Content Note: Portions of this passage are a bit steamier than ones I usually share here. As the characters are married, there's nothing inherently wrong with this scene. I just wanted to make note of it for those readers of more conservative sensibilities.
Elizabeth Bennet never imagined her own parents would force her to marry a virtual stranger. But when Mrs. Bennet accuses Fitzwilliam Darcy of compromising her daughter, that is exactly the outcome. Trapped in a seemingly loveless marriage and far from home, she grows suspicious of her new husband’s heart and further, suspects he is hiding a great secret. Is there even a chance at love given the happenstance of their hasty marriage?
I have never felt less sure of myself than I feel now. The candlelight flickers over the plain walls and shadowy furnishings of this room. Darkness and damp press against the small windows. An empty rambling countryside lies beyond, and the rumble of unknown revellers roars quietly below. I know he will come to me, and I pull the heavy blanket higher against my person. I can hardly credit I am here, nor know how the compromise of my life shall ever be made right.
When he does come, I know I must welcome him. It cannot be that he truly wants me, for we are strangers, and in his manner, he has made it plain. He says little, and in view of what has happened, I dread to imagine what he thinks. Even my mother, a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper, seems to know all is not quite as it should be. She knows, as I do and as he does, that she is the author of our situation. I mull, not for the first time, the way in which this began. The confusion and speed of events and the ambiguous nature of the tricks played upon me scream through my mind. I can make no sense of his part. Is he motivated by honour or hatred of scandal or pity, or some other unknown creature in his head? Does he lack the imagination to act other than he has done? I have only the scantest knowledge of him. You could not call it intimacy; you could not call it friendship. Even so, it is a secret between us that he is in some sense guilty if not exactly guilty as charged. However, we are here in this place, and the best must be made of it if we are not to run mad.
Occasionally, I hear a tread upon the stair and I start, marshalling my courage and straightening my face. But then the tread moves in another direction or returns to the public bar. Some servant perhaps or another guest—not him, coming for me. I turn onto my side in the unfamiliar bed, thinking that, by moving my limbs, I may still their trembling. Apart from the fear of what must come, I am also tired to the bone.
The journey north began almost immediately after our wedding and is not yet complete; it has been long and the weather treacherous. Mr Darcy sat opposite me in the carriage and said little. In my head, he is “Mr Darcy.” Our connection, short and strange, does not seem to merit any other appellation. In the darkness, I miss my sister Jane and the sweet smells and familiar shapes of our chamber at Longbourn where I have slept all my life. The memory of my mother’s advice, given in that chamber on the subject of this night, returns to me. I begin to wish it would start rather than hound me by being so protracted in the anticipation.
And so it does start. Steps on the stair do not recede or return. Instead, they grow louder, heavier, and closer; they pause only briefly before I hear a tap upon the door. “Come,” I say, not knowing whether it would be better to say nothing for he knows I am in here. Where else should I be but in this room in this bed? I have nowhere to run as he well knows.
His appearance in the light of the doorway makes me feel small, but I resist the urge to shrink further to the edge of the bed. Something inside me rises, and though I am fearful, I raise my head slightly and look at his face. It wears a blank expression, and as he closes the door behind him, he asks if I am comfortable.
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I am.”
He sits upon the bed and stretches out his hand to me, not touching. “Good. I hope that you are. Madam. Elizabeth. I know you must be fatigued.” He seems to want to say more but does not. The emptiness of the air and the words unspoken swell the space between us, and I remember my resolve.
“I am not so fatigued, sir.” I try to smile and not appear embarrassed by my circumstances. A shadow of a reply plays across his lips in acknowledgement, and he begins to undress. I turn my head, for watching a man disrobe is wholly without my experience, and I had not anticipated it. I knew it was not a spectacle I should usually witness since Mr Darcy would normally be undressed by his valet. But this night we have been, as so often during our short association, wrong-footed by matters outside our control. Only one chamber was available, so only one chamber do we have.
And only one bed—so I know I must make the best of it. When he wears only his lawn shirt, he lifts the side of the blanket and, looking at my face for only a moment, gets in. He also looks at the candlelight flickering across the empty wall before turning to me and saying “Elizabeth, come,” as he takes my shoulder and rolls me towards his embrace. My mother had told me it would be over quickly, and so indeed it was. He is not rough and has the goodness to warn me it may hurt at first. It does hurt, but I do not cry out; I will not allow myself to do so. I simply lie before him and allow him to part my legs and enter me as I had been told he would. I find I am not prepared for the odd feeling of his great weight upon me nor the solitary feelings of indistinct woe that beset me as I lie on my side afterwards, feeling his wetness, hearing his breathing, and hopeless of sleep for myself.
Suddenly Mrs. Darcy: Prologue
I have never felt less sure of myself than I feel now. The candlelight flickers over the plain walls and shadowy furnishings of this room. Darkness and damp press against the small windows. An empty rambling countryside lies beyond, and the rumble of unknown revellers roars quietly below. I know he will come to me, and I pull the heavy blanket higher against my person. I can hardly credit I am here, nor know how the compromise of my life shall ever be made right.
When he does come, I know I must welcome him. It cannot be that he truly wants me, for we are strangers, and in his manner, he has made it plain. He says little, and in view of what has happened, I dread to imagine what he thinks. Even my mother, a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper, seems to know all is not quite as it should be. She knows, as I do and as he does, that she is the author of our situation. I mull, not for the first time, the way in which this began. The confusion and speed of events and the ambiguous nature of the tricks played upon me scream through my mind. I can make no sense of his part. Is he motivated by honour or hatred of scandal or pity, or some other unknown creature in his head? Does he lack the imagination to act other than he has done? I have only the scantest knowledge of him. You could not call it intimacy; you could not call it friendship. Even so, it is a secret between us that he is in some sense guilty if not exactly guilty as charged. However, we are here in this place, and the best must be made of it if we are not to run mad.
Occasionally, I hear a tread upon the stair and I start, marshalling my courage and straightening my face. But then the tread moves in another direction or returns to the public bar. Some servant perhaps or another guest—not him, coming for me. I turn onto my side in the unfamiliar bed, thinking that, by moving my limbs, I may still their trembling. Apart from the fear of what must come, I am also tired to the bone.
The journey north began almost immediately after our wedding and is not yet complete; it has been long and the weather treacherous. Mr Darcy sat opposite me in the carriage and said little. In my head, he is “Mr Darcy.” Our connection, short and strange, does not seem to merit any other appellation. In the darkness, I miss my sister Jane and the sweet smells and familiar shapes of our chamber at Longbourn where I have slept all my life. The memory of my mother’s advice, given in that chamber on the subject of this night, returns to me. I begin to wish it would start rather than hound me by being so protracted in the anticipation.
And so it does start. Steps on the stair do not recede or return. Instead, they grow louder, heavier, and closer; they pause only briefly before I hear a tap upon the door. “Come,” I say, not knowing whether it would be better to say nothing for he knows I am in here. Where else should I be but in this room in this bed? I have nowhere to run as he well knows.
His appearance in the light of the doorway makes me feel small, but I resist the urge to shrink further to the edge of the bed. Something inside me rises, and though I am fearful, I raise my head slightly and look at his face. It wears a blank expression, and as he closes the door behind him, he asks if I am comfortable.
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I am.”
He sits upon the bed and stretches out his hand to me, not touching. “Good. I hope that you are. Madam. Elizabeth. I know you must be fatigued.” He seems to want to say more but does not. The emptiness of the air and the words unspoken swell the space between us, and I remember my resolve.
“I am not so fatigued, sir.” I try to smile and not appear embarrassed by my circumstances. A shadow of a reply plays across his lips in acknowledgement, and he begins to undress. I turn my head, for watching a man disrobe is wholly without my experience, and I had not anticipated it. I knew it was not a spectacle I should usually witness since Mr Darcy would normally be undressed by his valet. But this night we have been, as so often during our short association, wrong-footed by matters outside our control. Only one chamber was available, so only one chamber do we have.
And only one bed—so I know I must make the best of it. When he wears only his lawn shirt, he lifts the side of the blanket and, looking at my face for only a moment, gets in. He also looks at the candlelight flickering across the empty wall before turning to me and saying “Elizabeth, come,” as he takes my shoulder and rolls me towards his embrace. My mother had told me it would be over quickly, and so indeed it was. He is not rough and has the goodness to warn me it may hurt at first. It does hurt, but I do not cry out; I will not allow myself to do so. I simply lie before him and allow him to part my legs and enter me as I had been told he would. I find I am not prepared for the odd feeling of his great weight upon me nor the solitary feelings of indistinct woe that beset me as I lie on my side afterwards, feeling his wetness, hearing his breathing, and hopeless of sleep for myself.
About the Author
Jenetta James is a lawyer, writer, mother and taker-on of too much. She grew up in Cambridge and read history at Oxford University where she was a scholar and president of the Oxford University History Society. After graduating, she took to the law and now practises full time as a barrister. Over the years she has lived in France, Hungary and Trinidad as well as her native England. Jenetta currently lives in London with her husband and children where she enjoys reading, laughing and playing with Lego. Suddenly Mrs. Darcy is her first novel.
Connect with Jenetta
The Suddenly Mrs. Darcy Blog Tour Schedule
Sponsored by Meryton Press and Leatherbound Reviews
4/20: Excerpt & Giveaway at The Calico Critic
4/21: Review at Songs and Stories
4/22: Guest Post & Giveaway at My Jane Austen Book Club
4/23: Guest Post & Giveaway at So Little Time…
4/24: Review at Diary of an Eccentric
4/25: Excerpt & Giveaway at My Love for Jane Austen
4/26: Review at Babblings of a Bookworm
4/27: Guest Post & Giveaway at Austenesque Reviews
4/28: Guest Post at Songs and Stories
4/29: Excerpt & Giveaway at Best Sellers and Best Stellars
4/30: Review at My Kids Led Me Back to Pride and Prejudice
5/1: Review at Margie's Must Reads
5/2: Guest Post & Giveaway at More Agreeably Engaged
5/3: Excerpt & Giveaway at Laughing with Lizzie
I am an admitted fangirl of such frivolous things as Star Wars, the Avengers, Lord of the Rings and Back to the Future. Apparently, Rhett Allain is a fanboy of the same persuasion. In his recent book Geek Physics, Allain tackles the physics behind several concepts within these fantastical worlds. He breaks down imaginary theories to real-world physics and formulas, answering some of the most burning questions of our time:
