Darcy & Elizabeth (3 page)

“Nurse,” she said abruptly. “Nurse!”

The nurse gave a start as if caught in her own nap, but quickly stood and curtsied.

“Leave us.”

Although with this demand, Elizabeth's voice lost its initial stridency, it was still an order. Without looking in the direction of her mistress, Nurse hustled towards the door. Elizabeth nodded once to Hannah, who anticipated her own dismissal and was then on her way out the door as well. Elizabeth watched her cross the room and held them both in her eye until the door had closed behind them. Without looking to her husband (who appeared almost as startled as had Nurse), she saw that her command had not stopt Janie from falling asleep once again. But this time Elizabeth did not rouse her. Rather, she gently shifted her tiny body to the side and adjusted her blanket.

“Shall I take her to her bed? Are you unwell?” Darcy queried, a little worry crease appearing between his brows.

“Neither,” she whispered. “Leave her be. If you move her she might awaken.”

Having her husband take his daughter in his arms and carry her to sleep beside her brother would have been a delightful sight to witness, but she dared not risk awakening her. For the first time she bethought her heretofore unwavering resolution to not allow either baby out of her sight for a single moment.

Fortunately, Janie continued to sleep and she did not have to make that decision.

“Come to me, my love,” she said, arms extended to her husband.

He looked at her rather curiously before looking over to the peaceful, sleeping face of his daughter. A little bubble erupted from Janie's lips as she made sucking sounds in her sleep. With unparalleled precision, they turned to each other and silently shared their opinion of the unqualified adorability of such an act. Elizabeth had turned back to look upon her daughter's burbling when, as adeptly as he had brought it beneath him, he removed the chair and returned it to its place. Then, he carefully pulled himself next to Elizabeth upon the bed. Slipping his arm around her shoulders and stretching his long legs the length of the bed, he anchored one ankle over the other. He took a ferociously long time settling himself, perhaps in want of disallowing himself to notice that his wife had neglected to re-tie the opening of her gown. Happily unawares of the distraction she exacted, she nestled contentedly against his chest and allowed her fingers sneak between the buttons of his waistcoat.

To once again feel the indention of his frame and warmth of his body next to her upon the mattress was very nearly exhilarating. He had not engaged in such a posture since the day he had fallen fast asleep from sheer exhaustion after a furious ride across half of England to reach her. She looked lovingly upon him, for he was draped across the bed in incongruously formal attire. His impeccable grooming bid her recollect the disastrous state of his ensemble upon his arrival at that tumultuous homecoming. The summer heat had bid him to shed his coat and neckcloth somewhere along the road. Hence, he had lain across the counterpane in shirtsleeves and breeches, his face nearly as caked with dust as his boots. She had thought he had never looked more handsome.

Her reverie was disturbed by his inquiry, “How long shall the little one sleep?”

“It is not how long, but how deeply will she sleep,” replied she.

“I see.”

“I fear I am still…indisposed,” she ventured, “from the rigours of childbirth. It will be some time before I am myself again.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Lizzy. Such matters have not entered my mind,” his voice was all assurance; his countenance, however, looked less certain.

For such matters had entered his mind. They had entered his mind on numerous occasions to the point of preoccupation. There was no one of whom he might enquire as to the length of her convalescence with any degree of decorum, hence he was quite happy that she had brought the issue to light herself. Yet, “some time” was not a comfort. It was, however, something to look forward to.

The Master of Pemberley Is Displeased

Mr. Darcy's lips were further pursed (were that humanly possible) by another undertaking. This one was required of him by his patriarchal duty. It did not lend the same astonishment of the one gifted to him by his wife, but it still took him quite unawares.

***

No sooner had he settled into his new role of fatherhood and begun to bask in its glow, he was informed that it was imperative that arrangements be set in place for a wedding for his sister, Georgiana, and their cousin, Col. Geoffrey Fitzwilliam. As his glower suggested, the specific nature of this event invited Mr. Darcy's most severe indignation. This abhorrence, however, did not fall to any inherent dislike for his sister's intended groom. Indeed, Col. Fitzwilliam was one of the few men he deemed worthy of Georgiana's hand. His displeasure was not because of the haste of the nuptials, but owing to the delicate condition in which Georgiana would be taking them.

Indeed, the same injured expression gifted to Darcy's countenance by reason of his newly apportioned bed was duplicated upon learning of his sister's indecorous indisposition. So great was his distaste for this particular brotherly duty, his aspect was further aggrieved by the adornment of gritted teeth. This was not without due cause, for he believed himself additionally abused in that his sister had been compromised under his very nose.

Her deflowerment had undoubtedly come about during their summer's quarantine on the Continent. Their party had consisted solely of himself, Georgiana, and Col. Fitzwilliam. The colonel had been grievously wounded in a battle near Quatre Bas, Georgiana his dedicated caretaker. Indeed, her entire reason for absconding after his regiment had been to look after him were he wounded. It had been inevitable that the foetid army hospital where Georgiana had nursed Fitzwilliam would beget disease. Regrettably, Darcy had been unsuccessful in expediting their return to England before a general quarantine had been mounted throughout the region. They had been quite isolated by the threat of plague, abiding in a vacant cottage with borrowed servants. At the time he had thought the delay egregious—fraught as he was with anxiety to see his loved ones safely home.

It galled him still to realise that he had left his wife to chase halfway across Belgium to rescue his sister from the gates of hell, when she had flitted off on a romantic adventure, thinking herself in love with Fitzwilliam. Darcy had been furiously worried for her safety when she left and furiously relieved when he found her amidst all the chaos. Her behaviour had been so indecorous that he had been beside himself with reproach, yet so unconditionally happy to find her safe that he had been unable to bring himself to chastise her with the proper vehemence. Seldom did he redress himself, but hindsight saw he should have extended a rebuke—for thereafter her conduct did not improve. He gave not a fig if she called herself a nurse—the familiarity with which she tended to Fitzwilliam was unseemly. He had disapproved of her engaging in her nursing activities even when exacted upon the ill inhabiting Pemberley's lands. But due to the seriousness of Fitzwilliam's condition, Darcy had always held greater concern for her sensibilities than her virtue. He could not stop from snorting contemptuously at the realisation that his beloved sister's deflowerment was a
fait accompli
whilst he strode about worrying for their very lives.

He had been compleatly unaware of their intimacy throughout their stay on the Continent and journey home. To be so compleatly insensible of what had clearly come to pass between them was a considerable blow to the ego of one who believed himself most wise in the ways of the world. It was Elizabeth who had the unhappy task of enlightening him to just how solicitous Georgiana's care of Fitzwilliam had been. Not only was Darcy incensed to have been so compleatly duped, he was of the opinion that having one's sister ruined was good reason to call the colonel out. That Fitzwilliam's blood was not spilt was due only to Elizabeth's earnest intervention—and undoubtedly, her insistent reminder that due to Fitzwilliam's situation as an invalid, Georgiana had hardly been coerced.

Uncertain whether or not that was a comfort, Darcy grudgingly gave his blessing to the union.

There were far more sombre matters that attended Darcy's homecoming than scandalous liaisons. Darcy learnt of the death of Elizabeth's father, not from her, but in a private moment with Jane. His countenance darkened at the news, but he only consoled Jane perfunctorily. It was a lapse she ignored, for it was apparent that his thoughts had already returned to Elizabeth. Jane watched him as he stood silent for a moment before entering her bedchamber. Although Jane knew he needed a moment to collect himself, she did not fear he would not find words of comfort. He had experienced the loss of his own esteemed father and knew just how deeply Elizabeth must be injured by such the untimely death of hers.

His peek into the room saw her asleep but stirring. Although he crept quietly, she opened her eyes and turned to him. He knelt beside her and took her hand. The smile that had begun to overspread her face faded. However unintentional, his aspect betrayed that he knew of what sadness had come to pass.

“So,” she said with finality.

To be spared the necessity of telling him was her only consolation. She had dreaded that. As the painful recollection revisited her, tears filled her eyes and she turned away.

“My heart is heavy for you, Lizzy,” said he, smoothing her hair with tender care.

She wanted to respond, to offer
him
words of reassurance, but she had a catch in her throat that made it impossible to utter a sound. So choked was she, that she feared any attempt to speak would have her break into huge gulping sobs. Indeed, she dared not look at her husband's face, fearing that too would send her into uncontrolled weeping. Her bereavement was not new. It was self-indulgent to suffer so deeply still. Her husband had not been home a day. Her husband's happy homecoming should not fall victim to her own disorder. With that silent vow, her chin began to quiver and she knew keeping her countenance was lost. Hence, she gave way to the weep that was determined to have its way with her. She withdrew her hand from his and covered her face in a vain attempt to hide her distress.

Knowing that she sought to spare him her hurt, he drew her into his embrace. Pressing her tearstained face against his neck, he kissed the top of her head.

“Shush, dearest Lizzy, pray do not weep,” he murmured. “I am here. I am here.”

That reminder gave more consolation than any other she might have imagined. Directly, her tears ceased. She did not, however, give up her place against his chest and from thence she told the entire history of her father's death and those sorrowful days that followed. Common thought was to discourage the bereaved from lamenting a death in detail, but Darcy decided then to be of a different mind. Clearly, Elizabeth had pent up her wretchedness for some time. He thought it best to allow her to have her say and did not endeavour to quiet her again. He petted her and soothed her until at last, spent of emotion, she slept. He was happy to be home and to have the employment of chief consoler. He was happy too that office was aided by the two small nestlings whose constant care demanded she not surrender to melancholy. Although he believed the timing of their newborns a godsend, he knew better than to make any insipid platitudes upon the transference of life.

That truism was quite evident.

Thrust into this melange of despair and beatitude was news of quite another sort. For word had arrived too of the supposed battlefield casualty of George Wickham, the scoundrel husband of Elizabeth's sister Lydia. This information, however, occasioned a feigned bereavement that was very nearly as oppressive as had it been real. All this equivocatory posing sent the Darcys' barely tethered sensibilities reeling to such a degree that they were eventually rendered again upright.

A reinstatement of his equilibrium was essential for Darcy to embark upon a reckoning of a peculiar type. This duty was less conspicuous than any other, even covert, but of no less importance. It was a surreptitious trip to Kent that he embarked upon one day not long after his return. In that Darcy was a man who held matters of family in the highest of regard, his intention to levy an unequivocal threat upon his cursed aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh was a weighty one indeed. Although his mother's sister, Lady Catherine had been responsible for distress to his wife, an injury Darcy put higher than any other.

Although this too was long in coming, it would not have come to pass in so timely a fashion had his aunt not threatened Elizabeth with eviction from Pemberley had he not returned. He seldom found himself suffering a misjudgement, but he believed keeping his own counsel on what provisions he had made for Elizabeth had been a mistake. Clearly, if he had not gone so far as to make Elizabeth aware of that which pertained to her well-being, it was unreasonable to expect his aunt to be. It was a lesson he learnt well. In face of the deaths their family had weathered of late, he observed how very quickly the pale horse of death could overtake anyone, regardless of the eminence of one's circumstance. It was imperative to bring his aunt to heel. He had to remind her that it was not she who stood at their family's helm.

“The long habit of living does not lend us indisposed for dying,” he reminded himself on that singular trip to Rosings Park.

Darcy had been apprised beforehand of his trip that a retaliation of sorts had been issued at the time of offence. It was but a small one, granted, but one that was exacted at great injury to such a proud woman. Had Elizabeth not confided to him about the particulars of her confrontation with Lady Catherine, his actually doing her bodily harm might still have been a temptation. But as it happened, Elizabeth, although alone and with child, was not without her own defences. Indeed, in protection of herself and her unborn, Mrs. Darcy discharged a cautionary pistol shot in Lady Catherine's direction. Although the primary victim was only the ostrich plume in her ladyship's bonnet, the intent of the shot was met. Either through the agency of an intimate look down the muzzle of Elizabeth's pistol or its deafening reverberation, her ladyship had added to the insult of unmitigated fright that of an unfortunate fit of incontinence.

As his aunt's chastening was compleat and the carpet long burnt, Darcy was in want of only one further commination. With the low voice that only considerable umbrage can engage, he advised his aunt that was she again to trouble his wife, he would see to it that she would find herself trussed and bound, and fast on her way to becoming the newest inmate in the Lyme Institute for the Indigent Insane.

She was most unamused at the notion, but of this, he was unaware. Before she thought to shut her gaping jaw, he was back on his horse and homeward bound.