Love Calls Again Read online

  "Tell me young man. What will your family say of your choice of bride?" asked Mr Bennet in a serious tone. "You are aware my daughter's dowry is rather scarce, are you not?"

  "I am, sir. But my family connections and my own income will suffice for us both. My mother and father will have no objections to this match. They had already given up on me. You see sir, I am not a lass. But it is my elder brother who is to inherit the family estate, so my choice of wife is not of their concern. Miss Elizabeth is a gentleman's daughter, so far we are equals."

  He had said these last words with a distinct sense of pride. His choice of bride had never, not even for the briefest of moments, put in doubt the suitability of her birth.

  "I would not dare say you are equals, young man. Your family belongs to the most select aristocracy. Hers is much closer to being mere country squires or in trade. Yet, my daughter is my most precious treasure. I could not bear part with her had I not the deepest conviction that she should marry for love. What have you to say?" said Mr Bennet in blunt defiance.

  "I love your daughter, sir," was Fitzwilliam's sincere answer.

  "You do, do you not? And what says she?"

  "She has professed to love me in return, sir."

  "I wager she has," chuckled Mr Bennet. Fitzwilliam felt a bit embarrassed. He was not used to this man's ironic tone. Mr Bennet began to pace impatiently, his left hand behind his back, his right one caressing his chin in a pensive manner.

  "Have you any objections, sir?" Fitzwilliam's confidence had begun to falter. He had not dreamt of such resistance from the lady's father.

  "Only this. You must know Elizabeth's heart has been tragically injured of late. I have no doubts though, that if she had professed her love to you it must be so, for she abhors deceit. You have done well, young man. I dare say it must have taken a lot of persuasion to have conquered Elizabeth's heart so soon. My concern lies in the depth of your affections. I will not tolerate her suffering once more."

  "Fear not, sir. Nothing but the deepest feelings tie me to your daughter. You just fix the date for her wedding, and I will be happy to oblige you."

  "Very well then. You have my consent."

  "Do I have your blessing too?"

  Mr Bennet looked at the Colonel in the eye. "You do, sir. As regards the wedding date, I leave that to your own choice as long as you wait a reasonable time before taking her away from me."

  "How reasonable?"

  Mr Bennet stopped and raising his brow, sent daggers at the colonel. "You do not mean to tell me that you must marry in haste?"

  Now that made even the colonel blush. Had circumstances been different, Fitzwilliam would have been rather put out by the implications of the question. Nevertheless he had been apprised of the peculiar episode involving his youngest daughter, leading to a hasty wedding in London. Understandably, the man had to make sure this was not the case.

  "Not, at all, sir. 'Tis my own impatience that urges me to be married to your daughter. I say it in earnest."

  "Well then, I am sorry to inform you, being that the case you must be prepared to wait at least three months, sir."

  "Three months?"

  "You cannot wait for three months?"

  "Indeed, I cannot, sir. You see I am a soldier. And the conditions abroad being what they are, I shall not be surprised if I am sent in a commission abroad within the next year. I wish I could spend at least a whole year in peace with Miss Bennet. That is all."

  "You mean to tell me you are planning to leave Elizabeth alone soon after you are married to her?"

  "With due respect sir; this is not something I am personally planning to do. Far be it from me to wish to part with her. Unfortunately, there is a war, and I will certainly be able to avoid my responsibilities no longer, much as I should wish to."

  "Where is my daughter to reside whilst you are fighting?"

  "I shall not be fighting, sir. I shall most surely be commissioned to train soldiers in enclosed quarters. Nevertheless, I would be unable to carry my wife with me. I shall not take any risks with her. Most probably she will stay with my family in Matlock during my absence, or she may choose to stay here with her family."

  "Have you talked with her about this?"

  "Not yet sir. These are only my own ruminations. I only got her consent to my marriage proposal this morning. I am certain Miss Bennet will agree with anything I arrange though, for she trusts I care only for her welfare."

  "You sound very confident, sir. I am glad to see that. Pray, tell my daughter I wish her back by next Monday. I should like to know her the situation before fixing a date for the ceremony. Until I have spoken to my daughter, your engagement to her will be concealed from my family. A formal announcement could be made by Twelfth Night. You may go now."

  "I thank you sir, good day."

  "Good day to you."

  When the conversation was over and the Colonel had taken his leave, Mr Bennet locked the door of the library. On passing close to the decanter, he fancied a drink. After a conference such as this, pouring a glass of brandy was only natural. And then, clutching the glass with both hands, his whole body dropped into the old armchair in front of the fire. He wished his Elizabeth was with him to celebrate this last Christmas at her family home. Well, he would have to content himself to spend Twelfth Night with her. He would talk to Bingley and ask him to extend the invitation to the colonel. Yet an excruciating question preyed on his much tormented mind: if Mr Darcy would be invited to attend the celebration at Netherfield, too. Were that the case, it would be most inconvenient, yet he could not prevail upon his son-in-law to avoid the company of his best friend and best man.

  The possibility of such meeting was, hence, pondered for some minutes, the awkwardness of the situation carefully weighed. It was a misfortune that Bingley should not be aware of Mr Darcy's dealings with Elizabeth. It vexed him exceedingly that the gentleman might still be holding Elizabeth in his regard. Lesser men, not always unbeknownst to their wives, were in the common habit of keeping a mistress of their liking. If the gentleman was still infatuated with his daughter, being an exceedingly wealthy married man, he could feel tempted to enter into such an alliance with her. Despite Elizabeth's strong sense of righteousness and decorum, the pull of an enamoured heart, he knew, could be stronger.

  The question if Mr Darcy's and Elizabeth's feelings for each other had already faded away still remained to be answered. His daughter entering into such an engagement with Colonel Fitzwilliam could not have been more timely nor more convenient. Had she completely overcome her emotions for the first gentleman, she most probably would find felicity on saying the marriage vows with the second. Contrariwise, all views of domestic happiness would be overthrown, for he was closely acquainted with the evils arising from an ill-matched partnership. All these questions roamed in Mr Bennet's mind as he sipped a second glass of brandy. By the third one he was peacefully dozing over his chin, a light string of saliva trickling down his lower lip.

  ~•~

  Fitzwilliam Darcy had spent the most dreadful days of his life, back in his magnificent, yet lonely stately home in Pemberley. His sister Georgiana was only eighteen, and could hardly do for good company. Lately, he had felt inclined to solitude and silence, and the poor girl had been confined to the company of her rather dull governess. Much as he loved her, Darcy's black humour was too much for the girl to bear. To make matters worse, news from Rosings were not contributing to his peace of mind. His wife, confined as she was to her bedchamber in Rosings Park, since an acute repetition of her incurable illness had determined her staying in her maternal home, had written to him, claiming his presence in Kent for Christmas.

  This must be Lady Catherine's doing.

  Despite the cold weather, Mr Darcy had wished to spend the Christmas season at Pemberley. Until now, merely a few months since his wedding, he had managed to steer clear of his relatives from Rosings, his wife's presence the one he dreaded the most. He could hardly tolerate her, so hysterical and out of
sorts she had ultimately become, they could scarcely share the same room at dinner.

  So Mr Darcy had found in the managing of his properties the perfect excuse to keep him from spending more than the necessary time at Rosings. Business at Pemberley as well as in London, was efficiently handled by his very trustworthy stewards, yet Darcy had endeavoured to keep a closer eye on his estate affairs. Insofar as he could keep his mind busy, he was certain he would keep his sanity.

  Yet in the vicinity of the Christmas season, a dark cloud had covered his already black mood.

  Elizabeth Anne Bennet should have been Mrs Darcy by this time.

  She would have been cosily sitting by his side on the couch in front of the fireplace. They would be kissing under the mistletoe branches that, had she been there with him, would be surely purposely hanging from every door frame.

  Yes. He would have made her his by now. Perchance, she might have been carrying his child.

  The torture of such thoughts had only carried him to a most sad path. He had taken to drinking. The effect spirits had on him was the opposite of his purpose in consuming it. To add to his torture, brandy had but unleashed recollections of Miss Bennet's enticing presence at Pemberley a year before. She had been there in the music room, in the garden near the rose beds. Now, her phantom was haunting him, and betimes, he thought he could hear her enchanting voice, singing while she played at his pianoforte. Regrettably, he would find that his mind could play rather treacherous tricks.

  When there was not much to be done in his estate, and he had not abused alcohol, he would find refuge in reading. His library became, much in Mr Bennet's fashion, his sanctuary. Upon one particularly chilly night, he had come across a sonnet that had pierced his soul.

  What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

  Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within,

  Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,

  Still losing when I saw myself to win!

  What wretched errors hath my heart committed,

  Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!

  How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,

  In the distraction of this madding fever!

  O benefit of ill! Now I find true

  That better is by evil still made better;

  And ruined love, when it is built anew,

  Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

  So, I return rebuked to my content,

  And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

  The words came, ever so annoyingly, back to his mind.

  Still losing when I saw myself to win!

  What wretched errors hath my heart committed.

  In looking back, Darcy perceived his serious infatuation for Miss Bennet like a disease. It was softly killing him, a maddening fever which forced him to pursue an unattainable goal, as an alchemist pursued an unattainable dream of converting all base matter to gold. Reading the sonnet presented him with a mixture of images, a chaos of feeling that overwhelmed him. He was pursuing a chimera that would lead him nowhere.

  Still, the object of his love was, if anything, more beautiful and true than ever. She was his only source of pleasure. For in his dreams, she never left his side, his company, his bed. Now he knew giving her up had been his greatest mistake. He puzzled over the paradox that his present evil state had rewarded him with the necessary boldness to dare to dream.

  The most preposterous idea had crept into his much abused mind.

  Only a few days before Christmas, he had received an invitation from Mr Bingley, to spend the Christmas season at his estate in Netherfield Park, at the end of which his friend, much in his own style, would hold a magnificent ball to celebrate Twelfth Night. Unfortunately, he was not in the mood for celebrations.

  Unless…

  Surely, Elizabeth would be there.

  If only for the sake of contemplating her lovely face at a distance, to catch the shortest glimpse of her gorgeous figure.

  He fixed his eyes on the letter that had just arrived from Kent. Christmas with Mrs Anne Darcy or with Miss Eliza Bennet? Or perchance Christmas with Mrs Darcy and Twelfth Night with Eliza Bennet? Ever so slowly his mind began to drift into the alluring envisage of an affair with Miss Bennet.

  Dearest, loveliest Miss Bennet.

  Would she agree to such a scheme, when she had refused to share his marriage bed in all its righteousness? Of course she would not. Neither would he wish such a thing. Yet the mere thought of it was doing things to him. Things he had always considered wicked, mere weakness of the flesh. Enhanced by the alcohol in his system, said weakness was rapidly gaining control of his loins. Locked in his bedchamber, Darcy found that numbing his senses with brandy, though not the solution for his predicament, was his only way out of the nightmare he had consented into entering on his own.

  ~•~

  Elizabeth opened the express from Longbourn with trembling hands. She knew what its content might be, and dreaded reading it. Yet, she had to do it. Much as she wished her father would have overlooked her confession of her feelings towards Mr Darcy upon leaving Longbourn, she was sure his puzzlement at the reception of Colonel's Fitzwilliam as her suitor would be in proportion with his mirth. She knew not which she loathed more.

  Indeed, her father mocked her change of emotions with gentle irony, yet he admonished her in his unique, direct manner, to think twice before entering into an engagement with a man she might only be infatuated with. Nonetheless, he made it perfectly clear that should she confirm to him her feelings for the Colonel, an engagement would be announced during the Christmas celebrations, more precisely the Twelfth Night celebration to be held at Netherfield Park the 5th of January.

  Will Mr Darcy be there, too?

  To her amazement she found herself wishing he would be. Oh that she could behold his bewitching eyes once more! Truth be told, all the bitterness his walking out on her had provoked, had soon turned into compassion, in the intelligence of the difficulties Mr Darcy was facing with his sickly wife.

  Indeed, in view of her engagement to Richard, Mr Darcy should be but a painful memory, yet he was one that recurrently came over her in the most unexpected and unwanted moments of her life, just when she had begun to think that she was recovered from heartbreak.

  Richard was there to rescue her from the phantoms of the past. Yes, he was there to love her and heal her.

  But did she really wish to be rescued?

  Would she rather remain entwined in the arms of the past?

  Mr Darcy.

  It was a good month since she had given him a single thought, so much had she been engrossed in Colonel Fitzwilliam's attentions.

  But now, as she read her father's letter, she could not help memories from coming back to her.

  To think she had hated him so. Oh! how much the recollection of one particular evening at Rosings Park tortured her! Suddenly, it had dawned on her the real motive of his long stares, which she had stubbornly taken as an indication of his disdain and pure haughtiness. Gradually, the manner of his rather baffling behaviour conveyed quite a different meaning to her. To merely think that he had been in love with her! She could have been the proud Mistress of Pemberley by now, and the happiest of wives. Oh! That she could go back in time and undo the many stupid things she had said and done that evening! For one she would have never refused him. In lieu she would have flung herself into his waiting arms and kissed him in the most passionate way. Oh well!… Upon reflecting on the manner of his addresses, she would have merely accepted his hand and left the kissing for some other time.

  Closing her eyes, Elizabeth's mind roamed to the few times she had felt his touch on her. The privileged part of her body had been always the same. The bare skin of her hand. The first time, he had merely helped her get into the carriage, yet the tingle that had brushed her body when his hand had held hers had been most unsettling. The second one had been during a ball at Netherfield Park, but this time he had held her hand for muc
h longer during a dance. Then, there were those many times at Pemberley, during her tour of Derbyshire.

  They had also shared many a stroll in the gardens, during their serendipitous encounters at Rosings Park, when she would dip her hand in the crook of his arm, and lose herself in conversation while walking in his company. Many a time she had been sure he would kiss her, and her whole body had suffered such tensions that when he would not, she had simply felt exhausted from the mere expectancy of the unfulfilled exertion.

  No. Mr Darcy had never kissed her. He had never held her in his arms.

  And now she was to marry someone else.

  He was married to someone else.

  Yet, she knew Mr Darcy was not happily married. She knew he was suffering. She just knew it.

  Would she be happy? Would she find domestic felicity in someone else's arms?

  As long as those arms were Richard's, she was sure she would.

  ~•~

  On his arrival at his paternal house in London, Richard Fitzwilliam found it far too late an hour to talk to his parents about his recent engagement to Miss Bennet. He was of the conviction that no objections would be made as to his choice of wife. Albeit the absolute absence of a good dowry perchance could make his father a little upset, he was fairly confident of his own inheritance's sufficiency to make a relatively good living for himself and his country wife. After all, he knew his fiancée was not used to much luxury. As to himself, although he was the second son of a member of the nobility and had been always used to the commodities related to such surroundings, he had got used to living in rather humble abodes with minimal facilities whilst serving with the Regulars. So long as they could be together they would be happy.

  He climbed up the stairs to his bedchamber and rang for his manservant to prepare a hot bath and help him undress. He had not been able to slow down for a minute, yet memories of the exquisite exertion of the early morning roamed his thoughts. She had trembled while he had held her, her whole body clutched to his, her swelling bosom urging against his chest, and her lips dancing wildly into his.