Page 2 of Rosings Park (Happily Ever Afterlife #2)

CHAPTER TWO

A t the top of the stairs was the large, arched window Elizabeth had seen from below. It featured the de Bourgh crest—a yellow flower that might, or might not, have been a rose crossed with a sword—and was flanked on either side by six tall, slender apertures that ran the length of the landing corridor. The dim light from without cast long bars across the floor, and Elizabeth wryly imagined that the housekeeper was leading them to some sort of dank cell.

A curious glimpse through one of these narrow windows showed her a view of a private courtyard with a fountain placed precisely in the middle of the space. It must have been grand at one time, though it did not appear functional any longer. The basins were stained with algae, and any water collected therein was a dirty brownish colour. At the pinnacle of the many tiers was a regal couple, their faces worn to indistinction as they presided over the enclosed garden, raindrops dripping from the points of their chins .

When Darcy came to an abrupt halt, Elizabeth’s attention was called back to the interior. “Where are you taking us? The family wing is the other way.”

The housekeeper paused at the open throat of the hall to the right. When she turned round, her face was as emotionless as the sculptures outside. “Her ladyship has instructed me to house Mrs Darcy in the guest wing. For her comfort.”

Elizabeth could feel Darcy stiffening beneath her grasp again, and she lightly stroked his arm. It was not enough to quell the indignation simmering in his voice. “Mrs Darcy is family. She ought to stay in the family wing.”

Mrs Knight’s placid demeanour did not waver in the face of Darcy’s mounting affront. “Those were not my instructions.”

“That is outrageous?—”

“I do not mind,” Elizabeth interjected, wary of instigating a dispute. She felt the offence to herself but was not inclined to bait a woman so recently bereft of her only child.

“Absolutely not. You are my wife and will be treated as such. You will stay in the family wing, and that is my final word on the subject.”

“I am afraid that, with so many others in residence, there is no place to put her,” said Mrs Knight.

“Nonsense. There are more than enough rooms in the family wing to house a dozen guests. There ought to be something suitable for Mrs Darcy.”

“Many of them have been shut up for years and are not presently habitable. ”

Elizabeth could have sworn she heard Darcy growl under his breath. “Are my usual chambers prepared?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent. Then Mrs Darcy will share with me.”

At last, a response from Mrs Knight: her eyes widened the slightest of increments. “I do not think Lady Catherine would approve?—”

“Lady Catherine has no say in this instance,” Darcy firmly interjected.

After several long seconds of contemplation, Mrs Knight nodded once and began walking down the opposite hall.

Although Elizabeth had seen various public rooms during her previous stay with the Collinses, she had never been above stairs at Rosings before. She discovered that the ornate style prevalent on the ground floor carried to the upper as well; the corridor was nothing if not richly appointed. Its walls were covered in a striking red silk with a raised pattern of fleur de lis, and it boasted, as Darcy had contended, a great many doors along its considerable length. The intervals between said doors contained shallow alcoves housing suits of gleaming armour, their swords pointed to the floor but at the ready—rather inhospitable, in her opinion. Above their heads, exquisite golden vaulting fanned out across the ceiling like swathes of overlapping lace. One’s eye did not quite know where to look, and the combination of colours, patterns, and textures was liable to induce a headache if endured for longer than it took to reach their chamber. On the whole, it was vastly overdone.

“Here we are,” announced Mrs Knight, stopping outside a room at the far end of the hall. Elizabeth noted that it was situated to the immediate right of a prominent pair of double doors that presumably obscured the mistress’s chambers. “I shall have Mrs Darcy’s things brought up to this room. Will you be requiring anything else?”

“No, that will be all,” Darcy curtly replied. “You are dismissed.”

The housekeeper dropped the shallowest possible curtsey and departed.

Fortunately, the bedchamber was not as outrageously decorated as the hall. It was appropriately spacious, yet not cavernous, and the only sign of medieval fashion was the fireplace, which was turreted on either side and flanked by yet another pair of knights. These held flags—sporting the de Bourgh crest, Elizabeth noted—rather than weaponry, which was at least somewhat more friendly.

She crossed to the bank of windows and knelt upon the padded bench there to look out. The view was far lovelier without the manor house in her field of vision. If she craned her neck to the left, she could just see the church spire, and that curl of smoke almost certainly originated from the parsonage. Slightly to the right of the Collinses’ residence, and above the trees, she spotted the crenellated top of a structure she did not recognise; did the park boast an actual castle on its grounds?

“I will be speaking to my aunt about her treatment of you. Trying to place my wife in the guest wing!”

Elizabeth turned to see Darcy tugging ferociously at the knot in his cravat. In his frustration, he appeared to be tightening rather than loosening it. “I beg you would not. It serves no purpose to antagonise Lady Catherine.”

“It serves the purpose of forcing her to show you greater respect.”

“I sincerely doubt you will achieve such an end. If anything, you are likely to deepen her resentment of me.”

Darcy scoffed, and the movements of his hands became more urgent yet less successful in his tussle with the neckcloth. “So I should say nothing and allow her to mistreat you?”

“For now, it is the best course,” Elizabeth said, her voice lowered to a soothing register. “Remember, your aunt is not only angry at being denied her favourite wish of uniting your two households but also mourning the loss of her only child. I cannot even imagine the things she must be feeling—sorrow, anger, disappointment, and more. Have the compassion she has not shown me and let it lie.”

Sighing, Darcy disentangled his fingers from his cravat and approached. He sat beside her in the window seat, cupped her jaw, and drew her in for a sweet kiss. “You are right, of course. Lady Catherine is not an easy sort on the best of days, and this is far from the best. I shall try to be more understanding of her grief, but know that I shall still stand firm if I feel she, or anyone else, has crossed a line. Having compassion does not require me to sit back and accept any form of treatment.”

“That is fair.”

“Even if I must be lenient with Lady Catherine, I shall at least have a word with my uncle and Marbury on this subject. They have not her excuse to be so cold and inhospitable.”

“If you must, but I ask that you at least approach the subject gently. I should not wish for them to despise me more because they feel I have complained about them.”

“Worry not, my love. I shall be diplomatic.”

“Oh dear.” Elizabeth nibbled on her lip to prevent a saucy smirk from emerging. “I am not certain whether your style of diplomacy will improve the situation or worsen it. I beg you, do not be too honest with them and insult their consequence.”

“Tease.” He leant in to kiss her.

It was the work of a single fluttering beat of her heart before Elizabeth’s amusement faded away in favour of headier feelings. Half a year into their marriage, these sensations were no longer alien to her but familiar and welcome. Between learning of Anne’s death, nights spent on the road, and various other concerns, it had been unreasonably long since her husband had touched her in this way. She had been deprived of the passion she was accustomed to, and she was eager to renew her acquaintance with it. She sank her fingers into Darcy’s hair and tilted her head to deepen their kiss, opening for him when his tongue sought hers. A stifled groan, rumbling up from deep within his chest, was her reward.

Just as her hands dropped to the knot in his cravat, determined to untangle it where he had failed, Darcy jerked back and held her away from him. His eyes were wild with desire, but there was some other emotion she could not quite place lurking in their depths. Whatever it was, it banished the stirring of lust in the pit of Elizabeth’s stomach and replaced it with a clench of unease .

“We…ah, I should call for your maid. You cannot lie down in damp clothing.”

Affixing a smile to her face that had always tempted him in the past, Elizabeth coyly suggested, “You might help me undress. Then we could lie down together.”

“No,” Darcy said so quickly that she felt a pang. He then extricated himself from her entirely and stood, putting yet more distance between them. “No, you require rest. I would not wish you to overtax yourself.”

“Overtax myself!” she exclaimed, indignant. “I have only just woken from a nap. I am perfectly able to enjoy your attentions with no risk to my wellbeing.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he said, though he sounded anything but. The way his gaze darted away from her and he fiddled with his signet ring further disclosed his unease; he was only inclined to such fidgeting when attempting to hide some sort of distress. “Even so, I would still prefer it if you were to lie down until dinner. You cannot be too careful in your condition.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue with him further, but he was already halfway across the room to the bellpull, which he impatiently tugged thrice to call forth the servants. There was no point in quarrelling with him any longer; Blake and Bailey would be there at any moment to destroy any chance of marital intimacy. Crossing her arms over her chest, Elizabeth slumped into the window seat and returned her gaze to the misty scenery outside.

Although Elizabeth had submitted to his cajoling reluctantly, she was at last tucked safely into bed where Darcy could keep watch over her. He was ostensibly attending to his correspondence, but even if the weak light cast by the cloudy sky had suited his purpose, his attention would have been invariably drawn to where his wife restlessly lay.

When Elizabeth had first told him of her pregnancy, Darcy had been overjoyed to learn that he was going to be a father. He retained fond recollections of Georgiana’s early childhood and knew, with no doubt whatsoever, that he would cherish his son or daughter from the moment of their birth.

But.

That same evening, as his wife had tossed and turned next to him in a fruitless effort to find repose, worry had begun to seep in. Memories of what his own mother had suffered to bear children had given rise to a darker anxiety. She had only successfully managed to do so twice, once for him and then again nearly twelve years later for his sister. The latter event had taken her life. In between, a series of miscarriages had weakened Lady Anne’s constitution and, in the physician’s learned opinion, resulted in her ultimate demise.

When Darcy had eventually fallen asleep that night, he had dreamt of terrible things—Elizabeth sobbing piteously, torn and bloodied sheets, and yet more sinister imaginings that were better left forgotten. Since then, these dreams had tormented him frequently, and even though he had scolded himself repeatedly that his fears were largely baseless and that Elizabeth was a hardier sort of person than Lady Anne had ever been, it was to no avail. His nighttime fantasies continued to haunt him with all the worst things his mind could possibly conjure.

During his waking hours, he could not help following his wife with his gaze, studying her closely for any sign of illness or frailty. What he witnessed was not at all comforting, even if Elizabeth and the midwife—called immediately to Pemberley before they left for Kent at his staunch insistence—both assured him that fatigue, aches, and even clumsiness were to be expected and nothing to be concerned about. Even so, he could not shake the sense of impending doom that had settled over him.

He had not touched his wife intimately since, and even recoiled from her attempts at seduction upon any flimsy premise that occurred to him, but truly he was wretched with guilt. Had he not been so… enthusiastic with his ardour, Elizabeth would not be facing childbirth so soon into their marriage. Could I not have abstained from her bed for even a single evening? His selfishness was reprehensible.

A rustling of the bedclothes and an impatient huff disrupted that maudlin train of thought, which was for the best. Darcy looked to Elizabeth, who had flopped inelegantly onto her opposite side and was presently pummelling her pillow into a different shape. He did not like to confine her against her preference, but he felt he had no choice. What shall I do if…?

No, he would not think that way. So long as precautions were taken, so long as he was vigilant, Elizabeth would be well. He could abide nothing else.