Sharon Lathan - The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Darcy, however, had isolated himself. He practically lived in the lower rooms, most nights falling asleep on his study’s sofa after working to a state of collapse. Occasionally he slept in their bed, waiting until long after she was asleep, but usually he mounted the stairs only to head directly into his dressing room or to visit Alexander. His only joy was in those hours he spent playing with his eldest son. Michael he rarely laid eyes on, tiptoeing in at the deepest hours of the night to gaze upon the child he felt such a mixture of emotions for. His heart swelled with love when gazing upon his child’s perfection, but weeks of detachment rendered it nearly impossible to bond with the baby as he had Alexander. To his profound shame, he perceived a growing hostility toward the innocent babe, illogically blaming him for the cause of his marriage falling apart.

For a week he held hope that she would apologize for her actions or simply express her love and that she missed him. Every knock on the door or tread heard in the hallway caused his heart to leap painfully, but it was never Elizabeth. When they did encounter each other she refused to meet his eyes and exited the room as soon as possible. Twice he saw her duck into a chamber clearly not where she intended to go for the express purpose of eluding him. Each incident was as a nail in the coffin of their union and his grief was overwhelming.

In addition to the sadness and shame was an increasing self-loathing. Darcy was a man capable and brave who did not shrink from the troubles of life. Rarely had he encountered problems that were unfixable or at least unable to be controlled. Courage and straightforwardness were character traits innate to his being, yet in this instance he was utterly at a loss as to what to do, as all his efforts thus far had been futile. Dimly he recognized that his damnable pride prevented asking for advice. Yet, until Elizabeth, he had never revealed his soul to another, admitted his frailties, or confided personal matters. This reality compounded his hopelessness and indecisiveness.

Worse yet was the fear lodged deep within his bones. Fear of what she might say if he spoke to her again, fear of the future, fear of his lost control, fear that there was no remedy, fear that he was weak, fear that he was a failure. It was a terror so engulfing that he withdrew, denying the facts and cowardly hiding away as he had never done in his entire life while the negative emotions ate him alive.

Thus it was a paler, thinner Darcy that George found staring into the white landscape outside his study window one afternoon about a week before Christmas. His face was ravaged with whiskers of at least three days growth, cravat loosened, and hair mussed by nervous hands. Dull eyes turned to the sympathetic smile of his uncle as George took the chair across.

Darcy cleared his throat, attempting to reinstate the guise of a man in control, and smiled faintly. “Forgive me, Uncle. I did not hear you enter. What have you been up to these days? Is the hospital lessening its demands on you?”

“I have not been to the hospital for nearly three weeks now.”

“Oh, I was not aware. You come and go so frequently that I lose track of your schedule. Since you are home perhaps we can play a game or two of billiards tonight. It has been a while since I thrashed you.”

“I am delighted to hear you jesting, my boy. Tells me not all is lost, although you look as if you have been dragged behind an unfriendly horse. Has Samuel forgotten how to shave you?”

Darcy reached to his chin, honestly startled. “Well, work has kept me busy.” He waved vaguely toward the nearly empty desk and then shrugged. “I was attempting to write a letter to Georgiana, but the snow distracted.” He sighed and turned again to the view outside the window. “I do miss her.”

“Yes, it is a shame. She would be a stabilizing, comforting presence to be sure. She will be home in the spring. I am positive she is hardly missing you, caught up in the whirl of fêtes and Italian social life.” Darcy nodded absently, George watching his face as he continued. “I encountered Mr. Gerald Vernor the other day while visiting the apothecary shop in Lambton. He asked about you, Elizabeth, and the baby. Of course I told him you were all well, but we know that is not the truth of it, agreed?”

Darcy glanced up sharply. “What do you mean? Is something amiss with Michael?” The stab of fear was acute, his eyes penetrating George’s face.

“Do not be purposefully obtuse, William. Have you learned nothing of me yet? I am a notorious busybody, to be sure, but I also adore my family. Additionally, I am a rather remarkable diagnostician, although in this case I regretfully made assumptions I should not have. Elizabeth is ill. Surely you have gleaned this yourself?”

Darcy’s alarm escalated, choking off his air supply. His face paled and eyes widened. “Ill? What do you mean ill? She works too hard, as I have given up chastising for, and does not eat as she should, but she is not ill. You are exaggerating.” He stated the last firmly, denial decisive.

“It is not necessarily an illness of the body, or at least not in the way you presume. She is suffering from a melancholia we see in women after birth. It is mysterious, and affects the mind primarily, which in turn has an effect on the body, but has been recognized by physicians since Hippocrates. Some speculate it is entirely spiritual, a weakness of the psyche, but I do not agree. I am not a researcher, but I found the lectures by physiologic chemists such as Saunders and Babington fascinating…”

“Uncle, what are you babbling about?”

“I am trying to explain Elizabeth’s condition, William. You need to understand this, and I am certain your intellect capable of grasping the science.”

“My wife is not ill.” He declared stubbornly, rising with a burst of anger to begin pacing about the room, fingers flickering. “She is… unhappy. I will admit to that, as much as it pains me to do so. Two children so soon is obviously too much for her. I should have been more… responsible. Not so demanding. It is my fault she feels as she does. Her… hatred toward me”—he swallowed, hands rifling through his hair—“is understandable. In time the pressures will ease… in time. Then, perhaps, she will not… she may learn to love… me again as she did. I can wait. But she cannot be ill! No, she… no, I will not allow it…”

“You would prefer to believe your wife does not love you than to admit she is sick and therefore needs you?” George’s quiet voice broke through, Darcy pausing with his back to the older man. “Be sensible and listen to me. Come, sit, and hear me out.”

Darcy sat, wooden and tight-lipped, his face closed.

George resumed. “Our bodies are complex organisms, William, you know this. Think of how traumatic it is for a woman to carry another individual in her body and to give birth. It goes beyond the physical. There is strong evidence pointing to chemicals that control many of our functions and may affect our minds. We do not understand it and probably never will, but I have seen unexplainable things in my years.”

“What does this have to do with Elizabeth?”

“Some believe, myself included, that there are those women who suffer negative effects on an emotional level after childbirth. Is it the trauma itself? Something caused by a reaction to the individual infant, his or her body inadvertently upsetting a careful balance? We do not know, but I have seen it several times and Elizabeth’s symptoms are classic.”

“What symptoms precisely?”

“Moodiness, irrationality, and dispiritedness primarily. I know you have been the brunt of these and probably more. Ofttimes there are physical manifestations such as tremulousness, pallor, fatigue, although most of that is probably an effect of not caring for themselves. Also sexual apathy and the inability to rouse.”