Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Twelve

The morning after his family left Darcy wondered if he'd somehow made Elizabeth angry with him.

He also was sleepy, he'd grown used to falling asleep with her, and it was now hard to sleep alone in a cold bed without anyone to hold, and without the reassuring sound of Elizabeth's steady breaths.

She had been sick and after the carriages departed cast up her accounts suddenly in the entryway. That scared him. It wasn't good when people got sick. They sometimes died. Mama died.

Long breaths. Let that fear go. He in fact had no special reason to worry about Elizabeth's health, his wife was a healthy young woman who showed no signs of frailty.

It had only been one night.

She hadn't wanted to join with him last night, and she had sent him back to his bedroom, claiming it would help her sleep and recover.

He needed her again.

Elizabeth had come down for breakfast, but beyond a few mumbled commonplaces, they had not said anything.

That was also different. He'd gotten used to hearing her voice. At first during the week in London, and later on the road, she had sometimes been quiet in this way. But in the three weeks since they returned to Pemberley, life had become what he'd imagined it would be with Elizabeth. Cheerful, full of clever conversations, full of opportunities for sparkling debates, teasing, and chances to make her laugh and to laugh himself.

Friendly. Warm. Like nothing he'd felt since Mama had died.

And it was all gone this morning.

Elizabeth looked more ill than she had the previous day, her face pale and white. She had bags under her eyes, and she only ate a few bites. She left early for a walk, and waved off Georgiana and himself when they offered to join her, saying that she had a headache at present and just wanted to see if it would take its leave if she walked in circles without saying anything.

Darcy considered that an odd way of dealing with a headache, but he suppressed his urge to force Elizabeth to sit near the fire, covered in blankets until she felt better. Darcy thought that nature generally pointed the best direction to the body for recovery, and if Elizabeth felt that she ought to walk in the cold to refresh herself, then that was more likely to do good than anything else.

Darcy retreated to his desk.

He had a full stack of papers. The work of the estate that had collected over the two weeks of the house party, plans for the spring, plans for investments, a proposal that one of his neighbors had made for an additional school to be opened that would be shared by the children in the eastern part of Darcy's lands with the children of his own tenants.

All of the words swam before his eyes.

Anxiety for Elizabeth. And an unpleasant feeling that something was deeply wrong between them, which sat in his stomach until it curdled.

Giving him a welcome break from his worries, Mrs. Reynolds entered the room with a cautious knock.

"Mr. Darcy, might I occupy a few minutes of your time?" She did not meet his eyes, and there was something about her expression that was odd.

The housekeeper wiped her hands on her dress when Darcy directed her to sit across from him. She frowned when she sat, wringing her hands repeatedly.

"Is it something about Mrs. Darcy?"

"What? Oh no… no. Or in a way."

Relief turned to a jump of worry in his stomach.

Mrs. Reynolds did not look at him. She drew circles with her finger on the knee of her dress. He'd known the woman since he was a young child, and Darcy was reasonably certain that he had never seen her behave in such a way.

"I beg you, deliver your news, you make me anxious."

"I have a confession to make." Mrs. Reynolds met his eye briefly, and then looked away.

"A confession? What could you have to confess to? Have we lost all our jam preserves?"

"No, sir." She did not smile. "The preserves are as they ever have been. Do you recall that portrait?"

"Which portrait?"

She looked at him in a frowning way. Then Darcy knew. "The miniature of Mr. Wickham from my father's sitting room?"

She nodded, and Darcy's blood ran cold.

"I… Miss Darcy begged me to permit her to keep it, and Mrs. Darcy agreed that I ought. And… at the time it seemed wrong to me. Wrong to destroy that picture of Wickham's boy. Mr. Wickham deserved better than to have his son's portrait burned. But—"

"Mrs. Darcy asked you to not damage the portrait?" Darcy asked again.

"She did. But she said that if I disagreed, I ought to take the matter to you again. You should not think ill of her over this."

He'd seen Mr. Wickham look at Elizabeth. He'd dared to look at Darcy's wife on the open street. Though they were not married then. He was still at that time determined to have nothing to do with her. But George Wickham had still kissed Elizabeth's hand, smiled and simpered at her, and told her stories .

She'd believed him.

An image, one that he had no reason to believe was a true image, and many reasons to believe that it was false, flashed into mind. Wickham kissing his wife, taking his arms around her, pulling her body against him.

"I heard," Mrs. Reynolds added when it was clear to her that Darcy was not saying anything else, "from one of Lord Matlock's servants, a man lately employed by Colonel Fitzwilliam, that young Wickham had tried to do damage to the family. Lord Matlock's man… did not say what had occurred, but I gathered from how he spoke that Mr. Wickham may have tried to opportune Georgiana during the summer and—"

"Did you not think that I might have had a good reason to insist on destroying that portrait?" Darcy asked with icy sharpness. "Did you not ever think ?"

He saw himself as though from the outside. He was angrier than he had ever been in the presence of Mrs. Reynolds. Perhaps the only other times he had ever been this angry had also revolved around Mr. Wickham.

He forced himself to appear calm. Swallowed the anger.

Act as Father would expect. You are a gentleman. A gentleman is always even tempered, no matter the situation.

"My apologies, Mrs. Reynolds. So Miss Darcy requested the portrait, and you gave it to her." Darcy's voice was light, fey. That rage though was in his chest. Powerful and red, there even though it did not come out into his voice.

Was his sister still under that man's spell? He'd thought that she had at least enough sense to be past the matter. "And what exactly did Elizabeth have to do with this? — did she also beg that Wickham's portrait be saved?"

"No." Mrs. Reynolds looked unsettled.

Darcy was surprised, he thought he sounded completely calm. "What precisely did Mrs. Darcy have to do with the matter?"

"As I said, she just said that Miss Darcy should have the portrait I… it was a slip of judgement. I should never have let her convince me in this way."

Darcy stared at her. "Elizabeth can be persuasive."

"I meant Miss Darcy," Mrs. Reynolds said firmly. "I—"

"And the portrait was not destroyed?"

"I gave it into Miss Darcy's possession."

His sister must look at it every evening.

She likely longingly gazed at it every time she went to her rooms. And Elizabeth, perhaps she imagined that it was Wickham's lips on hers when they joined. Maybe Georgiana kissed that portrait late at night. At least it had not been given over to Elizabeth's possession.

"And, to be clear, these are all of the considerations that convinced you to disobey my most explicit orders. "

"I know that I should not—"

"Mrs. Darcy wanted my sister to keep that man's portrait?"

"I am apologize, I—"

Hand slammed on the desk.

The stinging pain on the palm was good.

It helped to bring Darcy back to reason. "I am deeply disappointed in you."

Tension. Anger.

"I understand."

"It would be within my rights to dismiss you over such a direct act of disobedience. The importance of the matter to me was clear."

"Yes."

"There was no room for ambiguity in my instructions."

"No, sir."

"I had not told you that Mrs. Darcy might overrule me on such a matter."

"No."

"See that nothing of this sort happens again. I want to be further clear, Mr. Wickham was unworthy of his father's memory, of his godfather's kindness, of his friends, and of everyone else in the most terrible ways possible. I would strongly prefer it if his name were never mentioned in my presence again, and that any memento of him in the house is destroyed."

"Yes, sir."

"Have Miss Darcy and Mrs. Darcy brought to me, and as soon as they are in my study, you will conduct a thorough search of Miss Darcy's rooms, and you will find that portrait, and you will burn it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Darcy stared at her.

She bowed and fled the room.

The air was thin. Darcy's desk was the same as it ever was. His relations were back in Matlock, not aware that Elizabeth had begged a favor for Mr. Wickham .

In London, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bingley went about their normal lives. Somewhere in the estate Mrs. Reynolds was running about, asking the servants where Georgiana and Elizabeth were. Perhaps they were coming to him already.

The ground outside was hard and frozen.

Darcy vibrated with an emotion he did not know he could feel.

Everything seemed impossibly still. Like a dam before it broke, or a battle before it began.

Georgiana came first.

"What is the matter, Fitzwilliam?"

Darcy studied her.

His voice did not want to come.

He emphatically gestured to her to sit down.

She picked at the threads of the sofa. "What is it? Did I say something to Aunt Matlock?"

Darcy just simply couldn't speak.

He wanted to ask… demand… scream at Elizabeth. Did she love Mr. Wickham? Why did she hate Georgiana? Why… Why did she disobey him? Why did she convince his oldest and most trustworthy servant to betray him?

Why had Elizabeth betrayed him for a useless creature like Mr. Wickham?

He was not rational at present. He ought to send Georgiana off. Have this conversation tomorrow. After he'd calmed.

Georgiana said, "Brother, please tell me what is the matter — is it about… are you going to send me away?"

"Why would I send you away?" The question was not rhetorical. He wished to hear what she would say.

Georgiana flushed and looked down.

"I don't know."

Darcy waited.

Where the damned hell was Elizabeth?

"I thought… did I embarrass myself horribly?"

Darcy idly wondered if Georgiana's guessing would eventually touch on what he wished to talk about. This was not the way he should behave as her guardian. It was not kind to make her guess why he was angry.

Elizabeth entered the door.

She was pale. "What is such an urgent matter? I was deep in a discussion about the preserves and what dried apples we have available for the rest of the winter with Cook, and—"

"Why!"

She halted.

Eyes widened… she went entirely still, several feet from the seat she'd walked towards.

Darcy let out a deep breath. He must master himself.

Elizabeth smoothed down her dress. She said in a clear voice, "Mr. Darcy, I have no notion of what has angered you."

"Why did you stop Mrs. Reynolds from destroying Mr. Wickham's portrait?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then she shrugged. "It seemed like the thing to do."

Are you in love with him?

Darcy could not voice the question. At least not in front of Georgiana.

He realized though, that despite the strength of his feeling towards her, that had been growing, and he realized that it had been seizing him more and more over the weeks since their marriage, he had no objective reason to believe she felt anything for him. There was nothing she had said or done, except letting him sleep by her without any comment. He had no reason to think that she cared for him as more than a tall, reasonably well featured possessor of a great fortune and estate with which she could raise her own status and that of her family.

He was a walking, clinking coin purse. That was how women saw him.

Of course she is in love with Mr. Wickham. He always was better at being loved than me .

Darcy said, "It does not matter. No. But never, never again speak against my orders."

He stared at Elizabeth. It appeared for a moment as though she meant to argue, but instead she nodded slightly, and sat next to Georgiana.

Darcy asked his sister. " Why ? Did you not know better? Have you not learned your lesson? Did you want the picture to feed your foolish infatuation? Did you — had you not learned ?"

"It wasn't right!" Georgiana exclaimed. "Not right to burn Papa's portrait of him."

"If Papa had known what he did, he would have burned the portrait himself."

"But Papa didn't. And Papa is dead. And it was me… my weakness. I should never have—"

"Georgie—"

"You shouldn't have! You shouldn't have! It was Papa's room. And I was the one who was stupid enough to agree to elope with him." Georgiana turned to Elizabeth. "That's what happened when I saw him this year. I was ready to throw myself into the arms of a fortune hunter… A real one. Not just ugly rumors created by people who are jealous. Someone who really cared nothing for me. He… he said he loved me. But I know he didn't. I think I even knew then. But I loved him. I still do. You do not cease to love a man just because you know him to be bad… it wasn't right . Without my mistakes, you would never have destroyed the portrait."

"That was my decision."

"It belonged to all of us."

"Tell me where you hid it, and—"

"No."

"Georgiana, you are better than this," Darcy said, slumping, his anger leaving him for a terrible sickness in his heart at hearing what Georgiana said, and because he feared that Elizabeth also loved him. "You cannot love Mr. Wickham."

"I do. I do. I do. I know that makes me terrible. And you should… you should banish me to that estate in Scotland. You should . I know I'm not worthy of the Darcy name. But I… I can't stop… thinking about him."

"He is a man who abused the confidence of a fifteen-year-old girl. You are nothing but a victim, and you must learn—"

Elizabeth put her arm around the girl. "You poor thing. You poor thing. And you were so young."

Georgiana cried softly into Elizabeth's shoulder.

Mrs. Reynolds came into the room. "It is done."

Eyes wide, Georgiana asked though her sniffles. "Did you—"

"The portrait has been burned," the housekeeper confirmed, not looking at any of them.

Georgiana went paler. Quiet.

Elizabeth squeezed her arm.

Then Georgiana nodded, wiping her eyes, hiccupping with tears. "I wish I had not disappointed you. You should punish me. How do you wish to punish me?"

"I do not know," Darcy said, deflated. He was tired, his rage at Wickham had left him, and he still needed to deal with Elizabeth and make her understand that he would not permit her to behave in such a way ever again. And he wanted… her to tell him that she did not love Wickham. And then he could embrace her, and find comfort in her warmth, her smell, and even her kiss.

More.

He needed her to convince him that she did not love Wickham.

But what were words that they could convince a man?

"Go to your room and wait, I wish to talk to Elizabeth."

Quietly, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, Georgiana got up.

She looked between them, and only when Elizabeth gave her a reassuring smile, did she nod and leave.

When had his wife suddenly gained nearly as much influence with his sister as he had?

Elizabeth said as soon as the door closed, in a quiet, almost frustrated manner, "It was a misjudgment on my part."

" Yes . And more."

"I'll not admit to more." Her eyes flashed. "You were high handed and—"

"Do you love Mr. Wickham? Do you even care anything for me? — I cannot expect you to feel much for me, when you only married me for what I could provide you, but do you love him ? My enemy?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth several times. Then she bit her lip, and said sadly, "You make it difficult to not feel sorry for you."

Those words hung between them.

Darcy slowly said, "I always wondered… Did Papa love him more? He made Papa laugh and smile. No matter what he did… It was enough for Papa. It made Papa happy to see him. He could charm Papa so easily, while nothing I ever did was sufficient. And then Georgiana… Georgiana still loves him, even though she knows he is unworthy of him. That d—"

Darcy forced his jaw shut. He would not swear in front of a woman. Not in front of his wife. He would not. Would not. Would not. Would not.

"She will recover. The young often have foolish enthusiasms, and—"

"Do you love Mr. Wickham!"

"No." She was quick, spoke confidently, and without any hesitation.

She would speak that way if she was telling the truth. And she would speak that way if she had expected the question and practiced the lie.

"I am sorry," Elizabeth added. "Though I have my own reasons to be angry at you, I am still sorry to see you in such a state."

"Do you love me?"

Silence.

Why did it even hurt?

He'd known she was a heartless mercenary fortune hunter.

"Well, you have won what you desired. You have fortune, and you have the position of my wife. This is what you sold yourself for, but no matter how little you love me, I expect you to play the part of Mr. Darcy's wife, and I expect you to fulfill the duties and obligations which—"

"Oh, I have!" Elizabeth snapped.

Hands clenching. Unclenching. Jaw clenched. Unclenched. "Mr. Darcy. Let me apologize for—"

"What are you hiding behind that false tone of apology?"

"I merely mean to say," Elizabeth spat, "that I have offered no difficulty in allowing you to enjoy what you are owed . I fulfill the obligations of my position as your wife . Oh, if only—"

"You did not last night."

"Last night! Last night! — I was angry at you. And I truly was sick. But I'll not let my anger stop you again. No, no, not you! You can come to me whenever you wish! You are my husband, if I am spitting mad, I'll not try to stop you."

"That is what you chose. When you married a man who you did not love because you wanted his purse, you chose to let him be in your bed. That was the bargain you made."

"I never wanted to marry you!" she spat out. And then added, in a voice terrible for its sincerity, "I had no choice."

"You had a choice. You and your family are not so poor that you must throw yourself like a wanton woman at any eligible man who comes close enough to lurch into a lewd embrace with. You did not need to kiss me, and you did not need to arrange for your mother to watch."

"I never did. You kissed me. Perhaps — d-d-d-damn you. I did not resist as much as I ought to have, because I… I thought something about you, and — but I did not choose to kiss you. I did not mean to entice you. You were drawn in, but I swear, before God and my own soul that it was unconsciously done. You chose to kiss me. And when I did not slap you away at once, after those terrible seconds of mistake, I had no choice. You and my mother, and Lady Lucas — the whole world knew. Everyone knew. And then my father… instead of supporting me he called me what you have, a wanton mercenary woman. One minute's mistake, and my life was as wholly ruined as yours was."

Darcy's rage was washed away by a far, far more terrible sickness.

His mind instinctively understood everything that what Elizabeth said meant, even though it would take longer than an instant to explain it to himself. "You… you did not want to—"

"Even if I had married you willingly — which I did not — how could I ever love the man who has perhaps forever ruined the happiness of my dearest sister? Who ruins the happiness of his own sister?"

"What do you mean?"

"I heard you. I heard you speak of how you convinced Mr. Bingley to abandon my sister. We all thought he was on the verge of offering for her. And we were right . She is so confused, distraught because she does not understand why he abandoned her without a word. And it was you . You did this to the kindest and sweetest heart in the whole world."

"To my friend I was kinder than I have been to myself."

"Kind! If he's not touched by heartache, Bingley never was right for my sister. They looked so happy together — you told him that Jane is a fortune hunter. You told him that the most loving heart, a girl who has never fancied herself in love before Mr. Bingley, and you told him that she cares nothing for him, because you were filled with spite. You were filled with spite because your uncontrolled lust drove you to kiss a woman who did not ever want you to kiss her ."

"I do not believe you." He did.

"No, I imagine you do not. You pretend cleverness, and good judgment. You think you are careful in evaluating matters, but in truth, you are just another human driven by his lusts, his passions, his angers, and his vile feelings. You are as dishonorable as the rest of us, and it is only those old servants, like Mrs. Reynolds, blinded by the memory of you as a child, and intimidated by your grandeur that cannot see it."

He could not say anything.

Elizabeth continued, "And why did you steal Wickham's inheritance from him? If he held the living at Kympton, while a poor match for your sister, it would not be ridiculous."

"Ha! Wickham as a churchman."

"You sneer. And this is what I have to live with."

"You agreed to marry me."

"I was never asked!"

That startled Darcy.

"What do you mean? I—"

"You never spoke the words to me. You offered your hand to me. You never gave me a chance to refuse. You simply took what you thought was yours by right as the great master of Pemberley."

"Whatever you think you may have lost, you have gained fair exchange for that as my wife and the mistress of this estate."

She said nothing for half a minute. They stared at each other.

Elizabeth quietly asked, "Why do you despise my character so much?"

That cold question caught Darcy. And suddenly he knew . As much as he wished he did not know, as much as he now desperately wished that he could still believe that she was, he knew that Elizabeth was not a fortune hunter.

"You despise me, you despise me just as my father did. I — I cannot say I care nothing for being mistress of Pemberley, but if I had a choice, I would not have sold myself for it. And that is why I never wear the dresses you wish me to. I told Papa when he taunted me with wanting fine clothes and carriages that I would never spend more than the portion I brought into the marriage on clothing, and I will not — I never wished to marry for wealth, I wanted… I wanted to marry for the deepest love. But then I had to marry you because the dreadful rumors would have hurt my sisters… and… and… because Papa said he would not support me through the scandal if I now wished to repent my foolishness. And despite all that, it was a mistake to marry you."

"A mistake? You think marrying me was a mistake? You think I despise your character? So, this is truly what you think of me." Darcy spoke from a deep hurt. "My failings are great in your eyes. I am glad to know it, for I do prefer to know the truth no matter how much it pains me, but perhaps if I had flattered your vanity, if I had said that my attachment to you was a product of unallowed good sense and good judgement, you might have thought more kindly of me."

"Nothing could have done that. From almost the first moment of my acquaintance with you your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others. You are the last man who I could be happy to find myself married to."

And her face crumpled, she clapped her hands over her eyes, and she began to sob. Not a loud wailing sob, but a pathetic, shaking, quiet cry.

"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. I shall now know how to act."

He had no notion of how to act. Hurt deep inside in a place that was rawer and more ripped open than the day that his father had died. He was numb.

The only thing he could do was leave the room .