Quite tardy of all the brouhaha, Darcy entered a house so laden with portent it was almost visible upon the walls. When he asked, everyone was quite unenlightened as to why Fitzwilliam had departed without waiting to speak to him, almost in the dust of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s carriage.
Elizabeth explained simply of his aunt, “She did not stay when she learnt you were not about the house.”
Having long disavowed any interest in his aunt’s pursuits, Elizabeth believed Darcy thought little of her precipitous visit or post-haste leave-taking. Elizabeth’s still trembling hands did not escape his notice. She insisted that it was due to her extended afternoon amongst the rose beds without her hat (and did not offer she had belted down several glasses of wine). As if all that was not intrigue enough, Georgiana too seemed oddly out of sorts. She kept her gaze lowered to her plate through supper and quit the table without touching her food.
It was understood that Georgiana was never a hearty partaker, but when alone with her brother and sister-in-law she was usually, if not effusive, at least a cordial conversationalist. Had Elizabeth not been quite so intent upon hiding her own disconcertion, she might have noticed Georgiana’s.
Even in the absence of that heedfulness, Elizabeth knew it must all seem quite odd to her husband.
Thus when they retired, Darcy endeavoured to pry out of Elizabeth what might have come to pass that day. However, as he was less determined to unearth than she was to evade, he uncovered nothing.
Elizabeth admitted to herself that her motive for not revealing Lady Catherine’s visit with Darcy was selfish. In the aftermath of Wickham’s visit, it had taken a day or two of coolness betwixt them before an implied truce was called. Gradually, the tension was, if not eliminated, at least diminished. Having not quite repaired that breach, Elizabeth was determined not to provoke any other upheaval. Hence, she weathered Darcy’s questions about what bechanced that day with semi-pious solemnity, vowing to herself not to allow Lady Catherine victory over her spirit. Darcy’s love was for her was as inexorable as his all and sundry opinions (which was not a particularly romantic way to think of it, but it was true).
Supper was no problem, but her resolve began to waver as she laid beside him that night unable to sleep. She rose and quietly opened the door to their balcony and walked to the balustraude. The breeze rustled her gown and as she felt the silk billow about her legs, Lydia’s voice trespassed her thoughts.
“All men stray. ’Tis their nature. Even Papa.”
Though she knew there was little measure of respect by Mr. Bennet for his wife, any rancour he held for her was couched with humour. Elizabeth had always believed (or wanted to believe) that they had once been in love. It was easy to perceive him seeking a refuge from her mother, he always disappeared into his library after supper. But with another woman? Ghastly thought! Her own father! A philanderer?
Her mind canvassed the Meryton possibilities for a lady that might fill her mind’s personification of her father’s mistress. Few were plausible (the Widow Cadwallader was neither morbidly obese, blind, nor stupid, which made her a feasibility until Elizabeth recalled she had the laugh of a she-ass). No, there was not a wellspring of prospective paramours for her father. As dear a man as she believed him to be, it was unlikely Mr. Bennet actually had ladies queuing up for his company.
Mr. Darcy, however, was another matter entirely.
Handsome, wealthy, worldly, and his time was his own. If her sweet, homely father had managed to find a woman with whom to hockle, Darcy should have little trouble at all. If a temptress importuned him, would he walk away? Would any man?
Despondent over the thought, the spring chill persuaded Elizabeth to seek the warmth of her covers. Thinking Darcy asleep, she tiptoed to the bed and nestled against him. As quiet as she had crept, she was convinced at first that it was her cold feet that must have awakened him. To her delighted surprise, sleep was not from whence he was aroused. He had been watching her as she gazed upon the lawn. Her gown had rippled about her body so enticingly, he had an unexpected gift for her beneath the multitude of bedclothes. The reassurance of his desire was precisely what she was most in need of just then.
As if in gratitude, she drew her gown over her head and impetuously tossed it aside. The removal of her night-dress, however, was not in obligation, but preparation. For she intended to exact a kindness upon his person of considerable magnitude. She sat atop him and stretched her arms seductively over her head.
Thereupon fully limbered, she inquired, “Shall we give the ferret a run?”
He laughed softly, “Where did you hear such a term?”
She smiled mysteriously (partly for allurement and partly because she could not remember where she heard it, and the question was quite beside the point). From her perch, she laced her fingers through his and pressed his hands back against the bed, allowing him to understand she was to be the aggressor. For she wanted to overpower him in some fashion, but was uncertain exactly why. Vagueness of motive, however, did not alter her intentions. Thus, it was from a position of dominance she sat astride him, riding him with relentless vigour, demanding his love to come to achievement. His blood fevered, he took her beneath him, denying his own passion’s release until he gratified hers.
Both in sweaty exhaustion, she unwisely attempted to bring him to arousal once more. He halted her.
“Lizzy, a moment please. Wait.”
He said that gently, yet (and quite unreasonably) she felt herself rebuffed and drew away.
“Your passion for me is lost?” she asked far more petulantly than she intended.
“My passion for you has yielded me too weak in the knees to stand.”
“There was a time when you would have come about again.”
“I have been in the saddle most of the day, Lizzy. I beg you, have pity upon me.”
The smile he bestowed as a punctuation to his entreaty was most enticing. It was difficult to be miffed at him when he smiled at her as he did (especially when she did not truly want to be out of humour).
In a solemn turn, he bid, “What is it, Lizzy?”
As difficult as it was to stay angry with him, it was even harder to hide her desperation. But she did not answer his question immediately, for she did not know what “it” was. She did not know if she were demanding reassurance that his passion for her had not abated, or—she asked herself—was she trying to render him unable to be with any other by reason of sheer exhaustion? She smiled at her own recklessness. A sudden weariness overtook her and she laid back.
“’Tis simply your wife who loves you more than you can ever know. Forgive my rashness.”
Unknowing what birthed it, he seemed relieved by her smile. And, satisfied with her denial, he hooked his chin over her shoulder and snuggled behind her. Within minutes, she heard the inevitable soft snore that told he was sound asleep. She, however, could not sleep. For steadfastly as she tried, she could not keep herself from a persistent speculation:
In light of his inability to effect a second coitus, in just whose saddle did her husband spend that day?