And she had still another month to go. Another four weeks for that behemoth, that monster, that fiend within her to continue its unchecked growth! Darcy had purposefully removed Elizabeth from the country, from the very bed in which his own mother had died giving birth to Georgiana. He had purposefully brought her to his beloved London, the city with superior physicians and advanced medical practices. He had not, however, counted on the greater crowds, almost twice as large as the prior year, and the noise! London, bursting at this holiday season and still celebrating the allies victory! Was this damned commemoration never to end?
The house remained in expectant quiet and seemed deserted to the innocent outside world, the knocker still packed somewhere within the attic, giving notice that no visitors were welcome. But those who lived within knew better. They who lived there, and all of surrounding St. James, waited.
Volume Three
The Family
1817
“There is no remedy for love,
But to love more.”
Chapter 1
Damn it to hell! Darcy took one last look up the stairs before storming out into the frosty night. I should not be forced to run like some criminal, driven from my own house, by my own wife. He paced back and forth on his front stoop, his breath blooming out around him with every heated exclamation, every “harrumph,” every “damnation,” every “ridiculous” that was spat out. Stomping his feet on the chilly pavement, he slapped his arms to ward off the freezing winter temperatures. She’s lost her mind, that’s all there is to it. I shall care for her, of course, for as long as she lives, and if she’s not careful, that won’t be too much longer.
He was furious with Elizabeth for her unprovoked behavior, while even angrier with himself for still feeling concern—and to what purpose? It was Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. He had approached their room with the noblest of intents. He would bring supper up for them both, sparing her an arduous trip up and down the staircase. Besides, most of the servants were off for their Yule holiday, and he wanted Mr. and Mrs. Winters to have a well-deserved rest also. He was perfectly willing to pitch in, warm up something or slice something, do whatever culinary magic it would entail to feed his beloved. How hard could it be?
He just required the most minimum of direction, such as just where the kitchen was exactly and how to light the oven, perhaps a recommendation on which pan to use and if he needed some sort of oil, and mayhap she could direct him to where those pans were actually kept, and the silverware—they would need silverware and dishes, too. Lizzy would help him. She liked blancmange. Could that be very difficult? And dressed lamb—that was his favorite.
He was too proud to admit his ignorance to the few remaining servants. Perhaps he should aim a bit lower. By God, wouldn’t some nice fruit and cheese be better all around, healthier, less trouble, too? Now, where was the fruit? And the larder? Where was cheese stored anyway?
To his shock, he had been greeted at the door not by his adoring wife but by some hysterical banshee propelling objects at him, great, heavy glass and metal objects, sailing lethally and deliberately through the air, accompanied by screams of “Liar” and shrieks of “How could you?” over and over again.
In his bewilderment, he never noticed the note that lay in shreds at her feet nor the locket she had clutched to her chest. He was too busy with his evasive action, his bobbing and weaving. All he knew for certain was that he was half an hour late in coming to her rooms, and this was his punishment. His ungrateful wife had finally snapped, did not appreciate him, never had. Suddenly anger and resentment could no longer be restrained, and they commenced a series of door slamming and verbal denunciations.
He stomped back into the house and made his noisy way up the stairs and into his own dressing room. Enough is enough, he fumed. I’ve been far too complacent with her temper tantrums and her stubborn pride. I’ve spoiled her—just plain spoiled her. “You are spoiled, young woman, spoiled! I have been far too indulgent with you!” he yelled. He grabbed his greatcoat and gloves and began loudly clomping back down the stairs, challenging her to voice a complaint, casting dire glances toward Elizabeth’s dressing-room door. I will be a doormat for her no longer. “I will be a doormat for you no longer, madam!!” he bellowed, nodding his head, completely in agreement with himself.
Since her door was wide open, she had to have heard the commotion of this dramatic departure and reentrance, let alone his defiant proclamation, and yet she never appeared. He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, his breathing labored and his heart pounding. Damn it! Maybe she’s made herself ill. He could not contain his worries; they had been his constant companion for months. She’s been so quiet lately, and tired. This fit of temper must have been a shock to her system.
He took a few more hesitant steps toward the front door, slapping his gloves across his palm and then stopping again to gnaw on his lip. I suppose I could just quietly go up and have a look in at her. She’s losing her balance so often—what if she’s fallen again? He continued standing there, unable to leave and unable to go back up.
He could have just as well had “Kick me” painted on his back. Suddenly an object flew down, hitting him sharply on the back of his head. “Don’t leave without your stupid hat, Mr. Darcy. It has become chilled outside, and I should not wish to be accused of being the cause of your fever.” Elizabeth haughtily spun around and slammed her door shut.
The momentary stillness was followed by the sound of a latch.
Months and months of anxious, heart-stopping apprehension finally broke within him. Impudent little mongrel! “Inputil Mingol!” he bellowed absurdly. I really must get control of myself. His mind spun like a top, he was so incensed. He was so infuriated. He was angrier and more upset than ever before in his life, let alone in their three-year marriage. How dare she throw my hat at me!! This is a new hat! Finally getting his rage controlled enough to form coherent words, he yelled up to her, “Locked doors between us are not permitted in this house, Elizabeth!” He stood at the foot of the stairs and bellowed the clincher, “I forbid them, as you well know!” That told her!
He could contain himself no longer. He charged back up the stairs, two at a time, ending outside her door in a mind-rending and furious temper. “Mrs. Darcy, open this door!” Nothing—not a sound. He tried the handle once and then again. “Mrs. Darcy, this is still my house. You are still, if only momentarily, my wife, and I insist you open this door immediately!” He banged furiously for several moments and then stopped to listen.
Alarm began to take precedence over anger when no sound came back to him. The whole house seemed deadly quiet.
“Elizabeth, are you all right? Elizabeth?! Are you hurt? Damnation, Lizzy, answer me!” He waited a few moments more and then, taking a step back, raised his heel and bashed in the door with his boot. His eyes darted quickly around the room, finding her off to the side by the windows, sitting at her dressing table.
Tears streaming down her face, Elizabeth jumped up before retreating two steps. “How dare you force your way into my rooms, breaking in my door! I was right about you. You are no gentleman!”