He rained tiny suckles over the nape of her neck, Lizzy shivering in pleasure, returning slowly to her ear. “I am as bewitched today as I was then, still desire to never be parted from you, and love you with an ardency multiplied a hundredfold. Thank you, my precious Elizabeth, for agreeing to become my wife.”
“You are very welcome. And do not fret over the lack of celebratory dramatizations. I have a very good memory not to mention the painting to remind me of a significant event in our lives. All things considered, I would rather wake with you unclothed next to me in our bed. Besides, with another wedding fast approaching I am indubitably the luckiest of women in the area of special commemorations.”
He chuckled against the skin of her mid back where he was bestowing all manner of oral delights while wending his way down her posterior side, one hand quite busy over her anterior. Neither would feel in any way slighted by their private choice in how best to honor the day in late September when Darcy proposed successfully.
Chapter Eleven
George Darcy
George continued to take his “holiday” very seriously. He spent large periods of time in the vast library becoming personally reacquainted with each shelf. As at Darcy House, Darcy often gravitated toward wherever his uncle was, not fully aware that his heart was seeking the older man out. The relationship germinated over the summer months was blossoming with each passing day. Darcy gradually continued to open up, sharing more of himself to the man who was so incredibly like his father. George unconsciously did the same, the bond being forged with his nephew growing daily deeper.
One such incident occurred two days after George's return to Pemberley. They sat in the library enjoying the breezes flowing through the open windows. Darcy sat at the small secretary located near one window composing a letter to Mr. Daniels, while George leafed through the London Times from the enormous Chippendale several feet away.
“Did you read this article?” George tapped a printed column on the day's newspaper.
Darcy glanced up from the letter he was writing, squinting to see what article his uncle was indicating. “Which article is it?”
“The one about William Blake's speech at the Guildhall in Cheapside. More of his free love and religious mysticism nonsense.” He shook his head in disgust. “I may not be the best one to point fingers at another for disturbing the societal mores, but the man sees visions for goodness sake! They have a name for such people.”
“I have heard him speak a couple of times. I concur that he is odd, but he does forward some positive notions regarding equality and abolition of slavery. His artwork is interesting, and I actually own two of his relief etchings. Of course, he has opposed our King and spoken out against many of the Church's tenets.”
“Exactly!” George sat forward in agitation, fluttering the paper in the air. “The latter appears to be his primary theme these days as this is the second such expose I have read since coming home. It disgusts me.”
Darcy was gazing quizzically at his uncle with head cocked. “Forgive me, Uncle, as I mean no disrespect, but I am frankly rather amazed at your vehemence. I would have suspected that your religious views had altered somewhat after your years in India.”
George's left brow shot up, but then he fell back into the huge chair with laughter ringing. “Yes, I suppose that would be the natural assumption,” he said, tugging on the edge of his blue silk tunic. “In truth the opposite is the fact of it, William.” He paused, smiling with eyes distant in memory. “I confess that by the time I had finished my education my mind was far more centered on science and medicine than religious doctrine. Nonetheless, I was raised by your grandfather and you know how staunch he was. I think I was permitted to absent myself from weekly worship two or three times in all my youth, and two of those times was only because I had the mumps!”
They both fell silent, smiling inwardly with personal memories of the somewhat imposing but dear man who was the anchor at Pemberley for five decades.
George broke the quiet, voice calm and introspective. “It is interesting, William, to see how differently men deal with trauma and the ugliness of the world. During my studies and clinical employment at London's hospitals, I saw a tremendous amount of both. Yet I was still young, naïve, and hungry for knowledge, so I placed a shield about my heart, so to speak. Forced the realities of what I saw out of my ready consciousness and focused on the cold facts of science. Once in India I quickly became immersed in the culture, which I still adore to a great degree, but was rapidly sunk into the harsh brutality of suffering. It breaks men far stronger than me. Many leave after short enlistments or become so hardened they are stony of soul.” He paused, shaking his head in sadness.
“How did you learn to deal with it?”
George smiled. “Ah well, I could impress you and say I am of sterner stuff, a better man than that.” He met Darcy's eyes with a twinkle. “Primarily I made a choice. I chose to focus on the good I was doing. I chose to focus on the people themselves, to dwell with them, be friends, learn who they are, share their joys and sorrows. In essence I chose to expand my heart, let it encompass these people who are so wonderful and real regardless of their skin color or odd beliefs. Additionally I returned to the roots of my faith.”
He paused again, staring at his folded hands with a flicker of old grief crossing his face. Darcy waited. Finally George resumed, “After Alex died I retreated from the world for a spell. On the day of the funeral, once it was over and before the guests had even departed, I packed up a sack of essentials and went to the cave. For two weeks I stayed there, alone, fishing for food, eating wild berries and such. I had no plan, you understand, unless it was a vague one of dying myself.” He shrugged and laughed faintly.
“What happened?” Darcy, totally unconsciously, had risen and was now sitting in the chair across from his uncle, elbows on knees as he leaned forward and avidly listened.
“Your grandfather happened! He marched into the cave, bellowing at me to come out of the inner chamber as he was too big to squeeze in. I contemplated ignoring him for about a second, but one did not ignore my father. He did three things. First, he hugged me tight for about fifteen minutes until I finally broke down and cried. Then he abruptly pushed me away, patted my head, smiled kindly, but stated firmly, 'Enough, George. Time to get busy and move on.' Before two more days had passed I was buried in chores. He set me to working as a common servant about the Manor and volunteered my time serving the old curate, Reverend Halifax, and at the orphanage. It worked. Of course I would never forget my twin, but the aching grief ebbed in time and I learned to think beyond my own selfishness.”
He looked at his nephew, eyes serious. “Faith became very important to me. Part of the reason medicine drew me was because of Alex's death, the perhaps stupidly misplaced belief that proper care may have saved his life. Yet it also was the desire to aid God's creatures, all of whom are loved by their Creator even if they do not know Him.”
“You are a missionary, Uncle.”
George laughed. “No, not hardly! Only a man of superior medical expertise. I rarely share my religion with others, so that precludes me from being counted a missionary, but it is a vital aspect of who I am. I admire all people, even if they do not admire or respect themselves, and I do not see it my place to upset them in their religious beliefs. If they are comforted in their gods, then who am I to take that from them?”