Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (15 page)

It was nothing more sinister than the evening chill that drove Darcy and Elizabeth from their picnic. As they placidly circled back to the house upon the path, they came upon Fitzwilliam astride a rather noble-looking bay.

When he espied them, he drew to a stop and forsook his ride short of the courtyard, thus aborting their stroll. Neither the encounter nor the sharing of their promenade was less than a delight. For, as Darcy was wont to boast, Fitzwilliam was not only an esteemed cousin, but also a chivalrous officer, courageous cavalryman, and raconteur nonpareil.

Elizabeth shared his opinion.

Once pleasantries were given due, Darcy and Fitzwilliam commenced a lengthy recapitulation of the weather and rural doings that had not been fully explored the evening previous. As this discourse meandered into areas arcane to her, Elizabeth walked over to admire Fitzwilliam’s horse. He was a tall, athletic animal and stood idly twiddling his ears, apparently as bored with the conversation as was she.

Commiserating their duality of neglect, Elizabeth talked soothingly to him whilst stroking his nose. He nickered when her fingers found the soft skin betwixt his nostrils. She cooed back at him. This equine affection stole her husband’s attention.

Darcy called, “When would you like to have your riding lesson, Elizabeth?”

Eager for such an adventure, she blurted out, “On a horse?”

Otherwise engrossed as she had been, one could understand the innocent lack of vigilance in her reply. Indeed, her countenance betrayed unadulterated guilelessness. Only for a moment. But when the magnitude of her faux pas became apparent, her face first blanched, and then turned a remarkable shade of magenta.

With careful deliberateness, he said, “Yes, Elizabeth, upon a horse. We shall come around to-morrow.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, for he had not answered her directly, delaying his reply quite mercilessly. Indeed, initially he had pursed his lips. That might have persuaded an observer that he was much off-put by the extent of his wife’s monstrous gaffe. It was evident to Elizabeth, however, that he was merely trying to keep from laughing. As unsparing as he was and so deeply did she colour, the revelation that his merriment was entirely at her expense was not lost upon her. She was not compleatly successful at concealing her displeasure.

In the midst of this little skirmish, she thought to steal a glance at Col. Fitzwilliam. He was paying a great deal of attention to the toes of his boots, possibly whistling.

With all due insouciance, Darcy offered his arm to his wife and the three took the path to the house. But they had taken no more than a few steps in that direction before Elizabeth bestowed a rather violent pinch of retribution upon her husband’s arm just above the elbow. In a show of his usual impressive self-discipline, he did not start at this infliction. He did, however, rest his free hand upon hers, for it was still poised menacingly upon his arm (perhaps this was in affection, more likely it was in defence of another assault).

In a gallant change of topic, Fitzwilliam inquired of Elizabeth why it was she had never ridden before. She knew “riding” in the sense that Darcy and Fitzwilliam spoke of it did not mean simply sitting atop a horse from one place to another (and spoken in company, certainly had no carnal connotation). They meant “ride to hunt.”

For foxhunting was a ritual in Derbyshire as much as a sport. Hence, she explained why, as a gentleman’s daughter, she did not ride, and her admission supported both her honesty and sense of humour.

“Our father keeps no hunters, Colonel, only one saddle horse, Nellie. She is disproportionately fat. Jane and I once spent half a day just urging her into a trot. So wearied were we by this endeavour, we quite gave it up.”

“Well,” Fitzwilliam said as they sauntered on, “Darcy here has quite the best seat in the county. However, as an instructor, no doubt, he will be quite relentless. Pray, be prepared to weather countless hours under his stern instruction.”

“Yes, Col. Fitzwilliam,” she agreed solemnly, “I trust you are quite right about that.”

Unschooled that gentleman friends are betimes inclined to bedevil each other in covert ways, Elizabeth believed that Fitzwilliam was unaware of his double entendre. Fitzwilliam’s countenance, however, beheld the slightest trace of a smirk, whilst Darcy looked quite unamused. Intent as they were upon their silent sparring, neither noticed the mischievous smile that had overtaken her until after her remark.

Thereupon both eyed her curiously. Her intent had been only to exact a small revenge on behalf of her husband’s tease. The ambiguity that reigned over her countenance, however, persuaded her husband and her husband’s cousin that neither knew just who was the victim of what.

Regrettably, Elizabeth was utterly insensible of her small victory. Yet, she did benefit. For her second evening at Pemberley was spent much more congenially than the first, in that Fitzwilliam prudently forsook toying with Darcy’s temper. In benign innocence, Elizabeth sat about enjoying their company, entirely unwitting that she was the perpetrator of a faintly risqué sub-plot.

* * *

By morning, Elizabeth was quite inspirited by the prospect of her equine initiation and rifled desperately through her garderobe for some sort of reasonable riding-dress. When all she could find amongst her belongings was muslin, lace, and a corduroy spencer, she became increasingly frantic. That would not do. The proper habit was essential, thus catapulted clothing passed over her into an ever-increasing pile of discards.

Timidly, a maid tapped her upon the shoulder. She gestured in the direction of a cheval mirror whence hung an unfamiliar garment. In her panic, Elizabeth had overlooked it. When she finally espied it, she put her hand to her heart in silent appreciation. For there before her was a compleat riding costume.

The habit shirt and jabot were of exceptionally fine cambric, but it was the jacket and skirt that were most stunning. They were green, but not merely green. They were of a verdancy so deep it seemed to have leapt from the farthest reaches of the forest.

Hesitantly, Elizabeth walked to them and lovingly fingered the detail. The collar was velvet and passimeterie edged the cuffs and adorned the tail. A brocade waistcoat peeked from beneath the jacket. It mimicked masculinity, but delicate tatting at the seams gave it a definite feminine identity.

She shook her head in astonishment, knowing it was all her husband’s doing. As she was helped into it, she wondered, then she fretted, how he was able to have had it fit her so very well with no actual fitting. The only answer that did not grieve her was the hope of beginner’s luck. She did so not want to believe he had ever done such a thing for any other.

Then, praise be, it occurred to her that he had a sister.

Donning a voluminous velvet beret, she nodded it appreciatively at her reflection in the mirror. The pert feather curling about the side bobbed cooperatively. Satisfied, she about-faced and went in search of her benefactor. Her benefactor (perhaps discomfited by prodigious gratitude) was unable to fully appreciate the allurement of her chapeau (howbeit she was tossing her head about quite fetchingly), for he was preoccupied by the inadequacy of her shoes.

“Pray, do you not have proper boots?”

She squinched her nose and reminded him, “My equestrian experience thus far required no footwear.”

As Mr. Darcy was unaccustomed to cheek, he was unprepared with a rejoinder and endeavoured to ignore the allusion by clearing his throat. Elizabeth was roundly satisfied with the subtle crimsoning of his aspect and allowed him to escort her toward the stables and away from the topic of their connubial tutelage.

* * *

Amongst the whitewashed stalls and scrubbed cobblestones stood the even--tempered chestnut horse he had chosen for her.

“This is Lady,” he announced and with the merest flick of his head, he sent the groom scurrying away. Clearly, he chose to leg his wife onto the saddle himself.

Once she was aloft, his begrudging of the groom’s assistance became apparent, forasmuch as situating her properly necessitated the sliding of his hand beneath her skirt. Thereupon, he clasped her calf and positioned her knee around the pommel of the side-saddle with just enough firmness to incite a most unseemly fluttering in her stomach. If his fingers tarried thither, it was but fleetingly, for his doings were under intense scrutiny from a contingent of servitors.

Once persuaded she was well-settled, he eschewed a leg up himself. Indeed, with a leap and a heave, he mounted his own horse. As Blackjack was an exceedingly tall animal, Elizabeth supposed his method was a bit of braggadocio, most probably for her benefit. Hence, she was twice impressed. First with her husband’s strength, and secondly, that he wanted her to witness it.

They took to the downs with slow deliberation. Elizabeth (surreptitiously, she believed) tapped Lady with her crop, urging her forward. Darcy, however, was eyeing her most diligently; hence, it did not escape his notice.

“I see you have a natural seat for your horse, Lizzy.”

“Do I?” she said, flushing with pride that her intrinsic horsemanship was so readily apparent.

“Yes,” he said, “and as fearlessly as you ride you will learn with dispatch. Or, of course, be killed.”

Thus, her little fit of egotism was not snuffed, merely dampened. But she had not the opportunity to fully explore her burgeoning saddle prowess that first day of instruction, for Darcy chose not to traverse farther than the immediate demesne. That alone took some time. Ever eager, Elizabeth wanted to inspect the chase, but he insisted not.

“To-morrow forenoon you will thank me. For your limbs will ache and your…keel will suffer cruelly.”

“My what will suffer?”

“Your…keel, your…breech…your hinder-end!” he concluded graciously.

“Oh,” she laughed, finally recognising a euphemism. “Could you not say ‘rump’ to your wife and be done with it?”

“No, I could not. Perchance I should have begun with ‘derrière.’ As it happens, I have no practise speaking of such things in company. Moreover,” he took a scholarly tone, “as a verb, Lizzy, the word ‘rump’ has a vulgar connotation.”

At that bit of news, she looked at him queerly, but he did not offer further explanation. Rather, he aimed them toward the stables, Elizabeth yet grousing because of their shortened ride.

In front of the horse barn stood Mr. Rhymes. He was talking to a tall, gangly boy, all wrists and Adam’s apple. Darcy dismounted and then helped ease down Elizabeth (who at this point was beginning to appreciate the easing) before turning his attention to his overseer. Upon seeing the master arrive, Rhymes exacted a genuflection that compelled the lad at his elbow to mimic it. Directly, Darcy asked what it was the boy wanted. Rhymes related that, just orphaned, the boy had been put out and was looking for work at their stables.

During their dialog, the boy stood nervously wringing the hat he had pulled from atop a mop of dark curls. He watched the two men talk from beneath wary, hooded eyes.

Hereupon, Elizabeth’s pity was provoked, but to her chagrin, she heard Darcy curtly declare that there was no need of another groom.

In his most stentorian voice, he said, “I think this knave is not fully the sixteen years he claims.”

Rhymes knew Mr. Darcy well enough to understand this as a warning to the boy not to lie, and waited patiently to be told what was to be done with him. Doubtlessly, he would be set to mucking out stalls, just as did all who came up looking for honest work. However, before such instructions could be issued, Elizabeth interrupted.

“But Darcy, how is it you quibble about how old he claims to be? Should it not matter only that he is able enough to do the work? His mother has just died…”

She silenced herself mid-sentence, for Mr. Rhymes turned to her with an expression that could only be described as aghast. Darcy’s face betrayed no emotion at all. That absence announced a displeasure of some magnitude. So emphatic was it that, as Elizabeth opened her mouth to make another entreaty upon the boy’s behalf, she shut it. She shut it so decidedly it was almost audible. It was possible Darcy spoke further with Rhymes, but if he did, Elizabeth did not hear it. The roaring in her ears was far too deafening. Mr. Darcy took Mrs. Darcy’s elbow and walked her silently back to the house. Upon the portico, his icy silence was supplanted by a voice cold enough to exact a chill down her back.

“Do not ever reprove me in front of one of my people again, Elizabeth.”

Thereupon, he turned and took his leave of her. She stood upon the threshold for a moment in foot-shuffling mortification before repairing to her dressing room.

Darcy reappeared at dinner, but only at the farthest end of the great table. Conversation was stilted and sparse. Elizabeth was anxious to affix herself in the privacy of their boudoir to hash out the matter, but when it was time to retire, Darcy abruptly excused himself and called for his horse.

If there was anything upon Pemberley that needed his attention more than she did at that time of night, Elizabeth could not think of it.

Understanding she had transgressed a very distinct line, she still believed semi--public emendation was hardly a capital offence. Had she not abused him miserably in company before? Until that day, he had found that charming of her. She realised, however, that within the flirtatious bantering of courtship, she had forgotten that his position and his consideration of his position were implacable. So deeply had she been entrenched in her role as his lover, she had confused it with that of wife. Repeatedly, and with vehemence, she lectured herself that the Mistress of Pemberley must never redress the Master of Pemberley in front of the help.

She would have announced her contrition had he been there to hear it.

She took the stairs alone and with no small measure of self-pity. It was thus that she lay abed, fighting back tears, uncertain whether they were born more of anger or hurt. For he had not chastised her, he had not even spoken to her of her heinous misdeed beyond the one statement. Upon the veritable inauguration of their marriage, he had simply dismissed her. Dismissal was an indignity far more egregious than any quarrel.