The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Chapter Six Healing a Great Love

Alexander, in the innocence and unawareness of a two-year-old, was oblivious to the tension and chasm between his parents. George was more observant and he was shaken to the core by what he witnessed.

For the month of November, and much of October, he had been busy attending to his duties at the Matlock hospital and throughout the surrounding communities. It was the time of year for influenza and injuries sustained from the cold weather or wet conditions. Several days in a row would pass before he returned to the Manor, often for no longer than it took to bathe and sleep a day before leaving again.

His intermittent interactions when able to relax at home had hinted to a strain between the two, but he had thought it no more than what would be expected with two young children, one who was quite demanding. Darcy’s natural reticence and intense urge for privacy did not always foster blunt communication, even as close as they now were. There were many topics Darcy did not hesitate to discuss with his uncle, but his marriage, which he perceived as sacred and solely his responsibility to deal with, was not one of them. George respected this, and aside from the gentle teasing that brought him such pleasure as Darcy persisted in flushing and stammering when the playful topics were tendered, he avoided broaching anything too intimate. Of course, until now there had been no need, since his niece and nephew appeared to possess a relationship uncommon in its intensity and felicity.

Thus, due to his busy schedule and faith in their relationship, George had remained ignorant as to the seriousness of Lizzy’s status. A catastrophe in Chesterfield calling for emergency assistance had kept him away for Alexander’s birthday and the week following. Upon his return to Pemberley, the exhausted physician was flabbergasted by what he discovered.

Without hesitation, Dr. Darcy decided to take action, even at the risk of offending his proud nephew. However, he first dealt with Lizzy. Her predicament was at a critical level and needed direct, immediate intervention.

As a physician, he diagnosed Lizzy’s illness instantly, recognizing it as a rare infirmity seen from time to time after the birth of a child. No one knew the cause, although speculation was rife. Most judged it a failing in the mother, if they acknowledged it at all, but George did not ascribe to that philosophy. He had observed dozens of decent, loving women succumb to bizarre, uncontrollable emotional breakdowns after birth and did not believe it an inherent flaw in their character.

He was circumspect in his approach with Elizabeth, partly because it was necessary to ascertain the scope of her condition but also because he understood how fragile her emotions. One wrong move and the essential trust would be gone. Fortunately, he was immensely skilled and within a couple of casual conversations over tea, she broke down. The seeming irreparable rift between she and her husband, who now rarely entered any room she was in and spent nearly every hour in the library or his study, acted as a strange catalyst toward candor. While on the one hand she sunk deeper into her misery, she also admitted to a serious problem.

As guilty as George felt for not noting the sickness consuming his beloved niece, it was fortuitous. A month or even a week previous, Lizzy would probably not have listened to anything he said, despite his mastery in persuasion. The dire situation she now found herself in—with a beloved spouse who was disengaged—and her weariness remained all that propelled her to embrace anything the good doctor recommended.

George enlisted the services of the relieved Mrs. Hanford, Mrs. Reynolds, and Marguerite, all of whom had observed the drama with heavy hearts. Thankful to be proactive in the matter, they gleefully took orders from Dr. Darcy. Finally they could be firm-handed, bossy actually, as they had not felt the liberty to do under Mr. Darcy’s confusing requests and Lizzy’s stubborn commands. There were several tonics and strong teas concocted by Dr. Darcy as a beginning treatment. Her diet was tightly stipulated, specific foods requested of the kitchen staff and demanded to be consumed whether Lizzy wished for them or not. Rest was requisite; long daily naps to be followed by walks in the brisk air as often as feasible. Personal hygiene was stressed. Last, but not least, was the forced abdication of her self-imposed obligations.

This latter was the hardest to enforce. A careful balance of assuming tasks while watching closely for negative effects was imperative; one step too fast could lead to an emotional backslide, but the determined group of caretakers were diligent.

The final and equally important aspect of her recovery to the old Lizzy they all adored was the presence of a certain man vital to her ultimate happiness.

Darcy, however, had isolated himself. He practically lived in the lower rooms, most nights falling asleep on his study’s sofa after working to a state of collapse. Occasionally he slept in their bed, waiting until long after she was asleep, but usually he mounted the stairs only to head directly into his dressing room or to visit Alexander. His only joy was in those hours he spent playing with his eldest son. Michael he rarely laid eyes on, tiptoeing in at the deepest hours of the night to gaze upon the child he felt such a mixture of emotions for. His heart swelled with love when gazing upon his child’s perfection, but weeks of detachment rendered it nearly impossible to bond with the baby as he had Alexander. To his profound shame, he perceived a growing hostility toward the innocent babe, illogically blaming him for the cause of his marriage falling apart.

For a week he held hope that she would apologize for her actions or simply express her love and that she missed him. Every knock on the door or tread heard in the hallway caused his heart to leap painfully, but it was never Elizabeth. When they did encounter each other she refused to meet his eyes and exited the room as soon as possible. Twice he saw her duck into a chamber clearly not where she intended to go for the express purpose of eluding him. Each incident was as a nail in the coffin of their union and his grief was overwhelming.

In addition to the sadness and shame was an increasing self-loathing. Darcy was a man capable and brave who did not shrink from the troubles of life. Rarely had he encountered problems that were unfixable or at least unable to be controlled. Courage and straightforwardness were character traits innate to his being, yet in this instance he was utterly at a loss as to what to do, as all his efforts thus far had been futile. Dimly he recognized that his damnable pride prevented asking for advice. Yet, until Elizabeth, he had never revealed his soul to another, admitted his frailties, or confided personal matters. This reality compounded his hopelessness and indecisiveness.

Worse yet was the fear lodged deep within his bones. Fear of what she might say if he spoke to her again, fear of the future, fear of his lost control, fear that there was no remedy, fear that he was weak, fear that he was a failure. It was a terror so engulfing that he withdrew, denying the facts and cowardly hiding away as he had never done in his entire life while the negative emotions ate him alive.

Thus it was a paler, thinner Darcy that George found staring into the white landscape outside his study window one afternoon about a week before Christmas. His face was ravaged with whiskers of at least three days growth, cravat loosened, and hair mussed by nervous hands. Dull eyes turned to the sympathetic smile of his uncle as George took the chair across.

Darcy cleared his throat, attempting to reinstate the guise of a man in control, and smiled faintly. “Forgive me, Uncle. I did not hear you enter. What have you been up to these days? Is the hospital lessening its demands on you?”

“I have not been to the hospital for nearly three weeks now.”

“Oh, I was not aware. You come and go so frequently that I lose track of your schedule. Since you are home perhaps we can play a game or two of billiards tonight. It has been a while since I thrashed you.”

“I am delighted to hear you jesting, my boy. Tells me not all is lost, although you look as if you have been dragged behind an unfriendly horse. Has Samuel forgotten how to shave you?”

Darcy reached to his chin, honestly startled. “Well, work has kept me busy.” He waved vaguely toward the nearly empty desk and then shrugged. “I was attempting to write a letter to Georgiana, but the snow distracted.” He sighed and turned again to the view outside the window. “I do miss her.”

“Yes, it is a shame. She would be a stabilizing, comforting presence to be sure. She will be home in the spring. I am positive she is hardly missing you, caught up in the whirl of fêtes and Italian social life.” Darcy nodded absently, George watching his face as he continued. “I encountered Mr. Gerald Vernor the other day while visiting the apothecary shop in Lambton. He asked about you, Elizabeth, and the baby. Of course I told him you were all well, but we know that is not the truth of it, agreed?”

Darcy glanced up sharply. “What do you mean? Is something amiss with Michael?” The stab of fear was acute, his eyes penetrating George’s face.

“Do not be purposefully obtuse, William. Have you learned nothing of me yet? I am a notorious busybody, to be sure, but I also adore my family. Additionally, I am a rather remarkable diagnostician, although in this case I regretfully made assumptions I should not have. Elizabeth is ill. Surely you have gleaned this yourself?”

Darcy’s alarm escalated, choking off his air supply. His face paled and eyes widened. “Ill? What do you mean ill? She works too hard, as I have given up chastising for, and does not eat as she should, but she is not ill. You are exaggerating.” He stated the last firmly, denial decisive.

“It is not necessarily an illness of the body, or at least not in the way you presume. She is suffering from a melancholia we see in women after birth. It is mysterious, and affects the mind primarily, which in turn has an effect on the body, but has been recognized by physicians since Hippocrates. Some speculate it is entirely spiritual, a weakness of the psyche, but I do not agree. I am not a researcher, but I found the lectures by physiologic chemists such as Saunders and Babington fascinating…”

“Uncle, what are you babbling about?”

“I am trying to explain Elizabeth’s condition, William. You need to understand this, and I am certain your intellect capable of grasping the science.”

“My wife is not ill.” He declared stubbornly, rising with a burst of anger to begin pacing about the room, fingers flickering. “She is… unhappy. I will admit to that, as much as it pains me to do so. Two children so soon is obviously too much for her. I should have been more… responsible. Not so demanding. It is my fault she feels as she does. Her… hatred toward me”—he swallowed, hands rifling through his hair—“is understandable. In time the pressures will ease… in time. Then, perhaps, she will not… she may learn to love… me again as she did. I can wait. But she cannot be ill! No, she… no, I will not allow it…”

“You would prefer to believe your wife does not love you than to admit she is sick and therefore needs you?” George’s quiet voice broke through, Darcy pausing with his back to the older man. “Be sensible and listen to me. Come, sit, and hear me out.”

Darcy sat, wooden and tight-lipped, his face closed.

George resumed. “Our bodies are complex organisms, William, you know this. Think of how traumatic it is for a woman to carry another individual in her body and to give birth. It goes beyond the physical. There is strong evidence pointing to chemicals that control many of our functions and may affect our minds. We do not understand it and probably never will, but I have seen unexplainable things in my years.”

“What does this have to do with Elizabeth?”

“Some believe, myself included, that there are those women who suffer negative effects on an emotional level after childbirth. Is it the trauma itself? Something caused by a reaction to the individual infant, his or her body inadvertently upsetting a careful balance? We do not know, but I have seen it several times and Elizabeth’s symptoms are classic.”

“What symptoms precisely?”

“Moodiness, irrationality, and dispiritedness primarily. I know you have been the brunt of these and probably more. Ofttimes there are physical manifestations such as tremulousness, pallor, fatigue, although most of that is probably an effect of not caring for themselves. Also sexual apathy and the inability to rouse.”

Darcy stiffened noticeably at the latter, his face tightening further as he looked away. George nodded grimly, another piece of the tragic puzzle falling into place.

“Is it permanent? Can you help her?” Darcy finally choked out.

George nodded. “I have been on the job for a few weeks now and have seen improvement. She is more balanced, sleeping better, and not as overwrought. She is still gloomy, but I am beginning to believe the cause is not her illness as much as it is sadness over the situation with you.”

Darcy barked harshly, unable to control the skepticism in that statement. “I rather doubt that. She avoids me completely and has made it abundantly clear how she feels about me.” His fingers rose to press on his left cheek, the memory of her slap searing as the day it happened.

“You are a fool,” George snapped.

“I will not listen to you insulting me, Uncle. I appreciate your concern for our well-being and am willing to accept some of what you have said, but you are not privy to our intimate relationship. You do not know what you are talking about!” He launched from his chair, eyes blazing. “You march in here after weeks away, declaring that my wife is unbalanced”—he shuddered at the conjured image of an insane Elizabeth locked in some sanatorium or distant chamber—“talking about chemicals and psychology and other rot. Furthermore you claim to have our relationship all figured out! You have no idea what has gone between us, how hard I have tried to reach her.”

“That is precisely my point, Fitzwilliam,” George interrupted calmly. “Reasoning with a woman in her state is fruitless.”

“I see,” Darcy interjected with heavy sarcasm. “You know all. Well, let me tell you what I know. My wife shudders at my touch. She hides from me. Does not speak to me unless it is in anger. She…” He stopped with a sob, twirling away and swaying slightly before heading firmly to the liquor cabinet.

Silence fell. George waited as Darcy drank not one but two shots of whiskey in rapid succession. “That will not help, you know.” Darcy did not answer, pouring a third glass instead. George sighed, rising, and speaking quietly. “I understand that you are hurting, William. So is Elizabeth. Trust me in this. I will give you both time to heal, overcome your fears and pride. But, you see, I know something that I think you two have forgotten in your pain and misery. Great love does not die so easily. Years apart do not sever the bond, nor does death. Elizabeth needs you, and you need her. It really is that simple.”

And he left. Darcy sat the filled glass down, bowing his head and standing immobile for a long while before climbing the stairs for a much-needed bath and shave.

Feeling improved once clean and properly attired, Darcy passed the afternoon in deep contemplation of his uncle’s words. He began by scouring the medical texts—not due to doubt in the knowledge possessed by Dr. Darcy, but out of a need to clarify. Unfortunately, the books were silent on the subject other than vague references to melancholia or lethargy in the immediate post-partum periods. Not helpful in the least.

He considered every word spoken and forced himself to look at the situation from a different perspective other than the one clouded by pain and misery. The concept of Elizabeth being ill with an organic, curable ailment had never occurred to him. Although his insides chilled at the idea of his wife ravaged by sickness of any type, it did offer a plausible explanation for the bizarre evolution from loving to estranged wife that he had often questioned, as it seemed unfitting when explained as simple exhaustion and worry over Michael. Her total withdrawal from him and the relationship they had fought so hard to forge was unfathomable, even if that is how it appeared to be.

Weeks of turmoil could not be rationalized or erased in one afternoon of analysis, but a glimmer of hope touched Darcy’s heart. Now he needed to decide the next step and put aside his fears.

George presented a possibility by insisting they dine together that night as a family. Darcy quailed at admitting it, but he was relieved that someone else took the initiative in bringing them together. Bolstering his flagging courage, he entered the dining room first, determined to assess his wife’s demeanor and overcome this obstacle as they had prior ones.

He was stiff with nervousness, feeling twice the fool for being so uncomfortable and flustered in his own home and with his own wife. The constant mental chastisement to relax only served to tighten his nerves. Rehearsing casual conversation and solicitous remarks when they should come naturally only annoyed him, which caused him to forget them anyway!

Then George breezed in, as sprightly as always and carrying Alexander, who was wearing an Indian style tunic of so many colors Darcy lost count at twelve. He chatted effervescently, tickled a giggling Alexander as the toddler was placed into his seat at the table, and took the seat beside him without a mention of the unusual circumstances. Darcy supposed his uncle’s blithe attitude and Alexander’s outlandish dress were designed to calm him, and was surprised to find that it did! Plus it helped to have Alexander there to attend to, the art of proper table manners one he was still learning and not very proficient in. The edginess remained, but Darcy felt a few coiled nerves unwind as he assisted his son and they waited for Elizabeth to arrive.

She was late, sprinting in through the open door with head down and making a beeline for her usual place setting on the other side of Alexander. She jerked to a stop when she realized George was seated there, thus leaving the chair immediately to Darcy’s right empty. Her eyes darted to his face, a flush spreading over her cheeks as she bit her lip and resumed her hasty steps to the table. She murmured her greetings, plopping into the chair and unfolding her napkin with spastic motions.

Darcy’s breath caught the second she entered the room. So riveted was he to her presence and stunning beauty that specifics were unnoticed initially. Her hair was dressed elaborately, the curled tresses lush and vibrantly shining as they had not been at their last close encounter that fateful day she slapped him. Her cheeks were full and flushed, and her skin bronzed rather than sallow. She wore one of his favorite gowns, his heart lurching at the sight and the memories evoked. Her appearance rattled him, his body responding violently so that he pressed his thighs tightly together and clamped his hands onto the chair arms before embarrassing himself totally. Every muscle hardened, literally, and his blood pounded so loudly all extraneous sound disappeared.

He hungered to see her eyes, but when she glanced his direction it was swift and indecipherable. Darcy frowned, finally registering that she had paused, flushed after looking at him, and was clearly disturbed to be seated next to him. Did she not know he was to dine with her?

His scrutiny began with his observing the details missed initially. She was beautiful and definitely healthier, but there were dark circles under her eyes not able to be hidden with cosmetics. The dress clung to her full breasts—Darcy quite distracted by that fact—but was loose at the waist and shoulders. Beyond the physical signs indicative of residual weariness and illness were the flustered movements and reticence so alien to her usual deportment.

Taken altogether, they confused Darcy more than ever. Over time, his skill in reading his wife’s thoughts had grown, but now he felt lost. She was entirely shut down and so unlike her usual self that he simply had no idea what to say or do. All his carefully rehearsed phrases vanished and he was left to stare open mouthed, not even standing when she entered as he should have.

George continued to talk, Lizzy answering with nods and monosyllables for the most part. Darcy realized he was staring and pulled his eyes away, reaching for the wine glass and proceeding to swallow half the liquid in one gulp in hopes of calming his frayed nerves and relieving his parched throat.

“Papa, spoon for soup this way?”

Darcy started, not aware that the soup course had been served, and turned toward Alexander. “Yes,” he croaked, pausing to clear his throat with another sip of wine before leaning to help, “but not too much in the spoon or you will drip. And never slurp, as fun as that is to do.”

“You can slurp all you want when eating with nanny,” George said, “but for some reason it is not allowed in public.”

“Manners, Uncle. It is called proper manners.”

George shrugged. “In some places they just pick up the bowl and drink right out of it. Did you know that, Alexander? Indeed they do. Gets the food in much quicker and the meal ends sooner than the interminable affairs we have here.”

“Look on the bright side, you get to eat more if the meal lasts a long while.”

“True. That is a benefit. Forget what I said, my boy. Take your time and we shall see who eats the most.”

“A connest?”

“That’s right, a contest. I bet you win.”

“Highly unlikely that even I could win that contest”—Darcy laughed—“but give it your best attempt, Alexander.” The boy set to his bowl with serious intent, Darcy laughing again. As he straightened in his seat he glanced to the right and caught Lizzy gazing at him. Her eyes were round and glistening, lips parted slightly, an expression of pain crossing her features.

A frown of concern knitted his brows and instinctively he extended his hand toward her. Unfortunately, his body was crooked in the chair and his fingers knocked against the edge of the soup bowl just hard enough to clang it against the wine glass. To make matters worse, Rothchilde bent at that precise moment to pour more wine, not only missing the glass as it moved, but also obstructing Darcy’s view of Elizabeth and interrupting his words. So what intended to be a sincere inquiry as to what was distressing her came out as, “What is wrong… Oh damn!” as the wine spilt onto the white linen tablecloth.

The minor mishap was exacerbated by the curse word, Darcy embarrassed by his uncharacteristic outburst and Rothchilde surprised to hear it. The footman erupted into apologies as he wiped up the crimson fluid with Darcy hastily blotting with his napkin while assuring it was nothing to be concerned over. In seconds it was done and Darcy’s glass was refilled, but the moment to reach out was past. Lizzy was again eating her soup with studied intensity, her face composed and hands steady. She had, he noticed, scooted her chair further away but whether to give Rothchilde room to sop the mess or to place space between them he did not know.

Dinner proceeded with the strange tension thickening as the minutes ticked with agonizing slowness. The courses were served and consumed, not that Darcy would remember how they tasted or what was served. Lizzy did add to the conversation from time to time with voice subdued and comments minimal. She ate well, Darcy was pleased to see, and smiled frequently at Alexander, but she rarely glanced Darcy’s direction and maintained an erect pose throughout. Was she angry? Nervous? He could not ascertain and the dinner table was not the place to boldly confront, so he reverted to the familiarity of his taciturn nature. It restored his composure to a degree, or at least kept the pain at bay.

Luckily, Darcy was distracted with Alexander and the constant chatter from George, who cleverly steered the dialogue to drag them in. Nevertheless, the strain mounted and Darcy genuinely felt a breaking point arising beyond his control. Before matters spiraled wildly, for better or worse, Alexander inadvertently intervened. He reached the end of his forbearance when his tiny stomach was filled and the need to sit still became impossible.

At the first protest, Lizzy jumped up and dashed around the table, grabbing Alexander out of his chair and exiting the dining room with haste and few words. Darcy watched her go, longing and sadness etched upon his face.

George sighed. He stood, shaking his head as he addressed the air in general. “You two are so perfectly suited for each other. Both of you are stubborn, blinded, and ridiculous. If I were a voyeur I would wish to be there when you finally overcome your foolishness. It will be a remarkable reunion, I am sure.”

“But he was so stern and stiff! He barely glanced at me, frowning when he did, and barely spoke a word to me. When he did his voice was angry and he swore!”

“You see what your aching, fearful heart chooses to see, Elizabeth. Between that and a fair amount of bullheadedness, I may need to lock you two in a room together before this is over. But I would rather the resolution come naturally. Now, drink your tea, all of it, and get some rest.” George sat the tray on the small table beside the fire and turned to clasp Lizzy’s shoulders. “Do not dwell on your clouded perceptions of dinner but clear your mind instead. I think you will then see a different interpretation.”

“I just want him to laugh with me as he did Alexander,” she whispered as the tears welled, “but how can he ever forgive me?”

“Forgiveness has nothing to do with anything since there is nothing to forgive.”

“That is rather cryptic, Aristotle,” Lizzy grumbled.

George chuckled, pushing her gently but firmly into the chair. “You will figure it out. Now, drink and eat all the fruit. No arguments! Then sleep. Tomorrow will be brighter, I am sure of it.”

Lizzy grunted but took a large bite of apple even as she glared at the doctor’s retreating back. She stared into the flames as she absently chewed and sipped, rehashing dinner over and over. Had she misinterpreted? It certainly is true that she had barely looked at her husband, shame and nervousness sapping every ounce of fortitude.

“What a blasted coward I am!” she muttered, throwing the core into the flames and sending sparks flying.

When George had informed her they were all to dine together that night, couching it as an order, she had grown weak with anxiety and relief. Her improving spirits did not like acknowledging that she needed someone else to push her, but that was the fact of it. Armed with determination to take a positive step toward reuniting with her husband, even if it meant groveling, she chose her attire carefully, dressing to entice as well as bolster her confidence. If all else failed, simple seduction may do the trick!

What she had not anticipated was his effect on her. Hearing his resonant voice, smooth as melted chocolate, forcibly pierced her heart before she entered the room. Waves of the purest lust jolted through her, quite unexpected considering the apathy of the past months, with heat rendering her muscles weak. Her cheeks flamed and her musings were so libidinous that she was afraid to look at him. Then when she did, it only multiplied the emotions a thousand fold. Yet he was frowning and so rigid in his chair that her heart sank, sadness warring with the desire until she could not speak for fear of falling to pieces.

Dinner was torture, but she could now admit that the chaotic sensations were not conducive to clear analyzing. Lizzy sighed, the prune pits following the apple core into the fire. George swore he did not brew her evening tea with any sedative herbs, but inevitably she grew sleepy after drinking it. Just as well, she thought, perhaps my dreams will be better than the dismal reality.

A few hours later Elizabeth was dreaming.

She and William were on a beach. It was not Caister-on-Sea, but rather an empty expanse of sandy shore with no hint of habitation. The waves lapped gently against the sparkling sand, the roar of the tides was muted, the call of birds rang in the azure sky, and the sun shone warmly on their naked bodies. They lay on a spread blanket, entwined and caressing. His hard body covered hers, the heat rising far beyond what the blazing sun administered as his hands moved expertly over her skin.

It was delicious! Delirium mounted with each kiss and caress.

Her sleeping body writhed and tingled as her dream-self responded to her lover. No words were uttered. None were necessary as their hearts beat in unison and passion overwhelmed. Joy and pleasure were exalting as they moved together in tune with rapture certain and cataclysmic when it occurred.

Slumbering-Lizzy cried out, waves of delight sweeping through her flesh as dream-Lizzy clutched onto her husband’s inflamed figure, neither Lizzy wanting the sensations to ebb.

Then, as dreams have a way of doing, she was suddenly standing on the water’s edge. William was swimming away, far beyond the safety of the gentle waves. She called to him, panic spiraling, but he did not look back. She rushed into the now surging tide, realizing with a start that she was clothed in the gown worn at dinner. The heaving surf dragged at the thick cloth, tangling it about her legs as she screamed for her lover to return. But he grew smaller and smaller until only a dot of dark hair. Then he was gone.

Lizzy cried in anguish, vaulting up in her bed as wakefulness crashed over her. Her heart beat wildly, the lingering sensations of sexual excitement and dreadful loss rushing through her cells. The blankets were a knotted mess, her legs trapped, and she flailed crazily to freedom. William’s side of the bed was empty, the covers disrupted from her thrashing, but the pillow was plump and mattress smooth.

She released a choked sob, lunging from the bed and grabbing the carefully folded robe from the chest at the end of the bed. It was his old robe, freshly splashed with his cologne. She had taken to wearing it again the past few days, the fabric comforting, but also a vivid reminder of the emptiness in her soul. She thought of that now as she dashed from the room, inhibitions completely gone. Flying on bare feet down the hall to the stairs, she prayed he was in the study or library. What if he had had enough, especially after the disastrous dinner, and left entirely? Gone to London or anywhere to escape her. The thought caused all air to vacate her lungs and she ran faster.

The library was dark and vacant. He was found in his study, and Lizzy nearly collapsed from the relief. She paused on the threshold, clutching the solid wood, and gazed at him where he slept on the sofa with soft snores reaching her ears. The fire burned low, one lit lamp on the nearby desk casting a liquid golden glow over his handsome face. He lay with his head resting on a small cushion, lips parted and thick lashes lying on shaven cheeks. He wore long trousers, boots discarded, and his shirt. A thin quilt covered partially, one leg bent and resting against the sofa back. It was clear that he intended to sleep here all through the night, purposefully choosing the hard, narrow sofa over the comfort of their spacious bed.

She hesitated, sadness causing her to tremble. Perhaps he does not want me? Then she remembered George’s assurances of William’s confusion and grief. She entered, kneeling by his side and taking the cold hand that dangled over the sofa’s edge. She kissed it and pressed it to her cheek, tears welling, as the fingers of her other hand lightly traced over his face. Reverently touching each precious feature, holding his hand tightly as it warmed, she murmured, “I love you so, William. Please forgive me. Tell me you love me as well.”

He mumbled indecipherably, turning his head toward her gently stroking fingertips. The hand lying on his chest rose slightly, golden band glinting in the firelight with fingers seeking before falling sleepily. “Elizabeth…”

“Yes! It is I! Wake up, William. Please! I love you and need to feel your eyes upon me.”

He groaned, stretching and lightly clasping her hand as he bestowed a tiny kiss to the palm. “My Lizzy,” he mumbled, beginning to turn toward the hand touching his face, his dreams incorporating the fleshly reality and holding fast.

“No, dearest, wake up! I am here and I love you!”

Suddenly his eyes flew open, dazed and uncomprehending. He saw her, but rather than gathering her into his arms as she so desperately needed, he released her hand and sank further into the sofa. “Elizabeth? Is something wrong? The babies?”

“No, no. They are fine. Soundly asleep.” He dropped his gaze to the hand she held cinched next to her cheek, returning to her eyes with confusion evident. As she gathered her thoughts, observing him in the dim illumination, she could detect the faint hope deep in his eyes.

“Beloved”—his brows rose at the endearment—“I… I dreamt of you tonight. We… we made love on the beach in broad daylight as you always wished we could.” She smiled, feathering hungry fingers over his befuddled face. “It was so beautiful. You were beautiful. I felt you… truly felt you, even beyond my dream. I… desired you as I have not in weeks and it was wonderful. Only it was not real. And then you swam away and refused to answer me and I woke terrified to find you gone, again, and I needed to see you, touch you, and tell you that…”—she sobbed—“I love you and that if you do not, I understand, but I will die and…”

“Please, Elizabeth, do not cry! I cannot bear to see your tears anymore!”

She shook her head, pierced by the pain in his gaze. “I do not want to cry anymore, my love. I just want to hold you.” And she leaned forward, capturing his mouth in an encompassing kiss.

He moaned, encircling her back and lacing sturdy fingers through the hair on her head, drawing her tightly to his body, and returned the kiss with all the pent up agony released in their yearning to reconnect.

It may only be a dream, he thought, but it is a dream I want and need.

Lizzy broke the kiss first, but not to draw farther than his neck. Hundreds of warm kisses and nibbles were bestowed, hands traversing the quivering plains of his chest as buttons were undone and fine linen pushed aside.

“Sweet Lord! I love you, Elizabeth!” Darcy gasped, his emotions surging blissfully. Dimly he heard his uncle’s voice: You are a fool. It seemed impossible that he had ever doubted their love as her luscious lips and arousing hands declared a passionate need. Yet the residuals of fear remained. He stroked her back and shoulders, vocalized his pleasure, but allowed her to lead.

Kissing down the middle of his torso to the rigid muscles of his flat abdomen, she lifted the shirt upward and attacked the area with gusto.

“Oh God…” he moaned, arching his hips as his head fell back, giving in to the sensations.

The shirt was rolled away as she kissed back up to his neck, catching the fabric around his outstretched arms as he lifted to assist. She paused then, holding his hands captive over his head, and gazed into his dark orbs.

“We shall talk later, my soul. There is so much to say, for me to apologize for…” She kissed him to halt the negation, stilling his shaking head with a gentle grip to his chin before leisurely rubbing downward toward his groin. “Right now I only want to show you how much I love you,” she whispered against his lips, “show that I am sorry, show that you are everything to me.” She suckled along his jaw to earlobe, voice husky amid his rising moans. “I want to renew our bond, bring you pleasure as you have me, give and give until you cry with joy. Please, Fitzwilliam! Let me love you!”

Darcy absorbed every word through the mists of heightened ardor, his body rocking and trembling in response to her tactile stimulation. Crashing sensations burned stupendously and clouded his senses. The trials of the past months faded into nothingness. She was here, beside him, electrifying every nerve, filling his heart with healing phrases far more beautiful than the fervor of their mutual lust.

She released his hands, the shirt falling forgotten to the floor, and he instantly grasped her tightly. Ravenous hands explored the contours of her shape, kneading and stroking, reacquainting themselves with the beloved flesh as familiar to him as his own.

Lizzy drew away, standing as Darcy wheezed No! But she only spared a moment, the robe falling in a puddle at her feet, before straddling his thighs and merging in one smooth motion. They simultaneously expelled loud sighs of pleasure and then laughed. Darcy sat up partway, clutching her to his chest and cupping her face as she began to sway with a rhythm as old as time, yet forever satisfying.

He kept her close, lips and noses touching, eyes locked with heated passion blazing. The furious, maniacal urgency of a few moments ago waned somewhat in the gratification of feeling the other’s body surrounding. They absorbed the flowing energy and mutual love with no desire to rush the experience.

“I love you, my wife.”

“I love you, my husband.”

The endearments and affirmations fell interspersed with nuzzles and fondles. The pace quickened after long minutes of temperate loving, finally culminating with blinding rapture. They fell to the sofa, harsh gasps echoing through the room and sweat glistening flesh heaving as they clung together.

Lizzy buried her face in his neck, sobs of joy caught in her throat. I will not cry! I am done with tears! She breathed deeply of his masculine scent, that magnificent mixture of woodsy cologne, musky perspiration, and some unidentifiable aroma only present when they made love. It soothed her.

In time their hearts returned to fairly normal paces. Darcy moved then, shifting until her face was near his, fingers stroking lightly over her cheek. He smiled, eyes radiant and shining, his voice rich with throbbing emotion. “There is nothing to talk about, Elizabeth, if you say again that you love me.”

She laughed breathily, the last vestiges of anxiety releasing in a gush. “With all my heart I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy, now and for all eternity.”

His grin was enormous, dazzling her senses seconds before he kissed her, rolling toward the back of the sofa as he embraced her so securely she could barely breathe. Yet before the need for oxygen invaded the fantastic delight of his lips, he released her, rolling and rising to his feet in one graceful motion. She propped on an elbow, admiring unabashedly as he fastened his trousers and bent for the discarded quilt. A second later she was enveloped in the material and swooped into his arms heading for the door.

“Where are you taking me?” she teased, tenderly biting along his neck and utterly indifferent to her naked dangling feet and bare shoulders—not that it was likely they would encounter anyone in the middle of the night.

“To our bed where I intend to kiss every inch of your skin and make love to you again and again until you fall asleep exhausted and satiated in my arms. Then I intend to keep you there for at least one or two whole days and do the entire procedure over again. Numerous times. Does this meet with your approval?”

“Indeed it does.”

He was serious, adhering to his promise with gleeful dominance, not that Lizzy argued the matter. It was a welcome respite, in fact. In an uncharacteristic display of laziness, Lizzy barely left the bed for a week. Darcy was there every minute, frequently expressing his happiness in a physical way, but also joyously assuming care of Michael. Father and son’s relationship flourished during those days, Darcy falling deeply in love with the three-month-old whose unique personality was swiftly emerging. Alexander joined them, the family of four playing together on the large bed for long hours at a time.

On Christmas Eve the foursome gathered in the upper story bedchamber after dining with their guests. Darcy read the nativity poems of Henry Vaughan and the first Christmas story from the Bible until both boys were soundly asleep. He sat the Bible aside and glanced to Lizzy, who was barely awake and propped half reclining with Michael curled against her chest. No words were spoken but communication was clear. He smiled, brushing lightly over her cheek before leaning to extinguish the bedside lamp, and then drew Alexander into his embrace. They slept as a family, unknowingly beginning a tradition that would carry down through the years.

Christmas came, Lizzy’s crazed planning paying off in a lavish celebration with local friends that could now fully be enjoyed. Everyone noted the restoration to the Lizzy they had grown to love, although no one commented of course.

Nevertheless, Lizzy’s full recovery from the strange illness that had beset her was gradual. There were moments after their heavenly reunion when emotions and melancholy assaulted her. Thankfully, they rapidly receded both in frequency and intensity. Darcy was never far from her side, his attentiveness more acute than typical and welcomed by Lizzy. George insisted on administering the special herbals and dietary requirements to reestablish the balance to her body, but as he had suspected, reuniting with her husband was the best medicine.

By the time they packed up their belongings and two children for the trip to Netherfield for the event of Kitty Bennet’s wedding, Lizzy’s symptoms were eradicated and she was her old self in every way. The mutual love the young family innately possessed was more than adequate to overcome the months of hardship.

As with many such trials one faces in life, this was one they would never forget or wish to repeat; yet they could not deny that further lessons were learned and their bond was stronger as a result.