Page 51 of Pemberley's Imposter
“Even better,” Darcy replied, followed by a sigh of relief she felt more than heard.
The only one who opposed to the scheme of returning to Pemberley was Ellie. She was not at all inclined to leave Charlie and threw a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old that rattled the roof of the Hursts’ townhouse and awarded her the first mild reprimand from her father.
She immediately ceased her wailing when her father told her to be quiet, and she stopped demanding a baby brother (obviously, all babies were brothers) immediately. The Darcys were crimson by the time their daughter had finished her fit of temper. It added to their embarrassment that not only Mr and Mrs Bingley had witnessed the episode but Mr and Mrs Elliot as well.
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Returned to Pemberley
Being back at Pemberley added another layer to rebuilding their relationship. No longer flitting about from one engagement to another, the Darcys had much time on their hands, together with few distractions.
It was not awkward per se, but their previous intimacy was gone. They engaged with ease but not warmth. Darcy had thought Pemberley would make them more in tune, but instead, it made him conscious of the distance still lingering between them. What the remedy might be quite escaped him. He was not an eloquent man, nor was he adept at wooing a lady. Not that wooing necessarily would send the right signal.
With each day that passed, the realisation of what they had lost became clear. Despairing of ever being able to atone for hismistakes, Darcy determined that desperate measures must be taken.
He had shown her every civility—even left her—to spare her the burden of his company. He had paraded her around town to demonstrate the pride he felt in having Elizabeth for a wife. He had made sure she had every comfort obtainable, yet he could not break the invisible barrier that had been erected between them on that blasted day in the library.
He should write her a letter; he could express himself better on paper than in person. The previous letters he had written had been well received. Not wonderfully, but well, and it had been a valuable means of changing her opinion of him. Yes, a letter would have to do.
Dearest Elizabeth,
I am half agony, half hope.
Part of me believes I do not deserve to be loved nor experience the bliss of a happy marriage, while the other part insists thatyoudo.
There is nothing I would not sacrifice for a second chance—to act differently on the occasion that drove us apart—but I cannot.
The mistakes are carved in stone, insurmountable obstacles that have been lodged between us as we go about our daily routines as both strangers and friends.
If it takes a day or a thousand years, I shall never give up hope that one day this wall will crumble and my soul will reunite with yours.
Is this part of your hopes and dreams too? Do you yearn for the essence that once was us, Elizabeth?
Do you lie awake long into the night, wondering whether I am sleeping comfortably, or are you tossing and turning until the sun yet again forces his way over the hill?
Do you remember, Elizabeth, a time when we could hardly bear to spend a moment apart from each other?
The pull never left me. I am still drawn to you like water in the desert or a single candle glowing in the dead of night.
If you were the sea, I would like to be the wind caressing you.
If you were the wind, I wish for wings to glide on the breeze.
Still ardently in love and eternally yours,
FD
Darcy folded the letter and hastily pushed it under Elizabeth’s door before he changed his mind. He could hear it gliding across the floor until it hit an uneven board with a muffled tap.
It was done. He ambled back to his chamber, but sleep eluded him. His thoughts wandered while he undressed. The first letter he had written to her had been jotted down in anger, the next in anguish, while his last had been penned in melancholy. He could not decide which was the worst.
Darcy groaned and rubbed his hand over his face. What would Elizabeth think when she found such a maudlin letter lying on the floor? Or, heaven forfend, a prying maid should happen upon it. He had not sealed it; the wax was in his study, and he had not bothered to fetch it.
Darcy crossed the floor to his bed and let himself sink into the downy mattress. The boards creaked as they were wont to do when the chill of the night made the wood contract. The soundsof the house were soothingly familiar; his eyes grew heavy and closed of their own volition.
He drifted into a state between wakefulness and sleep. Like he was falling but could not be bothered to flail. Then an unfamiliar wetness touched his cheek, and a shadow wrapped around him like a comfortable cover.
“We are two wretched beings, are we not, Mr Darcy?”
