“But…”
“There are no buts, Elizabeth. That is final.”
Lizzy stared furiously, trembling in rage, eyes filling with tears. Darcy sighed, moved despite his anger by the emotions he knew controlled her logic. He reached to caress her cheek, but she stepped away. “If he dies it will be entirely on your head, Mr. Darcy.” And she pivoted, exiting the room without a backward glance.
Chapter Five
A Marriage in Crisis
The tension was thick on the air for the following days, but Darcy stubbornly proceeded with the christening plans. Lizzy’s emotions grew wildly unstable and dozens of trivial disagreements and major rows broke out between them, when she talked to him at all.
Darcy was in a constant state of turmoil. Vexation battled with disquiet. That Lizzy was irrational in most matters was obvious, but he seemed unable to calm her or appeal to the analytic intellect he knew she possessed.
When Lizzy was not riled over some perceived slight she was crying. More than once Darcy walked into the room to discover her curled in a ball weeping. These moments, fleeting as they lasted, were the few times she permitted him to embrace her.
And therein lay another point of contention.
As the weeks turned into months, they had yet to resume their intimate relations. Far more important than the purely physical annoyance of sexual deprivation, Darcy was deeply concerned by Lizzy’s total disinterest in any form of contact. They shared the bed in his mother’s old chambers—Lizzy still refusing to return to their bedchamber and the contention over that subject ongoing—but she spurned all affection. Naturally, he had expected nothing more than cuddling for the first weeks, truthfully too fatigued and anxious even to think about the matter, but as time marched on and the danger passed, he began to dwell on the topic quite a bit!
Yet, as his desire escalated, hers waned into nothingness.
She drew away from his kisses, no matter how gentle or light. Any caress was met with stiffening or evasion. She slept curled on her side of the bed, clothed in the concealing nightgowns of a maiden, and extended no overtures. More than once he was awoken from a sleeping state by a sharp jab from an elbow or forceful shove as a result of dreamily straying toward her body.
Darcy’s confusion grew, as did his anger. He tried to understand her reluctance, but it was impossible to comprehend, especially since she refused to talk about it. When he cautiously advanced the subject, she flared, accusing him of only thinking of his needs and ignoring what she and the children wanted. Obviously this was ludicrous, but Darcy was wounded and guilt-ridden nonetheless.
The combination of her vacillating moodiness and bodily detachment caused an ever-widening breach to separate them. Darcy watched it happening but was powerless to halt it. Lizzy did not seem to care.
Michael’s christening took place on the Sunday before Darcy’s thirty-second birthday. The ceremony was a minor affair compared to Alexander’s. Most of their family was not present, so it was mainly a few friends from Derbyshire and those relatives who lived close by. Michael cried through the entire procedure, but Reverend Bertram managed with aplomb, even while hastening the obligatory rituals. There were some private comments regarding Mrs. Darcy’s unusual somberness, but the couple presented a united front that no one suspected was false.
George’s perceptions pierced through the façade, noting the tension underneath. Medical matters had kept him away from Pemberley a large portion of the time, the christening bringing him back to the Manor for a handful of days. Yet casual inquires to his nephew yielded nothing, Darcy rigidly uncomfortable discussing his marriage with anyone. It disturbed George, but even his discerning eye could not penetrate the mask or deduce the troubles as severe.
The days following the christening were oddly calm around Pemberley. The persnickety infant settled into a standard routine, his health robust and growth steady. George was again consumed with medical needs in the surrounding communities and was rarely home. The cold of winter settled in, further isolating the traumatized couple.
Darcy’s birthday came and went with minimal fanfare, the birthday dinner and “party” arranged by Mrs. Reynolds. Well aware of his wife’s distraction and disinterest, he was thus shocked that she spared him enough thought to provide a gift of several books he desired and a stunning pair of abalone and silver cuff links.
“Elizabeth,” he breathed, truly moved, “these are wonderful. I love them! Thank you.”
He kissed her cheek, Lizzy leaning into his lips and blushing prettily. His heartfelt thanks seemed to penetrate the icy cloud surrounding her heart, eliciting a tender smile and brief caress to his hand that nearly caused him to burst into tears.
The combination of christening and birthday celebrations helped ease the tension between them, bringing a measure of peace. Only Darcy was fully aware of how strained their relationship remained and his pride would not allow him to seek help. Rather, he determined to deal with their troubles with his typical forthrightness, and her hesitant touch on his birthday gave flight to his hope. She remained distant but smiled at him several times over the ensuing week as they planned for Alexander’s second birthday. She met his pained eyes with a glimmer of her old brilliance, spoke without the sharp edge that had become so familiar, and laughed at a dry comment he made about one of their notoriously irritating tenants.
One night he decided to take the initiative, much as she had done after Alexander’s birth. He reasoned that whatever residual worries were clouding her mind, their love was ultimately too profound to be extinguished and their passion for each other too powerful to be harnessed indefinitely. Elizabeth merely needs to be reminded of this, he deduced.
As always, he found her rocking in the chair located next to the cradle. One hand rested on the wooden rail causing the cradle to sway with each rock of the chair, her face a study in serene happiness. Darcy observed her unawares for a moment, his breath catching at the transcendent beauty of the scene.
Oh God, how I love her!
The ache was tangible, felt all through his body, and his heart swelled to agonizing levels with the hunger to hold her. Several deep breaths were necessary to calm the raging seas within.
He approached unhurriedly, desperately needing this night to go well, and afraid, as he had not been since long before their wedding, that one misstep could cause it all to dash into a million pieces. She turned her face to his, smiling sweetly and lifting a hand. He swallowed to muffle the moan as he knelt before her knees, hands resting on her thighs. For long minutes they simply stared. Darcy held perfectly still while Lizzy lightly played with the tips of his ruffled hair.
It was unbearable. The yearning pounded through him. His skin was electrified, each inhale a gasp of longing. How long since he had felt her lips? It was impossible to delay, but he refused to frighten her. Rising slowly, eyes locked with hers and noting the flickers of ardor seen therein, he leaned closer but did not touch.
“Come, my heart, let me take you to bed.”
Lizzy nodded dazedly, lost in his darkened orbs, feeling the feeble tendrils of desire rising. It was all so befuddling. Her love for him infinite, the attraction acute, but the typical surge of passionate flame a dim memory. The tingles were there, buried deeply in every cell of her body and crying to burst forth, but like the prisoner begging for freedom, the escape was denied by some internal force beyond her control. She hardly knew what was happening as he lifted her into his strong arms. His heart beat vigorously against her chest with his heat emanating in droves into her chilled skin. He brushed her lips once, a soft moan escaping his mouth, but she did not experience the jolt of pleasure that she recognized he did and knew she should.