“So was I. It would have been a bit strange, being best friends with another girl your husband had—” she broke off and bit her plump lip.
“Lydia,” Elizabeth set aside the brush and knelt before her sister. “You still love him, do you not?”
Lydia swallowed and shrugged. “What would it matter if I did? The blackguard will get what he deserves, and I will try to find someone else someday.”
“Lydia, anger will not help. I know, for I have tried it.”
“It is better than silly tears! At least if I am angry, I feel like I can do something about it. I still wish I could make him suffer, just a little. It would be easier if I thought he was sorry.”
“Perhaps he is,” Elizabeth adjusted one of the curls at her sister’s temple.
“Lizzy, do you think we could go to London?”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Why, Lydia?”
The girl gave a broken sigh and pouted. “Well, I thought perhaps before he is hanged, if I could see him once more. Mr Darcy did hope that I could induce him to tell what he would not tell anyone else, and… well he deserves to know—” Lydia swallowed and twisted her fingers together over her bulging stomach. Her eyes were low, but she lifted them hopefully again to her sister. “Will you ask Mr Darcy if he will take us?”
“I do not know if I can ask him for that, Lydia,” she confessed. “I will speak to him, but it may be too much.”
Lydia nodded and sniffed. “You’d better go on, Lizzy,” she shrugged. “He will be wanting to see you after he dresses.”
Elizabeth rose doubtfully. “You will be well?”
Lydia forced a brave smile. “I always am.”
Elizabeth lingered a few more moments, fussing over her sister’s dress, adjusting her curls, until Lydia at last grew weary of her attentions and demanded that she leave. She went downstairs to the breakfast room, but she was not hungry for more than a bite or two. William never appeared, so she determined to wait for him again in the library.
A fresh fire blazed, and all the evidence of their previous night had been swept away. Elizabeth glanced out of the windows, contemplating a walk, but it was raining. The fire seemed rather inviting, and that silly old journal lay just beside her favourite chair. She smiled and made herself comfortable.
“Afullshave?Areyou certain, Mr Darcy?”
Wilson stood in his accustomed place at the right of Darcy’s chair, the shaving items all artfully arrayed before him. A steaming white towel filled a bowl, and the razor shone brightly from a recent sharpening. The floor round him was already littered with trimmings—he had survived that much so far—but it was not enough. He wanted to be himself again, and Fitzwilliam Darcy was clean-shaven.
Darcy gritted his teeth. “Yes, Wilson, please proceed.”
“Very good, sir.” Wilson cautiously approached with the towel, and Darcy closed his eyes. This time, the towel would not drape about his neck as it had done when he had intended a mere trim. He drew a deep breath, and his fingers sank into the arms of his chair as Wilson arranged it over his face.
He was trembling, every urge screaming at him to rip the cloth from his face, remove the hot steaming thing from the air he breathed. He knew he was panting, and could only imagine what his trusted valet saw. A fleeting temptation, to bolt to his feet and let the matter rest for another day, pressed into his consciousness.
His fingernails were now scoring the leather of his chair, and his jaw was beginning to ache. Hewouldprevail against this irrational fear! He tried to recall Elizabeth; the way she had bent over him only an hour ago, loving him back to himself, back to his home. His breathing steadied, but his pulse still drummed. He would do this forher, to prove to her that he was deserving of her efforts!
An eternity passed, and the cloth became marginally more bearable. It was cooling, and mercifully, Wilson had finished preparing the shave cream. Darcy opened his eyes in profound relief when Wilson whisked the cloth away, but now the real test was to begin.
The cream was less trying than it might have been, the soft bristles massaging flesh long hidden to all save Elizabeth and her teasing fingers. Ah, yes, if he could only think on her, close his eyes and imagine her smiling caress! He felt some of the tension leave his hands, but then Wilson turned away for a moment. What he brought back….
Darcy clenched his eyes again, but Wilson’s gentle fingers touched his cheek, reminding him that he must relax his face or he would be cut. He drew a long, ragged breath, and slowly exhaled.
Elizabeth leaned over him again, her hair tumbling down as a blessed veil, engulfing him and shielding him from the rest of the world. Her tender fingers traced his face, and his name was soft upon her lips. He sighed and felt his body release its tension.Elizabeth.
12 January, 1759
The babe has kicked mercilessly all day! Mr Darcy insists that it is too early for me to experience such discomfort, but I think perhaps he has forgotten that month he and my brother spent on the continent. I was decidedly with child before his departure, and if my woman is to be believed, I shall be delivered a full three or four weeks before he anticipates. We have it on a wager now; if I am correct, the child shall be named after me. If he is correct, it will be another Fitzwilliam after my father. That the child might be a daughter is clearly out of the question, for Mr Darcy desires a son, so a son I shall give him.
I tire of Lady Margaret’s stay at Pemberley. She seems to feel that as she is doubly my sister by marriage and was, until two years ago, a Darcy herself, that she has license to advise me in matters of the house and preparations for the child. Why, she has gone so far as to presume that our own children might one day marry! If that woman ever has a daughter, I shall be certain that my George—for I know that shall be his name—will have better sense than to marry a cousin twice over. Ridiculous woman!
I declare she must be padding her gowns to match my appearance, for I cannot conceive of how her own babe could be as large as mine. She is hardly circumspect with her personal confidences, but perhaps she speaks the truth. My brother was away at the same time as my husband, after all. Did they not all return to Pemberley together, along with that fellow from Portugal? But no matter, if my sister-in-law carries the next heir to the earldom, my brother is well pleased, regardless of when she is delivered.
She said the most curious thing to me this morning. She claims to have overheard an argument between our husbands in the study, though how she could have heard it all the way from the music room seems a mystery to me. I do believe the silly woman is lost, after all, for one would have to travel the long portrait gallery between those two rooms. That is the kindest assumption I can make, but my maid—
