Estranged, page 12
“But, of course,” Elizabeth replied. “To say nothing of the inconvenience of a mad mistress,” she continued, directing her comment at her husband.
Darcy ignored her retort and attended to his drink by standing and crossing the room to refill his glass.
Turning to the colonel, Elizabeth continued, “No doubt, my husband has been commiserating with you about my apparent loss of sanity, since he seems to believe I have completely taken leave of my senses.”
Mr. Darcy interjected, “You know that is not true. I am only concerned for your health. If I have spoken to my cousin, it is only because I worry for your well-being.”
Elizabeth sharply asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, “So, have you left a prominent position in the military to become a physician then?”
By now, Elizabeth grew angry with both gentlemen, thinking they were conspiring against her. Surely my presence must make further strategizing against me impossible, she thought.
If the colonel is here only to judge me, then I must question my allegiances. She had always enjoyed the colonel’s amiable nature, but if he was not there to help find her missing child, then she wanted no part in his visit.
With a deep breath, Elizabeth excused herself, suggesting that she must return to her primary employment—continuing to unravel the mystery of her missing child, even if she was the only one who seemed to care.
As she left the room, she could feel the eyes of both men on her and the weight of their judgment crushing down upon her. She knew that she had made things worse with her husband and pushed him further away from her. But she could not help it. She was obsessed with finding their child and could not stand the thought of everyone viewing her search as evidence of her supposedly repressed grief.
I am determined to persist, no matter what anyone else says or thinks.
Days later, once his cousin had taken his leave of Pemberley, Darcy found himself lost in deep contemplation over an earlier incident with Elizabeth.
He endured his wife’s outbursts stoically, but skepticism lurked beneath his sympathy. Privately, he had conferred with the latest physician about Elizabeth’s state of mind.
“Childbirth can unbalance a woman’s reason,” the gentleman had warned. “She may well invent memories to escape accepting the loss.”
And so Darcy watched Elizabeth warily, torn between pity and doubt. Her behavior became increasingly frantic as she tore apart the nursery, seeking clues and interrogating servants for the true whereabouts of her son.
All of a sudden, Elizabeth burst into Darcy’s study, wild-eyed after yet another fruitless search. Confronting him directly and grasping his lapels, she cried, “Why will you not help me? My son needs his mother!”
Gently prying her hands loose, Darcy said, “The babe rests peacefully now. You must abandon this fantasy, for it will only wound you deeper.”
Elizabeth recoiled as if slapped. “How dare you presume me a liar? I bore our child inside my body and held him in my arms!” Anguish contorted her features. “If you cannot trust your own wife, then I have no recourse left.” Elizabeth had shouted with eyes blazing. “I should never have thought you incapable of fighting for your own flesh and blood!
“But why would I be surprised? It is not as though you wanted the child—the sacred Fitzwilliam bloodline tainted by Bennet blood!”
Her accusatory words stole his breath away. “You are not being fair. Our child meant as much to me as he did to you. Both of us have suffered an unimaginable loss—one no parent would wish to endure.”
“That makes this situation even more pitiable because deep down in my heart, I know that my child—our child lives!”
Stung, Darcy retreated to his study, doubts about his wife’s sanity resurfacing. Perhaps distance would calm her mind or, at the very least, allow him to gain perspective. Returning reluctantly to attend to business matters, Darcy found little distraction from his troubling thoughts. He reflected again on what the physicians had to say on the subject of hysteria in grieving mothers. Their abstract reassurances provided little comfort or clarity.
Late that same night, Darcy sat despairing over a nearly empty brandy bottle, Elizabeth’s anguished voice echoing through his mind. The alcohol burned away his reserves of reason.
What if she was right? What if their child lived while he sat there wallowing in indecision? Was he failing them utterly?
Chapter 22
A CONCERNED RELATION
Elizabeth was in the nursery, her eye drawn to the vacant cradle. The room was silent except for her thoughts, whirling like a tempestuous storm. Months had passed since she discovered her infant son was missing, yet no one had paid for the presumed crime. Sometimes, in her darkest moments, doubt crept in. What if the babe she remembered birthing had simply been too frail to survive? What if what everyone around her kept saying was true?
Since their last heated and tempestuous disagreement over summoning physicians, the Darcys’ interactions had been reduced to nothing more than strained and calculated cordialities. Every glance, every word added another stone to the barrier that was growing between them.
At length, her husband slipped into the room. Steeling herself, Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I know you think me mad, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy flinched and looked away. His prolonged silence spoke for itself.
Elizabeth released a harsh, bitter laugh. “Even now, you still believe our son lies moldering in the ground. You do not trust a mother’s memory of her own babe.”
“I do not know what to believe!” Darcy said, his voice a mixture of frustration and hopelessness. Regaining his composure, he continued, “Perhaps in your grief, you only imagined...” He faltered beneath her severe gaze.
“Speak plainly, sir,” Elizabeth commanded, eyes glaring. “You think me hysterical, inventing memories to escape my grief.” She stepped closer, searching his conflicted face intently. “Say it is so if you truly believe it.”
Darcy opened his mouth but could force no words out. At length, he turned away, looking utterly defeated. “Let us speak no more of this, wife. The child is gone; we must look forward.”
His hollow words chilled Elizabeth to the core. All remaining hope within her was on the brink of shriveling. If even her husband could not bring himself to trust her—the child’s father, what chance did she have of ever proving her memories true? For the first time since her loss, the enormity of her loneliness and futility washed over Elizabeth, threatening to pull her under into darkness. Wrapping her arms around herself tightly, she quit the nursery, unable to bear Mr. Darcy’s presence a moment longer.
Elizabeth knew that if she did not find some way of unburdening her mind, she might indeed go mad, thus confirming what her husband and now even his relation already believed. In the heart of the Derbyshire winter, traveling to Hertfordshire was out of the question. Mr. Darcy would employ every bit of his power to prevent it. She was practically a stranger to her husband’s relations in Matlock, what with her and Mr. Darcy’s estrangement occurring so soon after meeting them in London.
Even if she could travel to Longbourn or have a member of her family visit her, she was certain they would side with her husband on the matter of her sanity. She could well imagine her mother urging her to get busy with the business of producing another heir to get over the loss of the first. As for Jane, who was far away in Kent, their last letter had confirmed that she was now with child and much too far along to even consider being away from her own home.
Elizabeth thought of writing to her aunt Gardiner in London, but how would she account for her continued conviction that her child lived? She could not bear the thought of others thinking her unhinged as Darcy did. Better they believe the conflict stemmed from lingering grief over losing a child than an obsession with a phantom babe.
Do not be absurd, her mind whispered. This is my dear Aunt Gardiner of whom I am thinking. She would never judge me.
With that sentiment in mind, Elizabeth reached for her pen and paper and poured her heart out, illuminating as best she could what had led to her dire predicament and seeking advice on how she ought to think and feel and act henceforth.
When she was done, Elizabeth read that closing of her letter once more, hoping her aunt would not think her ungrateful, even while knowing all too well that her aunt, more than anyone, knew her struggles in having accepted Mr. Darcy’s remedy against the scandal in Carlisle little more than a year ago.
I cannot help but compare the looks I receive from those around me now to those I encountered in Carlisle. Only in this case, it is far worse. There, they thought me conniving, a fallen woman, a disgrace. Here, they think me mad, a grieving lunatic, a pity.
Still, how can I regret the path I chose—the path that led me to motherhood, my greatest gift, despite it being the path that led me to my greatest despair? Would that I leave all this behind me, the madness, the sadness, the persistent pain, and the ceaseless tears.
But alas, I stay. Wandering the halls for answers that are not there by day and surrendering myself over to seer exhaustion each night, I pray.
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and released a deep breath she did not even realize she was holding in. Even if she did not send the letter to her aunt, it was infinitely cathartic, just committing all her grief and pain to paper.
But she did send the letter and was relieved beyond measure upon receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. The first thing Elizabeth noticed was the missive was thinner than those she usually received from her aunt, and she began to fear the words contained therein were not what she had hoped her aunt would convey. Her eyes lingered on the part that read:
Oh, my dear, what a dreadful ordeal you have endured! Your mentioning that your husband threatened Bedlam if you did not relent was met with all the abhorrence you must suspect. But surely Mr. Darcy cannot truly mean to send you away to some dreadful place! As if any woman in her right mind could simply accept her child being ripped away!
Perchance, such egregious speech is a product of his own confused state of mind. It cannot be easy for a man of sense and education to rely solely on faith when all evidence points toward the facts that lay before him.
Would that I could rescue you from your current predicament—to offer you shelter from the greatest trial you have ever faced. But as Mr. Darcy retains every legal right over you as his wife, he is the ultimate decider. You will forgive me for sounding so cool in speaking in this manner, but being the rational creature that I know you to be, I know you will find the right path. And if I might go one step further, I implore you not to give up on Mr. Darcy. I genuinely believe, in his heart of hearts, he is a good man whose greatest wish is to see you through this dreadful period, but for the first time in his life, he does not know how.
My dearest Lizzy, with all my heart, I pray that you will muster the strength to show him the way.
Chapter 23
ELIZABETH’S PLEA
Rain lashed the windows as Darcy stood alone, brooding.
Perhaps I should not have involved my cousin in such a private affair for all the good it did.
If anything, his efforts had only worsened the situation. Elizabeth was now more fixated than ever on her wild claims that their son lived and further angered that he had subjected her to censure for condemnation among his haughty Fitzwilliam relations. Was there any wonder he had refused his sister’s request to join them at Pemberley in the wake of their grief?
The Darcys inhabited Pemberley like ghosts condemned to haunt the same corridors. Even meals were taken separately now.
Darcy was plagued by doubts. Were the physicians right that grief had shattered Elizabeth’s reason and fabricated memories? The last physician insisted time would gradually return her to reality. But each passing day seemed to only fuel her convictions.
Or am I failing her by refusing to allow for the possibility she may be right in her belief that our son lives?
A timid knock interrupted his troubled musings. Turning, Darcy was startled to see Elizabeth’s slender frame in the doorway.
Elizabeth slipped inside, clutching a shawl around her shoulders. He had not expected her to seek him out. They had barely spoken in the days since quarreling over his relentless summoning of physicians. Surely any substantive conversation now would end in fresh conflict.
But looking at his wife’s drawn, sorrow-ravaged face, Darcy felt his sentiments soften. “What is it, Elizabeth?”
She looked down, fingering a thread on her shawl. “Do you truly think me mad, Fitzwilliam?” she asked baldly. “Truly in your heart, do you believe I only invented memories in my delirium?”
Darcy tensed, instinctively defensive at her probing. “I think you endured a traumatic loss no mother should suffer,” he replied carefully. “In your grief, perhaps you only wish to believe—”
“Enough.” Elizabeth cut him off, eyes flashing with renewed hurt. “You need not strain to spare my feelings. Besides, that is not my purpose in seeking you out.” She stepped further inside the room. “Might I speak frankly with you?” Her voice was a ragged whisper, her eyes downcast.
Taken aback, Darcy mutely gestured to a chair. Elizabeth approached on trembling legs.
“Fitzwilliam, I... I apologize for my outbursts of late. You do not deserve such abuse.” She pulled at the delicate strands of thread that wove through her shawl once more.
Darcy waited silently for her to continue.
“Perhaps my grief has consumed me to the point of madness. I have pushed away those trying to comfort me, including you.” At last, Elizabeth lifted her eyes to meet his.
“Yet, I must ask you to hear me once more. Not the rantings of before, but a rational wife and mother.” Resolutely, she again recounted every detail surrounding their child’s birth and subsequent disappearance that had been seared into her mind.
Darcy listened intently, surprised by her composed candor. As she described the babe’s distinctive features, unwavering conviction rang in every word. Still, could such memories be trusted after trauma? His doubts warred with fresh uncertainty.
When she finished, Elizabeth clasped his hands tightly, as if to convey her sincerity through touch. “I know how I must sound. But as your wife, as the mother of our child, I swear to you every word is true.” Elizabeth wept. “I cannot let this rest.”
Darcy was torn, yearning to offer comfort. At length, he squeezed her hands gently in return and, weighing his words carefully, espoused the only sentiments he could. “I believe you, Elizabeth. I will do everything in my power to find our son and bring him home. For you... for him... for us three.” Reaching out, he dabbed her tears.
“I have given endless thought to our... situation.” Here, he drew in a deep breath before continuing. “Though I possess nothing but my love for you to trust, that must now be enough... I shall commence the search for our son. I shall leave no stone unturned.”
Elizabeth studied his face intently before replying. “Your words hearten me, sir. But I must know... do you believe we might find him? Or is your change of heart merely meant to placate my fits?”
Darcy held her gaze. “I do not know what we shall find in the days ahead. But we must face it together as husband and wife.”
Chapter 24
CLOSING IN
Bitter winds scattered drifts of leaves across Pemberley’s grounds as Darcy gazed out the study window, pondering their meager progress. Nearly two months had passed since he committed to the search for his missing son. But despite extensive discreet inquiries, he seemed no closer to finding answers.
His list of detractors, he cataloged and pursued with alacrity—all roads shielding them from culpability. Chief among them was Lucius Cartwright, the nefarious busybody whose falsehoods had been the means of uniting Darcy and Elizabeth in the first place. The gentleman was abroad and had been for nearly a year. Unless he was especially spiteful, he would have had no knowledge of the birth of Pemberley’s young master.
No such list would have been complete without the inclusion of George Wickham’s name. An exhaustive inquiry proved the innocence of the man who reportedly boasted of a familial connection to the Darcys. Not that Darcy was above suspecting a family member, specifically his aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Her attempts to endear herself to him during his estrangement with Elizabeth all those months in town had only served to draw a wedge between the aunt and nephew.
He may have been separated from his wife, but that did not mean he had given up on the possibility of a reconciliation despite his aunt’s insistence that he must divorce Elizabeth at once and marry her daughter, Anne. The task of investigating Lady Catherine, however, was one he relegated to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Every angle was investigated to the end, and Darcy was more than a little relieved that his aunt’s hand had played no part in his son’s disappearance.
Darcy heard light footsteps behind him and turned to see Elizabeth entering the room, her countenance weary but resolute. What a stark contrast to their first days spent at Pemberley as husband and wife. Will we ever rebuild that level of trust and, dare I wish, affection, after so many months of doubting each other’s sanity and motives?
“Are there any new developments today?” Elizabeth asked hopefully.
Darcy shook his head. “No one I have interrogated thus far will admit to knowledge of anything out of the ordinary the night our child went missing.”
She sighed heavily. “In truth, I begin to fear we are chasing ghosts. Perhaps those we seek have long fled.”
Darcy’s shoulders slumped at her words. Each day diminished hopes of uncovering the truth. But Elizabeth had endured doubt and disbelief for so long. How could he consider surrendering now?
Steeling himself, Darcy crossed the room to take his wife’s hands. “We may feel discouraged, but I refuse to abandon our son. I am devoting every resource at my disposal toward finding him, wherever the trail may lead.”
