Mr. Darcy, Vampyre

Chapter 11

My dearest Jane,

We are now in the south of Italy, near Rome, and the weather is so warm that today I did not even need to wear my shawl when I went outside. You, I suppose, are wrapped up in your pelisse and cloak! The days here are long and move at a leisurely pace. There are impromptu balls almost every evening, and if we are not dancing, then we are playing at cards or backgammon, and if not that, then we play the piano and sing. In the daytime we walk in the gardens. I am just about to go outside and play at croquet. I am becoming quite a proficient!

My dear Darcy remains an enigma. Sometimes when he looks at me I feel a sense of expectation, but sometimes I am filled with an unaccountable unease. I am longing to talk to you again, and yet I am not longing to return home. I have not yet had my fill of Italy. And so, for the moment, adieu.

The game of croquet was about to begin when Elizabeth joined the rest of her party on the lawns behind the villa. Sir Edward and Lady Bartholomew were there, as well as Monsieur Repar, Mrs Prestin, and Darcy. Darcy looked up as she joined them, and there was something hungry in his look.

‘There you are, Mrs Darcy! You are just in time to start us off,’ said Sir Edward jovially.

Elizabeth took her shot, knocking the ball cleanly through the hoop, and she was then succeeded by Lady Bartholomew and Mrs Prestin. The gentlemen praised their efforts then took their own turns. There was a friendly rivalry between Sir Edward and Monsieur Repar, and Monsieur Repar smiled broadly when Sir Edward struck the ball poorly, only to be repaid when his own shot went wide and Sir Edward laughed in a friendly fashion.

Darcy played well, but it was Lady Bartholomew who excelled. Every shot she made was clean and the ball went wherever it was meant to go, not too far but just far enough. It sailed through hoops and rolled smoothly across the grass.

She was just about to take her final shot, which would win her the game, when clouds appeared suddenly in the sky and a storm blew up from nowhere. The light dimmed and turned purple, changing the single cloud from a bright puff of gossamer into a dark and swollen mass that throbbed like a livid bruise.

‘Poor fellow, he isn’t seeing the place at its best,’ said Sir Edward as a coach rolled up the drive and disgorged a new visitor. ‘He can hardly see it in this light.’

Lady Bartholomew took her last shot and won the game just in time as a strong wind whipped the ladies’ dresses round their ankles and the rain suddenly threw itself from the sky. They all ran inside, being soaked by the time they reached the sanctuary of the hall. The group dispersed, the gentlemen arranging to meet again once dry and play a game of billiards whilst the ladies announced their intention of writing letters or otherwise occupying themselves in their own rooms.

Elizabeth, once she had changed out of her wet clothes, retired to the library, where she hoped she might find something in English she could read in order to pass the time before dinner. The library was an impressive room, and one she had discovered soon after arriving at the villa. It was very large, with high ceilings, and it was lined with books. But today, despite the tall windows, she found it hard to see, for outside it was almost as dark as night, almost dark enough for her to need a candle. Thinking she would rather not light a candle so early in the day, no matter how dark it was, she persevered without one.

The books were bound in leather with the most exquisite tooling on the covers. Gold lettering spelled out the titles and the authors’ names, which were written in flourishing scripts. She thought of the library at Longbourn, with its well-worn books, and she thought how much her father would love the Prince’s collection.

As she wandered round the room she tilted her head to one side, the better to read the titles, although most of them were in Italian and barely comprehensible to her. But here and there she recognised a few English books: Tom Jones, Robinson Crusoe, Shakespeare’s plays.

She found herself curiously drawn to one corner, where the books were more densely packed than elsewhere, and one book in particular seemed to call to her.

She took it out and looked at it. It was bound in old, deep red leather and it was ornamented with script in gold lettering, which had been handled so often that it was beginning to flake. She could still see the title, however, Civitates Orbis Terrarum.

Opening the book, she saw that it had been published in 1572 in Cologne and that it was a book of engravings. It contained maps and prospects and birds’ eye views of various cities around the world. There were people in the engravings too, dressed in sixteenth century costume, the women wearing long dresses which flowed into trains behind them and the men wearing short cloaks.

It was fascinating to see views of various cities in times gone by, and as she turned the pages she found herself looking at images of places she recognised. She knew at once when she had arrived at engravings of Venice. There was a view of San Marco and the Palazzo Ducale, and—she felt a creeping fear crawl over her—the Palazzo Ducale was on fire. She had seen it before, that fire, in her dream. It had frightened her, and it frightened her again, so badly that she tried to thrust the book away from her, but somehow the book seemed to be stuck to her fingers and she felt compelled to look at the image.

I must have seen it before, she thought. I must have seen this engraving somewhere and that is why I saw it in my dream. It must have been a memory.

But she knew she had not seen the book before, and that, even if she had, it could not be the source of the image in her dream: the view in the Civitates was looking at the burning palace from the direction of the canal, but in her dream she had seen it from the other direction.

I didn’t dream it, she thought, with a terrifying realisation. I was in the past. I was there.

She dropped the book, letting it fall from numb fingers. Despite its great antiquity and obvious value, she felt only the vaguest sense of relief when it was caught by other hands which stopped it plummeting to the floor, for one of the Prince’s guests had entered the room and had saved it from its fall.

‘My dear young lady,’ he said in concern, ‘you are as white as a ghost. Are you unwell?’

She turned towards him and had difficulty in making out his face. It seemed ageless: unlined and yet old, sympathetic and yet devilish. It floated before her in silent mockery, completely at odds with his words and behaviour, and she felt very strange.

‘Here,’ he said, offering her his arm.

She did not respond, only looking at him, and he pulled her hand through his arm himself, saying, ‘Let me escort you to a seat.’

As he touched her, she felt her will altering, flowing, and merging with his. She moved with him to one of the window seats. She was ensorcelled by him. Her body was light and ethereal and her thoughts were unclear, as though her mind was filled with mist.

She was aware of a peculiar sensation as the room around her began to alter, distorting and changing like a wet portrait in the rain. The green wallpaper began to melt and run down the walls and a deep ochre ran down in great rivulets behind it and took its place. The curtains too began to change, their dark green velvet dropping away to be washed over with rivers of gold silk. Pictures were appearing and mirrors disappearing; beneath them the console tables were altering, their legs narrowing and their tops flowing with marble; the vases of flowers were being replaced with porcelain and ormolu clocks. The carpet was giving way to polished floorboards and the sound of unearthly laughter filled the air. He seized her in his arms and waltzed with her around the room, whispering to her in some unintelligible language.

‘I am not well,’ said Elizabeth, her heart beating strangely and her mind trying to hold on to reality.

‘No?’ he asked. ‘I think you are very well.’

Strange faces peered at her as the room was suddenly full of people, laughing and chattering and looking at her through their masks.

She put her hand to her head, feeling it throb, and then, through the mist, she heard something familiar. It was Darcy’s voice.

The gentleman was saying to him, ‘It is nothing, never fear, the lady is feeling unwell that is all, but I am caring for her. Please do not let us detain you.’

‘No,’ she wanted to say. ‘I don’t want you to care for me, I want to be with my husband.’

But nothing came out.

She turned beseeching eyes to Darcy and she saw him as if from a great distance, through a distorting glass, but his words were firm and clear.

‘She has no taste for your company,’ he said.

‘No?’ said the gentleman. ‘But I have a taste for her.’

Hers, thought Elizabeth. He should have said hers.

‘Let her go,’ said Darcy warningly.

‘Why should I?’ asked the gentleman.

‘Because she is mine,’ said Darcy.

The gentleman turned his full attention towards Darcy and Elizabeth followed his eyes.

And then she saw something that made her heart thump against her rib cage and her mind collapse as she witnessed something so shocking and so terrifying that the ground came up to meet her as everything went black.

When she came to, she was in her bed and her maid was sponging her brow with cool, scented water.

‘What happened? Where am I?’ asked Elizabeth, looking round the room and finding it unfamiliar.

‘You’re safe, Ma’am. You’re in your own room in the Prince’s villa. You fainted, that’s all,’ said Annie.

‘But I never faint,’ said Elizabeth, struggling to sit up.

‘Lie back,’ said Annie, putting gentle pressure on her shoulder.

Elizabeth, seeing the room beginning to spin, had no choice but to comply. As she lay back, she realised that she was still in her gown but that her stays had been loosened so that they did not constrict her breathing. She tried to recall exactly what had happened. She had been playing croquet, there had been a storm, she had gone into the library, and then… she could remember no more.

‘It was the weather,’ said Annie. ‘When the clouds blew up it turned sultry. It’s a wonder more people haven’t fainted.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Only I’m sure there was something…’

She struggled to catch the elusive memory, but it had gone.

She waited until she felt her strength returning and then she tried to sit up again, this time with more success. Although the room had stopped spinning, she still found it hard to catch her breath and a glance out of the window showed her why. The sky was black and low, trapping the heat like a blanket. The landscape looked strange beneath the dark sky, the colours transformed and the light unnatural.

Annie was still mopping her forehead, but the water, cool to begin with, was now unpleasantly warm, and Elizabeth pushed her hand irritably away.

‘I’ll fetch some fresh water,’ said Annie.

As the door closed behind her, Elizabeth sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. After sitting thus for a few minutes and discovering that she no longer felt faint she got up and walked about the room. She was restless, unable to settle to anything, and when the door opened she was about to send Annie away when she saw that it was not Annie standing there, it was Darcy, with a look of torment on his face.

She held out her hand to him, hoping for the comfort and reassurance of his touch, but he did not respond to her gesture and he made no move to enter the room. Instead he stood by the door, watching her.

‘You don’t remember, do you?’ he asked.

‘Remember what?’ she said, ceasing her restless pacing.

‘You don’t remember what happened.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘but Annie told me. I fainted. It was the heat, she said.’

‘The heat.’

His voice sounded strange and Elizabeth felt a long way away from him, although they were separated by no more than ten or twelve feet. All the difficult and disturbing incidents of the past few weeks, together with the distance from home and her estrangement from Darcy—for she could no longer pretend that they were not estranged—together with the agitation and tears which these things occasioned, threatened to overset her again. She dropped her hand and sank down on the edge of the bed.

She had told herself it was only a matter of time before things were well between them. She had made excuses and invented countless reasons for his absence from her room, but she could deceive herself no longer. He simply did not want her. He had mistaken his feelings and now they must face the consequences.

‘Are you still feeling unwell?’ he asked, looking at her with concern.

‘Yes.’

‘Elizabeth, it was an unpleasant morning, but—’

‘It is nothing to do with the morning,’ she said. ‘It is us. We should never have married.’

He looked stunned.

‘I have been trying to pretend to myself that it was just the newness of our life together, or that you were being considerate, or that it would not be long before you came to me, but I cannot go on pretending. I know now we should never have married. I will not stay here to embarrass you and distress myself.’ She thought of Longbourn and a wave of homesickness washed over her. She wanted to be amongst familiar sights and familiar people. ‘As soon as I feel well enough, I will pack my bags and go back to England.’

‘No! You cannot go! I forbid it!’ he said, striding into the room but then hesitating and stopping before he reached her, with lines of pain etched clearly across his face.

‘There is nothing else to be done,’ she said. ‘This is not a marriage. I am not your wife.’

His complexion became pale and she saw some great emotion wash over him as he struggled for composure, but composure would not come and at last he said in agitation, ‘I can’t come to you. There are things about me you don’t know…’

‘Then tell me!’ she cried, jumping up. ‘That is what men and women do when they are in love. They talk to each other. They share their thoughts and feelings. They share their problems. They share their secrets, they share everything.’ She stopped and sighed, making an effort to master her overwhelming emotion, and then she continued in a calmer manner. ‘Will you not tell me what is worrying you? We are married, Darcy. We took an oath to love each other for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health. Those words mean something. They mean that we stand together in times of trial and we share our burdens as well as our joys. There is nothing so terrible that we cannot face it if we do so together.’

His face was ashen.

‘I can’t share this with you,’ he said.

‘Why not? Don’t you trust me?’ she asked.

‘It’s not that—’

‘Then what is it?’ she cried.

He shook his head as though he were being goaded beyond endurance and said, ‘It is for your own good.’

‘How can it be for my own good?’ she cried in astonishment. ‘Whatever your secret, it cannot be more terrible than the pain I am feeling at this moment.’

He started, but then he let out a cry and he said, ‘If I tell you, then there will no going back. Once you have the knowledge you will never be rid of it, and if you decide you were happier without it, it will be too late.’

‘Then if you won’t tell me, there is no hope for us,’ she said with a droop of her shoulders.

‘Don’t say that.’

‘What else is there to be said?’

She saw his expression change slightly and she thought that he was weakening. She held out her hand to him and he moved as if he was going to take it. His fingers reached out to her but then he drew them back.

‘No! I can’t. But I can’t go on like this either,’ he said in agony. ‘I have to think.’

He sprang towards the door.

She had a sudden and terrible fear that if she let him leave the room she would never see him again.

‘Darcy!’ she called, but it was too late, for he had already gone.