Darcy & Elizabeth (36 page)

Indeed it was—a chair constructed specifically to aid the increasingly adipose prince in mounting his beleaguered steed. They eyed the bizarre contraption most particularly, but it appeared to have been abandoned. That gave credibility to further gossip that, to his misfortune, the prince had become so obscenely obese the chair had been rendered unusable. Mr. Gardiner had great interest in machines of all sorts, thus, its obsolescence did not lessen his enjoyment in seeing it at firsthand. He and Mrs. Gardiner marvelled upon it for some time. By then Darcy feared they might be taken for common sightseers if they lingered, and he retrieved Elizabeth's arm. In good time, the Gardiners and their frolicsome children fell in behind, and Elizabeth and Darcy, arm in arm, strolled behind Margaret as she pushed the babies a little ahead of them in their carriage. They led their entire party on the walkway tracing the edge of the waterfront. As new lovers often do, Georgiana and Fitzwilliam trailed them all, seemingly lost in their own conversation.

Pointing down the beach, Darcy drew their attention to the unwieldy bathing machines being cranked out to the surf, allowing flannel-clad bathers to cautiously dip their toes and gauge the temperature of the water. Seagulls dived and children shrieked and Geoff and Janie sat in wide-eyed wonder at the sights. So much did the twins attract admiration from passers-by that Elizabeth remarked that they might do well to put them up in a booth for a penny a look. As the Gardiners stopt and took notice of the bathers, Darcy could not resist calling out.

“Mrs. Gardiner, pray, shall you take a swim?” Darcy teased.

She blushed. “I think not. Perhaps just an ablution of sea water.”

“I'm told it should not be taken without a mixture of crab's eyes and wood lice. I understand milk may be added to make it more palatable,” Darcy said with unexpected drollness.

Everyone laughed. Elizabeth remarked that they lacked only the Bingleys to make their holiday compleat. Regrettably, they had yet to arrive. For such was the size of the Bingleys' brood and the laxity of their resolve, they always arrived a fortnight behind everyone else. Still, Elizabeth was pleased to hear her husband in such uncommonly tranquil humour. She almost said as much, but her attention was taken by a voice calling out. It was a voice that was so familiar that she stood motionless, attempting both to locate and place it. When she did, her reaction was visceral. She cringed both figuratively and literally in recognition.

“I say, nephew!” trilled Lady Catherine de Bourgh. “Too-roo! Nephew!”

At this their entire party, almost as one entity, stopt in its tracks. But only Darcy turned to Lady Catherine as she approached. Elizabeth found it necessary to rearrange the blankets around her children. So busy was she, she was quite unable to take notice of anything else. Her own ploy, however, was unsuccessful. For much to Elizabeth's astonishment, Lady Catherine hurried towards her. Elizabeth turned to face her—arms folded. In defence of her children, she was quite ready to do battle. That proved to be quite unnecessary.

For as it happened, Lady Catherine (or the amiable spirit which had taken over her body) was quite happy to see them all. They knew this to be true because she briefly stopt her advance to extend greetings and good-day to all—several times—with great emotion. As Darcy insinuated himself between Lady Catherine and his family (whether to protect them or keep his wife from doing her damage, one can only conjecture), all the others in their little band stood still as stones. Mrs. Gardiner, having heard a great deal of Lady Catherine's numerous ill-deeds, stood with her mouth slightly agape.

Said Lady Catherine, “My dearest nephew! Dearest Elizabeth! Do we have the good fortune to admire your new family?”

Lady Catherine inquiring after her children was more alarming to Elizabeth than anything else she could imagine and she was loath to allow it. Nonetheless, Lady Catherine endeavoured mightily to look over and around her nephew at the small charges in the baby carriage. Elizabeth truly wondered if it were a ruse to get near her children and do them harm. Possibly of the same mind, Darcy stood his ground, walking-stick held lightly in his hand (seemingly at the ready) as his aunt approached. He tipped his hat ever so slightly but said nothing. In the absence of an invitation to do so, Lady Catherine sashayed around him and over to the carriage. She then bent low to peer in at the babies. It was all Elizabeth could do not to throw herself across them in their defence.

After a scrutiny that bordered on the untoward, she announced, “Handsome children, are they not!”

It was only then that it became apparent that Lady Catherine was not alone. Although the Gardiners had never met her and Elizabeth had seen her but little and could be forgiven, Darcy should have recognised Lady Anne. She certainly had recognised him. She commenced a simpering, eye-batting giggle—from whence she quickly retreated behind her fan. It was a display worthy of Lydia at her most inane and Elizabeth had to make herself not look over-long at her. Such as it was, it managed the considerable feat of stealing Elizabeth's attention from Lady Catherine. When it returned, it was only with the severest self-discipline that she kept from wheeling away the carriage and making for the nearest shop for sanctuary.

Whether Anne was in such a coy state due to the opportunity to exhibit her new husband, no one there could fathom. But her attitude did the considerable favour of arresting Lady Catherine's attention from chin-chucking of the twins to introduction of her new son-in-law, Lord Beecher. Beecher bowed from the waist with ingratiating depth, this time avoiding the error of addressing anyone with too much familiarity. Through their astonishment, Elizabeth curtsied politely and Darcy managed to return Beecher's bow (if by half in depth).This round, too, Lady Catherine honed her newly acquired office of doting aunt by employing a smile that revealed more than only her jaw teeth.

When there was a moment of quiet, her ladyship found better use of it by booming, “I must see you take to the sea, Darcy!”

Because Georgiana had thought it imprudent to share with Elizabeth the queer meeting she and Fitzwilliam had had with Lady Catherine in Bath, wisely surmising it was a subject of abhorrence, Lady Anne's engagement, and hence her marriage, took everyone else compleatly unawares. Moreover, Anne's thin frame looked to be sporting a fecundity rivalling that of Georgiana. Nothing, however, was more astonishing than Lady Catherine's compleat and utter reversal of deportment. It remained entirely altered until she commenced upon a recitation to one and all of her own bathing ritual. It was once again the Lady Catherine of yore.

“At first light twice or thrice a week I betake myself to my bathing machine and put out to sea. There one is free to disport in the water. Of course, a flannel gown is worn—although I understand there are others who eschew such modesty for a bathing costume. The dip is quite refreshing and has done wonders for my rheumatism.”

This entire monologue was uninterrupted either by question or exclamation. She then bid Darcy and “his delightful children and worthy companions” a good day.

It was uncommon for Elizabeth to be struck speechless, yet she was then. Which was just as well, for there was no comment that anyone of their party could deem to make for the better part of a quarter hour. Only then did Georgiana volunteer a recounting of their meeting in Bath.

“How could we have overlooked a wedding of such merit?” Elizabeth mused.

It was less a matter of them overlooking any such announcement than that no announcement had been made. It was abundantly clear that Lady Anne had reason, if not to hide her condition, at least to camouflage its maturity. She was hardly the first, nor would she be the last, lady who took her vows with a bean up the spout. It would remain out of topic until the baptismal announcement arrived. Until then, no one would ever be said to have been with child.

Brighton Charms

In their months in Brighton, the Darcys found a multitude of pleasures—not the least of these accompanying their children to the seashore. Frolicking amongst the lapping waves with a tiny hand in each of hers was Elizabeth's heart's bliss. Darcy stood by with parental reserve and watched as their children first beheld the water as it lapped against their feet, then, hanging onto their mother's fingers, falling down, only to be lifted up and swung about—laughing and giggling with delight. Darcy's refusal to venture further than the beach chairs (hat and frockcoat in place and determined to remain aloof from such a public spectacle) could not lessen Elizabeth's spirits. It was not infrequently, however, that she would look in his direction and see him smiling at their antics. She knew were he truly offended, he would not have followed them thither.

Observing his seeming hauteur, a babe in one arm, she sauntered to him and stopt a few steps away. When she spoke, it was not to her husband, but to her son.

“We are not taken in by the charade before us, are we my sweet?” said she, “Your Papa does not fool us all.”

“I am certain, madam, that I do not take your meaning,” said Mr. Darcy. Thereupon, he harrumphed and straightened his cuffs, adjusted his lapels, and then betook himself towards the walkboards. But as he did, he clasped his stick and twirled it once before catching it under his arm. As he strolled away, Elizabeth was certain she heard him whistling.

***

When the Bingleys finally arrived, it was quite a parade when they all departed for the seaside—children, nurses, blankets, and wicker lunch-baskets required several carts to deliver them all. Of course Bingley had not Darcy's reserve and ran and played tag with the wee ones with all the enthusiasm of an oversized child. But soon the amusements of Brighton called to his restless need for diversion, and he began to inveigle first Darcy and then Fitzwilliam to join him in attending one of Brighton's boxing competitions. When first he broached the subject, Jane was altogether miffed. In an attitude quite uncommon of her, she put her hands upon her hips.

She said, “Charles Bingley! Did not you swear upon your very honour that you would no longer attend such a cruel entertainment?”

“Jane, dearest, I sold my portion of the boxer as I promised. I did not say I would never again look upon a bout. There can be no harm found in the mere observation of one.”

She was not compleatly appeased, but was unable to deny her husband diversion and gave her blessing, for Bingley could not have enjoyed himself had she not. In the end, the gentlemen did attend one bout, but as both Darcy and Fitzwilliam had seen far too much of war, blood sports were not to their liking. Hence they persuaded Bingley to exchange that enthusiasm for the race course—indeed, horse racing was an entertainment where the ladies could accompany them. It was at one of these events at Brighton's lovely new racing courses that they happened upon two of England's foremost horse enthusiasts, Lord and Lady Millhouse. Lady Millhouse's first inquiry was not of their family but how Elizabeth's mare's first foal was doing.

Aside from being Pemberley's nearest neighbours, the Millhouses were friends of the finest sort—good-natured and gregarious, they made every day into a celebration. They had been there but for a day and Lady Millhouse had already dipped her toe in the sea. “Hah! Watch us, Darcy, and see if we do not put on our bathing costumes!” she proclaimed.

Quite soon, Lady Millhouse's enthusiasm for their own sea-bathing transmuted into insisting upon Darcy's. With Bingley joining their refrain, they spent most of the afternoon in belabouring that notion. But Darcy steadfastly refused even to entertain such abhorrence despite how determinedly Bingley coaxed him.

He extolled the breeze, the surf, the fine, hard sand, and the deep water not ten foot from shore, “The machines take you directly there and back—you would be in no one's eye.”

“I think not,” was Darcy's terse reply.

Elizabeth controlled a smile during these exchanges, for she was entertaining a small secret.

It was true that Mr. Darcy refused to put on a bathing costume and be cranked out to sea in a bathing contraption. But there were many hours in the day and they had found their own particular diversion.

It all began within the week of first arriving in Brighton. Early risers, Fitzwilliam and Georgiana always took their rest early, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth quite to their own devices after dinner. The warm night air and beautiful moonlit paths beckoned them from their drawing-room. After the children were put to bed and all was quiet, they betook themselves in an open gig along the winding roadway to Devil's Dyke and from thence back down along the esplanade.

After repeated forays into the night, they gradually grew accustomed to making their way about by the moon. Ere long, they tired of the same byways and found themselves above the cliffs overlooking the shore. The night was balmy and their blood was stirred by the sight of the black waves as they lapped, then expired onto the beach. They were farther than the esplanade, but a trail was clearly visible from the road down to the beach as if inviting them to take themselves upon it. The incline was a bit steep and Darcy went first, Elizabeth reaching out to steady herself upon his shoulder as they crept their way to the water's edge. They strolled there for some time, then simply retraced their steps and returned to their apartments, never speaking a word of their adventures to anyone else in their party. In time, seeking new explorations, they ventured farther and became bolder, taking off their boots and wading in the surf. It was delightful, with no mud, no weeds, and no slimy rocks to impede their enjoyment.

To splash through the waves was a freedom neither had ever discovered for themselves until then.

“This is superb!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

She had grown ever more daring, grasping her skirt-tail above her knees. A wave would come in and douse her to her hips, but she would only laugh and tease her husband to join her. He had folded his coat, gloves, and waistcoat into a tidy pile beside him, his hat and boots in a neat row, and adamantly refused to enter into such frivolity. The farther out she went, however, the more disturbed he became (which, no doubt, had been her design).

“There is deep water not ten-foot out!” he called, echoing his caution when they had swum in the weirs at Pemberley.

But she did not heed his warning and a huge swell threw down upon her, washing her off her feet and rolling her onto the beach before its rush began to sweep her back out again. In that brief time, he had raced towards her, but was washed from his feet by the same rush of water that upended her. The mischievous upsurge drew them both back into the ocean's grasp momentarily, but he managed to take hold of her skirt before she was washed far away from him. When at last they broke free of the water's clutches and the wave receded, she was gasping and indignant—both at the ocean's impertinence and at her husband's being right about it.

They were both wet, sitting side by side on the wet, packed sand, with only an occasional teasing breaker passing over their feet.

“It is quite evident,” she said, “that moving waters dislike me. They attack me at every turn.”

“This I cannot deny,” said he. “Had I not been here, you no doubt would have been food for the fish.”

To her chagrin, he then stood. She thought they were meant to leave, but he began to scavenge for dry tinder, stacking it in a pile. She saw his plan and joined him. Soon they had a tidy bit of fire fixings. He strode off towards the coach to retrieve a lantern to set it alight. They removed their outer garments and hung them over sticks to dry. When all was done but the waiting, they lay down side by side and stared at the sky as bits of disintegrating sparks flew heavenward. Her attention was arrested from that mesmerising vision by a husband who was inclined to want all her attention for himself—attention she was only too happy to supply. In fortune, they were not too long upon this engrossment when they were interrupted by the sight and sound of a boat coming ashore up the beach. Still prone, they lay still for a moment to determine who it was. From that distance, Darcy determined it not to be benign activity and quickly began dousing the fire with handfuls of sand.

“Quickly,” he demanded, “dress yourself.”

Keeping to a low crouching walk, he made his way over to where his boots and coat lay. Whilst she understood the necessity of clothing herself, she thought it a bit ridiculous that he worried for his own lack of decorum. She would have told him so had she not then seen that he had made not for his frockcoat, but for the pistol that lay beneath it. She was aghast. Never once had she seen that upon his person the entire of their trip.

“Where did you…” she worriedly began whispering, but he put out his hand to hush her, and employed the same crablike walk back to her side. They sat quietly huddled together for a few minutes longer watching through the now ominous moonlight as men climbed out of the dory and began tramping towards the cliffs.

“We must away,” he whispered. “Quickly.”

That was an observation that was unnecessary for him to have issued, and in bare feet they began to climb up the incline towards their gig. Darcy veritably tossed Elizabeth into the seat and leapt in beside her, not scrupling to take the whip to their horse to encourage it begone. Taking more than one turn perilously, they then rode pell-mell towards town. When they reached the outskirts of Brighton, they slowed to a trot, then stopt. Both turned and looked behind them to see if they were followed. When it appeared that they had not been, Darcy retrieved the boots he had hastily thrown into the floorboards and put first one, then the other on by bracing each foot against the splashing-board. Only then did Elizabeth dare to take a breath. Although she saw the pistol butt protruding from his waistband, she made no inquiry. The reason for such precaution was evident. It would be only upon their journey homeward that she would see that he still wore it, as he probably had upon their coming as well.

Although Darcy made discreet inquiries with the constable, they did not find out who it had been or what manner of misconduct engaged them. “Smugglers,” Darcy surmised, something that at one time was seldom seen along those shores. They were quite satisfied not to have been again beset upon by highwaymen. Although it was not openly discussed, both concluded that if they were to disport in a water-borne fashion, they would do so only upon their own property. They would keep by the sea only in the broad daylight. They did not regret their escapade, but neither did they repeat it.

It was only a few days thence that a post arrived for the Gardiners from their maid of long standing, Clementine. She informed them of her dismissal at the hands of Mrs. Wickham, who had committed the outrageous act of hiring a girl of her own choosing to replace her. Beholding that information, the guilt which had been abating with every smile she brought to the Gardiners' countenances resurfaced within Elizabeth with a vengeance. The only remedy available to her was the one she employed that evening, pledging the entirety of her father's small annual legacy to obtain Lydia new lodgings forthwith. It was not a lofty sum by Darcy standards, but what with Lydia's own inheritance from their father and Wickham's pension, she should be able to live quite well on it. That is, one could—whether Lydia would—remained to be seen. It was all that Elizabeth had to give, for she was still adamant that no funds from Pemberley would go to the wife of Wickham. While Darcy had set up a generous trust for Wickham's children, it was, much to Lydia's consternation, inaccessible to her. Elizabeth had little hope that her small contribution would be of any further satisfaction.

Her generosity, however, the Gardiners were disinclined to accept.

“She is our niece,” Mrs. Gardiner had insisted.

“But she is my sister, and therefore more my responsibility,” said Elizabeth, not wanting to point out the obvious disparity of incomes.

They closed their eyes, pursed their lips, and shook their heads in continued refusal of her offer. Hence, when they took their leave it was with genuine sorrow and no little self-reproach that Elizabeth bid them farewell. She vowed, however, that she would hie to London as soon as her children's health permitted to see Lydia settled into a house of her own. Darcy found this notion much to his disfavour. But as he remained vague about the reason for his disapproval and did not truly take a stand absolutely against her, she forged on with her plans.

As a man who seldom waffled on any issue, Darcy was uncertain how firm a stand to take against Elizabeth's going to London. As he was disinclined to take his family to bide in Mayfair, he could not make himself believe that Cheapside was in any less danger. What they had witnessed upon the beach told him there was much malfeasance afoot in England and he was not about to allow Elizabeth to travel there alone. Loath as he was to insinuate himself personally into Lydia's doings, he was becoming increasingly aware that it might become necessary. His disposition exposed this abhorrence and as he chose not to explain himself, he left himself open to the allegation of imperturbability from his wife when in fact his hesitation sprang from quite the opposite emotion.

Perhaps to alter the subject, Elizabeth asked Darcy what he made of Lady Catherine's aberrational conduct. His mind was still otherwise employed and he gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, dismissing the entire mystery out of hand.

Said he, “Perchance she has thought better of her opposition. She has little to gain by remaining so very obstinate.”

This was undeniably true, but Elizabeth was not so inclined as her husband to accept this particular hand of friendship without a glove sporting a healthy coat of unslaked lime.

Elizabeth's discomposure from her continuing consternation over Lydia's imprudent conduct and Lady Catherine's newly invented family affection would have waned eventually through sheer determination. It would have had she not, through the bustling street filled with private carriages, hackneys, drays, and assorted children, nurses, maids, and gentlefolk, been certain that she spied stepping out of a shop and sauntering off down the street, the unmistakable aspect of the late Major George Wickham.