Page 50 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)

Chapter 50

New York

T he last time Elizabeth had seen New York, it had been with fresh eyes, duly impressed by the magnitude and industry of that great city. Buildings seemed to reach for the sky, the sounds of a million voices all blended together, and the overwhelming energy pulsed from every street.

This time, it felt dirty. Worn out. Weary—like herself.

Arriving as an immigrant to her own country set a different flavour in her mouth than might otherwise have been there. The colossus of Lady Liberty was a beacon of hope for the stream of humanity setting foot on American soil for the first time, but it cast a long shadow over her. They had travelled second class, for Richard had been reluctant to appear as someone from well-heeled circles, and they disembarked with the merchants and families, all filled with aspirations that only made Elizabeth’s breast fill with pity.

Over two thousand people stepped off that ship, and Elizabeth could only feel small amid the frenzy. Richard pushed through ahead of her; giving her his hand when the crowd pressed the hardest, and glancing back frequently to see that she was well, but she missed— oh , with a pang so fierce she could scarcely draw breath—she missed William’s guiding touch on the small of her back, his steady voice in her ear.

Mercifully, the entire business of immigration was over and done in only a few hours. Richard kept their marriage document close to his chest but was never required to show it. They both sighed in relief at this, for she was not eager to prove her citizenship and have her origins printed for all to see—no matter how impossible it would be for someone to find her. Richard was even less eager to surrender his proud family name, but the Ellis Island clerk recorded them as Mr and Mrs Dick Williams of London, England. His look of profound distaste at the moniker was only alleviated by the fact that they walked onto the New York Ferry only moments later—free, safe, and at least somewhat hopeful for a new beginning.

They took a room in Greenwich, in a building mostly inhabited by Dutch families. On the ship, Richard had become friendly with a merchant who intended to settle in New York near his relations. As he proved friendly and willing to be of help, they accepted his assistance in searching for a vacant abode with basic furnishings that might be had for a short term. By sunset of the first evening, they were miraculously suited with an apartment and several friendly—if unaffectedly nosy—neighbours.

“But he could not help me find work,” Richard said with some regret. “I will begin looking tomorrow.”

“What do you mean to do?” she asked.

“That, I do not know. What skills I have, I am not willing to advertise. I suspect I will have to take the first thing to appear promising.”

The apartment had but one room—a dank chamber with peeling paint and a window hardly large enough to put one’s head out. It was enough to get them off the streets, but to her—formerly used to both rural simplicity and old-world splendour—the apartment felt dirty, thin, and insecure. She drew the single chair to the centre of that room, as if trying to stay as far from the walls as she could.

“You can take the bed,” Richard offered. “I got used to sleeping anywhere, so the chair will serve for me.”

Elizabeth cast a cynical eye over the beaten-down, lumpy padding, which was to serve as a mattress, and could not decide if his offer was generous or not. Suddenly, her narrow accommodations on the steamer seemed a far-away luxury that she would have been extremely glad to reclaim.

That night, she climbed—fully clothed—into the soiled bed and stretched out rigid and straight, staring through blurred eyes at the ceiling. For the first time in all her life, she was kept awake by the sounds of shouts just outside her window… and the even more alien sound of a man snoring in the same room.

When, sometime after midnight, Richard commenced a terrified and mournful howling and fell out of his chair while fisticuffing with some nocturnal demon or other, Elizabeth only sat up and watched from a distance. She knew well enough to leave him be. After some minutes, he rolled over and settled on the floor, and she lay down again. She pressed her damp cheek onto her folded hands and gazed towards the window, too broken and exhausted for hope or optimism. All her present being centred around one clamouring regret. What have I done?

Richard was away most of the next day, and the several days following. With the few resources she could command and the help of one kind neighbour, she did manage to scrape together something that might be creatively called a meal for the end of each day. Money was not the issue—the earl had seen to that—but this teaming and vibrant city concealed a sinister shadow. It may have been welcoming on the surface, but it was nearly hostile to any outsider who would try to call it home. By the end of a week, Elizabeth had ventured far enough to discover a market, but she always hastened back, as if being caught out was a sure path to discovery and being turned over to the law.

The second week, Richard returned in the middle of the afternoon with a grim smile. “I believe I have found something out of the city.”

Elizabeth brightened eagerly. “You have? What is it?”

“It is still here in the States—I thought we could keep searching for something offshore, but this supplies the immediate need. We… we would both be wanted,” he added cautiously. “I had not thought to ask you to work, but—”

“No! I would prefer it. I do not like staring at four walls all day.”

“You will be looking at a great many more than that. There is a hotel in Newport, Rhode Island called Shoreline Resort. Someone directed me to the owner, who is in town on business, and he is looking for a caretaker; a couple, ideally. I think he took me for a former butler, or perhaps a pirate, and thought I would suit perfectly.”

“It is the accent,” she reminded him with a smile.

“Yes, well, the eye patch may have also added an aura of intrigue. He says his patrons are mostly wealthy American tourists who will pay well for the feeling of top class. Whatever the case may be, it gets us clean, honest work, and better lodgings than… here.” His eye rounded the room with faint distaste. “Do you object to going tomorrow?”

“Can we leave today?”

Pemberley

D arcy could not recall a time when he had fired off more telegrams and express letters in the space of a month, yet he had sent all these in one day. Knowing that George Wickham was still very much interested in his affairs and in possession of a disturbing amount of information caused him to set an extra watch around all his properties. Even Georgiana made minimal protest when he posted a footman outside whichever room she happened to occupy.

He requested, and paid extraordinarily well, to have a private detective set after Wickham’s trail—two, in fact, as the detective had a partner. More letters followed in the coming days, to anyone Darcy felt he could trust with connections to the Army, especially Houghton.

Clearly, Wickham knew someone . The only question was when and how he would make his demands this time. With Georgiana well secured and Richard slipping the snare, Wickham had lost his best chances of extorting more money from Darcy… unless he had only meant it to look threatening. The odd timing of the different tips about Richard’s whereabouts still sat uneasily with him.

There was one mercy in all the distress and uncertainty regarding Wickham: Darcy had fewer hours of the day to miss Elizabeth. He could not sit all afternoon in the stable gazing at that horse she had favoured. He could not brood over his uncontested chessboard or billiards table, and he could not sequester himself in a dark room with nothing but his own thoughts and memories to sift.

The feelings still came, though. When he would turn to look at a certain window, an image would flash to mind of some occasion when she had sat in front of it, or he had watched her through it. The arrangement of the silverware at mealtimes recalled her charming confusion as to which utensil performed which task. The particular cast of light when one of the maids opened the door to the servant’s corridor brought him back in an instant to the day they had scurried, bumping and gigging in the narrow passage in their soiled clothes. His morning shave—each day, it felt that he was choosing again to be the man she had made of him, rather than the one he had been before.

These, and a thousand other seconds when something would tickle his mind, or sometimes burst upon it with all the force and terror of a thunderstorm, all assured him of one thing. His was a faithful heart that would forever cling fast to the one it had chosen, and neither death nor life would change that fact.

The worst moments were those dark reflections in his room, when dusk had settled, all had fallen quiet, and he was entirely alone with the chilling and sickening understanding of how his Elizabeth must now be spending her nights. It mattered little how much he loved his cousin, or how much he admired the good man and noble soldier he was. It was even precious little comfort when he consoled himself with the idea that Richard would never harm her… not on purpose, anyway. All that weighed and pressed into his being was that she was his— as surely as the moon belongs with the sun—and another man now claimed those privileges she had reserved for him alone. Lover’s sighs in his ear, touches that only she would know and understand… and now he could grasp why so many men turned to the sedation of the bottle when life’s disappointments seemed too bitter even for sleep.

And so, he conceived a plan that might bring relief, or at least a reprieve. A time away from Pemberley, away from Wickham and his schemes, and away from all memory. “Georgiana,” he asked her one morning over breakfast, “what would you say if I escorted you to Boston?”

She looked blankly up from her plate, still chewing her strawberry until she gulped it down in surprise. “I thought you already meant to escort me. I cannot fancy you allowing me to sail alone, and then never setting eyes on the school for yourself. I suppose you mean to hire a dozen guards to prowl about the campus—”

“Allow me to rephrase. When I said ‘escort,’ I meant to stay… for a time. To see that you are doing well, naturally.”

She took a long swallow from her teacup. “You cannot board in a house for young ladies, William.”

“Of course not, but I think I can afford my own rooms in the city. Or we could simply take a house, and stay there together if you do not object. Besides, I have been to the States only once, and I had to cut my visit short when Father fell ill. I should like to see a bit of the country for myself.”

Her lips puckered. “You are not thinking of going to Wyoming, are you? I doubt they have more Elizabeths there.”

Darcy’s eyes widened. “Oh, bollocks!” he hissed under his breath.

“Well, you needn’t swear at me, for it is hardly my fault if—”

He raised a hand. “No, forgive me, but you just brought to mind that I never replied to Mr Gardiner’s last letter about the Bennets. I sent the money for their passage, but I never told him what has happened since then. Heavens! He must be carrying on as if nothing at all has changed! And Bingley will not return for another…”

He cast a quick glance to the ceiling, counting the dates since Bingley’s wedding. “Botheration! Gardiner will be putting the Bennet family on a ship bound for London any day. Excuse me, Georgiana. I need to send him a message at once.”

Newport, Rhode Island

N ewport was a vast improvement over New York, but to Elizabeth’s mind, that was still saying little.

It was not that the environ was in any way objectionable. Indeed, the hotel was as fine as anything she had seen in London—save for Mr Darcy’s house—and all her material wants were answered in abundance. The work was not arduous. In fact, she rather enjoyed her duties of supervising the female staff and ensuring that the guests were all pleased with their accommodations.

But the odd impression she felt from the immaculate and enterprising hotel was that it was a pale impersonation of a real home—that the guests paid vast sums of money for something that looked and felt genuine, but could never be so.

She did find solace in her early morning walks by the shore. Before dawn, even before Richard roused in the next room, she would slip out alone and watch the sun rising over the bay—and could not help but wonder what it had seen on its course, as it passed over a little green haven in rural England.

The first day she came back after her walk, Richard had looked peculiarly at her, asked after her activities, and mumbled something about her safety. He did not offer to join her, but neither did he seem to object. After that, he never said a word about it, much to her relief. It was the only part of her routine that she could claim for her own, and perhaps the only thing binding her mind to her body in this surreal time.

Richard did not seem wholly delighted with his position. He smiled and spoke with good cheer, but it was not enough to fool anyone who had seen him in his element—a child of the sun, a man most at home when he was forging his way in the face of great odds. A fighter, a commander of men and beasts, and now he was bowing and scraping before wealthy boors, many of whom put on airs of refinement while treating a true son of nobility as their butler. It was enough to make Elizabeth’s blood boil more than once in those first two weeks, as she watched some prosperous, overweight chump doing everything but pat Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam on the head.

He passed it off as no matter. “I have had to endure far worse,” he said cryptically, and then turned the conversation to what he meant to do after . After the next niche in the world, after the next stage in life, after they had been safe long enough to breathe.

But for Elizabeth, there was no “after.” Richard envisioned the future spread out before them as a twisting and advancing path—tangled, to be sure, but it had a destination. Elizabeth saw only an empty cavern, the walls and corners of which were so devoid of character or shape that she knew not how to begin filling it.

T here was a time once when it would have been difficult even to glance at Elizabeth without rousing her notice. Alert, inquisitive, and always ready to engage, the Elizabeth he had known in Wyoming would never stare blankly at the floor while he spent uncounted minutes waiting for her to look up. The Elizabeth of today seemed to be searching, but no longer outside of herself.

Richard continued to study her—his wife. She was slimmer than before, her colour less vibrant than it once was, but still she was a woman to turn any man’s head. Even distressed and displaced as she was now, she was resilient. Patient, good-natured, pleasant company, and she seemed to like and admire him. So, what the devil was wrong with him?

He ought to be wooing her. Bringing her a daisy plucked from the flower beds, rising early to spend a few moments with her before the beginning of the day, enjoying her laughter each evening before...

Well, perhaps it was too soon for that. How was he to ask for her body when Darcy still owned her spirit? His cousin’s figure had yet to fade from her eyes, but perhaps it was because he himself had given her little else to look at.

She glanced up at last when he cleared his throat. “My dear, you seem fatigued or out of sorts this evening. Something the matter?”

“Oh... no, it is merely a headache.” Her features became contemplative, and she tilted her head to the side as if to persuade him of her discomfort.

“If you will permit me—my former batman, Giles, he had this marvellous trick. May I?”

She straightened and blinked, her entire manner curious but apprehensive.

He moved slowly, taking up his stance behind her chair and allowing his fingers to hover over the curve of her neck. She turned to look up at him, but he gently angled her head forward.

“Giles had this way,” he continued. “I admit I have never tried it myself, but he found ample opportunity to employ it on me. Perhaps I can duplicate the effect. Tilt your chin down just a bit.”

She obeyed, but her shoulders were still held high and tight as he started to work his fingertips into the base of her skull. She flinched at first—whether from pain or some other form of discomfort. He kept at it, however, and slowly, reluctantly, she let go of the air trapped in her chest.

“Was today particularly trying for you?” he asked, hoping to unlock her reserve. Good heavens, if Darcy , the eternal stick-in-the-mud, managed to talk to this woman, certainly he could!

“It was nothing.”

He kneaded a hard knot at the left side of her neck and noted how her spine curved away from his fingers. Subtly—she may not have even been aware of it, but he could trace what ought to have been a straight line, and see the evidence with his own eyes. He would have to work harder.

“I heard there were several large seashells on the beach this morning. The guests were all talking about it. Surely, you must have found a great many.”

“I did not go walking this morning.”

He frowned. “But you always go. Were you feeling unwell?”

The cords of her neck tightened as she shook her head faintly.

He concealed a sigh. “Well... we are due for a day off on Wednesday. What do you say we go out together? You can show me your favourite vantage point, and then perhaps afterwards we could walk into town, view the fountains and the promenade. Perhaps a bit of ice cream. What do you think?”

The side of her cheek lifted in a soft smile. “If you like.”

Well. For a woman of such lively impertinence, she was certainly... agreeable.

“And do you know,” he forged on, “we ought to go shopping for a proper wedding ring. Anything you fancy. I saw a lady’s ring today that was white gold with sapphires and—”

She stiffened her neck out of his reach and massaged it with her own palm, then rose. “This is feeling much better, but I am afraid I am quite tired this evening.”

He dropped his hands. “Very well. Are you sure?”

She nodded, her eyes too flighty to hold his gaze for long. “I slept poorly last night, I suppose.”

“I woke you again,” he guessed. “It must have been a bad one, to wake you in the next room.”

She nibbled her lower lip. “I’ve become used to it. No, it was nothing—I was only restless.”

“Ah... well, then. I shall bid you a good night.”

She drew a breath and stepped around the chair to rest her hand over his. “Thank you, Richard,” she whispered. There was a quick hesitation, then she pecked a kiss on his cheek before turning and going to her room.

Whether Elizabeth rested that night, he never knew. Sleep was maddeningly elusive for him, however. There was no excuse in the world for the sassy vixen who used to fly across the Wyoming range with her hair streaming in unruly knots and her tongue ready to slice any foe to ribbons—no reason at all why she would not now speak a word that was not some passive banality.

No reason, except that she was no longer the same Elizabeth Bennet. She had left a jagged piece of herself on that mountain prairie she had once called home. And, quite possibly, an even larger portion of her being now resided in Derbyshire. What did that leave for him?

Yet, what troubled him more was his own mirror. If she had been submissive and silent, he had been a false veneer of hope and good cheer. He knew what his own front concealed—a lava bed of rage and resentment, of hurt and emptiness. What of hers? How long before they both cracked, and would they even know each other in the aftermath?