Sharon Lathan - The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

“But, you said he was this Wickham.”

“George Wickham is dead, madam.”

She gasped, staggering backward at that shocking revelation.

Darcy continued in his calm but flatly commanding tone. “Mr. Wickham died several days ago from a fall off his horse while returning to his wife in Devon. Geoffrey Wiseman, however, is a thief who was improperly admitted to the townhouse of a valued, well-regarded gentleman of London Society by his housekeeper. If need be, those will be the facts circulated. Tell me, Mrs. Smyth, who do you think will be believed?”

“Sir, please.”

“I will take the chatelaine now, Mrs. Smyth. You have two hours to gather your possessions. The carriage will be awaiting you in the mews for a destination of your choosing, outside of London. You are dismissed. Mr. Travers, see Mrs. Smyth to her quarters.”

Richard Fitzwilliam and George Darcy were practically clairvoyant in their assessments regarding Lizzy.

Two days passed before she was clear-headed enough to hear the entire tale of brave deeds and daring rescue. The death of Wickham and status of Lord Orman brought only relief and a suppressed glee that she knew was unattractive but could not hide from her husband. Darcy glossed over the more gruesome details, Lizzy not murderous enough to require a precise picture of Wickham’s broken, bloody body or Orman’s breakdown, but his theatrical tendencies emerged in recounting the exploits and suspense. Largely this was unconsciously done, but he did hope that inserting a fantastical element to the adventure would dilute the reality of how dangerous and terrifying it truly had been.

She was immeasurably proud of her spouse, extolling his courage with a wealth of glowing adjectives until he blushed and begged her to stop. He attempted to downplay his injuries, but naturally she saw through his dissembling and was not satisfied until personally examining the healing bruises and scalp wound.

“Now, if you are appeased with my health and vigor, I wanted your advice on how to proceed with the announcement of Wickham’s death.”

“You have notified no one?”

He shook his head, apprising her of Richard’s counsel on the subject. “I would have proceeded but was not sure how you felt about telling your father. Goodness knows your mother must not know the truth, but perhaps Mr. Bennet should. Yet I am unsure the wisdom of troubling him over your health when it no longer matters.”

“No, please do not tell him. There is no point, as you say. I am fine and do not wish to burden him unnecessarily.”

“Agreed. Then I shall write immediately, as if I have just been informed. I trust he will know how to contact Mrs. Wickham?”

“I have her address written in my directory, not that I have bothered corresponding in ages.”

“Oh, I did not know. Excellent. I shall dispatch a courier with the news and funds to transport her and whatever belongings she has to Longbourn.”

“That is more than you should do, William.”

“Let us pray she will mature through her grief and make wiser choices in the future.”

Lizzy shook her head sadly. “I fear your optimism destined to be disappointed. Most likely she will lament for as long as it takes to ensnare another man when he takes pity upon the poor widow, Lord forgive my uncharitable attitude.”

Darcy smiled, kissing her forehead before replying, “I forgive you if that counts, but then I am as uncharitable since I said much the same to Richard.”

“What is the current status of Lord Orman? He has said nothing of the abduction?” Her eyes were large and haunted, the shadows underneath darkening against the pallor his name increased.

“The Marquis is under evaluation at Bethlem and not saying anything worthwhile,” Darcy assured in a firm tone. “George has seen the patient daily and is keeping abreast of the situation. The diagnosis is not definitive, the doctors hoping to cure in time, as all doctors do, but that does not look to be imminent or probable. He raved bestially for over a day without ceasing, so I am informed. A straitjacket was required to prevent self-injury, as he was devil-possessed in his mania. His words were recorded, most indecipherable or nonsensical, and my name was mentioned. Or at least ‘Darcy’ was mentioned, but nothing beyond that. Then, yesterday afternoon he abruptly passed into a stuporous petrifaction. George calls it catalepsy or cataleptoid insanity. I have no idea what it means, but the prognosis is poor, he says, and the condition prevents any verbalization.”

Lizzy shuddered, Darcy drawing her closer against his side with a sturdy squeeze. They lounged on their bed, Lizzy yet weak and needing to recuperate further before moving outside their chambers. “I pray he never recovers,” she said with heated conviction. “It terrifies me to imagine him loose again, no matter how assured the doctors are of his revived mental state.”

Darcy agreed and prayed for the same without a shred of remorse. He did not vocalize his vengeful thoughts to his wife, settling for tender caresses to the raw rope burns on her wrists and gentle kisses to the fading bruises on her cheeks as a means to convey his protectiveness. His heart was stone where it concerned Lord Orman and his conviction firm that the madman would never take one step beyond the asylum’s walls. Whatever was required to ensure Orman’s incarceration and safe distance from his family would be done—legal or illegal.

Dr. Darcy, although not trained as a physician for mental ailments, had some experience with madmen of varied types. “Lord Orman’s condition is as horrible as I have ever seen, William,” he said the previous evening after returning from Bethlem and a conference with the physicians there. “Some patients reanimate, but not typically. Caring for their basic survival needs takes top priority over mental treatment, and maintaining physical health when they refuse to eat, drink, or move is extremely difficult. I suppose you can deduce what the common outcome is without my illuminating.”

Indeed Darcy could, mustering not an iota of sadness in the idea.

“Well,” he said to his wife, “if he ever does return to reality and coherency it will be far in the future. No need to fret about it at this point. And since there is no evidence of an abduction ever occurring, it does not matter what claims he asserts. You have been stricken with a nasty cold but are rapidly mending. That is all anyone need know, unless you chose to reveal otherwise.”

“Thank you, my darling.” She sighed deeply, closing her eyes as she wiggled into the warm mattress, her arms tight around his waist and head on his chest. “I trust you to manage as fitting.” And moments later she was asleep, Darcy holding her for nearly thirty minutes before pulling away to attend to the final disposition of Mr. Wickham’s body to Hertfordshire.

In the days that followed Darcy strived to create a façade of normalcy by conducting business as planned and keeping most of his appointments. It was difficult, as residual anxiety affected his concentration and produced an aversion to leaving the house. George calmed his fears, wisely pointing out that his appearance in public would quash any rumors that might be swirling about and that physical activity was the best balm for a wounded spirit. “Much like climbing back on the horse after a nasty fall,” he said with a wink.

Darcy did frown and equivocate some, but he knew the recommendation was sound. He was reassured by Georgiana’s steadying presence, trusting that she would inform him instantly if his family needed him. Therefore, he met with Mr. Daniels and other business associates, scheduled interviews with potential housekeepers, engaged in a rigorous bout at Angelo’s, and enjoyed one rousing race around the military horse track with Richard and several others. The constant activity did help restore his mental equilibrium and expend the residual anger coiled within his body. Nevertheless, his thoughts were never far from Darcy House and he returned home as quickly as possible. Evening engagements were canceled so he could spend the hours alone with wife and sons, the three needing his strength and comfort during the long hours of darkness where nightmares stalked.

The excuse of Lizzy suffering a spring cold was accepted since it was a common ailment. Of course her lady friends were worried, sending well wishes and colorful blooms to cheer her, but they understood her need to rest and preference for solitude. Jane and Mary came by with fresh soup, a special family recipe served when any of them were sick. After a heavy application of powder and rouge to hide the fading bruises and donning a long-sleeved gown to cover her healing wrists, Lizzy welcomed them with honest enthusiasm. She was delighted at the interruption to her bland convalescence. Yet, within seconds of asking about her illness, before speaking the rehearsed pretext, she burst into tears.

Needless to say the sisters were baffled and distressed. Georgiana, who possessed no skills in the art of deception, was instantly in tears as well and helpless in salvaging the situation. Lizzy blurted the entire truth in one long sentence, words stumbling over each other and largely incoherent. But finally the story was told in its entirety and the relief Lizzy felt in talking about her memories and experience was strangely cathartic. Georgiana and Darcy had thus far been her only confidants, but Lizzy tended to hold back and gloss over the dreams that plagued her sleep to spare their distress.

After talking with her sisters she was amazed at how much freer her soul felt. A weight was lifted in sharing every tiny detail with them, many that grew clearer or were newly recalled in that hour. That night her sleep was undisturbed except for vague visions shrouded in mist that lacked the power they once wielded. It was then that she realized it was best for her state of mind to be honest. She decided she would rather her closest friends know the truth, trusting in their secrecy and empathy, than perpetuate a lie. Darcy agreed but insisted on channeling the information through the husbands rather than her reiterating and reliving the trauma, and during a long, relaxing afternoon at White’s, he sketchily outlined the incident.

“I trust that you each know your wives’ temperaments best,” he said, “and can edit the tale as befitting. Please stress that Elizabeth is recuperating rapidly and free of any residual sequelae. In fact, her temper is chafing at the convalescence Dr. Darcy and I are insisting upon.” He smiled genuinely, his wife’s rising waspishness a sure sign of her restoration to the woman he loved. “All I ask is that questions are kept to a minimum unless initiated by her.”

To the latter they all agreed.

George Darcy was clairvoyant in his assessment that few days would pass before Darcy was scolding his wife for complaining, vociferously, that she was perfectly fine and ready to enjoy the marvelous spring weather. Darcy stubbornly insisted she walk no further than their terrace and garden. Grudgingly and with some grumbling, Lizzy complied with his overprotective demands since her stomach remained delicate and fatigue struck at odd moments even after all other symptoms resolved. Considering what had transpired it was logical to assign her complaints to that, but neither had forgotten the possibility of a pregnancy even if the topic had not been broached.

On the morning of the fifth day when she lurched up in the bed, inhaling forcefully, with one hand clamped over her mouth and the other searching frantically for the blanket edge, Darcy knew it was time to discuss his feelings on the concept of another baby.

She returned to bed, shaky and pale, sheer force of will preventing disgorgement this time at least.

“Do not smile at me, Mr. Darcy,” she snapped, which only caused his smile to widen. She crawled under the quilt, pointedly lying so that her back was to him, and mumbled grumpily, “I am not in the mood for smiles. Smiles will surely increase my nausea and I may chose to turn your way rather than dash to the chamber pot. Purposefully.”

He caressed one hand down her arm, bending to plant a soft kiss to her shoulder. “I apologize, love. Dare I inquire as to what is irritating you most, being cooped up inside or your nausea? If it is the former I believe I have a solution that may elicit a smile, despite your displeasure for the gesture.”

“What solution?”

“Oh, nothing too extravagant. Merely a gathering in Hyde Park on the morrow with all of our friends.”