Page 70 of One Night with Mr. Darcy
Of course, a few careful inquiries let her know that Colonel Fitzwilliam would never marry a woman like Charlotte. He needed a woman with money.
So, that was that, then.
Anyway, she didn’t even know if they liked each other. They never seemed to look at each other at all, and when they did interact there was only a polite sort of conversation between the two of them, no real hint of actual regard.
She certainly did not inquire of Charlotte as to her opinion of the colonel for fear of giving the poor woman false hope. She only thought about it, hoping that she might think of some solution at some point.
She and Mr. Darcy grew closer. The colonel was often with them when they did not have William there. She knew this was by design, because Mr. Darcy did not trust himself alone with her. She was grateful for it. For her part, she did not trust herself alone with him either.
Sometimes, she wished he would come to her bedchamber or she wished to go to his. But she told herself that she must not leave Willie alone, which was—of course—foolish, since she often left Willie to sleep alone when he went down early in the evening. But it kept her from doing things she would regret, and that was all that mattered.
Mr. Darcy was simply easy to be around. It was strange. When she had first met the man, she thought him so haughty that she would not be able to bear his company. But it turned out that he and she had very similar tastes, that they shared a number of preferences. He was not haughty nor very particular. She thought much of her first impressions of him might be down to a sort of shyness that he seemed to have, an attention to detail and a deep and abiding concern with doing things correctly.
She found she appreciated this about him, actually, and that she found him endearing and wondrous, that she felt more affection for him every day.
Mr. Darcy brought in a doctor for Jane, one that specialized in the illness she suffered from.
But, of course, while the doctor was there, Elizabeth felt she must also have him come to see Mr. Collins. In some ways, she hoped the doctor would simply confirm that Mr. Collins and Jane suffered from entirely different maladies, and this would absolve her of all guilt somehow.
The doctor, unfortunately, said no such thing. He said that both of them were suffering from the same illness, something that the medical community was still puzzling over. However, he said that the illness was not infectious, that it was likely hereditary, and that there was nothing that could have been done for either of them.
He said that Mr. Collins must cease his use of laudanum, or at least reduce it greatly. The laudanum use was worse than his other symptoms at this point. Elizabeth knew that would be better for the man, but she could not see his being amenable to such a treatment.
She scolded herself, knowing that an insensible, bedridden husband was easier for her than one who was recovering. But Mr. Collins did not need to die just because she was in love with Mr. Darcy. That was not his fault.
About Jane, however, the doctor was much more optimistic. He prescribed long afternoons in the summer sun, saying that she needed clean outdoor air and a healthy diet and that she might be one of those afflicted who could make a full recovery and even live a normal life.
So, as the days began to grow warmer and warmer, they followed the doctor’s instructions.
They all spent long days in the gardens of Rosings.
Willie chased butterflies.
Georgiana wore short sleeved evening dresses and left much of her skin bare. She got so much sun her nose freckled. She smiled and smiled.
Jane and Mr. Darcy talked. They formed an easy camaraderie between them and Elizabeth was pleased. She wanted nothing more than for them to approve of each other.
Colonel Fitzwilliam and Charlotte ignored each other except for polite exchanges, and Elizabeth decided she must let that entire idea go. There was nothing for it, truly. She wanted to assist Charlotte, true, but she was giving her friend somewhere to stay. She was taking the burden of her upkeep from her family and giving her experience and comfort and companionship. Perhaps she was doing enough.
She and Mr. Darcy walked together often. They talked and talked. They made plans of their future. Someday, Mr. Collins would die and then they would be together. They would get married. She would secure Rosings in some way, leaving it to be run by a steward—or perhaps Colonel Fitzwilliam, they sometimes discussed, since he had expressed such interest in the place before—and leave it here for Willie when he was old enough to inherit it. It would be his.
In the meantime, they would all live at Pemberley. She would have more children. She would have Mr. Darcy’s proper heir.
Then, they could touch each other.
Then, they could acknowledge each other.
Then, everything would be better.
For now, they did their best to stay apart. If they walked, they brought others along, which helped to curtail their desire to put their hands on each other. And when he began to sometimes,veryoccasionally, visit her at night in her bedchamber, it was quite late when he arrived, and he simply crawled into the bed with her and held her all night long. When Willie crawled into the bed, they would put him between them, and he would plant kisses on the little boy’s brow and then hers, but that was all. They knew they shouldn’t. Soon enough, Willie would be able to speak of such things, and he would tell someone. It was too dangerous. But Mr. Darcy was never there when she woke up, always rousing himself in the midst of the night and taking himself back to his own quarters.
Sometimes, here and there, there were stolen moments. If they ever did find themselves alone, they had difficulty.
Once, they somehow ended up the only two in a library for nearly three quarters of an hour, and they ended up between two shelves of books in each other’s arms, gasping against each other as they kissed and kissed.
Another time, he came to her bedchamber too early and they ended up in her sitting room again. That time, he had her on her back on a couch, dress pushed down to bare her breasts, skirts gathered up at her waist. Lord only knew how they stopped themselves that time.
But they did.
