headache lingered. "No, thank you. You've done well. That will be all."
She hesitated and I thought that she might say something important, but she simply added, "It has been a pleasure tending to you." Then she vanished through the servant's door.
I did not know what to do with myself now that I was left alone yet wakeful. By all rights I should have been exhausted and more than ready for bed, but I did not feel like I could sleep just then.
There was little in the room to occupy me. I had, of course, ink, pen and paper, a small smattering of books that had been in the mistress's chamber before I arrived, but I neither wished to read nor write. Although I did not particularly enjoy embroidering like Jane, or trimming hats like Kitty and Lydia, I felt that at that moment it would have been nice to do something with my hands, to occupy my mind at least in part. But in the last several months, my sisters and I had not had any time or supplies for such leisure activities. It had been a drudgery of more practical work. And in the evenings, even had we had the right supplies, we would not have stayed up and wasted our tallow doing something we could complete in the light of day.
While I of course had duties as Mrs. Darcy, there were no duties that I could perform then, save for perhaps writing some lists. Had I more personal items in the room, perhaps I could have arranged them, but I had come with so little, for anything that could be sold to fill our bellies had been sold long ago, and anything of practical value had been used up or I had left, believing that my sisters had more need of it than I. I felt like a guest in my own room, or perhaps even an imposter. A woman who belonged here would have personal effects sufficient to fill such a room to bursting, but other than my existing clothes, which were soon to all be replaced with much finer things, a couple of trivial mementos from my previous life (old letters tied up with a piece of string that I had long ago memorized, a battered rag doll) and the jewelry my husband had gifted me in my role as his wife (the little garnet cross that had been my only adornment and true gift of significance from my father had been sold in exchange for cooking oil), all there really was of me in this room was me, myself.
Having nothing better to do, I decided to say my prayers as I knelt at the side of my bed, my knees well cushioned by a plush rug. Saying the Lord's prayer grounded me. As I spoke of my daily bread, I recalled how well I had eaten that day, the kindness of my husband in supplying what would appeal to me.
Next I proceeded to pray for the health of my family. I prayed in the usual order for my mother, sisters, Little George, aunts, uncles and cousins as I always did (Mr. Darcy had not yet made it into my prayers as a matter of course). But when Uncle Gardiner's name passed my lips I felt a jolt of anger and just began talking quietly to God about him. It was not really a prayer, at least not at first.
I told God, "I do want good health for my Uncle Gardiner, as little as he may deserve it for risking our ill health by not helping us. It was not fair of him, not fair at all. I thought he cared about us, but he must not have, not truly or not much, for how else could he leave us in such misery and deprivation? But God, are you any better? You took away my papa, took away our self respect and left us with Lydia and Little George. I would not pray Little George away if I could, for he is but an innocent child and 'tis not his fault that his mother (and whomever his father might be) are who they are, but why could You have not found some way to wed my sister to his father, to preserve our self respect, to see us looked after? Why could You not rescue us from the pit that you threw us in? We cried out to You and You did not hear us, not at all."
I felt angry tears cross my cheeks then, swiped them away with the back of my hand and snuffed up the threatened mucus from my nose before rising to fetch a handkerchief, recalling that a pile of two dozen of them had been left in wait for me in the room on the day of my arrival. I was glad of whosoever had the foresight to supply them for me, wondered if Mrs. Smith had thought of it or if my husband had instead. I had brought only one hanky with me, old, frayed and stained with use. It was really fit for nothing other than the fire, but as Jane had embroidered it with forget-me-knots and gifted it to me on the occasion of my come out, I had no intention of discarding it.
Once I had sorted myself out, I knelt, closed my eyes and bowed my head. I knew I should finish my prayer, but I wasn't sure what to add then. I considered, knew I should likely beg God for forgiveness, for questioning His ways, but I did not feel like doing so then. I opened my eyes and glanced about, observing the room.
I must pause now in my recounting to observe that we all know that the people in the Bible sometimes heard God speak to them, but in our times anyone who says God has spoken to him (and means it as another person might speak to him, rather than just having read His word in the Holy Bible and finding an application to his own life) is liable to be disordered, to belong in an asylum, though I imagine there must be holy people whom God might speak to, too, even now. I do not put myself in the company of saints, of those exulted with the privilege of hearing from God directly. For what happened then, well I heard no words, but something happened in that moment.
A realization flooded into me that could have only come from Him, for I was not in any state to reach such an understanding on my own. Not then. Not so quickly. Not with such a sense of peace.
My lips prayed, "I have doubted, but You did rescue us, rescue me. Not in the way we might have wanted, not in the manner or the time we would have hoped for, but You still did, You still did. For You sent Mr. Darcy to marry me, provided through him for my family. I may not be Joseph, sold into slavery by his brothers, placed in Egypt so that he could then be in a position to provide for his family, save many peoples from starvation, but Your hand has been in everything. You ordained marriage as a holy institution, placed the two of us in it, and even now Your purposes, both known and unknown are being fulfilled through it. There is a purpose in it. I have suffered, we all have, but Your gifts are good and through it all You have walked beside me.
"I have been acting like a spoilt child, complaining inwardly, being resentful of being placed in this position, a position many would envy," in my mind's eye I imagined a snaking line of hundreds, perhaps even thousands of women queuing up to my husband, with Caroline Bingley at the front. "I have been determined to see the bad over the good. But surely Your hand has been in all of this. For without Your guidance, as much as my husband desired me, would he not have simply forgotten about me, or tried to install me in his life in a less than honorable position? To the world, that would have been the easier road, but he swam against the current, must listen to You, must have felt Your guidance to hold back when he would go too far astray. I believe he wants to be a good husband to me, but does not really know the best way to go about it. That is hardly the largest failing to which a man might be subject.
"Lord, please show him the way, and help me be a true helper for him, to be the wife that he needs. Help me to fulfill your purposes, to let go of my resentment and just live well in the life that You prepared for me and him before we were even born. Help me to love him, truly love him in thought and deed as I have vowed to do. Help me to be the Mrs. Darcy I am meant to be, to bring the blessings You intend for the people around me into fruition, to serve You as I ought, in humbleness and gratitude. I have sinned against You with my arrogance, grumbling and doubt, please forgive it. Thank You, Lord, for being faithful to me, though I do not deserve it."
I knew there was more I could or ought to say, but my lips drifted closed then. It was enough.
I felt an almost physical weight lift off of me then, as if I had a stack of books upon each shoulder removed. It was not a physical thing, though, but as if my soul felt lighter, cleansed. My headache also vanished and I felt a clarity, a sense of understanding beyond my ken.
I had heard all the words I said as they poured out of me, but even as I said them, I had not completely thought them through. I was present yet also somehow something was working through me. But then whatever the something was (could it have been the Holy Ghost?), it was suddenly gone. I was silent for several moments, then finally concluded my prayers with an "Amen."
I arose, but had no notion of what to do with myself. I wished to share my revelation with Fitz, with anyone, to have someone celebrate the peace I felt within, but I did not feel equal to trying to explain it, could not put the feelings I had then into any sort of words. Even now, peace does not really capture how I felt, for there was also a certain exultation, a feeling of certainty, purpose, fulfillment and more.
But these did not stay, at least not fully. As the minutes ticked away, doubt, self recrimination and confusion began to seep in also. I no longer fully believe that what had happened had really just happened. It seemed too fantastical.
I waited to see what would happen next, but nothing happened at all. The room was the same, I was still alone. My mind kept returning to thoughts of my husband. I hoped he would come into my room, thought that perhaps God would send him there.
I played out in my head what would happen if he did. Would we embrace? Would we talk? Would we give ourselves to each other again?
I stood near a candelabra and simply breathed in the light scent of the beeswax, so much better than the tallow we had lately been using at Longbourn. When he did not come, I wondered what God might want me to do. There were no words but I felt an impulse as clearly as if someone were speaking to me: Go to him.
Should I knock on the connecting door? I both wanted to and did not want to do that.
I approached and touched wood which divided me from him. It was slightly cool to the touch now. I both wanted to knock and to leave well enough alone. I had expected my husband to visit me (for was not that the usual pattern in married life thus far?). I wondered, Why has he not come to me already? Yet, the minutes ticked away as it grew later and later still. As they did, I slowly came to believe that on this night he would not come to me.
I left the door, blew out all the candles save one and crawled into my bed. It was wasteful, I knew, to leave a candle burning as I prepared to sleep, but I wanted to see if the door opened, to not be caught unaware. I recalled then the last time we had used candles to excess. It was when Lydia had little George and labored through the night, screaming and screaming, making any rest impossible for us (the maidens who were not to see the end result of coupling before we had married and been through the experience ourselves). I learned later, of course, that the true force of labor had not yet come upon her then, not until late that morning. That afternoon, I found all those candles (six of them) guttered away to nothing. We had naught but tallow to burn after that.
I let myself enjoy the luxury of burning that one candle, of wasting it just on me. My husband could afford it. I could burn a full candle away every night if I so desired, but I could not imagine indulging myself very often in such a manner, and I kept feeling a niggle on my conscience for not blowing it out yet.
My eyelids grew heavy and eventually closed. I concluded he was likely asleep by now in his own bed. But even as I began to drift away, I listened hard for any noise that would indicate he was coming to join me.
Sometime later, I half roused when I heard the scrape of wood on wood (perhaps his chair sliding upon the floor?). Sometime between five and fifty minutes later (I had begun to drift off again for an indeterminate span of time), I heard another sound that reminded me of the crunch of my boots upon dry, freshly fallen leaves. I half dreamed and half remembered walking up Oakham Mount in the fall. It started out as pure memory, the leaves fluttering in the air with a breeze that forced some to give way and find their fellows upon the ground, the crunch that matched my every step, the crisp October air in a bright blue sky, when nothing bothered my mind more than wondering when Papa's new books might arrive, and how long it would take for the first of the apple cider to be ready.
Then (I suppose it was fully a dream then), Mr. Darcy was approaching me in a clearing with a kindly look upon his face. He grasped my hands (which I willingly held out to him), and he promenaded me forward and back as if we were at the Meryton assembly. But as we were alone, rather than handing me off to another partner for the next pattern, he swirled and twirled me about himself and the falling leaves of red, gold and brown spun with me, dancing too. I felt dizzy and out of breath, but certain that Fitz would not let me fall, that I was safe with him. It was a joyful feeling which I did not want to let go.
Sometime later, I roused to another scrape and then soft sounds that must have been made by Mr. Darcy's bare feet upon the floor, then a rug and then the floor again. I tried to stay in the memory of the pleasant dream, to extend it, but the sounds roused my mind as I tried to make sense of what I was hearing. I concluded that my husband must have been walking to and fro, pacing, restless. The steps sped up and felt nearer somehow and then stopped. I was almost certain that he was standing outside my door.
I sat up, suddenly wide awake, and threw off the counterpane. Would he come to me? It did not seem that he would, had not the courage. I could not truly blame him for this. Having insisting on being alone, how could he know that I no longer wished to be apart?
I felt again a strong desire, much stronger then before, when it was more like a niggle than a shout: Go to him. Go to him now. Do not delay.
I whispered, "Is that what you wish of me, God?" No one answered, but I was still resolved. Yes, Fitz and I had things to sort out, but I wished for his warmth, his arms about me, and if more might occur, well that would be alright, too, for we were married after all. Fear of the unknown was not worth the delay, for I wished for the rest of my married life, the path that God had sent me to, to truly begin.
I found myself standing by the door with no real recollection of how I got there. I would go to him; I would not be intimidated. He was just a man. Before my courage could desert me, I opened the door and crossed the threshold.
Mr. Darcy crouched low, right arm extended, mid-grab, but paused for a moment when he spotted me. He was some five feet from me, illuminated by the warm glow of some three or four lit candles scattered about his bedroom. He was clothed in a loosely wrapped brown banyan and nothing else.
In one gaze, I observed a good portion of my husband in his natural state. I noted first, the triangular swath of his exposed chest below his neck (with its dark, curly chest hair). Then my eyes were drawn to another portion of him below his waist where the lower part of his banyan gaped to either side of his projecting knees. I caught a glimpse of dark hair down there, his limp male flesh and a portion of his muscular legs, before he straightened up, holding a crumpled ball of paper between his ink-stained fingers. He adjusted his overlapping banyan to cover more, reddened in the face and avoided my eyes as he (ridiculously) bowed.
"Good evening, Mrs. Darcy. Are you well?"
I was reminded of how in the Garden of Eden, after sinfully eating the fruit offered by the serpent, the first man and women tried to hide their nakedness with fig leaves. Knowledge created awareness and shame about what before had not needed covering up.
His bow, greeting and question required appropriate responses, and I found myself curtsying by rote and replying. "Good evening, Mr. Darcy. I am better now. And you?"
We both ignored his earlier exposure and I moved forward to take his proffered elbow. As if we were at a formal ball, he led me forward, responding, "Better now that you are here, my dear. I was trying to write to you, put my thoughts in some sort of order, give you the apology you deserve, but nothing has come out right."
He tossed the crumpled paper toward a waste paper basket and missed. I observed a large pile of similarly crumpled pages, both in and out of it. The sheer excess of what was discarded took me aback. Paper had been a precious commodity at Longbourn, but I recollected that there was everything in abundance where my husband was concerned.
Mr. Darcy led me to a chair and bid me sit, before carefully seating himself on the side of the bed, his banyan nigh on covering every interesting bit of him (all the things normally covered by his clothing which only left his face, a sliver of his neck, and hands exposed). The only things left uncovered were his neck, a bit of his collarbones, his ankles and feet. I noted that even his feet had some of the same curly hair that seemed to cover most of him.
"I am glad you are here, Elizabeth. Please let me apologize for this afternoon. I . . . I behaved badly. Please, do not think I want to be some jealous, boorish man. The last thing I should ever want is to hurt you, or to have you afraid of me. I know I need to trust you. I have no true excuse, but perhaps you might understand that for me, things are so new and I already fear losing what I do not feel that I have properly earned.
Fitz's look was so forlorn, so vulnerable, as I had never seen him before. In seeing him this way, I fancied that I could see the little, scared boy he once was rather than the proud man.
I got up, crossed to him and sat beside him. The dipping bed drew me against him and I lay my head against his shoulder and rubbed his arm with my hand in a manner not dissimilar to how I had once comforted my little sisters.
Fitz gave a small sigh and relaxed his stiff frame against me. "I do not deserve you," he whispered into my hair.
"Some might think the reverse is true," I murmured in response. We sat and breathed together. I knew we needed to speak more, but I was determined to just be with him then. Words could wait; being pressed against his side was the healing balm we both needed.
A/N: This chapter went in a different direction than I anticipated. What do you think should happen next to help ODC to reach the understanding they both need to move forward towards a more successful married life?
