Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (10 page)

“There is a very wide gap in definition betwixt ‘too large’ and ‘not small.’”

“It will have to simply remain so, for I refuse to discuss it further.”

He shook his head slightly, then said, “I truly believed I would be whispering endearments in your ear at this moment, not discussing logistiques.”

“But, the dilemma has not been solved…”

“I promise you, Lizzy, it shall be solved,” he said. “With very diligent practise.”

They eyed each other with uncommon concentration. Had he held the unlikely notion that she was not of a mind to re-enact connubial rites, the quivering little frisson she elicited when he kissed the inside of her thigh would have removed all doubt.

One would travel miles upon the property owned by the vast estate of Pemberley before reaching the house itself. There was no true guidepost to announce whence it began, save for the road as it changed to gravel. This road snaked through the holdings with all due obeisance to the landscape, skirting hedged fields in the brown dormancy of winter.

The season saw few people about, only a harrower or two yet at their tasks. Although a smattering of flocks could be seen from the road, they were not well watched. Lambing had commenced. That was a nocturnal obligation, hence what few shepherds looked over them were kept awake midday only by the yapping of their dogs. This semi-somnambulism predestined that no one was much about to take notice as the coach travelled up the way, shades drawn in defence of eyes that were not upon it.

Employment inside this coach was perhaps as assiduous as the land outside lay fallow, for as it neared the great house of Pemberley, Mr. Darcy was in mid-instruction of Mrs. Darcy upon the merits of equestrian exercise. No bell tolled at the lodge gate; it had already been opened in expectation of the newlyweds’ coach.

Thus, its occupants were unaware of their own imminent arrival. Hence, when the carriage drew to a stop, there was an uncomfortable pause before the door opened. Had anyone counted, one hundred and sixty-eight people assembled upon the curved drive of the house in reverent anticipation of meeting their new mistress, thus reasoning the vacant countryside. A slight murmur began to arise from the throng when they heard scuffling sounds and what might have been an embarrassed giggle from within the coach, but they silenced when Mr. and Mrs. Darcy emerged.

Mr. Darcy stepped out first, his bearing noble and appropriately proud. With no more than a glance from the master, the footman stepped back, allowing her husband to hand Mrs. Darcy down, her cheeks blazing. As she took her first step upon Pemberley soil as its mistress, an ovation erupted.

Nervously tightening the chin ribbon of her bonnet, she, for the briefest moment, looked heavenward. (She had been cavorting quite lasciviously in the coach upon their lands with their heir and namesake, hence, this may have been a silent prayer that no lightening bolt would strike her down at the behest of Darcy’s forebears. One can only conjecture.)

Mr. Darcy, however, appeared to have no such qualms and took her arm.

Clinging dearly to him, Elizabeth looked at the twenty steps she must conquer to reach the door to the house. She took a deep breath and was certain she waddled like a duck with every one she took, impeaching the very propriety of her position and betraying what she had just been a party to in the coach. If she believed there was a lack of stateliness to her carriage, her husband thought better, proudly introducing each of the house servants to her by name. Three little girls were urged forward, presenting freshly scrubbed faces rosier than the flowers they shyly held forth.

The family awaited at the top of the steps. Miss Georgiana Darcy’s eyes were bright with excitement, her hands nervously wringing a handkerchief. Next to her, Elizabeth espied the congenial face of Colonel Fitzwilliam. To his left stood one who could only be Fitzwilliam’s older brother James, now the Earl of Matlock since their father’s death. The brothers favoured each other considerably, the elder a slightly stouter version of his younger brother. Inside and out of the draft stood frail Lady Matlock, wobbly upon a cane and steadied by James’ wife Eugenia. (The willful old woman announced she was determined to greet her nephew’s wife standing.)

Those introductions compleat, more servants appeared. Elizabeth had thought everyone upon Pemberley must have stood outside upon the lawn, but it was not so. Her previous visit to the place had told her servitors abounded, but although a guest to the great house found great hospitality, it was nothing to the solicitations she now received as Mrs. Darcy.

It seemed there was a separate maid to tend to each of her ten fingertips. Her cape, each glove, and her bonnet were each plucked by a separate attendant. Her coach-wear was removed with such dispatch, had her eyes been closed, she would not have known anyone was there. It was a ritual to which her husband seemed quite accustomed, for a separate contingent of servants relieved him of his hat, gloves, walking stick, and overcoat as smoothly and precisely as had it been a well-rehearsed ballet.

Pleading weariness from the trip, they took their leave directly. As they ascended the staircase rather grandly, Elizabeth looked back over her shoulder in renewed admiration of the tasteful elegance of décor. It was not dressed with useless finery, but with furniture and paintings accumulated by the family for not just generations, but centuries. Her trepidation upon assuming the considerable responsibility and obligation of her position very nearly made her quake. Therefore, as she took the stairs, she endeavoured to call upon enough gumption to ward off such relentless intimidation.

Suddenly, the punctiliousness of the entire homecoming was irredeemably ruptured by a raucous scrambling of feet and claws punctuated by loud yelping whines and originating from huge, hairy beasts that scrambled headlong down the corridor in their direction. So intent were the enormous Irish wolfhounds on greeting their long-absent master, they had no qualms about going around, over, or possibly through his new bride to reach him.

Darcy simultaneously reached out to rescue Elizabeth (who had spun a revolution and a half) from tumbling back down the stairs and commanded the dogs, “Behave!”

Dizzied as she was, it took a moment to determine that it was not she, but the dogs that had incited his rebuke. When she recalled the moment, she would be ever grateful that she did not actually break her neck within the first quarter-hour of their arrival.

He held her close, but continued to scold the dogs, perhaps venting his fright for her upon them. She, however, pleaded their cause.

“Oh Darcy, they are simply happy to see you!”

With profuse apologies, the dogs’ handler rushed up to retrieve their leashes. Mr. Darcy waved him away with a small aristocratic wave of his hand. It was one that Elizabeth was beginning to recognise as astutely as did the servants. With the dogs upon their heels, he showed Elizabeth into what was to be their bedchamber. Yet in a pother, both dogs proceeded upon a wild circle of the room, each provoking the other as if exacting a hunt of some undisclosed quarry. One dog (it was difficult to determine which) bounded across the silk counterpane, requiring Darcy to demand “Heel!” to still them. Evidently of the persuasion that it was best to desist before they were ejected, they dropped at his feet, tails whapping the floor.

Elizabeth knelt to pet them. (It was a treat, for her mother never allowed dogs inside Longbourn.) Once they were still, she could determine that one was grey, the other brindle. They kept their heads low, but their tongues sneaked out to lick her hand.

“What are their names?”

Somewhat abashedly, he answered, “Troilus and Cressida.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. ’Tis true. My father sent them to me as pups my second year at Cambridge. I was seriously interested in literature and suffered the resultant melancholia. Homesick for Pemberley, I suppose. My father sent them to cheer me.”

“You named them for such a tragedy? I cannot imagine you the victim of dolour,” she teased.

Quite seriously, he said, “Then you have no idea what torture you once inflicted upon me.”

Obviously still mortified by the experience, he hastened to change the subject by doffing his jacket and vest and commencing to wrestle with his cravat. The imminent exposure of his neck reminded her of the connubial bliss consummated in the privacy of his coach. Her blush was more from the pleasure of that indiscretion than that it was, indeed, an indiscretion.

She said, “I fancy you know your credibility as a gentleman has been severely challenged.”

“Pray, how so?”

“Be not so innocent of countenance. I was not the initiate of what occurred in the carriage.”

“What occurred, Lizzy?”

Not for a moment did she believe he knew not of what she spoke. It amused her that he wanted to hear her say it.

“The yielding of favours.”

Stifling a laugh, he let her euphemism pass. “Cannot a man be at once a gentleman and husband too?”

“Indeed. But upon a public road?”

“’Twas a private road for the last ten miles,” he assured her. “A private carriage upon a private road.”

With that, he playfully picked her up and tossed her upon the bed and added, “Such as this is a private room, this a private bed.”

The dogs plopped down upon the rug as decidedly as did their master upon the bed, but the dogs sat looking good-humouredly askance for what would next come to pass. What next came to pass was his hand sliding up her leg above her stocking and a caressing of her thigh. And that made it impossible for her remember that she was going to tell him about the day she first visited Pemberley and saw his portrait. Had she not been so pleasantly and thoroughly diverted, she would have told him she thought that was when she first fell in love with him. It was from his portrait.

Indeed, that previous spring when Elizabeth Bennet had done the unthinkable by refusing Mr. Darcy’s proposal of marriage, it was a surprise there was not an audible and collective gasp from his ancestors.

For, not only had she, the daughter of a modest country gentleman, refused the hand of one of the richest men in England, she refused him emphatically and with little civility. If his vanity was injured, at that time she cared little. There was considerable conceit to wound. Indeed, his vainglory was the basis for her entire refusal. And because of his egregious faults, it was likely she would have spent her life in self-satisfied spinsterhood had not she taken a fortuitous summer tour of the north-country with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. There, she had bechanced upon the said same haughty Mr. Darcy once again. At one time thought irredeemably proud and disagreeable, his demeanour at this meeting was vastly improved. His love had not wavered; hers blossomed.

It had been a chance encounter. Now she had returned as Elizabeth Bennet Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley by reason of a chance encounter. If his precedents smiled down upon their union, Elizabeth had yet to see them.

As anxious as the Master of Pemberley was upon christening the marital bed with the Mistress of Pemberley, little intimacy could be initiated (or rather culminated). For the house was in an excited uproar, trunks hauled thither, the servants bustling about. All this commotion excited the dogs and they barked at every opportunity.

At the first knock upon their door, Elizabeth leapt self-consciously to her feet. It was her fervent wish that the servants not see her upon her back with their master so precipitous of their arrival. Darcy’s reputation within the house had been cemented over a period of almost three decades. It was imperative to Elizabeth that licentious conduct not censure hers forthwith of her introduction.

She stood in resolute piety as the servants went about their chores. Darcy still lay languidly upon the bed. His tie was undone, his neck all but naked. Hence, Elizabeth’s own libido corrupted her good intentions. She weathered such blatant seduction, however, and dutifully looked away, then busied herself with a turn about the room. In her intense need not to look at her husband’s throat, she scrupulously admired the room’s adornments, but was drawn to a miniature atop one chest. It looked very much like her.

“Darcy,” she asked, “Pray, whose likeness is this?”

“’Tis you.”

Confused, she said, “But I have not sat for a likeness.”

“Indeed, you have not. It was done from my memory six months ago.”

“But we were not even engaged six months ago.”

“No,” he said quietly.

The intensity of his gaze just then discomfited her. Her hands, quite of their own volition, set to straightening and smoothing her frock. Perhaps it was the unconscious need for reassurance that she was not standing before him naked, for she suddenly felt compleatly exposed. It was an odd sensation, not truly unwelcome, just unsettling.

A maid returned to the room announcing that Elizabeth’s bath was drawn. Upon this occasion, she did bathe, the dust from their trip quite evident. Was that not an impetus, she would have bathed regardless. For she was now quite certain her body’s respite from her husband’s scent would be fleeting.

* * *

They were not yet engaged when Darcy happened upon that studio in Pall Mall. The throes of unrequited and all-consuming love had driven him to invent business upon which to attend just to keep insanity at bay. He had only been passing by when he found himself outside the house where Gainsborough once worked. The old painter was long-dead and Darcy had no notion of who, if anyone, still laboured within. It was an impulse to find his way ’round back and enter through a low door. The entire episode was quite rash.

A lone painter was at work. As he sat crouched in concentration at a small table delicately applying paint to a tiny piece of ivory, Darcy was able to poke about the place unnoticed. While the studio itself bore no particular distinction, a large assemblage of oils leaned against the wall at one end. Most were badly done discards. A few showed promise, but apparently were abandoned. Among those, one in particular caught his eye. Indeed, so struck was he that he very nearly gasped.

It was not signed, but as he owned several works of the artist, Darcy was quite certain that it was done by Gainsborough himself. However, it was one quite unlike that painter’s usual aristocratic portraits and bucolic landscapes.

It was of a wood-nymph. A beautiful nymph, immodestly draped, sitting by a lake. It was not the brushwork that took his notice, but that the nymph bore such a startling resemblance to the form in which Miss Elizabeth Bennet visited his dreams each night. So striking was the resemblance to his unbridled vision, for a moment he could not breathe.

He did not favour the allegorical; indeed, he despised romanticism in art. Was his heart not quite so wounded, undoubtedly he would not have been taken with the desire to purchase it on the spot.