Page 43

They reached the steps of her temporary dwelling, and she led him down from the street level to her garden apartment.

Closing the door behind them, she let the light flicker on, then ran a look over him in wonder.

Hair tussled from the rain, he raked his hands through it.

His chin bore the signs of a day’s growth of dark whisker, and as he removed his coat, he looked a bit thinner than he did when she saw him step from the pool at Netherfield.

A million questions still danced in her mind, but she couldn’t snatch one long enough to ask it.

She wanted to tell him over and over again that she loved him, but all she could find to say was, “Are you hungry? I have some stew in the ice box.”

Darcy smiled. “That sounds marvellous. I don’t think I’ve eaten since this morning at the hospital.”

Lizzy was already in the small kitchen by the time he finished his sentence, and she peered around the corner at him. “Hospital? Why were you in hospital? Tell me everything.”

He drew up behind her and gingerly placed his hands on her waist. She moved to the stove. “I don’t suppose you could make us a cup of tea…” he asked. Of course. Tea.

She leaned against him and closed her eyes a moment. “In the pantry. I found some tea at the grocer’s this morning. There’s milk in the icebox.”

They felt awkward together, the passion of their meeting lost back in that shelter from the rain. Getting them both something to eat. That’s what she would do… and just look at him.

They sat down to two bowls of stew, bread from the Russian bakery and butter, and a pot of tea.

She ate slowly, watching him. He was ravenous.

By the second bowl, he’d told her of his swim in the iceberg-strewn Atlantic, of his resignation to death as his limbs slowly froze, and his awakening at Bellevue Hospital.

A pensive look crossed his face as he settled into silence for a moment. “You didn’t, by any chance, find a person on board called Lev… Lev… something with a “ski” at the end of it?”

“ Lev Shklovsky.”

His dark eyes sparkled. “Yes, that was his name. He was rescued, then?”

Lizzy nodded. “He was, and his wife and child…” She blinked slowly, the scene aboard the Carpathia instantly before her eyes—Darcy was dead.

He’d given his place to another, then he disappeared as their lifeboat was lowered…

rowing through the black night… rending metal, the strange keening of a thousand voices as they desperately clawed as the near vertical deck of the great vessel dragged them to their deaths.

Darcy spoke, but she couldn’t hear him. His face was the perfect image of joy unburdened of suffering. But her throat closed with sorrow, a paralysis of grief.

He stopped talking for a moment to finish his meal, and she felt herself floating away.

In panic, she reached over and grabbed his forearm to anchor herself, and for no reason that she could fathom, the tears came.

Not just coursing down her cheeks, but a great silent howl that she tried desperately to release.

No sound came, then as she sucked in a breath, the great wracking sobs gushed forth in wave after wave.

She had no control over them. They vomited out of her like a long-suppressed infection that his presence had finally lanced.

Darcy abandoned his chair and lifted her from her seat.

He didn’t speak, or if he did, she didn’t hear him.

He drew her down on the sofa, wrapping her in his arms. He rested his cheek upon her head, holding her tight against him.

She trembled, the cold, merciless water of the Atlantic finally seeping into her bones, freezing her.

The memory of the dark water lapping against the sides of the lifeboat, the shrieking of the thousand voices of the doomed, the monolith disappearing into the depths, all kept at bay for so long, now flooded over her.

She wept and coughed and wept again. How long he held her, she didn’t know, but after a time, the crying stopped, and she was breathing hard as she did as a girl when she ran from Longbourn to Meryton.

This time, there was no joy in it. She was suddenly very tired.

***

The unmitigated relief Darcy felt when he’d first laid eyes on Elizabeth took a sudden turn into desperation.

Until he held her, her shaking fragility in his arms, he had no idea of the toll the events of the last week had taken on her strength and independence.

She shifted from his embrace and got shakily to her feet.

He held out his hand to her, and she took it to steady herself and then let it go.

She straightened her hair and walked back to the table.

With trembling hands, she shakily finished the tea that had gone cold in her cup.

Taking a deep breath, she excused herself to the water closet. Darcy sat, staring after her.

After a few moments, she came back out and leaned against the doorjamb, shivering, her body the essence of exhaustion.

“ Come.” He stood and waited. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He thought perhaps she’d have a teasing retort for such a notion, but her eyes were dull and full of suffering.

She took his hand this time, and after leading her to the bedroom, she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. He knelt down and unbuttoned her shoes, then slid them off. Leaning over, she attempted to roll down her stockings, but wobbled and then caught herself before she fell back.

A thousand times he had envisioned such a scene in his fevered imagination, but never under such heartrending circumstances.

He shifted her skirt slightly, exposing her thighs, and one by one, he rolled her stockings down as she attempted to undo the bodice of her dress.

Her hands shook and wouldn’t obey her, so he undid the clasps and eased it over her head.

Her hair spiked in utter disarray, and he painstakingly removed all the pins until it fell lifelessly to her shoulders.

Still restrained in her corset, he divested her of it.

Dressed now only in her chemise and drawers, she put a hand to her head, looking more and more unsteady, and he eased her back to rest upon the pillow.

She curled herself in a ball, and even though the room was warm, she shivered.

“ Cold,” she said.

He stood there for a moment, battling with himself.

They weren’t married. Everything he ever learned about what society allowed, about what he felt was right, warred with his inclination.

As a gentleman, he should keep his distance, now, especially.

But there she was, his Elizabeth, shivering and shaking with torment.

She needed him. He needed to hold her, comfort her.

Could that be wrong? What did it matter, right or wrong, acceptable or unsuitable?

Here they were in a strange land, among strangers, having survived a monumental tragedy. So why did he still hesitate?

“ C-cold,” she whispered.

He hesitated no longer. After taking down his braces, he slipped out of his trousers and laid them on the foot of the bed, then undid the buttons of his shirt.

Clad only in his underclothes, he lay down next to her, the mattress springs squeaking slightly as he pulled her close.

Within seconds, she turned in to him, nestling her head on his shoulder, her breathing ragged from sobbing.

Pulling the blanket to cover her back, he rested his cheek in her hair and his own reserve began to splinter.

Elizabeth didn’t speak or attempt to look at him.

He couldn’t think anymore, only feel. Was it unmanly of him to weep with her?

Grateful she couldn’t see his face, tears slipped from his eyes.

He rubbed her back and shoulder as she nestled into him, her body unwinding from its protective curl.

He wanted to wail and cry out, just as she did, to add his voice to the great screaming howl of the lost ship that he so fortunately escaped.

Instead, he gulped the warm air of the room, and let his silent tears spill into her hair.

He could not bring himself to release her, even to wipe them away.

Her breathing eventually slowed into the pattern of slumber, and kissing the crown of her head, he gave way to sleep.

***

The tolling of the noon bells roused Lizzy. She turned over and ran her hand over the bed. Empty save herself. For a moment, she tried to recollect the events of the previous evening. Of one thing she was sure—Darcy had spent the night in her bed.

“ Darcy?” She called out his name once, twice, thrice. No answer. Pulling the blanket over her shoulders, she peered through the open door of the bedroom into the sitting room. The dishes from the previous night were gone, and a folded piece of paper leaned against the sugar bowl.

She went over and picked it up. In pencil the words Dearest Elizabeth were scrawled. She opened it.

My Darling Elizabeth,

I have gone back to the bank in search of my money, and failing that, to the Western Union to send a telegram to my solicitor. Those two activities will probably bankrupt me for the moment, so you will be my sole means of support.

She crinkled her eyes in amusement before a sudden wave of panic overtook her.

What if he never came back?

She had no doubt that he would never abandon her through his own volition, but what if he was struck by a streetcar or an automobile? These Americans insisted on driving on the wrong side of the road. If he forgot that for a moment, then….

Sitting heavily, she leaned her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. Stop it, Lizzy. Stop it this instant. She’d never felt this way in her life. It was as if every ounce of strength she possessed had drained. Forcing herself to read on, she spread the letter on the table.

I will be back as soon as I can. I hope you can forgive me for leaving you alone this morning, but you were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you. Say a prayer that the bank is more understanding this morning. We can make our plans after that.

Yours Always,

Darcy

She rose from the table and stood for a moment.

A lightness of spirit filled her for the first time since…

since that waltz at Netherfield. He was hers.

She read the words again… Yours Always, Darcy .

She wondered if her cheeks would begin to ache from smiling so much.

Taking a breath, she marched back into the bedroom.

There were things to do, not the least of which was to bathe and dress. Darcy would be back.