But for six days, his silence stretched into its own ultimate indifference. I pretended not to grieve.
* * *
I was drawing in the orchard, though the air was chilly, and the clouds were thick and weighted with moisture. It mattered little, for I was there more for the solitude than the opportunity to practise my sketching. My paper remained as blank and empty as my mind. And then, a noise reached my ears, the sound of boots upon the dry grass, and I turned towards it.
And there he stood. Tall, stern, severe, as if dragged there against his will, his expression matching the forbidding sky. I rose and gave a small curtsey. He bowed slightly. And then he spoke.
“You have summoned me, madam. As you can see, I am here. How might I be of service?”
No greeting, none of the words I had both wished and yearned for, nothing of regret and longing. But then, life was not a Radcliffe novel, was it? Here I was, hurt and resentful and mystified by his manner, and there he was, impossible and arrogant and thick as Pemberley’s walls. For all I knew, he might never stand before me like this again.
Anger and pride warred within me, begging for release, wanting to crush any pretensions he might cherish towards being a gentleman I could trust and respect.
And yet…would those be my final words?
His life bespoke a different story, one of silent, unacknowledged acts of kindness—of duty, of generosity, of caring. Towards Lydia, my aunt, possibly even Jane, over the course of years. Which man would I speak to, today?
“I-I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how grateful I am for your intervention in the affairs of my aunt and my poor uncle,” I managed.
These words, evidently, caught him by surprise, for his eyes widened and brow furrowed. “I am sorry, exceedingly sorry, that either of you ever learned of it. I did not think Mr Ferrars was so little to be trusted.”
“It was an accident, I understand. A misdirected paper that hinted of your involvement. My aunt questioned him thoroughly and I am afraid he was no match for her. You must not blame him. She was determined to have the whole truth out of him.”
He nodded once, crisply. And simply stood there.
I looked at him, begging him—in my mind—to take me in his arms, but the tender scene I craved apparently refused to enter his head.
“Is that all then? I must be getting back to Pemberley before the light fails.”
I stared at him almost in disbelief. I had to force myself to speak. “Might I—that is, do you wish me to return to Pemberley with you?”
His face was as implacable as ever. “It would be better if you did not. No, I believe you ought to remain here.” With unconscious motion, he smoothed his left brow with his left forefinger, appearing as if he were impatient to leave.
And somehow, in my shock and hurt at this new unkindness, I remembered something from what seemed ages past: as the Dowager Lady Matlock spewed nonsense, he had agreed with every foolish word she uttered whilst making that same unconscious motion.
My husband lied.
I took a step closer to him. His aspect was unyielding. But as I watched his eyes, those dark, expressive eyes, I thought I saw more. I hoped I saw more. I moved to within six inches of him. I could hear his breath’s intake; my heart beat so hard, I was certain he could hear it. I set my hand upon his shoulder.
“What are you about?” he asked harshly.
“I do not know,” I whispered, “but you are making a hash of our entire life together, and I cannot think how else to stop you. In a novel, a passionate kiss does the job. I simply haven’t any better ideas, I fear.” And I set my mouth to his.
For a moment he was immobile, a frozen statue beneath my lips. Then, with a groan, he was returning kisses wildly, desperately, his arms clutching me tightly to him. “I cannot stop this,” he muttered. “I cannot do it.”
“I do not wish you to stop. Do not ever stop.”
He shrugged off his coat and threw it on the orchard floor, drawing me down with him onto it. I went so willingly, uncaring of propriety, of the setting, of the hardness of the ground or even of chill breezes in unusual places. I only cared to hold him as tightly as I could manage, to show him by every action and gesture that I was his wife, his helpmeet, his life’s partner. And when we were as close as a man and woman could ever be, I looked into his eyes. “Never let me go,” I begged, pride vanished. “Please, never let me go.”
“I am not strong enough to do it,” he said. “Heaven help you, but I am not man enough to keep away.”
“The man I need is finally here,” I disagreed most vehemently, and then there were no more words, only a man and his wife joined, bridging the long separation with connexion at last. And when the heavens wept gently upon us, we only laughed as my hair escaped from its pins and curled wildly around us both.
After we had finally quieted, he began to be anxious that I would take a chill from the damp—but, as it was hardly enough rain to moisten the ground, and as he was the one enduring any discomfort while I remained warmly wrapped within his arms, I told him to stubble it and to just hold me.
Thus, it was some time before my brain would actually engage enough to question him. When I did, I spoke into his shirtfront, the scent of his shaving soap comforting me, as he leant back against an elderly apple tree.
“You hardly took your leave of me,” I whispered. “You might have talked to me about the situation, at least, before you sent me away.”