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Our return to the estate was accomplished in silence. Of course, we could not speak with Clara listening to every word. For once, I did not even notice the perilous Pemberley drive; I looked at my husband, willing him to look back at me, but he did not. He was present in the carriage, but his mind and heart, I felt, were somewhere else entirely.
When we arrived home, young Clara scurried into the house; clearly, she felt the tension swirling between us and wanted no part of it. He took my arm as we exited the carriage, his touch light. Now, I thought, we will talk of this, we will speak, and we will put it behind us.
I did not care if the entire world believed my husband capable of violence; they were wrong. Mr Darcy, at his angriest, would never so much as lay a hand upon someone he loved. Perhaps I was even jumping to conclusions at the reasons for my poor reception in Hopewell; the idea that he might slay his wife, as Lucy believed, was ludicrous. Could it be that they were angry at his hasty remarriage? Granted, it was swift, but death was, sadly, too common for it to be utterly shocking, and what business was it of theirs?
But at the door, he bowed, turned away and stalked back to the carriage. After climbing into it, the footman put up the steps and gently shut the door. The carriage, with my husband inside, drove away, leaving me to enter the house alone.
He did not come home for dinner, rather, sending a note saying he was unavoidably detained by business. I supposed it could be true; after all, his day had been interrupted. I waited up as late as I could, but when the clock struck eleven, I knew I would soon be in danger of falling asleep. I wandered into his chamber; he was the usual visitor to mine. Would he use the excuse of my slumber to avoid me? He could not quite do so if I was in his bed already; it seemed, however, very bold. His man would witness my advances as well.
And yet, what was the difference, truly, whether he came to mine or I came to his? I certainly agreed with the concept of separate dressing rooms, but why did we need separate bedchambers? Did I really wish for the solitude it might afford? Or was a sometimes more painful, less comfortable lack of privacy a better choice? However, should I force him to make it, as well? It could be detrimental to my kindest feelings if he ejected me summarily.
It came down to trust, I decided. I either trusted that he would respect me within my private spaces—and within his—or I did not. I either trusted him to be kind if I overstepped his boundaries, or I did not. The answers were simple, at least to me. And though he might not agree with my decision, I blew out my candle, climbed into his bed, pulled the blankets up over my shoulders, and, eventually, fell asleep.
I awakened to the murmurs of male voices speaking quietly from within Mr Darcy’s dressing room. A few minutes later, I saw him entering, clad in a nightshirt, illuminated only by the fire. He normally wore nothing to bed, but his nightshirt meant…something. Doubtless he knew I was here, in his bed, as his man would have mentioned it. He might be sending me a signal not to touch him, not to expect anything from him. Or he might simply consider it gentlemanly, as he was not stupid; he must know he ought not to avoid confronting our troubles. He climbed in the opposite side and lay down, sighing, his back to me.
Well, perhaps he was stupid—in this, anyway. Heavens, he had been married for several years; at least under these circumstances, he ought to have recognised my presence for the conciliatory gesture it was, then countered with a gesture of his own.
I was tired, and still hurt. I did not feel like acting the part of a beggar for his affections. At that moment, it would have been easiest to simply go back to sleep.
Instead, I reached across what felt like a vast space between us, took his wrist and, tugging it over to my side of the bed, rolled over so that my back was to him, placing his hand so it rested upon my hip.
For some moments he lay utterly still. And then, I felt the mattress shift as he rolled to face my back; there were still several inches of space between us. With gentle touches, he stroked my shoulder, back, and hip in comforting circles, up and down and over. There was nothing lustful in his touch, but it was deeply intimate, even so. I fell asleep to the rhythm of his easy, soothing caress.
