Now, it was quiet. The girls were abed, probably gossiping and giggling in one of their rooms. Between missing her husband and the residual commotion elicited from Lady Catherine's statements, Lizzy dreaded lying on the empty bed and attempting sleep. The majority of Lady Catherine's accusations Lizzy recognized as spiteful and without any foundation. The love Darcy and Lizzy shared was of a depth few could understand. The notion of regrets or faulty decisions on his part was laughable in the extreme.
Nonetheless, Lizzy did wonder. The truth is, she was completely ignorant of the social proprieties of Darcy's world. The idea that his marriage to her may have damaged the Darcy reputation or affected the estate in a tangible way seemed unlikely, yet she suddenly found the words of his first proposal echoing in her head. My rank, family expectations, your birth and inferior circumstances. Isolated at Pemberley, deliriously blissful in her husband's arms, Lizzy had given none of it the slightest consideration. Ultimately she trusted Darcy, believed in his love for her and in his competence to manage affairs as brilliantly as always. Yet, his aunt's words stung. How had she known the invitations had been minimal? Until two days ago they had received not a one, other than from their circle of intimates. Additionally, the opportunity with Duke Grafton was nearly refused due to Darcy's reluctance to abandon her. What else had he allowed to slip through his fingers?
Tears slid down her cheeks and the pain of his absence became unbearable. She could not regret marrying him nor could he regret marrying her, and Lizzy recollected his frequent slurs against the fickleness of society with mild encouragement. The influx of calling cards and invitations over the past two days proved how quickly the supposed importance of pedigree and station was overshadowed by wealth and connections. She could hear his voice: “By next year, beloved, not a soul will remember you as other than Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley.” The melancholy was not borne of remorse but of causing his life to be troubled in any way, no matter how minute or innocent.
A knock at the bedroom door interrupted her reverie. It was Samuel with an envelope he was charged to deliver to Mrs. Darcy prior to her retiring.
My beloved, precious wife,
I am writing this on the afternoon prior to my departure. You, my love, are sitting across from me on the sofa, your dainty feet tucked under you as you read, absently chewing a stray lock of hair as you always do when you concentrate. My God, you are so beautiful! I have hours remaining to kiss you and embrace you and express my ever-increasing love for you, yet my heart is breaking for missing you. I will charge Samuel to deliver this missive as you retire. I shall present a brave face tomorrow, my dearest, yet I deem there is no point in pretending that either of us will not be miserable on our first night apart. Will I fear attempting sleep in a strange and empty bed, or will I yearn for the oblivion of sleep to erase my pain and lose myself in sweet dreams of your kisses?
Elizabeth, my soul, I wish with all my being that I could promise we will never again be separated! Yet, I cannot. It is inevitable that business will intrude from time to time as our long years as one soul unfold. What I do promise is that I will never desert you unless it is absolutely necessary and that I will carry your love with me as I travel. I will always strive to return to your arms as rapidly as humanly possible. Knowing that you are waiting for me with a love equal to mine for you shall keep me sane. Beloved, you are my life. Be well and cheery, take care of yourself and our child, and doubt not my unwavering devotion to you both. Could I fill innumerable pages with poetic verse declaring my passion for you? Yes. Instead, I believe I shall end this letter so that I may ravish you here in my study. With this decision, and later a delightful memory for you as you nod off in slumber, I will simply say, I love you.
William
At Euston Hall in Suffolk, some sixty miles from London and Elizabeth, Darcy also stood gazing at the stars. The large window in the roomy and well-appointed chamber assigned him was open, permitting a cooling breeze to waft in and an unencumbered view of the night sky. Darcy fingered the small pouch containing the braided tress of his wife's hair along with the lavender scented handkerchief she had pressed into his hand as he left. He sighed heavily. He did not wonder if she missed him. Any doubts at the depth of her love for him had vanished ere they were wed. His only doubts at the moment were regarding the logic of leaving her. He had lost count after a hundred at the number of times he nearly spun his mount about and raced back to Town. The letter teeming with lavish praises of love and desire written earlier was waiting on the desk for delivery at first light.
A knock at the door broke into his musings and revealed Gerald Vernor, brandy decanter and glasses in hand. “Figured you could use a nightcap.”
Darcy smiled. “You have no idea. Come in, my friend.”
For Darcy the subsequent three days were busy and surprisingly pleasant for the most part. Gerald was always agreeable company and Duke Grafton possessed a dry wit and a wealth of adventures he enjoyed imparting with a born storyteller's flair. His stables were impressive. Darcy, the consummate horseman that he was, delighted in the endless discussions, ridings, and inspections of the Duke's magnificent animals. The business arrangements monopolized hours and required serious, intense concentration. Evenings were replete with the Duke's tales, fine dining, and manly entertainments. He had an excellently equipped game room, including a beautiful billiard table that Darcy proficiently profited from. Therefore, it was not until the late evenings and horrid nights when Darcy's heartache would overwhelm him. He would wake in the mornings after sleeping fitfully, aroused from vivid dreams of his wife, lonely, and miserable.
He reasoned that arriving at Pemberley on the fourth day after leaving her would ease his heartache somewhat since it was their home, yet he was wrong. He had not fully comprehended how indelibly Elizabeth's presence was etched into every room and corridor. He heard her voice and gentle footfalls constantly, expected to behold her beloved face at every corner, could smell the lingering aroma of her perfume, and his eyes alit on a ceaseless array of her belongings scattered about. Even the stables elicited poignant memories: the curricle she drove, the pairs of thick leather gloves he had purchased for her, and worst of all the now sixth-month-old colt that she had bonded with and named Wolfram after the author of Parzival, from which Darcy had chosen his stallion's name. Wolfram scampered up to Darcy the instant he entered the stable yard, nosing behind his body with searching eyes. “Sorry little fellow, she is not here.” The colt seemed to understand Darcy's words, or at least the mournful tone, and with a last look about, hung his head and wandered away sadly. Darcy wanted to cry.
The torture was exacerbated when he entered their chambers. The sensory overload of memories associated with her overwhelmed him and for several minutes he could not breathe. He seriously entertained the idea of sleeping in a guest chamber, but in the end, the need to be close to her possessions as a substitute to the flesh and blood reality was too strong. Eventually, he found comfort in the ghost of his heart's survival as Elizabeth's spirit was evident in each corner of the chambers. He lay in their bed that first night with the door to her dressing room open, his gaze resting on her vanity as joyous remembrances of brushing her hair while she smiled at his reflection washed over him, gradually leading to a profusion of rapturous recollections as sleep claimed him.