The Trouble with Mr. Darcy (13 page)

“What symptoms precisely?”

“Moodiness, irrationality, and dispiritedness primarily. I know you have been the brunt of these and probably more. Ofttimes there are physical manifestations such as tremulousness, pallor, fatigue, although most of that is probably an effect of not caring for themselves. Also sexual apathy and the inability to rouse.”

Darcy stiffened noticeably at the latter, his face tightening further as he looked away. George nodded grimly, another piece of the tragic puzzle falling into place.

“Is it permanent? Can you help her?” Darcy finally choked out.

George nodded. “I have been on the job for a few weeks now and have seen improvement. She is more balanced, sleeping better, and not as overwrought. She is still gloomy, but I am beginning to believe the cause is not her illness as much as it is sadness over the situation with you.”

Darcy barked harshly, unable to control the skepticism in that statement. “I rather doubt that. She avoids me completely and has made it abundantly clear how she feels about me.” His fingers rose to press on his left cheek, the memory of her slap searing as the day it happened.

“You are a fool,” George snapped.

“I will not listen to you insulting me, Uncle. I appreciate your concern for our well-being and am willing to accept some of what you have said, but you are not privy to our intimate relationship. You do not know what you are talking about!” He launched from his chair, eyes blazing. “You march in here after weeks away, declaring that my wife is unbalanced”—he shuddered at the conjured image of an insane Elizabeth locked in some sanatorium or distant chamber—“talking about chemicals and psychology and other rot. Furthermore you claim to have our relationship all figured out! You have no idea what has gone between us, how hard I have tried to reach her.”

“That is precisely my point, Fitzwilliam,” George interrupted calmly. “Reasoning with a woman in her state is fruitless.”

“I see,” Darcy interjected with heavy sarcasm. “You know all. Well, let me tell you what I know. My wife shudders at my touch. She hides from me. Does not speak to me unless it is in anger. She…” He stopped with a sob, twirling away and swaying slightly before heading firmly to the liquor cabinet.

Silence fell. George waited as Darcy drank not one but two shots of whiskey in rapid succession. “That will not help, you know.” Darcy did not answer, pouring a third glass instead. George sighed, rising, and speaking quietly. “I understand that you are hurting, William. So is Elizabeth. Trust me in this. I will give you both time to heal, overcome your fears and pride. But, you see, I know something that I think you two have forgotten in your pain and misery. Great love does not die so easily. Years apart do not sever the bond, nor does death. Elizabeth needs you, and you need her. It really is that simple.”

And he left. Darcy sat the filled glass down, bowing his head and standing immobile for a long while before climbing the stairs for a much-needed bath and shave.

Feeling improved once clean and properly attired, Darcy passed the afternoon in deep contemplation of his uncle’s words. He began by scouring the medical texts—not due to doubt in the knowledge possessed by Dr. Darcy, but out of a need to clarify. Unfortunately, the books were silent on the subject other than vague references to melancholia or lethargy in the immediate post-partum periods. Not helpful in the least.

He considered every word spoken and forced himself to look at the situation from a different perspective other than the one clouded by pain and misery. The concept of Elizabeth being ill with an organic, curable ailment had never occurred to him. Although his insides chilled at the idea of his wife ravaged by sickness of any type, it did offer a plausible explanation for the bizarre evolution from loving to estranged wife that he had often questioned, as it seemed unfitting when explained as simple exhaustion and worry over Michael. Her total withdrawal from him and the relationship they had fought so hard to forge was unfathomable, even if that is how it appeared to be.

Weeks of turmoil could not be rationalized or erased in one afternoon of analysis, but a glimmer of hope touched Darcy’s heart. Now he needed to decide the next step and put aside his fears.

George presented a possibility by insisting they dine together that night as a family. Darcy quailed at admitting it, but he was relieved that someone else took the initiative in bringing them together. Bolstering his flagging courage, he entered the dining room first, determined to assess his wife’s demeanor and overcome this obstacle as they had prior ones.

He was stiff with nervousness, feeling twice the fool for being so uncomfortable and flustered in his own home and with his own wife. The constant mental chastisement to relax only served to tighten his nerves. Rehearsing casual conversation and solicitous remarks when they should come naturally only annoyed him, which caused him to forget them anyway!

Then George breezed in, as sprightly as always and carrying Alexander, who was wearing an Indian style tunic of so many colors Darcy lost count at twelve. He chatted effervescently, tickled a giggling Alexander as the toddler was placed into his seat at the table, and took the seat beside him without a mention of the unusual circumstances. Darcy supposed his uncle’s blithe attitude and Alexander’s outlandish dress were designed to calm him, and was surprised to find that it did! Plus it helped to have Alexander there to attend to, the art of proper table manners one he was still learning and not very proficient in. The edginess remained, but Darcy felt a few coiled nerves unwind as he assisted his son and they waited for Elizabeth to arrive.

She was late, sprinting in through the open door with head down and making a beeline for her usual place setting on the other side of Alexander. She jerked to a stop when she realized George was seated there, thus leaving the chair immediately to Darcy’s right empty. Her eyes darted to his face, a flush spreading over her cheeks as she bit her lip and resumed her hasty steps to the table. She murmured her greetings, plopping into the chair and unfolding her napkin with spastic motions.

Darcy’s breath caught the second she entered the room. So riveted was he to her presence and stunning beauty that specifics were unnoticed initially. Her hair was dressed elaborately, the curled tresses lush and vibrantly shining as they had not been at their last close encounter that fateful day she slapped him. Her cheeks were full and flushed, and her skin bronzed rather than sallow. She wore one of his favorite gowns, his heart lurching at the sight and the memories evoked. Her appearance rattled him, his body responding violently so that he pressed his thighs tightly together and clamped his hands onto the chair arms before embarrassing himself totally. Every muscle hardened, literally, and his blood pounded so loudly all extraneous sound disappeared.

He hungered to see her eyes, but when she glanced his direction it was swift and indecipherable. Darcy frowned, finally registering that she had paused, flushed after looking at him, and was clearly disturbed to be seated next to him. Did she not know he was to dine with her?

His scrutiny began with his observing the details missed initially. She was beautiful and definitely healthier, but there were dark circles under her eyes not able to be hidden with cosmetics. The dress clung to her full breasts—Darcy quite distracted by that fact—but was loose at the waist and shoulders. Beyond the physical signs indicative of residual weariness and illness were the flustered movements and reticence so alien to her usual deportment.

Taken altogether, they confused Darcy more than ever. Over time, his skill in reading his wife’s thoughts had grown, but now he felt lost. She was entirely shut down and so unlike her usual self that he simply had no idea what to say or do. All his carefully rehearsed phrases vanished and he was left to stare open mouthed, not even standing when she entered as he should have.

George continued to talk, Lizzy answering with nods and monosyllables for the most part. Darcy realized he was staring and pulled his eyes away, reaching for the wine glass and proceeding to swallow half the liquid in one gulp in hopes of calming his frayed nerves and relieving his parched throat.

“Papa, spoon for soup this way?”

Darcy started, not aware that the soup course had been served, and turned toward Alexander. “Yes,” he croaked, pausing to clear his throat with another sip of wine before leaning to help, “but not too much in the spoon or you will drip. And never slurp, as fun as that is to do.”

“You can slurp all you want when eating with nanny,” George said, “but for some reason it is not allowed in public.”

“Manners, Uncle. It is called proper manners.”

George shrugged. “In some places they just pick up the bowl and drink right out of it. Did you know that, Alexander? Indeed they do. Gets the food in much quicker and the meal ends sooner than the interminable affairs we have here.”

“Look on the bright side, you get to eat more if the meal lasts a long while.”

“True. That is a benefit. Forget what I said, my boy. Take your time and we shall see who eats the most.”

“A connest?”

“That’s right, a contest. I bet you win.”

“Highly unlikely that even I could win that contest”—Darcy laughed—“but give it your best attempt, Alexander.” The boy set to his bowl with serious intent, Darcy laughing again. As he straightened in his seat he glanced to the right and caught Lizzy gazing at him. Her eyes were round and glistening, lips parted slightly, an expression of pain crossing her features.

A frown of concern knitted his brows and instinctively he extended his hand toward her. Unfortunately, his body was crooked in the chair and his fingers knocked against the edge of the soup bowl just hard enough to clang it against the wine glass. To make matters worse, Rothchilde bent at that precise moment to pour more wine, not only missing the glass as it moved, but also obstructing Darcy’s view of Elizabeth and interrupting his words. So what intended to be a sincere inquiry as to what was distressing her came out as, “What is wrong… Oh damn!” as the wine spilt onto the white linen tablecloth.

The minor mishap was exacerbated by the curse word, Darcy embarrassed by his uncharacteristic outburst and Rothchilde surprised to hear it. The footman erupted into apologies as he wiped up the crimson fluid with Darcy hastily blotting with his napkin while assuring it was nothing to be concerned over. In seconds it was done and Darcy’s glass was refilled, but the moment to reach out was past. Lizzy was again eating her soup with studied intensity, her face composed and hands steady. She had, he noticed, scooted her chair further away but whether to give Rothchilde room to sop the mess or to place space between them he did not know.

Dinner proceeded with the strange tension thickening as the minutes ticked with agonizing slowness. The courses were served and consumed, not that Darcy would remember how they tasted or what was served. Lizzy did add to the conversation from time to time with voice subdued and comments minimal. She ate well, Darcy was pleased to see, and smiled frequently at Alexander, but she rarely glanced Darcy’s direction and maintained an erect pose throughout. Was she angry? Nervous? He could not ascertain and the dinner table was not the place to boldly confront, so he reverted to the familiarity of his taciturn nature. It restored his composure to a degree, or at least kept the pain at bay.

Luckily, Darcy was distracted with Alexander and the constant chatter from George, who cleverly steered the dialogue to drag them in. Nevertheless, the strain mounted and Darcy genuinely felt a breaking point arising beyond his control. Before matters spiraled wildly, for better or worse, Alexander inadvertently intervened. He reached the end of his forbearance when his tiny stomach was filled and the need to sit still became impossible.

At the first protest, Lizzy jumped up and dashed around the table, grabbing Alexander out of his chair and exiting the dining room with haste and few words. Darcy watched her go, longing and sadness etched upon his face.

George sighed. He stood, shaking his head as he addressed the air in general. “You two are so perfectly suited for each other. Both of you are stubborn, blinded, and ridiculous. If I were a voyeur I would wish to be there when you finally overcome your foolishness. It will be a remarkable reunion, I am sure.”

***

“But he was so stern and stiff! He barely glanced at me, frowning when he did, and barely spoke a word to me. When he did his voice was angry and he swore!”

“You see what your aching, fearful heart chooses to see, Elizabeth. Between that and a fair amount of bullheadedness, I may need to lock you two in a room together before this is over. But I would rather the resolution come naturally. Now, drink your tea, all of it, and get some rest.” George sat the tray on the small table beside the fire and turned to clasp Lizzy’s shoulders. “Do not dwell on your clouded perceptions of dinner but clear your mind instead. I think you will then see a different interpretation.”

“I just want him to laugh with me as he did Alexander,” she whispered as the tears welled, “but how can he ever forgive me?”

“Forgiveness has nothing to do with anything since there is nothing to forgive.”

“That is rather cryptic, Aristotle,” Lizzy grumbled.

George chuckled, pushing her gently but firmly into the chair. “You will figure it out. Now, drink and eat all the fruit. No arguments! Then sleep. Tomorrow will be brighter, I am sure of it.”

Lizzy grunted but took a large bite of apple even as she glared at the doctor’s retreating back. She stared into the flames as she absently chewed and sipped, rehashing dinner over and over. Had she misinterpreted? It certainly is true that she had barely looked at her husband, shame and nervousness sapping every ounce of fortitude.