Page 26 of Mistress of Pemberley
Each evening, after they spent a few hours together following dinner—reading, listening to Georgiana play the pianoforte, or simply conversing—Elizabeth would leave Darcy to prepare for the night, then would visit him once he was settled in bed to bid him goodnight. But on her final evening in London, she carefully chose her nightgown and robe. Her belongings had begun to fill up the wardrobe, and two garments were newly acquired, along with a fur-lined pelisse, a travelling bonnet, and some gifts for her sisters and mother. She planned to stop at Longbourn on her way to Pemberley.
She dressed with deliberate care, as if preparing for a ball, then descended the stairs and entered his bedroom, as she always did, hesitant, her heart pounding. Each time, she feared she might find him with his eyes closed forever, yet she was invariably shaken by how he looked at her when she entered.
And on that night, perhaps the last of their lives together, his gaze pierced her with the violence of a blade, stirring nothing but pain. She wished to lay her head on his pillow, to tell him she would not leave, that nothing mattered more to her than spending every remaining moment by his side.
“Do not voice your thoughts,” he murmured, as if he could read her mind—which he could. He no longer felt a separation from her. Although they still inhabited different bodies, their souls were entwined in a place where words were no longer necessary to comprehend each other.
“You are unbearable,” she whispered, but there was a trace of amusement in her voice. The moment of crisis had passed. She had come to say farewell, for the next day, she was to leave—because it was his wish.
She sat on the sofa that had recently been brought up, placed beside Darcy’s bed so that Georgiana and Elizabeth might be comfortable visiting him in the evenings. Elizabeth rang the bell and asked Parker to bring her a pillow and a blanket.
“Why do you need a pillow and blanket?” Darcy asked after the valet had departed.
“Because I am going to sleep here, beside you,” she replied in that sharp tone that always disarmed him, for he knew he could not oppose her. But that night, he had no desire to do so. It was precisely what he wished for, though he would never have asked—he would never have burdened her further.
Elizabeth asked the valet to extinguish the candles, and again, Darcy said nothing, though of late, he had slept with the room illuminated. But that evening, through the large windows, the moon poured a pale light into the chamber, a mist where the objects and their own forms seemed mere shadows drifting out of a dream.
“You have a new nightgown,” he observed, smiling, for he had noticed it before Parker had put out the candles.
“Yes,” she said without a hint of embarrassment. “Madame Clarice made it for me in the colours my husband prefers—violet and green—”
“Elizabeth, stop,” he interrupted, his voice hoarse, almost unrecognisable. She regretted her words immediately—they had been as transparent as the fine silk of her nightgown.
A heavy silence settled between them, one that Elizabeth neither knew how to fill nor attempted to. For once, she let it be.
She heard him sigh, the way he sometimes did when he moved slowly from one side to the other, burdened by pain. But this sigh was different—it had slipped from him, wrenched from his very soul.
“Elizabeth, we are not truly married—”
“How can you say that?” she cried, sitting up to see him, but the night would not allow it. “I have a piece of paper that says we are.”
“Exactly—a piece of paper. But marriage is something else entirely.”
“You are my husband,” she insisted, and as she was seated directly in the moonlight, he could see the glistening tears on her face, though he said nothing about them.
“No. You are my only love—but you are not…my wife. And marriage means that, more than anything.”
“No,” she murmured, shaking her head violently, perhaps trying to rid herself of her tears as well.
“Yes, do not resist me—you know it to be true. You feel desire.”
And she was grateful for the darkness, for it concealed the blush rising in her cheeks. It was not shame—it was longing, just as he had said. It came more frequently now, and his nearness did nothing to quell it. A mere glance, a fleeting touch upon her hands, was enough to stir within her a tempest she had no means to calm. She had learnt to still her soul, for it had weathered many storms before—but her body had not, not until him. His eyes, his beautiful, expressive face, shifting from love to sarcasm in an instant, yet always holding within it the same unwavering truth: that he loved her. His body—she had seen it a few times, bared to the waist when his valet tended to him—strong yet harmoniously formed, so different from her own. And then, she had never seen the secret she should have discovered on their wedding night, a night that would never come for them.
“I am evolving,” she confessed, for she never deceived him. It was what he had requested of her—complete honesty—first about his condition, then it had become the way they coexisted. What was the point of lies, of wasting their precious time on anything but the truth?
“You are blossoming into a woman, my dearest,” he said, his tone affectionate, leaving no space for passion. He spoke to her as one would to a child, as though he were her father rather than the husband she knew him to be, although he saw their situation differently.
As she had done so many times before, Elizabeth shook off her thoughts almost as one shakes off tears. It was a cruelty to lead him into a territory where the suffering would be excruciating for him.
“I believe men place too much importance…on…that aspect of marriage. We women are different. Charlotte—”
“Enough,” he interrupted, laughing in amusement. “I hope you are not about to bring Mrs Collins into our conversation as an example of womanhood.”
“Darcy!” she exclaimed in that petulant yet cheerful tone he adored, for they could speak freely during such discussions.
“Do not ‘Darcy’ me, madam!” he commanded.
“Are you suggesting that Charlotte is not a woman?” Elizabeth asked, stretching out on the sofa, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, yet curious to hear his response.
“Let us say that Mrs Collins is a woman for Mr Collins. But what was it that Mrs Collins told you?”
“I thought you wished to know nothing of Charlotte,” she countered, and they both laughed in the darkness. Then she turned slightly to look at him, for she could always guess his expressions, even when she could not see him clearly.
“Let us say I am intrigued to hear what ‘wise’ words and counsel regarding marriage Elizabeth Bennet received from Mrs Collins.”
Elizabeth hesitated, though not because she wished to withhold anything she had discussed with Charlotte or with anyone else. Rather, in the brief time she had spent in his presence, she had come to realise how shallow Charlotte’s view of marriage truly was.
“Elizabeth,” he prompted her gently. “Your friend accepted Mr Collins mere days after he proposed to you—and before that, he had set his sights on your elder sister—”
“I accepted you after three minutes,” she interjected. However, it was merely in jest, a continuation of the playful dialogue between them, for every moment she spent by his side was a blessing, even in their present dramatic circumstances. And what she felt now would have made her genuinely blissful had she indeed become his wife.
“You accepted a business arrangement after refusing a marriage proposal in no uncertain terms.”
“I assure you, no matter what ‘arrangement’ Mr Collins might have proposed, my answer would have remained the same,” she replied, telling him in her own way that there had always been an unspoken attraction between them from the beginning.
“And why is that?” he wished to know.
Elizabeth fell into thought, but Darcy did not wish for her to remain silent.
“Speak every thought that crosses your mind,” he urged, his tone firm with expectation.
“Mr Collins is a servile, pompous, self-important, and self-righteous man. But that is not what matters… He is an unpleasant man, a man one could never love. I believe that is, in the end, what happened to Charlotte—she did not love him, and because of that, what…passes between them is…far from pleasant.”
In the darkness, Darcy strove to maintain his composure, to speak to her without slipping into that perilous space from which he knew he could only emerge defeated. But Elizabeth needed the truth, for no matter how difficult it was to admit, she had to understand not only what life had taught her but also what he could not offer her.
“Is that what she told you?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth confessed. “She told me that far from being something she enjoyed, it was simply necessary…to have children.”
And for a few moments, they both lay in silence, for until that instant, neither of them had thought about children…and yet, they would have come, had things between them been typical for a married couple. In the quiet of the room, both mourned for a moment the unborn children who would have run across the lawns of Pemberley, who would have played with the wooden horse in the nursery.
“Mrs Collins spoke utter nonsense,” he said at last. “And not merely because she does not love her husband.”
Elizabeth propped herself up on one elbow, watching him intently, clearly captivated by the conversation. “I do not quite understand what you mean,” she whispered.
“My dear, love may exist between two people, and then all is simple, for their bodies will know what to do, and pleasure becomes natural to both. But—”
“But?” she prompted, fearful that he might not continue.
“But lust and passion may also exist. One may take pleasure in intimacies with a person for whom one does not harbour love yet who is pleasing to the senses. It may be a joy, a fulfilment for both, equally so when they appreciate the act itself.”
“Truly?” she exclaimed, astonished, slightly incredulous.
“You do not believe me?”
“I try,” she said with a smile.
“It is called lust, and it can exist outside the feeling you cherish so deeply…for both man and woman. It is a harmony of bodies, a mutual atonement, a shared vibration, that transforms the act that your friend considers so repugnant into pleasure. But indeed, Mr and Mrs Collins do not fall into this category…and thus, they are deprived of one of life’s most exquisite aspects.
“Come here, Elizabeth.”
“Where?” she asked in surprise.
“Beside me.”
“On the bed?” Her almost indignant voice made him laugh, dissolving the tension that might have otherwise followed.
“Yes, Mrs Darcy, on the bed beside your husband.”
For some time now, he had ceased sleeping upon a multitude of pillows; their number had diminished, and at night, he often turned onto his right side, as the physician had suggested there was less risk in doing so.
Hesitantly, Elizabeth rose and sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed, watching him, but he was still not satisfied.
“Lie down beside me, I beg you.”
With great caution, she turned and lay down beside him, maintaining some distance between them, yet as she gazed at his relaxed smile, she grew calmer. She did not know precisely when or how such transformations occurred within a man’s body. Still, she feared that any careless movement might pose a danger to him. Her eyelashes fluttered when he stroked her face lightly and whispered, “You have never told me that you love me.”
He felt her response in the way her body seemed to draw nearer to him, slipping beyond the control of her mind, but he stopped her.
“Wait, Elizabeth, please do not say it now…”
And she understood why at once. He imagined that her words would be those a devoted wife would speak to a husband on the verge of death. It would not have been insincerity but rather too much compassion, which he did not need. In the end, the only way for him to know the truth was to hear it from her father’s lips, and so she remained silent, waiting to hear what he wished to say next.
“Come closer,” he whispered, and she moved towards him until their bodies touched. In that instant, they both trembled, moved by the power of passion unfolding between them. Elizabeth sighed involuntarily and closed her eyes, almost ashamed.
“Open your eyes, my love. There is nothing more wonderful than what is happening between us.”
She opened them, and they gazed at each other for a long moment in the dim light of the room.
Then, he let his hand glide lightly over her body, and she turned her face into the pillow, instinctively drawing away from him.
“This is passion,” he murmured. “This desire that fills you without needing to love, simply wishing to take pleasure in your partner.”
He moved his hand away abruptly.
“Now go back to the sofa,” he whispered, and she hesitated.
“Go. Otherwise, you will find yourself arranging a funeral instead of travelling to Pemberley.”
She shuddered, as if waking from a dream, frightened by how completely she had lost herself, how she had surrendered to the reality of his touch, to the hand that had caressed her body.
“There is only one more thing I wish to tell you, and then you may call Georgiana so that we may all be together.”
Elizabeth heard his words as if from a distance. They had yet to take meaning, so difficult was it for her to regain her composure after that fleeting moment of happiness—followed by the pain of knowing she could not allow it to continue.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice unwavering. “We are the same, you and I. We live life with courage and curiosity. I want you to leave for Pemberley tomorrow to see what is happening there, to learn how you will care for the estate, to ask every question and receive every answer. You will write to me daily, and together, we shall plan the path you must follow so that Pemberley may continue as it always has. But when you return, you will come to this room, and you will be mine—”
“Darcy!” she cried, terrified.
“Hush, my love. Put yourself in my place. Could you continue to live as I do now—trapped in this maddening immobility, my life suspended, my every longing reduced to this unbearable stillness—desiring with all my soul to be with you? Answer honestly, as if standing before your own conscience.”
“No,” she whispered, and tears streamed down her face. She, too, had thought of this.
“Then you must accept that we must be together at any cost. I do not wish to leave this world without knowing what it is to hold you in my arms. And I am arrogant enough to want to be your first man…no matter the price.”
“And how shall I live if something happens to you…then?”
“You will live with the magnificent knowledge that you fulfilled my dearest wish and made me happier than I ever dreamt possible. Now, I beg you, go and fetch Georgiana.”
Georgiana opened the door instantly when Elizabeth knocked, still awake, her tear-filled eyes brimming with gratitude as she followed her new sister into Darcy’s room.
The women sat on either side of him, and soon, in the stillness of the house, laughter rang out.
“Lies! He is telling you a false story about the past. He once told me I was not handsome enough to tempt him,” Elizabeth said after Darcy recounted the story of their first meeting.
“No!” Georgiana cried out indignantly, briefly believing her brother was the same as he had always been. But then she lowered her voice, repeating her protest more softly, and asked for details.
And dawn found them still talking.