8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
" N o, no, I am not… that will not be necessary, Mrs Reynolds, thank you. I—"
But Mrs Reynolds only smiled and spread another coverlet over her feet. "No trouble at all, ma'am. Would you like another pillow?"
Elizabeth was already propped against four pillows, surrounded by a level of comfort she neither asked for nor needed. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, and the maids bustled about, bringing trays of warm milk, ginger tea, and stoking the fire yet again.
She had politely refused the biscuits earlier, and now the thought of the salty chicken soup they were offering made her stomach turn. She was not ill—just embarrassed. Why did they insist on treating her as though she were on the verge of collapse? It was like heaping burning coals of humiliation on her head.
Mrs Reynolds had been doting over her all afternoon, with the kind of quiet insistence that was difficult to refuse. Each time Elizabeth had tried to tell her she was perfectly well, the housekeeper's response was the same: "The master has ordered that you have your every need attended, Mrs Darcy. It is my pleasure to see to it."
The master had ordered it. That was all Elizabeth needed to know—this was not about her preferences or comfort. It was about Mr Darcy's expectations. And he was making his desires known—she was to be a pet of sorts, a doll to be set on a shelf… or a disgrace to be kept hidden in her rooms. She was not sure which yet.
Mrs Reynolds would not budge, no matter how many times Elizabeth insisted that she needed no special treatment. No one seemed to believe her that it was not illness or physical frailty that had twisted her stomach and wrung out her sentiments earlier, but the emotional exhaustion of being thrust into a role she had never asked for, married to a man who barely seemed to acknowledge her existence. That, and she had simply run out of air until her vision swam black.
But she was not about to say that.
Her palms were itching. The muscles of her legs crawling with nerves, and she was far too warm. How many perfectly good daylight hours had she been stuck in bed, receiving all this pampering? And now, it was dark, and she had yet to see or speak with the man who had brought her here. The one who had bounced in the carriage with her for days and then bore her upstairs in his arms.
By the time the second glass of warm milk arrived, Elizabeth had lost her patience entirely. This was absurd. She was no child to be soothed into sleep with warm milk, nor an invalid needing constant attention. She needed space, perhaps a little air, not mollycoddling.
"No, truly," Elizabeth said again as one of the maids set the tray down by her bedside. "I assure you, I am perfectly well. There is no need for all this." But even as she spoke, she could see the maids were not about to listen to her. They were only following orders, after all.
They fussed with the fire again, laid out her nightclothes, and smiled as though they had fulfilled some crucial duty. Elizabeth's gaze drifted toward the adjoining door—the one that led to Darcy's room. She had avoided looking at it all day, but now, with the maids finally gone, it loomed large in her thoughts.
He was right there. Not far away at all, separated only by a door. What was he doing? Was he sitting in silence, brooding as she imagined he might? Did he feel as adrift as she did? Or was he content to keep his distance, to avoid the awkwardness of their new reality?
What lay beyond that door? A doting husband, the man who had so tenderly carried her upstairs even over her protests? Oh, how humiliated she had felt! Even more so when he had hastened from her presence… disgusted by her.
Well, why wouldn't he be? She had probably soiled his coat. Elizabeth scowled and blew out a sigh that feathered the hair around her face. What a perfect way to make an impression on the household.
But that was enough pitying herself. She rose from the bed, the need to move spurring her into action. She could not lie here any longer, passive and waiting for something—anything—to make sense. Her feet carried her to the door before she had fully considered what she was doing.
Her fingers curled, poised just above the handle, the smooth wood cool beneath her knuckles. What would he say if she knocked? Would he welcome her, or would she be met with cold indifference? The uncertainty churned in her stomach, but she had never been one to shy away from difficult moments. She could not go on like this, cut off from him entirely, not knowing where they stood.
After a moment's hesitation, she knocked.
The sound felt too loud in the silence that had blanketed the room. She waited, pulse quickening, her breath held as she listened for movement on the other side.
The door creaked open, and Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat. There stood Mr Darcy, not in his usual immaculate attire, but in a nightshirt. His collar was loose, baring his throat and a small glimpse of his chest. The sight was utterly unexpected, and she stepped back, her mouth suddenly dry.
She had never seen a man like this, not with such dishevelled intimacy, and her eyes lingered longer than they should have on the curve of his exposed neck. The dark hair curling at the top of his nightshirt. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, and she realised he was breathing more quickly, though his face betrayed none of the same discomposure.
When she finally dragged her eyes back to his face, his expression was carefully neutral, distant even. "Mrs Darcy," he began, his voice low, "are you unwell?"
She drew her shoulders back. "Do I look unwell?"
"You were… somewhat discomposed earlier."
"Yes, how kind of you to point that out. I…" She cleared her throat. "I must thank you for helping me. The, ah… strains of travel, and the house… I fear I was overwhelmed."
Mr Darcy thinned his lips. "Quite understandable. I trust the servants have attended you properly."
"Oh, yes. It seems that is all anyone cares about—making sure I am ‘well.' I have been so pampered and coddled that I fear if such treatment continues, I shall not remember how to walk or even eat for myself."
His brow furrowed ever so slightly, but he responded with a calm, almost clinical tone. "You are frustrated by being cared for?"
Elizabeth offered a strained smile. "No. I am only asking to have some say in that ‘care'. Please, I know you told Mrs Reynolds to look after me, but I could hardly move under all the blankets and the steamed milk and roaring fire and three different kinds of tea—it is a bit much."
"It is their duty to look after the mistress of the house. Just as it is my duty to ensure they fulfil their roles."
She could not help it—the absurdity of his detachment, the way he spoke as though everything was a mere transaction, grated on her nerves. She huffed and rolled her eyes, more in frustration than anything else.
At once, his posture stiffened, his jaw tightening as a sudden sharpness entered his voice. "Do you find this amusing, madam? Do you think any of this is a joke?"
Elizabeth felt her heart skip at the sudden shift in tone. "No," she replied, her voice quieter now, though the frustration still simmered beneath the surface. She folded her arms across her chest, half in defiance, half in defence against the strange emotions swirling around her.
"Then you take matters with far too much levity, madam. I ask you, when is it appropriate for a husband to merely neglect the fact that his wife became physically ill?"
She clenched her teeth, but then exhaled, trying to force a bit of reason into her tones. "No, of course. You are perfectly right, sir, and I do appreciate your consideration. I wonder, Mr Darcy, do you mean to observe all your husbandly duties with such devotion?" The words slipped out before she had fully formed them in her mind, and for a moment, she feared she had gone too far.
He stiffened, and she saw the muscles in his throat move as he swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and though his face remained carefully controlled, she detected something—a flicker of discomfort, or perhaps something else entirely. His lips parted, and he made a small noise in his throat as though to speak, but then he hesitated.
"I prefer," he said slowly, drawing back just slightly, "a certain... decorum, madam. I am still in mourning, after all. As are you, I thought."
The words hit her with an unexpected force, and Elizabeth's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She had not meant to suggest... Had he thought she was trying to seduce him? Heat spread down her neck.
"That was not my intent!" she stammered, feeling foolish and exposed. "I... I merely wished for you to speak with me. Perhaps take tea or… oh, bother! I did not mean… whatever it is that is so odious to you, but—" She stopped, biting her lip, unsure how to continue. How could she explain her growing frustration, her sense of isolation in this marriage, without making herself seem foolish or desperate?
Darcy's face gave away nothing, but there was no mistaking the way he pulled back, distancing himself, both physically and emotionally. His gaze shifted, avoiding hers as if the very act of meeting her eyes would soil him, or shatter whatever careful control he was holding on to.
Elizabeth's stomach twisted. What had she expected? A warm exchange, a moment of understanding between them? She had sought only a small reprieve from the loneliness that had engulfed her since their hurried marriage. Yet, all she had managed was to widen the chasm between them.
She swallowed against the bitter taste of regret. He would not look at her, and each second of silence was like a door closing, shutting her further out. She had misstepped, that much was clear. What had begun as a tentative attempt to understand her husband had turned into something far more awkward, far more distant.
W hat the devil was that?
Darcy had retreated to the high-backed chair by the fire as if it were a refuge, his breath coming in short pants as his pulse still hammered in his ears. Had she… truly said that? He needed a drink. Not for the alcoholic haze it promised, but for something to do with his hands, something real and tangible on his tongue to remind him what reality was. Shakily, he poured out the decanter.
He brushed a hand absently over his forehead, the brandy swirling in his glass as he tried, and failed, to steady his thoughts. The amber liquid warmed his throat, but instead of calming him, it set his nerves alight. He stared into the flames in the hearth, watching them flicker and dance, but all he could think of was Elizabeth—her words, her tone, the challenge in her eyes.
How could she say something like that? He took another sip, hoping the drink might dull the sharp edge of his thoughts, but it only sharpened them. Proposing... what exactly had she been proposing? "Husbandly duties." What else could she have meant?
Did she truly believe he would... What did she think of him? His mind reeled.
Had she no respect for the memory of his brother? Regardless of the… er… nature of their relationship, had she no remorse for Harry, who was barely cold in his grave? The very thought sent a wave of nausea through him, one that no amount of brandy could settle.
He had married her out of duty, out of responsibility. Surely, she must understand that. This was no arrangement made for his pleasure, or even his needs. She owned all the benefits here, and she had acted as if he still owed her something. Did she not care for Harry at all? Or was he, himself, merely a transaction to her now, a way to secure a future when her original plan had crumbled? The idea twisted in his gut, a mixture of regret and something far darker.
He clenched the glass, staring at the golden liquid sloshing within as his hand shook. He had already begun to writhe under the weight of his decision, the regret settling deeper with each passing hour.
The devil of it was that when he was with her, his mind almost forgot. She would fix those eyes on him, and he could not entirely say he was his own master. Was that how she had bewitched Harry? He had married a seductress! A seductress who put on all the airs of innocent gentility, convincingly enough that when she was before him, he swallowed it all like the veriest gull.
This was supposed to be simple. He was not supposed to be bouncing between bewilderment and shock at every turn.
But it was done—there was no turning back. The deed had been sealed the moment he said those vows. He was bound to her now, in a way that felt suffocating, in a way that made him question whether he would survive it at all.
Elizabeth... she was not what he had imagined. Her spirit, her independence—it had seemed almost admirable when he had first heard Harry speak of her. But now, having seen one or two glimpses of her stubborn defiance, it felt more like a trial. Why? Should she not welcome his care? Did she not realise how vulnerable she was? As if anyone needed to be told! As if the proofs were not ample enough.
For mercy's sake, she had vomited in front of the household, nearly collapsed at his feet, and yet here she was, insisting she did not need anyone's help. His lips pressed into a thin line, the brandy no longer tasting sweet but bitter as it sat heavy in his mouth. He wanted to rage at her obstinance, her pride, but the anger quickly gave way to confusion. What did she expect? Did she truly believe she could bear this all alone?
The fire cracked, the only sound in the room save for the soft ticking of the mantel clock. Darcy tried to focus on the flames, to let their warmth soothe the tension in his body, but then he heard it—the faintest sound coming from the adjoining room.
Elizabeth.
His body stiffened instantly, his grip tightening on the glass as he strained to listen. It was just the sound of her moving, shifting in bed perhaps, but it ignited something in him. The brandy coursing through his veins now burned hotter, setting fire to his already frayed nerves.
She was going to test him at every turn, he thought, staring hard into the fire.
Every. Single. Turn .
He could feel it already. Perhaps she had given him little enough trouble on the journey, but the look in her eye—that openly curious one, the one that seemed to second-guess his decisions—it had only grown each day. He would have no peace, no respite from this constant push and pull between them. She questioned him, she challenged him, and worse—she made him question himself.
Darcy brought the glass to his lips again, but it did nothing to calm the storm within him. His mind whirled with a hundred thoughts, each one more unsettling than the last. How would he survive this marriage—this strange, awkward union with a woman who seemed determined to have her own way, regardless of what was right, decent, and proper? With every moment that passed, it felt more like a trap he had willingly walked into.
D arcy tossed in the darkness, his sheets twisted and damp with sweat, but sleep would not come. The silence of the house was oppressive, the faint crackling of the fire doing little to soothe him. He shifted beneath the blankets, but it wasn't discomfort from the bed that kept him awake. Something else stirred him—the faintest noise from the adjoining room.
He stilled, listening.
Elizabeth.
She was still awake, too. He could hear her pacing again, the soft creak of floorboards under her steps. Then, after a moment of stillness, a different sound reached his ears—a muffled, broken sound.
She was weeping.
Darcy sat up straighter, feeling an ache rise in his chest as the sound of Elizabeth's quiet sobs filtered through the door. Each stifled breath, each ragged sigh seemed to strike him like a blow, a reminder of the number of ways he had failed to make the world right again. She was grieving, and though she tried to muffle her sobs, it was as if her sorrow was seeping through the very walls.
Well, perhaps… perhaps there was something genuine in her, after all.
Any other respectable husband would rise, go to his wife. The urge to comfort her, to offer some small solace, tugged at him. But as his feet hovered above the floor, he stopped. What would he do? How could he be of any help at all? He imagined stepping into her room, the awkward creak of the door as he entered uninvited, his presence looming in the faint candlelight. She would look up at him, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red from holding back sobs.
And then what? He swallowed hard. What would he say? The sight of her grief, so raw and exposed, would be more than he could bear. Would she want him to hold her? Heavens above, he could not do it. The intimacy of it, the vulnerability—he was not prepared for that. He was not prepared to confront her pain or his own.
The idea of being the one to comfort her, to hold her while she cried, was unimaginable. He had no right. Her tears belonged to his brother; her grief was not his to share, and yet he felt the sting of it as if it were his own.
He closed his eyes, clenching his fists as though willing himself to act, but he remained frozen, paralysed by his inability to offer what she needed. The sheer intimacy of her pain, the thought of crossing that fragile boundary between them—it was more than he could manage. She would turn those tear-filled eyes on him, and he would be helpless. He could not offer her what she truly wanted. He could not be Harry.
And perhaps that was what frightened him the most.
The moments dragged on, his mind a whirlwind of doubt and self-recrimination. What could he possibly say? "I'm sorry"? For what? For binding her to a life she had not chosen? For trying to replace a brother who could never be replaced?
Darcy's hand hovered over the spine of the book on the table, one he'd turned to so many times before in search of solace. But tonight, the thought of reading—of trying to escape into the pages—felt empty, meaningless. Words would not drown out the sound of Elizabeth's muffled sobs. The words on the page were a feeble defence against the storm raging inside him.
Frustration surged within him, a heat rising in his chest that he could not quell. He pulled back from the book as though it had burned him, his fingers curling into fists. This was not grief he could face with quiet contemplation. He pushed away from the bed with an abruptness that startled even him, his pulse pounding in his ears as he fled the room.
He needed out—needed space, something physical to release the wrath inside. His footsteps echoed through the darkened halls as he made his way to the billiards room, the sharp crack of his heels against the marble floor the only sound in the sleeping house. The strain in his jaw was almost enough to fracture his teeth, and he could feel his anger building, pressing against his ribs like a vise.
The door to the billiards room loomed before him, and he shoved it open with more force than necessary. The quiet of the room, the stillness of the balls lying perfectly arranged on the table, mocked him. He grabbed the cue stick and lined up the first shot, not caring about form or precision. He simply wanted to hit something, anything, to release the fury that clawed at his insides.
With a sharp snap, the balls scattered across the table. The satisfying crack of impact sent a brief jolt through him, but it was not enough. He lined up the next shot and struck harder, watching as the balls flew in all directions. Still, it was not enough.
As he played, the memories flooded him, unbidden and relentless. He could almost see Harry standing beside him, the two of them laughing as they used to on nights like this. Harry, always quick to jest, always a step ahead in their friendly games. They'd spent hours in this room together, knocking the balls across the table, sharing drinks and conversation. There had been no distance between them then, no weight of guilt hanging between them like a spectre.
But now... now there was nothing but silence, and that silence was suffocating.
Darcy struck another ball, harder this time, his hand shaking as the memories overwhelmed him. Harry's smile, his laughter, his reckless energy—they played before Darcy's mind like scenes from a life he couldn't bear to look at anymore. The glaring ache of it all—his brother's absence, the emptiness left behind—was too much. He wasn't strong enough to carry it.
The next shot missed entirely, the ball spinning away uselessly. His hands trembled as he tried to line up another, but the cue slipped, and his control faltered. The frustration boiled over, the calm mask he'd forced on himself shattering under the pressure. With a sudden, raw burst of rage, Darcy slammed the cue stick down on the edge of the table.
The sharp crack echoed in the empty room, and the cue snapped in half, splintering in his hands. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at the broken pieces of wood, the room suddenly eerily still. Then the dam burst.
A guttural scream tore from his throat, filling the silence with his anguish. It was as if everything he had been holding in since Harry's death—the guilt, the rage, the helplessness—erupted in that single, terrible sound. His hands clenched around the broken cue, his knuckles white as he threw the pieces across the room, sending them clattering against the wall.
He collapsed against the table, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His arms trembled as they supported him, and his vision blurred with the force of his emotions. The rage was still there, bubbling beneath the surface, but now it was mingled with something even darker: guilt.
He had failed. He had failed to save Harry, and now he was failing everyone else, too. Elizabeth, Pemberley, even himself. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see that terrible moment in the stable yard—the moment Harry's horse reared, the moment his brother was thrown to the ground, the way his head struck the stone. And every time, Darcy saw himself standing there, powerless, helpless, too late to stop it.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles ached. His body shook with the force of his rage. He could have saved him. He should have saved him. And now, no matter what he did, nothing would make it right.