Karen Wasylowski - Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

“I have a rather delicate question to put to you.”

He groaned and chuckled. “Can’t it wait, Lizzy?” he murmured into her cleavage and then licked her there delicately. “I am otherwise occupied at the moment. Just getting to the good part, if you catch what I mean.”

He felt her body stiffen in his arms. “No, William, it cannot wait. Not if you want my full participation.” He stopped at once. It was very quiet as he lifted his head up to rest on his hand.

“Well, this sounds a trifle ominous. Very good, Mrs. Darcy, I am at your service. Ask away.”

In the darkness he felt more than saw Lizzy lean back onto her pillow, uncharacteristically hesitant and unsure of herself. It had been difficult for him to put brakes to his lust, but he sensed that something was bothering her this evening. Suddenly he became fearful about the pregnancy and braced himself up onto his elbow, trying to make out the look in her eyes. His hand brushed hair from her face then covered her stomach. “What is it, dearest? Is it the babe?”

“Did you ever have the feeling that Caroline Bingley was in love with you?” She blurted the question out before she could think twice.

He was startled, but initial relief quickly rushed through him, an amused grin teasing the corners of his mouth. “From where, in heaven’s name, is this question coming?”

She let out the breath she had been holding. “Nowhere, really. My mind just wandered as I brushed, grown weary, I suppose, of being concerned with nursemaids and new clothes for after the confinement. I believe it is a fairly straightforward question, however. Was she in love with you?”

“Caroline Bingley was involved with several men, Elizabeth.”

A premonition, only a slight quiver, touched at Lizzy’s heart.

“So I have heard repeatedly; however, that is not what I asked, is it?”

He remained very still for several moments, the room in quiet shadow. “Something must have motivated this line of thought. What has made you ask such a thing, Elizabeth?”

“Well, I was making a sort of mental comparison between Lady Catherine and Caroline.”

With that, Darcy gave a short laugh and quickly apologized. “Go on, dear, you were saying?”

“I believe that Lady Catherine took such a dislike of me because she loves you deeply and felt that I was taking you from her and her plans for your future. Caroline is the only other person I have ever known to take me into such disgust.”

They stayed without speaking for several moments. Either he has fallen asleep, or he’s upset with me. She fidgeted with the blanket edge, frustrated at not being able to clearly see his expression in the dark. Her heart was pounding.

“Elizabeth, I don’t wish to lie to you, and I really don’t think there would be any advantage to either of us if we continued with this conversation.”

Elizabeth stopped breathing before the sentence’s end. It was a while before she found her voice again. “It is a simple question, Mr. Darcy.” Raising herself onto her elbow, she turned toward him, steadying her voice as best as she could. “It requires a simple yes or no answer. I will not think badly of you if you realized that she was in love with you, and I will not think badly of you if that was something of which you were ignorant.” And I hope that’s all there is to this.

Abruptly, Darcy lay back down and turned his back to her. “I don’t believe it is in our best interest to converse about this any further. End of discussion, I’m afraid. Good night, Elizabeth.”

She had been dismissed.

It became deadly quiet in the surrounding universe, not a breeze nor a whisper nor a breath could be heard. Even the cicadas and frogs were stunned. Only the snores of the two mastiffs lying before the foot of their bed interrupted the quiet night. Elizabeth waited, terribly alone it seemed, for several minutes.

“William, are you angry with me?” she whispered but received no answer from his side of the bed.

Elizabeth was becoming extremely alarmed. Darcy was never cruel, always a gentleman. Oh, he could still be aloof at times, but never with her. She sat up in their bed to try for a better look at his countenance. The faint outline of her husband’s back in the dark revealed him to be facing the opposite wall of their bedroom.

“William?” she said softly. No answer.

“Fitzwilliam?” Still he did not answer.

Suddenly, a flash of perception, the unerring intuition of the female brain, illuminated her mind. She gasped.

“Mr. Darcy, did you have a love affair with Caroline Bingley?”

His silence was deafening. Elizabeth’s heart pounded as she repeated the question, a little louder and much more strident. She roughly shoved his shoulder.

“Mr. Darcy, did you have sexual congress with Caroline Bingley?!”

His continued silence was all the answer she really required by that point. She scrambled from the bed, refusing to allow any part of her body to be contaminated by him, and stared down at that dark and now-evil form. It was as if Satan himself had crawled into bed between them. Eventually, he rolled onto his back then ran his fingers roughly through his hair. Next, he sighed. He then said the words all women dread to hear.

“Elizabeth, it was such a long time ago.”

The following morning brought a surprise to Darcy’s majordomo. When he entered the couple’s bedchamber, the fire in the grate was completely cold, and the bed was empty. He looked in mild apprehension around an apparently deserted room. He knew instantly that something was dreadfully wrong as he scanned the broken vases and overturned books. The two dogs, Buck and Milo, looked up. They had been calmly ripping apart several bed pillows between them, feathers laying everywhere. Happy woofs were their greeting to Bradford, anticipation of their imminent run outside and breakfast sent tails loudly thumping. There was, however, no sign of human life anywhere.

It was clear that the bed had been entered at some point, but the covers were still in an almost pristine condition, not wrestled about, half off the bed and half on, as on most mornings. A movement on the settee in the adjoining sitting room, a figure covered by a great quilt, caught his eye.

The form groaned and turned toward the light streaming in through the windows where Bradford had just pulled back the curtains to reveal the extent of destruction. The form was Mr. Darcy!

He shielded his eyes quickly from the brightness, and once he had made out who the intruder was, put up his hand in greeting. “Bradford, good morning. Terribly sorry for this mess.” He waved his arm vaguely to encompass the bedroom and then the rest of London. He let his head crash back down on the sofa.

He looked hideous—well, as hideous as the handsome Mr. Darcy could look. Bradford slowly entered farther into the room, now seeing broken picture frames and torn clothing, overturned chairs and one or two mirrors balanced precariously on their sides in the corners.

“Is everything all right, sir?” It was an absurd question. Clearly evident were the remains of the couple’s first out-and-out brawl. It was also painfully evident to him that Darcy and Elizabeth, for the first time in their young marriage, had not slept in the same bed.

Darcy moaned and turned his face into the sofa again. “Mrs. Darcy and I have had a bit of a contretemps.” He then slowly pulled the cover up over his head.

In another first in their relatively short months of wedded bliss, there was no evidence of the mistress of the house at breakfast, her most favored meal, or again at lunch, her other most favored meal. Several of the staff began to speculate about dinner and if the bottom of the lake should be investigated. The gossip in the servants’ hall would stop whenever Bradford came through but revived the moment his door closed.

Darcy paced back and forth, alternately angry and contrite, unsure of what to do or how to say it. How could he explain something that had happened so long ago, at a time when he was incredibly naïve?

He had been introduced to the lovely Caroline Bingley by his older and hopelessly randy cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, during a fashionable dinner party at Carlton House. A favorite with the high flyers, Caroline had been much younger when she initiated her ultimately unsuccessful campaign to barter morals for an advantageous match. Alas, when push came to shove, she was only a tradesman’s daughter, and always would remain one.

She had pursued the incredibly handsome newcomer, Darcy, until he succumbed after a night of heavy drinking and unsuccessful gaming. It had been a satisfying three hours, vaguely remembered, but three hours that he never cared to repeat. It had meant little to him then and was conveniently forgotten with time.

Standing before his wife’s sitting-room door, he was prepared to knock but hesitant. How could they discuss this problem in an adult, rational manner when they appeared to be one rational adult short? The Elizabeth he had seen last evening was a stranger to him, a spoiled child with her screeching and outrage. The behavior she exhibited had confused him; her lack of emotional control baffled him. He stared at the closed door and sighed. What could he do? God alone knew how much he missed his beloved angel and closest friend, and that after only one night apart. Why, he missed her so much that he wanted to strangle her. This was ridiculous; he was head of his household, after all. He would simply demand she listen to him.