“Steady there, Darcy?” Melrose asked, patting him on the shoulder as he stood upright himself. “What a fine crush.” He looked around him and noticed Elizabeth, who had moved behind him and was looking behind her at the wall. “Mrs Darcy, how do you do?”
She turned around and settled her shoulders. “Good evening. I hope you are in good health.”
Darcy felt Elizabeth tense beside him. He put a hand to her back in case the pressing crowd made her feel uncomfortable.
“I am well, thank you?—”
“We were just about to see Lady Galway before we left,” she said rather abruptly as she curtsied.
They had not spoken of it, but she must have known he was tired of the crowd. Melrose bowed and said in parting, “I will see you at Angelo’s on Monday. We can talk after we fence.”
He wondered what Melrose wanted to talk to him about, but if it could wait until Monday, then it could not be important. They ordered the carriage and parted from their hostess, but it was not until they were away from the noise and the crowd and alone in the carriage that he realised Elizabeth was preoccupied. Her arms were wrappedaround her waist, and she looked as though she was sick to her stomach.
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said, sitting up suddenly and forcing down her arms. “Why do you ask?”
“Did the crowd trouble you? We can agree no more routs until after Christmas.”
“I do not mind a lively evening.” Even if she meant it, her tone said it all fatigued her.
They were silent as they turned down Davies Street toward Berkeley Square, and he wondered what to say into the silence. Her tension or frustration or whatever it was pressed as a fog settling around them. “Lady Summerlin is probably right about your diamond aigrette,” he said finally. “You ought to wear it when we go to the opera, or to the next ball.”
“I would rather not bring more attention to it,” she snapped.
He tried to keep his patience, although she lost hers. “You heard what Lady Summerlin said, and I think she is right. Its absence will cause more attention than its presence, and I would rather not be mentioned in the gossip pages again.” Elizabeth said nothing and seemed to grow even smaller in the space next to him. After being ignored for another moment, he said sharply, “Wear it on Tuesday when we go to the opera.”
His tone was that of a command, but rather than argue back with him, or realise she was acting strangely and apologise, or explain her odd mood, she just exhaled and looked out the side glass into the night, appearing drained by everything.
She was an altered creature, quieted, and indifferent to everything that passed. This was not the same woman he met in Ramsgate, and certainly not the same woman who had passionately arched herself against him in the library a fortnight ago.
“Are you playing with my affections?” he whispered.
She spun from the side glass and looked at him, agape. “What?”
“You were very willing to kiss me two weeks ago, and now you will not even speak to me. You can scarcely look at me. And if you deny it, then I will call you a liar.”
She shifted as far from him as she could as she turned away. “I do care for you, and I am perfectly well. Why do you keep asking me?”
“I keep asking because you keep lying,” he cried, putting one hand on her waist while the other tilted her chin to force her to look at him. He realised she had grown thinner, and while he would not say she was not handsome, the paleness of her face and weary look besides that gave her the appearance of ill health. “Why do you not tell what troubles you?”
Rather than lean into him, rather than unburden herself, she tilted her face away. “The nature of my sorrow none can judge but myself.”
She looked very ill, evidently suffering from violent emotions, which she was determined to suppress. “Did we not agree to be partners? I want to do life together.”
“We are,” she cried. “Every action I undertake is with thoughts of your well-being. Now, please, I beg you, stop asking me. I am well enough and I have nothing to tell you!”
The carriage stopped at Charles Street and the footman opened the door. Elizabeth bounded out and was up the stairs before Darcy could take off his hat and gloves. Rather than follow her, he went into the library and shut the door.
They could not go on like this. Whatever troubled Elizabeth wore on him too, even though he did not know what the problem was. He was anxious around her, not knowing what to say or what was troubling her. At every moment, he wondered when would her veneer of happiness fall away to be replaced by some pain she kept to herself.
Darcy poured himself a drink and swallowed it quickly. His feelings around her now were unlike the way she had made him feel in Ramsgate and after, nervous but excited to be near her, his chest tight with anticipation, his stomach turning over when she smiled at him. Now, whenever he looked at her, he was waiting for when she would go distracted and withdrawn, and the worry was making him sick.
He was not mad; something was making his wife despondent, troubled, and ill.
But if she would not tell him, what could he do? Perhaps the best thing for both of them would be to send her home to her family, because she was miserable with him. If she returned to Longbourn fora while, it would be as much for her benefit as for his. He could not stand to live alongside someone who did not want him.
He threw himself into a chair, letting the empty glass dangle from his fingers over the arm. This was hardly the domestic life he had imagined, even when he married at an inn in Scotland. He had believed Elizabeth would be a friend and companion, and willing to make the best of their unfortunate union. And not long after that, he had thought that love would soon find them.
