“I apologise, madam.” he said quietly.
Just as softly, she replied: “Don’t.”
On the days when it rained and walking was out of the question, they stayed indoors and found other pursuits. They spent a whole day playing different card games, wagering pretty stones which Elizabeth had picked up from the trails. Another day, they dared the rain to visit a bookshop. The afternoon was spent most agreeably as they compared their purchases and disagreed amiably about the skills of Pye and Burns.
In the evenings they kept to their own devices. Darcy answered letters pertaining to the management of his estate. Elizabeth wrote her own letters and enjoyed being able to embroider without her mother’s constant interruptions. She was surprised to find that she liked silence - something that was a stranger to the Bennet household. She wascomfortablebeing silent around her husband. Her family forced one to interrupt or go forever unheard. There was rarely half an hour where they all existed in silence. In their peaceful rooms, the Darcys could pass a whole afternoon without making a sound.
Elizabeth’s letters were not easily written. In many ways, she felt as if she was writing fiction. She had nothing pleasant to say to either of her parents, so her brief notes to them were chillingly formal. Her younger sisters received little gifts and playful stories from her encounters, but nothing meaningful. As for Jane…
Jane should have been the easiest confidante, but Elizabeth could not do it. Up until the day she was married, her sister had wept and begged for forgiveness for forcing Lizzie into such a desperate match. As much as Elizabeth tried to comfort her, she knew that Jane would not accept any version of the truth that did not match her own paranoia. A letter praising Mr. Darcy would be dismissed as a falsehood. A letter exposing his faults would only make Jane feel guiltier. Still, Elizabeth tried.
As to the matter of marriage, she had nothing to say to anyone. There was nothing to speak of. After their evenings in their shared parlour, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy parted and slept in their own rooms. There was never any question of sharing more than a cordial ‘good-night’, and the only time that Elizabeth had not woken up alone was when the hotel’s cat managed to sneak ontoher pillow. Certainly, she saw no sign that her husband had any interest in the moreunpleasantpart of a marriage.
Of course, such a man would need an heir eventually. Sooner or later, Elizabeth knew she must resolve herself to the humiliation. From what little she knew of the marital act, it was undignified, uncomfortable and embarrassing. Jane had once come to her room in tears after a nightmare where Mr. Collins had come into her room and pulled her blanket away. She had described his leering, fishy eyes gleaming in the candlelight, and his moist hands touching her bare legs. Both sisters had shuddered at the thought.
Elizabeth couldn’t help feeling that, however loathsome the act was to be, it would at least be less disgusting than doing the same thing with Mr. Collins. It was a small consolation.
But how was such a thing to be managed? Would Mr. Darcy simply decide that it was time, and claim his rights with the same businesslike manner he claimed dues from his estate? Perhaps he expected her to make some invitation. Elizabeth did not know how she would dare do it.
His touch had made her shiver when he gave her the necklace, but the sensation was mercifully short-lived. Elizabeth had not felt it since. It had doubtless been their intimate conversation that had made everything so heady.
She told herself that she did not care and then spent most of the evening daydreaming about it.
And when they were at the river, and he had taken her hand…
Why not daydream about one’s husband? Surely it was better than daydreaming about someone else’s?
So much for the pleasant Mr. Darcy, who smiled when he greeted her and took great delight in her happiness. That man,she could have been content with until the end of time. But the man Elizabeth was married to had a demon upon his shoulder, and as the weeks past, she came to loathe it.
Mr. Darcy was changeable and quick-tempered. He grew thorns when thinking of his home, or when he had to turn down a glass of wine at dinner. Sometimes he trembled and fixed his eyes upon the carafe like a man dying of thirst.
The first time that Elizabeth truly behaved as his wife was when they had arrived at an inn in Kendal. While her husband was speaking to the owner, she took a servant aside and quietly asked him to clear away the liquor from their rooms. She also asked him not to bring it to their table at dinner.
So it was that they entered their private suite to be met by an empty drinks cabinet. Darcy’s eyes always went there first. When he pointed out the peculiarity, Elizabeth proudly told him what she had done.
He was furious. Elizabeth could not have found a more efficient way to shame him. Everyone knew what it meant to ask for a ‘dry’ room.
“I thought you would find it easier.” she protested, on the back foot once more.
“I can control myself!”
“For now! Whenever we argue, or when you are out of sorts, I can see how much you long for a drink.”
“Long for, yes! But have I ever been weak?”
“No,” she admitted softly, “But I can see how much it exhausts you. I only want to help.”
Darcy turned another fierce look on her, but his hands unclenched. He knew exactly what Elizabeth meant. The longingwas clearly getting worse. It grew harder and harder to refuse the servants’ innocently proffered refreshments. It had been easier in Meryton, with Bingley to help him and a house free from liquor. Here, temptation was at every corner.
Just one taste.He found himself thinking, and hated himself. It was the mantra of a failure. Sometimes it was all he could think of himself:Failure. Failure.Of course, with such self-loathing, the urge to fade into oblivion was almost overwhelming.
“Thank you,” he managed to say at last, taking Elizabeth’s hand. She was trembling. In that moment he hated himself. “Please forgive me, Elizabeth. You are right. I should not have… you can act as you see fit.”
Elizabeth nodded, but her hand was limp in his grasp, and she pulled it away as soon as he loosened his hold. She did not look up at him but quietly went into her room. Darcy heard the lock snapping shut behind her.
For the next few days, he tried everything to regain her trust. Gifts received only polite thanks, compliments were met with careful smiles. He woke up each morning feeling sick, not wanting to open the door and see her pale face at the breakfast table. Then, one day, she emerged from her room and greeted him in her old, friendly manner.
She did not look happy, but she looked determined. It was enough for them to begin to heal, but after that Darcy could not read her at all. Was it all a mask?
