Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (17 page)

In the country, any illustrious occasion was scheduled by the moon. When it was to be full could be determined by the calendar. A clear night sky to guide the guests’ coaches to the Pemberley ball, however, fell to serendipity. Everything else was being done by the staff, just as ably as it had in the past. Preparations being so well taken care of and out of her hands, Elizabeth knew she had no more influence over the success or failure of the evening than she did the condition of the sky. And that left her both relieved and anxious. Polishing the silver would at least have bestowed her something to do besides fretting, for worry she did. Her presentation to Derbyshire society was quite the event and curiosity would be rampant.

However, Jane and Bingley had arrived that forenoon and their presence was a substantial comfort. That inviting the Bingleys necessitated invitation to his sisters as well was not.

Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst were in obvious raptures upon being houseguests of Pemberley. But having perfected it upon Jane, they continued to hide their obvious dislike of the lesser-born Bennet sisters behind a demeanour of fawning insincerity. Elizabeth would have much preferred outright animosity, but Jane’s love for her husband, and those he loved in return, was unconditional. Jane’s wishes ruled in this matter, for the sisters were, after all, her in-laws. Elizabeth could, however, find some pity for them, for she and Jane, quite unknowingly, had foiled them twice. Once, when Georgiana Darcy did not marry their brother, and secondly, when Caroline Bingley did not snare Darcy for herself.

Aunt and Uncle Gardiner were to travel to Pemberley from London for the festivities, but Mr. and Mrs. Bennet did not come immediately. They were away to Newcastle for Lydia’s first laying-in (Mary Bennet refused to visit the morally bankrupt Wickhams). And unless Lydia’s newborn was more punctual than was its mother, they would miss the ball. Of this, Elizabeth was prodigiously (if somewhat sheepishly) relieved. Her first foray into Derbyshire society would be less agonising without the fear of humiliation by her mother. Kitty and Maria Lucas, who favoured a grand ball at Pemberley more than visiting a whining Lydia in grimy Newcastle, were taking on Mrs. Bennet’s role as resident mortifiers quite nicely.

Elizabeth knew she would have to take ultimate responsibility for that embarrassment. For it was she who suggested Kitty invite Maria Lucas to accompany her when Mary (who found even less pleasure in a ball than in visiting wicked relations) had not wanted to come. For every dance, frock, fan, and feather that Mary Bennet saw as decadent, Maria Lucas found equally agreeable. She and Kitty were of the same age and both loved society. All would have prospered quite happily had it not been a matter of ill-timing. For Kitty and Maria came thither from Hertfordshire upon the immediate heels of sharing a particularly histrionic novel.

This work of fiction (a distinction lost upon the two girls) portrayed a heroine who had the misfortune of constitution that bade her fall into a dramatic faint at the least provocation, and, of course, at the greatest romantic moment. At the grand estate of Pemberley and in preparation for a particularly impressive ball, Kitty and Maria saw the necessity of perfecting this act of swooning in the unlikely prospect that a romantic moment might fall at their awaiting feet. Such behaviour had been overlooked with patient indulgence when they merely fell in the privacy and unobtrusiveness of Kitty’s bedroom. But the girls harboured the notion that one must refine one’s techniques for greater benefit of an audience (for there was no other reason to swoon) in the -drawing rooms at Pemberley. Moreover, neither was of a mind to be outdone, one’s swoon inviting the other, the synchronousness of which was lost upon no one.

It had been her family’s hope that out from under Lydia’s influence, Kitty’s disposition might flower more judiciously. Evidently, Lydia’s relocation to Newcastle only vacated the office of silliest girl in England and Kitty was determined to capture it. (If she did, Elizabeth preferred her reputation be earned in Hertfordshire.)

Upon Kitty’s falling faint into Mr. Bingley’s hands (which he had hastily emptied of teacup and saucer), even Jane reached the limit of her considerable good nature. She and Elizabeth each commandeered a breathless soubrette and escorted them upstairs. Thereupon, Elizabeth issued an ultimatum: Either they cease this swooning nonsense or they would be locked in the cock-loft.

Jane, quite seriously, worried for their health.

“Maria, Kitty, you must cease this at once. Mrs. Hurst knows a young woman brought to galloping consumption through just such imprudent conduct who died within days!”

Upon that pronouncement, Elizabeth looked at Jane as if she was non compos mentis, yet said not a word. She was of the opinion that questionable medical truths betimes dampened incautious conduct.

“One fatal swoon cost her life,” Jane admonished. “Beware of fainting fits, young ladies, they can prove destructive to your constitutions.”

Quite caught up in the moment, Elizabeth intoned, “Run mad if you must, Kitty, but do not swoon.”

Much impressed by their brush with death, their romantic swoons were abandoned for solemn (with an occasional hand to the back of the forehead for emphasis) introspection. However, lugubrious expression did not last long upon such young countenances and by the day of the ball, Maria and Kitty were again in high spirits. The only remaining terror was the one they inflicted upon their trunks in search of the perfect ball-gowns.

Elizabeth had no such dilemma. Hannah had taken the frock she was to wear that evening for a last minute pressing. The mantua-maker said the colour was bisque. It was not. It was yellow, lemon yellow.

Creating a dress of simplicity and elegance was no small undertaking. Indeed, its birth precipitated the exhausting of more resources than a military campaign against a foreign state. Two waggons ladened with bolts of fabric, three seamstresses, a cobbler, and the mantua-maker all beset her in a single afternoon. The bother was substantial, but of the results, Elizabeth was exultant.

Now the evening that bid her endure such torture was upon her. And as she waited in her dressing-gown, she was conspicuously idle. Loose ends invited fretting and she began to worry that Darcy might not approve of her gown. In a turn of unadulterated coquetry, she had not allowed him to see it, hoping a dramatic unveiling would somehow render him in awe. As the time approached, that likelihood seemed to wane precipitously. Perchance her dress was not merely simple, but blatantly unsophisticated. It would have been more far more prudent to gather his favourable opinion prior to the ball. If he were even a little less than happy with it there would be scant time to rummage up a replacement. Whilst stewing and second-guessing, Elizabeth heard the unmistakable sound of her husband’s boots upon the stairs, undoubtedly returning from taking care of some last-minute details.

It had been he who insisted she languish about whilst everyone else in the house toiled. She promised herself that in the future she would insist on some busy-work, even if it were polishing the silver. Idle and fidgety, she put her ear to the door and heard Goodwin filling his master’s copper bathtub.

Forthwith of Goodwin’s leave-taking was a splash as Darcy got into the tub. All of which begged a prank.

Elizabeth, of course, had heard that idleness was the devil’s workshop. But without pedantic Mary to remind her of it, such a notion did not come to mind. Hence, the ruse she impetuously hatched to exact upon her husband was deemed particularly amusing. With great care, she peeked inside his dressing-chamber. There in his tub he sat. Humming tunelessly, he had lathered his face. Blinded by soap and wholly unwitting of her presence, she endeavoured to steal in upon him, but the door creaked.

He leaned his head forward and said, “Water.”

Barely stifling a laugh at his mistaking her for Goodwin, she bravely lifted the heavy brass pitcher over his head. Unaware of how very near he was to being conked senseless by her unsteady grasp of the urn, he sat placidly waiting. Whilst hiding behind his back, she managed to pour without mishap. Thereupon, she wantonly foraged his bath water for the soap.

Regrettably, it was located before her exploration became overtly lascivious and with all due vigour and no little relish, she rubbed it against a sponge to create a good lather. Then she set to work scrubbing the length of his spine. Up and down, back and forth she scrubbed, eventually advancing her ministrations over his shoulders and halfway down his stomach. Unmistakably startled, he grabbed the hand that held the invading sponge. She let out a giggle.

Seeing it was her hand he clutched, he looked relieved.

“I thought Goodwin had taken leave of his wits.”

As her ploy was unconditionally successful, she was inclined to verify that he was not out of humour at her hands by bestowing an uncommonly passionate kiss. That would have been a most uneventful climax to an innocent lark but for his reprisal. For from her perch upon the lip of the tub, she was quite caught up in the fervour of their kiss and at the mercy of gravity. With the merest flick of his wrist, she half-toppled into the water. This unexpected dunking induced a small shriek in surprise.

That was but a momentary reaction, for the slathering warmth of the water and his nakedness persuaded her to join him. Hence, he drew her legs over the side, both wriggling in accommodation of all four limbs. This situating was still in progress when Goodwin flung back the door from the hallway with obvious alarm.

“Is all well, sir?”

Upon seeing Mrs. Darcy in drenched, if splayed, splendour atop her husband, he stopped short. She dropped her head, shut her eyes and, in petrified mortification, prayed vainly that she would somehow be unnoticed. Folly.

“A slight accident,” Mr. Darcy said mildly. “Could you put out more toweling? It appears Mrs. Darcy will be needing it as well.”

She clenched her eyes shut in defence of what she did so not want to hear. Goodwin did as he was told and hastily left.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy! What must he think? You have humiliated me beyond measure!”

“Humiliated you in what manner, madam? You are in my bath, I am not in yours.”

“That is what I mean, I am in your bath,” the colour in her cheeks was not disappearing.

“Yes,” replied Darcy.

“He knows that I am in your bath,” she repeated.

Perhaps taking pity upon her he ceased his tease, “Yes. ’Tis my bath and my wife and he will think nothing of it.”

Elizabeth frowned hesitantly, uncertain this was true. But as it was unlikely that Darcy would have someone injudicious in such close employ she rethought the matter. Reluctantly accepting that her mortification was mostly of her own doing, she reclaimed the sponge and began to relather his body, a pursuit, unquestionably, he did not disfavour. Thereupon, they embarked upon an ever-increasing exploration of the possibilities of aqueous achievement. This investigation was vehement, hence, water sloshed, then spilt onto the floor. A misfortune, for when those possibilities were discovered to be limited, he endeavoured to pick her up and carry her dripping to their bed.

It was then that near-disaster struck.

For the decision to move from the cramped quarters of the tub was made post insertion of his virile member. Indisputably, stepping out of a bath is not in and of itself a particularly tricky manoeuvre. However, if one’s wife has her limbs wrapped about one’s waist and one is determined to continue carnal union, the additional obstacle of a slick floor presents a high probability of mishap.

Which occurred.

He landed upon his backside, but it was not his chief concern. He feared that the explicit nature of their embrace might have subjected Elizabeth to impalement and thus violent injury to her…self. The laughter she attempted to stifle persuaded him not. Thus, this particular amorous infusion was compleated upon the floor, the slipperiness of which rendered the act as one of exceedingly ambulatory passion. This trip was of considerable length and ceased only upon the occasion of Mr. Darcy effecting seminous emission whilst Mrs. Darcy’s head was wedged in a corner.

As they lay there in a puddle of bath water, Elizabeth was grateful Goodwin had the sense to stay out (she truly did want to limit herself to one mortification per day). Eventually, the combination of their nakedness, the water, and the chill of the floor influenced them that their position of repose was untenable. Untangling their limbs, they heard activity downstairs responding to the gentle tinkle of the dressing bell. In reluctant haste, they left each other’s company then to dress, reclaiming decorum for the benefit of society’s evening.

Born in the servant quarters at Pemberley, Harold Goodwin could not remember when he was not in the Darcys’ service. His mother was a sister to the housekeeper, his uncle, manservant to Mr. Darcy, the elder. As a child, he carried laundry and learnt the art of polishing a gentleman’s boots. He was but fifteen when young Master Darcy was born. Even at so innocent an age, Goodwin understood the magnitude of joy the family held at the birth of their son and heir.

And a strapping, healthy baby he was. That was apparent to Goodwin as he looked over his mother’s shoulder whilst she tended the baby in her new duties as his nurse. Mrs. Goodwin had a great deal of practise with babies, Harold being her seventh, and not her last, child. But the number of surviving offspring was not what was paramount to the Darcys in selecting who to care for their son. Practise was mandatory and easily identified. Loyalty and discretion were needed even more prodigiously, but not so easily found.

It was accepted that Pemberley was as fine a house as one could want as a place of employment. It would require a number of years and introduction to other houses, other families, before Goodwin would understand that the Darcys’ good regard was as generous a compliment as could be paid.

Even before young Master Darcy was born, Goodwin had abandoned the laundry and shadowed his uncle’s footsteps to learn the precise art of being a gentleman’s gentleman. A more gracious master was unlikely to be found. Indeed, Mr. Darcy had been a bit of an anomaly for an aristocrat. Kind and circumspect, he was affable and accessible.

Howbeit Master Darcy had inherited his father’s height and dark good looks, he was most certainly his mother’s son in outlook and demeanour, being reserved and reticent. Mrs. Darcy was the better part of a decade older than her husband. A handsome woman, she was exceedingly wealthy in her own right. Bookish and quiet, she stood counterpoint to him in every way but wealth. Together their match had almost tripled the land that belonged to the house of Pemberley.

Mr. Darcy had been a dutiful husband, Mrs. Darcy a dutiful wife. They were both exceedingly dutiful and proud parents. Clearly, duty ruled their lives.

When Mrs. Darcy was taken by childbirth fever after Miss Georgiana’s birth, young Darcy had stayed in his room for days, refusing to attend the funeral or admire his new sister. Subsequent of that tragedy, the elder Mr. Darcy committed the single error in judgement Goodwin ever recalled of him. He bid Goodwin’s mother to be nurse to the new baby. Another woman wholly unknown to him took her place with the young master. Goodwin understood Mr. Darcy’s utmost concern for his motherless daughter. Undoubtedly the man did not understand it a double loss for his son, losing both his mother and mother figure in one fell swoop.

Hence, Goodwin was probably more forgiving and less judgemental when upon occasion young Darcy fought him figuratively and literally. For by the time of Master Darcy’s twelfth birthday, he had been complaining with uncommon vehemence that he was far too old to have a nurse. He demanded that the matter be rectified forthwith. And if it were not, he would suffer humiliation so debilitating he would be wounded cruelly from it for the rest of his life. In that he had commenced to locking the poor nurse out of his bath, Mr. Darcy the elder was persuaded to acquiesce that his towering son was to have a manservant of his own. It was Goodwin who was bid to tend the young master.

In their pride, Goodwin thought his own parents could not have been more pleased had he been raised to the deity. Indeed, Goodwin became perilously close to designating himself such by the distinction. It was not, however, always easy to see to the young master. As sartorial faultlessness was foremost amongst Goodwin’s duties to his charge, Master Darcy’s disinclination to bathe became an outright war. Not only did he resist his bath, he showed a decided lack of interest in all matters of grooming to which general rowdiness lent more disrepute. Regrettably, this lackadaisical dispassion for matters of hygiene was accompanied by a revulsion for good manners as well. When observing the exceedingly fastidious and courtly adult Darcy, it never failed to amuse Goodwin to recollect the young man who once had to be wrestled into a bathtub.

There were only a few years during which Master Darcy exhibited unrestrained behaviour. All fell midmost of his second decade of life. Goodwin had never been certain if his mother’s death had lent him such brashness or if it was merely the jubilance of new-found pubescent virility. For as diligent as Goodwin was about all aspects of Master Darcy’s personal habits, it did not escape his notice when the young master was introduced into carnal necessities by that titian-haired jezebel, Abigail Christie.

Where Goodwin’s loyalty lay was never in question. Therefore, he never entertained the possibility of reporting Master Darcy’s doings to his father. This, regardless of how disapproving Goodwin had been. And disapprove he did. For, however necessary it would be for Master Darcy to procreate on behalf of his family, Goodwin despised the notion that the young man practise with vulgar women. Conjugal acts of generation were one thing, getting one’s ashes hauled by a maid was quite another. It would not do.

The single time that arch rogue Wickham’s means suited Goodwin’s ends was when he went to Mr. Darcy and prattled about the young master’s indiscretions. A miraculous alteration overtook him literally overnight. Darcy had ceased his rebellion. Indeed, it appeared his disposition altered irrevocably. No longer was he the rambunctious boy. In his place stood a young man who was a lankier, if reserved, version of his father. The same kindness and generosity was exhibited with his servitors, but conversely he was just as staid, rigid, and unyielding as his father was amenable.

In his thirty-three years upon the earth, Goodwin had not ventured beyond Derbyshire, but he accompanied young Darcy to Cambridge. George Wickham went with them, as Mr. Darcy was committed to that young man’s education. However unhappy Goodwin was over the matter was of no importance. For young Wickham had been living at Pemberley for several years under Mr. Darcy’s condescension by reason of his affection for his steward, Wickham’s father. In Goodwin’s opinion (had he been asked), Geoffrey Fitzwilliam was a far more admirable companion than that truckling lickspittle and incorrigible Lothario, Wickham. For in addition to his faults of character, he was exceedingly jealous of his benefactor’s son.

Betimes, this envy took perverse turns. More than once Goodwin had, unbeknownst to Wickham (and Darcy too), thwarted him. Covertness was an absolute, for Wickham was a young man who held grudges that were deep and mean. Whilst at Cambridge, it had been a little entertaining to watch the perfidious Wickham turn in circles, uncertain with which rich classmate he should next curry favour.

Rarely was he successful; his reputation as a tuft-hunter usually preceded him. And when it did not, Wickham could usually be counted upon to sink his own boat.

When Wickham was caught, not only with a young woman in his room, but with the answers to his tripos exam, Master Darcy had come to the end of his much abused tolerance of his roommate. Inclined to let him be “hoist by his own petard,” young Darcy was overruled by his father. Had not Mr. Darcy interceded, Wickham would have been cast out of Cambridge a fortnight before his finals with a first in nothing but whore-mongering. Though rescued, even Wickham knew when one was disgraced and made himself scarce when they returned to Pemberley. Master Darcy wisely chose to take the grand tour with Fitzwilliam.

It was soon after their return that Mr. Darcy took ill. Upon his death, however, George Wickham was front and centre, hand extended, awaiting what he believed was his due.

Goodwin knew he was hardly the only person who thought ill of George Wickham. His misadventures had become legend amongst the Pemberley help. As highly as he held Mr. Darcy’s memory, Goodwin could not fully understand why that very astute man had allowed Wickham latitude others found begging. A deep affection and regard for Wickham’s father, coupled with that man’s premature death was the only reason that Goodwin could fathom. But, of course, Goodwin did not pretend to know of that which he should not.

When the young master became the Master of Pemberley in actuality, little changed within the house. Mr. Darcy had been so ill for so long, his son had taken over his duties with little more than a ripple in the water. Sorrow over their dead master on the part of the house staff was gradually usurped by dedication to the younger. Indeed, young Darcy had earned their respect long before he asked for it. As Master Darcy had matured, his social obligations increased exponentially. Hence, Goodwin’s enlarged commensurably. His world broadened to include any number of illustrious homes, up to and including the royal palace. If he found himself impressed by his master’s station, Goodwin reminded himself, it was, indeed, his master’s station, not his own.

As a man in service, Goodwin never questioned. But much to his relief, if Mr. Darcy did not choose a life of celibate introspection, he was at least discreet in his pursuits and utterly circumspect in his liaisons. (Other gentleman’s gentlemen told tales of debauchery and excess.) That he had not to deal with inebriation and dissolution was a blessing. Unlike some gentlemen, Mr. Darcy expected Goodwin to be neither his shill nor pimp. He was never asked to carry messages nor deflect injudiciously flirtatious ladies.

As an unmarried man who would expect to remain unmarried, Goodwin was, however, not unlearnt in matters romantic in nature. That his master was inclined to be cautious of his own reputation regardless of the provocation, bid Goodwin understand the position he must himself undertake. Relating to Mr. Darcy, no female enquiry was answered, no invitation acknowledged. What Mr. Darcy chose to honour fell to his own discrimination and volition. No one else would be involved. Mr. Darcy’s subtle requests eventually taught Goodwin of his predilections. When to be available and when not was followed precisely. Mr. Darcy was a private man. His wishes were law. All things were stable and predictable.

That is, until the tumultuous year of Mr. Darcy’s introduction to Miss Bennet.