Today’s itinerary included hearing petitions from families seeking lease renewals or requesting adjustments to their agreements, and addressing various concerns that had accumulated since the last meeting. It was necessary work, the sort that made the difference between an estate that merely survived and one that thrived.
But Darcy found his attention wandering from such practical considerations, his gaze fixed on green fields giving way to clusters of tenant cottages and smoke rising from chimneys in lazy spirals against the sky.
He thought about Elizabeth. The way she had avoided his gaze this morning when he attempted to engage her in conversation and her absence from dinner last night.
Something was wrong indeed and it had nothing to do with the hollow excuse about headaches.
She was withdrawing from him, unmistakably so. Just when he had begun to believe their bond would continue to grow until it had a stronger foundation. It worried him.
“Darcy?”
He startled at Lord Matlock’s voice. “Yes?”
“I was enquiring after your marriage. You have been wed for quite some time now. I trust you find yourself content with the arrangement?”
He became acutely aware of three pairs of eyes fixed upon him with varying degrees of interest: His uncle’s held concern, Richard’s was more curious and Arthur’s held a penetrating assessment. Even Lady Catherine had suspended her complaints about road conditions to await his response.
“We are... adjusting well enough. These matters take time, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Lord Matlock agreed, his tone suggesting he heard far more in what Darcy had not said than in his actual response. “Still, I must admit I had hoped to see you appearing more settled. You seem rather troubled, if I may observe so.”
“I am quite well.”
“Are you?” Arthur leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful in the way that always preceded uncomfortable insights. “Forgive my directness, cousin, but you have beenpreoccupied since breakfast. Distant, even. If something troubles you, perhaps speaking of it might help?”
Darcy had no wish to discuss his marriage before an audience, particularly one that included Lady Catherine, whose opinions on the match had been made abundantly clear. She might seize upon any admission of difficulty as vindication of her prejudices and use his concerns as ammunition to continue her campaign of criticism.
Yet the concern in Arthur’s features, mirrored in Richard’s, was genuine. And perhaps articulating his unease might help clarify it and transform the odd sensation he felt into something more manageable. With any hope, naming his worries aloud would make them less overwhelming.
“I believe my wife has been avoiding me,” he said, the admission emerging with difficulty. “She has been distant lately, and evasive when I attempt conversation. I cannot determine the cause, but I intend to address the matter directly upon our return.”
Richard frowned. “Avoiding you? That seems odd behaviour for a new bride. What could possibly prompt such distance? Has something occurred between you? Some disagreement or misunderstanding that might explain the change?”
“If I knew, I would not be troubled by it.” He shifted position, uncomfortable beneath their collective scrutiny. “I thought perhaps she required time to adjust to our circumstances. But her manner has changed so markedly since—” He stopped, unwilling to specify since their kiss. That was the moment they had finally seemed to be building a true connexionand everything had felt like it was finally aligning towards happiness.
“In my experience,” Lord Matlock said with the air of someone drawing on decades of marital wisdom, “when my wife withdraws from me, it is typically because I have displeased her in some manner. Usually something I have done or failed to do, although it often takes considerable effort to puzzle out precisely what offence I have committed. Sometimes it is a statement uttered carelessly, an obligation forgotten, or a failure to notice what she believed obvious.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Richard noted.
“Marriage frequently is,” his father replied with dry humor. “But the point stands. Withdrawal often indicates displeasure with one’s partner’s behavior. Perhaps you have inadvertently offended Mrs Darcy in some way?”
Darcy considered this possibility, reviewing recent interactions for potential missteps. But he could identify nothing that might have caused offense sufficient to prompt such marked withdrawal.
“I courted a young lady once,” Arthur said, “who would ignore me whenever I failed to bring flowers of sufficient quality. She had very exacting standards about such gestures of romantic attention. Perhaps Mrs Darcy expects the same.”
“I do not believe Elizabeth’s temperament inclines toward such games. If something displeased her, I believe she would express it rather than acting demure in hopes I might guess the cause.”
“Then perhaps she feels guilty about something,” Lady Catherine said pointedly, “Something she fears might damage your relationship if revealed. That could explain why she withdraws rather than confides in you.”
“Guilt? I think not. Elizabeth has nothing to feel guilty about. She has made no missteps that would warrant such behaviour.”
“You cannot know that with certainty. You have been married less than enough time to know all her secrets or concerns and understand the full complexity of her motivations.”
“Elizabeth has not wronged me.”
The statement was pointed, driven by his need to defend her even against such mild speculation.
“I did not say she had. Maybe she feels uncomfortable about how your marriage came about. After all, if she had not made the announcement, you would not be wed. That is enough to inspire guilt.”
