The rest of the morning passed by in a blur; ever after, pictures appeared in Elizabeth’s mind, disjointed and yet cohesive, each one in a sequence of precious pearls of memory. There was the moment of her arrival in the church, when Darcy—absurdly handsome in a finely cut tailcoat in a shade of blue so deep it was almost black, waistcoat with gleaming buttons, and formal knee breeches—had looked up to see her entering the church, his dawning smile, the way he held out his hands to her. There were Mr and Mrs Palmer’s kindly smiles and their obvious pleasure; those two had helped her in every way they could and stood by her regardless of gossip. There were the congratulations of her family—Mary and Jane both tearful and happy, an avuncular Mr Collins as proud as if he had arranged the marriage himself. Mr Bingley stood up with Darcy, and Miss Bingley and Mr and Mrs Hurst were on hand to lend their joy. Miss Bingley, in fact, had seen to the preparation of an elaborate, celebratory breakfast, to which herfamily and Mr and Mrs Palmer were invited. It was not until early afternoon that she found herself alone with her husband.
Husband!It seemed a dream.
He stood with her in his sitting room, at bay windows overlooking the gardens, his hands upon her shoulders, a solid warmth behind her. She was scared, for no good reason, and leant back against him as a silent protest against her fears. He wrapped his arms around her more snugly, as she had somehow known he would. These were precursors to deeper affections, the thought of which still made her nervous—stirring up sordid, unpleasant memories from her first wedding night. She turned in his arms to face him.
“As it turns out, I do not come to you penniless,” she said, and explained what had happened with the Ashwoods just before leaving for the church.
He frowned. “While I am glad for your sake if it pleases you, we do not require their money—and no amount, in my mind, restores the integrity they wish to purchase. I would much rather they bore the disgust of their neighbours for a long, long time.”
She smiled. “Ah, but to John Ashwood, that amount will hurt him as the feelings of his neighbours never would have. It is Fanny who believes respect can be bought and paid for, and who will be surprised when it does little to improve her station. To others in the neighbourhood, it will hardly be thought heroic—only what was due me. No, she will have an uphill battle to resume her place, and likely will not succeed unless Miss Bingley or my sister decide they no longer want the position. John is much more stingy, and I am certain he only agreed to the refurbishment of the dower house because, ultimately, it was his own property wherein heexpected Fanny to one day reside. Mr Collins backed him into a corner of expenditure for which he would never have agreed, except that he could not withdraw without an obvious and public loss of honour.”
“Well, then, I suppose I am grateful for your brother-in-law’s actions. It was well done of him.”
He looked down upon her, his eyes fierce, yet almost distant somehow—and she knew that he was doing his best to converse, but was otherwise restraining himself. Was it as hard for him to contain his passions as it was for her to let them loose?
“Something is the matter,” he said. “Tell me what is troubling you.”
She should have realised he would not simply wonder about or ignore her mood, that he would directly demand to know. “I am…uneasy,” she admitted. “I have none of the experience I ought to have—only the worry.”
“You need neither experience nor worry, I promise.”
“Oh, but my mind insists I must. What if you are disappointed? What if I do not...like all of what it is we do together? I know it is important to most men, unless they are aged and ill.”
Darcy had removed his coat and neckcloth; she smoothed her hands above his biceps, down the fine linen covering strong arms. She had never seen her first husband thus unclothed; anything that happened between them had occurred in the dismal darkness of her chamber, and she was by turns hopeful and agonisingly unnerved by what she saw and felt of her new husband.
“I will not be disappointed, I vow it. You can trust me to be careful with you, Elizabeth.”
“I do trust you, else we would never be together thusly. Itis only that my memories of those first weeks of marriage haunt me now with a spirit both sharp and repulsive—the waiting in the pitch dark, never knowing if he would seek me out or not. And when he did, his fumbling, his roughness, his groping, his scrabbling around the bed as if shoving at me would somehow help him do whatever it was that he attempted. I hated every moment of it, and prayed each night that he would not appear. I was even thankful for that first awful illness he bore, as despicable and unwifely as that sounds. He never tried again, after it.”
Darcy did his best to disguise the disgust he felt towards the fellow who had abused his wife—probably ignorantly, with an elderly and thoughtless incompetence. His anger would not help her; no, he must be certain that she understood what would happen, and that none of it would alarm and disgust her. She was so brave, coming resolutely to him despite her fear.
He cupped her dear face within his palms. “This I promise: nothing frightening will ever happen to you while you are in my arms. Can you try to believe it?”
She nodded solemnly, and he took her hand, leading her into his bedchamber. Miss Bingley had assigned Molly as her own maid until Elizabeth could hire help of her own. He had offered, instead, to be her lady’s maid himself. He had been surprised when she agreed, but he was no longer; the awful waiting and wondering she had previously experienced was obviously nothing she cared to repeat. This, what occurred between them, would be utterly different. He would make certain of it.
He held her, only that, stroking her back and shoulders for the longest time—until the stiffness in her form lessened somewhat. When he led her to the bed, she looked up at him in some confusion. “We are in no hurry,” he said. “I only wish to be more comfortable as I demonstrate to you some of the more…intricate differences between your first experiences and a much younger husband who is deeply, thoroughly, in love with his wife.”
He had grown steadily more uncomfortable the longer he held her, but he cared nothing for that. He was master of his own body, and could certainly give her the time she needed to grow easy with him.
“I have no objections to that,” she said, smiling up at him with sparkling eyes that told him nothing of fear, only anticipation. “It is only—this is one of my nicest dresses; it would be a shame to see it too crumpled.”
“I will buy you a hundred more.”
“I do not need dresses,” she whispered, boldly reaching to undo the first button of his waistcoat, making him shiver. “Only you.”
Brave, and loving, and giving, and trusting—she was everything he had never known he had always wanted.
“I do love you, Elizabeth Darcy,” he said, showering her in a hundred gentle and passionate expressions of affection and adoration, so that she might begin to know just how he cherished her.
Elizabeth was kissed, softly, softly. She was held, lightly, and undressed, carefully. He was a master, it turned out, of the perfect caress, seeming to understand her body in ways shehad never realised it could respond. By the time he made her his wife in all ways, she was as anxious for it to happen as she had previously been intimidated. And yet, still, he took his time, holding himself to the strictest control, keeping her at the threshold of ecstasy until she thought she might die of it.
She lay with him afterwards, a little bewildered and wholly amazed, feeling as if she might never want to leave this room, this puddle of sunlight, this beautiful man who was, remarkably, all hers. “I had no idea it would be so…so…” she trailed off, having no vocabulary for what had just occurred between them. One of her earliest fears chose this moment to present itself yet again. He was so still, his bare arm heavy over her, she thought him most likely to be sleeping. His closed eyes gave her the courage to say aloud just a little of her sudden trepidation.
“I may be—I am, undoubtedly, very green. However, if you were to do this with anyone else, I think I would grow every bit as tiresome as Theodosia,” she whispered.
He stretched against her, allowing her to feel that perhaps he was not slumbering quite so deeply as she had believed. “I love you, my beautiful, sweetest Elizabeth. If I have to fight through a thousand bitter memories before you feel safe, I will do it. You are my first, my only love. It took me forever to find you. I will not risk hurting or destroying something so precious.”
“You are my first, my only,” she replied, turning to face him. “I love you, Fitzwilliam. Now, kiss me, and show me again how a young husband treats the wife that he loves.”
