Chapter Fifteen
It was late before Mr Darcy retired for the evening. He had departed Pemberley in the company of Mr Williams, Clara said, after the doctor told him Mrs de Bourgh, though alive, would be hideously scarred for life. The young maid was obviously agog with the excitement and drama, hoping I would speculate. She was, of course, disappointed. I took a tray in my room rather than eat alone downstairs.
I waited in his chamber, in his bed, unwilling to take a chance that I would fall asleep in mine, and he fail to wake me. But I was restless, and the book I brought failed to engage my attention. Seeing miniatures upon the chest beside his bed, I moved in closer to examine them. I recognised his father and mother from their portraits in the gallery, though they were both much younger in these images. There was another of Georgiana, painted when she was very young, but still resembling her enough that I was certain of her identity. I certainly never expected to see anything of interest when I opened the chest’s top drawer; I was merely bored, curious, and idly wondering whether he perhaps kept a book in there more appealing than my own.
I saw a ring of keys, but I did not pay any real attention to them. For there in the drawer was my handkerchief, the one I had given him when he’d departed Rosings. I touched it gently; the lock of hair was still within its folds.
I had been so certain that it had been a foolish notion on my part; it touched me that he kept it still, and kept it here, near miniatures of his family. I knew he cared for and about me, but this gesture seemed like something…well, something a true lover might do. One who wanted more than just a convenient bride.
Of course, by the time he entered the room at last, I was the furthest thing from sleepy, my thoughts chaotic and even anxious. I wanted a chance for us, peace for us, even, perhaps, love between us. I wondered if de Bourgh’s machinations would keep us from ever achieving it.
I waited to speak until he blew out the candles and climbed into the large bed. For a long while, we lay upon our separate sides, neither saying anything. I wanted him to take the lead, to reach for me, to turn to me, to talk to me—and began to feel, even, some annoyance when he made no effort to do so.
I reined in my impatience. As I considered his feelings, I realised it had only been several hours since his dead wife’s lover—the man who had taken ruthless advantage of his young sister and who had ruined mine—taunted him with her disloyalty. His marriage to Anne de Bourgh had been unhappy; my suspicions of his essential aloneness had been validated beyond reason. What had he done, those many years, trapped in a hideously dishonourable wedlock, when his problems and difficulties seemed insurmountable? The thought of him lying here just like this, isolated and friendless, pierced me.
I scooted over to his side of the bed, somewhat gratified when he immediately put his arm out to wrap around my shoulders, pulling me in close. He was still silent, so for a time, I simply listened to his heartbeat, wondering what he was thinking and how to encourage him to tell me.
And at last, he did. “I am certain you find me pathetic.”
I propped myself up upon his chest, trying to see his eyes in the firelight. “Of all the many adjectives I could use to describe you, dear husband, ‘pathetic’ is the last one which comes to mind.”
I could almost feel his rejection of my sentiments; if he found himself pathetic, nothing I could say would convince him otherwise. I had no experience with such enormous betrayal as this. All I knew to do was be here for him now, touching him, reminding him he was no longer alone. I dropped a kiss to his chest, and he sighed.
“There was some truth in her accusations,” he said at last. “I never did love Anne. I almost believe that lack of feeling was what attracted her to me in the first place, beyond my family and fortune—my fundamental disinterest, when she was accustomed to conquering men so easily. I want you, of all people, to know that I did try, however. Before I knew it was hopeless, I did everything in my power to earn her respect and affection.”
He spoke tonelessly, some of that remembered hopelessness filtering through his words. “When did you come to know it was doomed?” I asked softly.
He sighed, looking unutterably weary in the fire’s dim glow. “It was doomed before the marriage was a day old, but I did not learn that until much later. I have never much enjoyed the Season, and once married, I managed to cut my time in London more each year, while she loved it and stayed for every invitation. I knew I was dull. I knew she loved the glittering excitement of the ton. I knew we had different ideas on almost every aspect of life. I did not realise we had different ideas on fidelity, however.”
“She had other lovers, besides Wickham then?”
“Her first was at our wedding breakfast, or so she said. I remained oblivious for far too long. She managed, oddly enough, to be both discreet and debauched. Her other affairs, by and large, took place in town with men of stellar reputation who had nearly as much to lose as she did if they were caught. When she had the idea for that blasted cottage I stupidly thought…”
“Thorncroft?” I asked.
He glanced at me sharply, but did not ask how I knew of it. “Yes. I thought it a retreat for us. I thought she was trying, as I was. She knew it was what I believed, and encouraged me to believe it. But it was merely a new place for her trysts, though I did not understand it then. I…I was too proud to acknowledge what was happening—that our marriage was an utter and complete disaster, and that I was repulsed by my own wife in every possible sense. Ignoring her was my quiet revenge, for she loved drama and attention above all things.”
“I am surprised you did not repudiate her.”
“I considered it, many times. For pride’s sake, I never did. The world would have blamed me. She was the charming one with a thousand friends, invited everywhere, with a gift for saying exactly the right thing at the right time. And then there were the rumours that I beat her.”
“Wickham divulged that. She started those rumours.”
“I was certain she had, which is ironic because…well, it does not matter. The truth was, she was adored by almost everyone—I could just hear the gossip. I would be thought the jealous gudgeon and cruel abandoner, while she would have dined out on the scandal for years as its innocent victim. To be quite honest, I did not wish to give her the victory. Of course, some of my reasoning had to do with my sister. Georgie adored her, and after all, I had brought myself to marry her in part for Georgie’s sake.”
I did not comment upon what seemed to me to be bizarre logic—to tie oneself to someone for life, solely so that one’s nearly grown sister might be a greater social success? When said sister was an heiress of immense fortune? But his revelations were not finished.
“One summer, as the Bingleys visited, Anne took it into her head that Georgiana ought to marry Bingley. It was an idea I had cherished myself, in the past, and one which his sisters wholeheartedly promoted. However, I had never seen any sign that Georgie held an affection for him beyond a friendly acquaintance. I thought it unlikely to succeed.”
“Obviously she proved you wrong.”
“Yes. She was a genius at persuasion, and of course, my sister wanted to marry. She was very shy, and Anne very convincing. Soon Georgie was determined to marry him, and probably thought it all her own idea.”
“I assume she had your approval for the match.”
“Yes. I still thought Bingley would be a good husband to her. I was the only one on earth who could have talked her out of it, but I did not try. I allowed Anne to use her wiles and machinations to arrange it, because I thought I knew best.”
I was amazed at the intensity of bitterness in his expression. “Perhaps, in this case, you did,” I said.