The Trouble with Mr. Darcy by Sharon Lathan Page B

and equally important aspect of her recovery to the old Lizzy they all adored was the presence of a certain man vital to her ultimate happiness.
    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