Page 24 of Losing Lizzy
“I would enjoy that. It would make me feel closer to our daughter.”
She stood then. “I shall see you in the morning.” Feeling conspicuous, she darted around him to enter her own quarters, preparing to close the door behind her before he thought to follow, but she foolishly looked back at him. He stood in apparent exhaustion. He rubbed his face with dry hands, and Elizabeth wondered again upon all he had suffered during their separation. She had thought him dead and no longer in pain, where each day she prayed no one would recognize her and name her daughter as illegitimate. Yet, he, too, had known the loss of his hopes for a bright future between them.
As he turned dejectedly toward Lizzy’s small room, she realized how alone he was. Painful stoicism. She knew him, perhaps, as he had said earlier, better than anyone else. She recognized how having no control of this situation laid him low. Quietly, she entered the room and eased the door closed. “What am I to believe? How can I ignore the fact William’s appearance stood as prelude to Lizzy’s abduction?”
* * *
Darcy entered his child’s room and stood quietly absorbing the essence of his daughter. He smiled when he noted the precise manner in which the room was organized. Certainly, Elizabeth would have assisted Elizabeth Anne in keeping order in the room, but he found himself drawn to the bookshelf where the books were lined up exactly as he would have done as a child. “My darling girl,” he said reverently as he ran his fingers across the spines of a dozen books upon the shelf, “your father will not rest until he is able to hold you in his arms for the first time.”
He glanced to the small bed and smiled. “Perhaps your father should sleep on the floor, after all.” He tugged the mattress from the bed frame, which would not suit him, at all. “Will you be petite, as is your mother? Or will you be tall like your father? This mattress will not answer that question for a father who wishes to know you, at last.” He laid the mattress out on the floor andbegan to undress, removing his boots, stockings, coat, waistcoat and shirt.
At length, Darcy sat upon the floor and inhaled deeply. “I promise you, little one, I will never give up. Your mother has done all she could to protect you. Now it is up to me to keep you safe.”
Although he knew he would not sleep, he blew out the candle and curled his large frame into a tight ball and attempted to imagine the look of his child. Someone, and he held his suspicions as to who that someone was, had stolen away precious moments with his child—memories he would never be able to recover.
He did not know how long he had remained as such, but when the door opened to permit Elizabeth in, Darcy was not surprised.
“Are you asleep?” she asked softly.
Despite his misery, Darcy smiled. “No. I was just considering what all I had missed with my child. I wonder upon her countenance. Her features. Her mannerisms. I wish there was a portrait of her.”
She took a step closer. “I have wanted to have her sit for one for some time, but Lizzy is always on the move. She is not an easy child to rein in.”
Darcy rolled to his back, his legs hanging over the edge of the mattress. “There is not much room, but I would gladly share our daughter’s bed with her mother.”
“I would like to be closer to Lizzy on this evening when I do not know her fate,” she admitted. “My room felt too empty, as does my heart.”
“Then come,” he said, lifting his arm to welcome her to snuggle in beside him.
Once she was settled on the small patch of mattress remaining, he turned on his side so they could speak honestly. “Tell me about Elizabeth Anne,” he encouraged.
She sighed deeply. “I am excessively prejudiced,” she began with what sounded of a smile in her tone, “but she is the brightest child I have ever encountered.” Her hand came to restupon his chest, and Darcy closed his eyes for a brief moment to savor the feel of her near him again. They had many bridges yet to cross, but that moment was the first time he had felt whole for longer than he could recall. “Usually Mr. Sheffield reads to her each evening—often the same story multiple times. He is so patient with her, and Lizzy is so attentive. She loves stories of castles and knights and dragons and just about anything under the sun. Inevitably, within a week of hearing the story, Lizzy is able to ‘read’ the book back to us.” Elizabeth lightly stroked his arm as she spoke, and Darcy knew great contentment in the moment. “Naturally, she really is not reading the story, but she has memorized it, even knowing when to turn the page.”
With pleasure, Darcy visualized his daughter’s performance. “Go on.”
“She has the wildest imagination, always coming up with stories to entertain herself when we visit the park—a tree becomes a giant and a stick is sometimes her sword and other times her scepter, a queen presenting orders to the giant to assist her in defending her kingdom.” She laughed softly. “She has your mannerisms, William. You should see how she pulls herself up regally and eyes those who displease her. When she does so, Mr. Sheffield and I always provide each other a nod of approval when she looks down her petite nose at some injustice.” She paused before adding, “I often tell her stories of her father—simple ones so Lizzy will know she is loved.”
In spite of knowing a bit of disdain that she had essentially termed him “too proud,” Darcy found himself smiling at the idea his child had inherited more than some of his facial features.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said in true gratitude, “for allowing bits of me to be displayed in our daughter, when I know you must have felt I had abandoned you and her. You allowed me into her life, even at the risk of damage to your own heart.”
Although there was still much to be said between them, he nestled her closer to him. “We both require at least a few hours of rest if we are to find our daughter.”
She nodded her agreement and aligned her body withhis upon the mattress, her head resting beneath his chin. With her beside him, Darcy allowed himself a few minutes of peace. So often he had dreamed of moments like this, minus the chaos awaiting them at dawn—moments of he and she lying in each other’s embrace. Allowing his eyes to drift closed, he had nearly reached sleep when he felt her stiffen and realized her hand was draped across his waist and stroking his back.
“William?” she asked in distress.
He, too, grew rigid in remorse. “It is nothing,” he said in stern tones.
She bolted upright. “It is something!” she insisted. “My God what did you endure?”
He attempted to make light of his condition so as not to tell her of the times he thought he would die. “Sometimes, as you well know, I lack forbearance and am too unmoving in my opinions.”
“Your captors whipped you!” she said on a hiccupped gasp. “You could have died!”
“As could have you in delivering our child,” he countered in even tones. He had always known he would have to share this part of his tale with her, but the idea of doing so in the mix of what had happened to their child had paled. If he had thought better of what he was doing when she entered Elizabeth Anne’s room, he would have put on his shirt before he had asked her to join him on the small mattress.
“Dear Lord,” she said as tears filled her eyes. “What sin did we two exact that brought us such punishments?”
