Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (26 page)

Fitzwilliam looked a bit disconcerted by Darcy’s sarcasm. Elizabeth was shocked by it herself, for she was certain he was, for some reason, angrier at Fitzwilliam’s complicity than at her covertness. The ill-conception of the entire scheme was falling readily apparent when Lady Millhouse turned her horse to join them.

Heartily, she said to the Master of Pemberley, “Wait until you see her perform, Darcy! You shall be quite astonished. I think in time your sweet wife will ride to covert as well as any gentleman here.”

Darcy looked at Lady Millhouse without comprehension.

“You have seen Elizabeth ride?”

“It was Lady Millhouse who instructed me, for I promised you I would not ride out alone,” Elizabeth told him.

Flustered, Darcy said, “I see. I see.”

It took a moment for Elizabeth to understand that Darcy had believed that she had spent her time in Fitzwilliam’s company. Evidently his anger had been whipped into a lather by indiscriminate jealousy. Upon the realisation of his misapprehension, his countenance crimsoned ever more.

He said, “Very good,” several times more than necessary.

“Well,” Elizabeth reflected to herself, “when it comes to his wife, the Master of Pemberley is as chary as any other man.”

She would even have offered him that, had she the opportunity. However, upon the edge of the group a commotion commenced that stole everyone’s attention.

For, indeed, Lady was under a rider who did not intend to jump.

The commandeered Mr. Collins was attempting to mount her with the help of one footman on all fours and a second to leg him up. The first attempt was but partially successful, in that Mr. Collins got his leg over, but Lady lowered her head and he slid down her neck, returning to the very spot from whence he had started.

Mr. Darcy, always impenetrably grave at social indiscretions and yet in high dudgeon over his misapprehension, had further reason to glower.

Mr. Collins was moderately tall, immoderately heavy, and somewhat ungainly. Hence, he was altogether amazed he had managed such a feat and was still standing. The footman, who had struggled mightily just to get him up, called for reinforcements for another go. Another footman joined him and this double effort almost prevailed. An additional heave actually raised Mr. Collins to saddle level again. However, quite fordone from the first attempt, as he endeavoured to fling his leg over, Mr. Collins’s strength failed and he fell back.

This might not have been met with the laughter that it did, had not Mr. Collins, in the splayed position that he was, landed atop one footman’s shoulders. Moreover, in an effort to right himself, Mr. Collins frantically grabbed the poor man’s head. Regrettably, this grappling dislodged the footman’s wig and it sagged over his eyes, thus rendering the poor man momentarily sightless. In his blind confusion, the be-Collinsed footman attempted to rid himself of his unwanted passenger by unloading him atop Lady. This, however, was all too successful, for while Mr. Collins was ejected from the footman’s shoulders onto the back of the horse, momentum propelled him beyond.

Had there not been the good fortune of a portly wine servitor happening by right then, Elizabeth’s premonition on behalf of Mr. Collins neck might have actually been realised before he was able to mount his horse.

As it was, there was only a great deal of noise and egregiously wounded dignities of the unwigged footman and flattened wine server. Mr. Collins apologised to the footman whilst atop his shoulders and he apologised further to the wine server whilst the man was underneath him. If Lady had not been startled by the clatter of silver and trotted for the barn, he most probably would have offered apology to her as well.

“Mr. Collins,” Lady Millhouse explained, “you need a shorter horse!”

Mr. Collins was really not inclined to think he needed a horse at all, but Lady Millhouse seemed so very certain he did, he dared not argue. Moreover, very nearly actually getting atop a horse gave him more confidence than prudence would have allowed.

At that moment it was announced that Mrs. Bennet had but just discovered her husband’s intent to ride, for her voice could be heard somewhere upon the other side of the toasting riders.

“Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bennet! You will be killed! Mr. Bennet!”

Concurrent of Mrs. Bennet’s fears for Mr. Bennet’s life was heard the call that the quarry had been flushed from the gorse. Hounds began to bay and the horses, well-attuned to the hunt, began to jig.

The excitement was infectious. Elizabeth was certain no heart raced with more anticipation than did hers (in particularly good spirits now that she saw Lady had escaped Mr. Collins and her father had eluded her mother). As they began to canter out, her excitement built. Darcy shadowed her persistently, but could not quite abandon the subject of how she came to ride Scimitar. She explained to his enquiry as best she could (whilst trying not to bounce more than post upon the cantering horse’s back) how Fitzwilliam saw her fall.

In a bit of a chide, she asked, “How did you think I came to ride Scimitar, Darcy?”

It came as no surprise that he changed the subject.

“Let us catch up to the others.”

He kicked Jupiter into an easy gallop and called to Elizabeth to stay with him and bade her not attempt anything untoward. In other circumstances, Elizabeth might have rebelled. She had, however, gained enough wisdom from her fall not to want to repeat the experience and so she did not promote Scimitar unduly.

Once the horn sounded, Lady Millhouse forsook any interest in Mr. Collins’s equestrian attempts and left him to find another horse upon his own. Once it commenced, Lord and Lady Millhouse brooked little distraction from the hunt, heedless whether it was their hunt or someone else’s. Lady Millhouse, however, catching sight of Elizabeth, insisted she be more aggressive and show Darcy how well she could ride.

In encouragement, she called, “Lie upon your oars, Elizabeth! The tide is with you.” (Her father had been a navy man.)

The day was fine and crisp, spirits were exalted, and Elizabeth took a few low jumps. After his initial contretemps, Darcy manifested every sign of good humour. Indeed, with all due understanding of provocation, he challenged Elizabeth to prove her horsemanship, kicking Jupiter into a run. She countered with a kick of her own and their horses competed. Darcy’s amusement at the idea of her contesting him was evident and she sought to show him up. Of course, even upon Scimitar she was no match, but he allowed her to think it a race for a time before he moved ahead of her.

Had he not been so smug, he might have been watching Jupiter’s path more closely. But as exacting a bit of a gloat absorbed all his attention, he did not see the fox that had been the instigator of the entire day run directly into his path. Jupiter did, however, and swerved almost in a pivot. Decidedly.

Darcy, of course, did not swerve. After a momentary midair excursion, he fell hard to the ground. Jupiter, aware that something impolitic had occurred, first ran in -circles and then stopped, shuddering slightly, and hung his head. Elizabeth did not see the horse’s contrition, only Darcy down.

Tall as Scimitar was, she withstood no hesitation and leapt from him even before he had come to a full halt. Landing upon all fours, she scrambled to her feet and flew to her husband’s side. He had initially sat up, having only wounded his dignity (which was in far greater abundance than that of the unwigged footman and flattened wine server). She fell to her knees, calling his name.

Well aware he suffered no injury, he allowed her concern to birth the possibility. As she hovered over him, he lay back and moaned. He portrayed great trauma with impressive melodrama, only to betray himself by a furtive peek to gauge her reaction.

She smote him on the shoulder with a closed fist.

“What mockery!” she cried and rose to leave.

He caught her arm and drew her down to a kiss.

“If you are to nurse me, begin with my lips.”

“You, sir, shall be fortunate if I do not deliver you true impairment, for you deserve it!”

Once he was up and walking about, Elizabeth bade him assure her he was fine by operating all of his limbs, then he legged her back atop Scimitar. She took the horse’s reins, looked down upon him, and made an announcement in feigned hauteur.

“I understand, Mr. Darcy, that horses tend to go where their riders are looking. Hence, perhaps you should be looking ahead, if that is where you hope to go.”

She kicked her horse forward. Darcy understood that a line had been drawn in the sand. He leapt onto Jupiter and took off after her, and neither went in the direction of the fox.

* * *

Unbeknownst to them, they had a chance for him still. For as Darcy and Elizabeth set about their own frolic, the fox had been trailed and lost. Scattered about upon futile quest for the vixen, the sound of a second baying of the hounds bade the other hunters converge.

“Tally-Ho” was sounded.

All joined a headlong race toward the quarry that was high-tailing it to the far side of the hill. One-and-twenty riders had just gotten up to speed at the crest when they were startled by meeting a horse and rider (both terms could be used quite loosely) flying head-long in the direction whence they had just come.

The second commotion of the day had the same instigator, but different means. The initial dilemma involved Mr. Collins’s attempt to mount a horse; the subsequent arose upon his attempt to stop one.

For some helpful person at Pemberley’s stables had located a horse nearer to the ground for Mr. Collins to ride to the hunt. Due to its shorter stature, Mr. Collins presumed his substitute ride was less of a risk to jump as well. However, the pony he rode was a Connemara and that Mr. Collins’s feet hung below its belly did not convince the animal it was impossible to leap a fence with him aboard.

By the time he met the field, his pony was running full out, and Mr. Collins had abandoned his reins. Indeed, they flapped about behind him whilst he clung to the pommel of the saddle. The pony’s strides were quick, which did not suppose them smooth to a rider who had never actually acquainted his posterior to a post. Thus, Mr. Collins flailed about quite impressively. It was apparent that a miscue had occurred when he and his mount passed the pack of hounds upon the other side of the hill. Evidently, the high-pitched squeal which Mr. Collins was emitting excited the dogs off the trail of the fox and onto him and his pony.

Because the dogs were plunging forth in the opposite direction behind Mr. Collins, the riders stopped in stunned disbelief, each taking his own counsel upon what to do next. Some commenced to follow the hounds after Mr. Collins; some held their ground. Eventually all came to an astonished halt, uncertain they believed their own eyes. For the Connemara pony, quite in a mind of its own (for lack of any other) took a wide turn, rounding the group, and headed back the other way with Mr. Collins still floundering atop him.

He disappeared back over the crest of the same hill whence he first came, the forty dogs baying upon his trail. As Mr. Collins’s shrieks echoed off into the distance, each rider decided independently, yet synchronously, to follow.

They rode but a quarter of a mile before they came upon a fearful sight. A thorny thicket was warily being eyed by two-score silent hounds. Some sat looking into the brush; others shambled about in tongue-hanging exhaustion. The Connemara pony stood quivering, its saddle hanging ominously to one side. As the riders approached the thicket, the master of the hounds and the huntsman met them. All stopped in an informal semi-circle, silently peering into the tangled copse.

In a moment, Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bennet (it was his nephew after all) urged their horses forward a few feet, and then stepped down. Except for a slight rustling breeze and the heaving breaths of the winded animals, all was quiet. Both men looked first at the other, then to the bush. Thereupon, Mr. Bennet reached out, gingerly drew back a branch, and peered into the thick gorse.

There was movement. Upon hearing some unintelligible sound, the dogs began to bay again. Immediately, two more men jumped down in aid. The thorny branches were pulled back and Mr. Collins was removed scratched and gibbering from the thicket. The field stood in murmuring relief that he had not been killed, only rendered witless (no one saw that as a serious impediment for him).

It was only when Fitzwilliam investigated him for injuries that he found the point of his landing congruous with the highly sought fox (much more flattened than was the wine server). And fortune allowed Mr. Collins to leave the course virtually buggered, but senseless of it.

* * *

By late afternoon, when Darcy and Elizabeth eventually overtook the hunt, most of the hunters were in an odd mood, simply meandering toward Pemberley in polite wait for their host and hostess. When the Darcys caught up, the only notice that was made of their absence from the field was that there was no notice made of it at all. Elizabeth espied Mr. Collins lying upon his stomach across the saddle of a pretty little pony, grunting each time that the animal took a step. She turned to her father, a question upon her lips.

However, Mr. Bennet put up the flat of his hand and said, “Ask not.”

Lady Millhouse, who took notice of everything, rode up next to Darcy, reached out, and grandly slapped him upon the back.

“I say, Darcy, as often as you plough that field, it will surely yield you a good crop soon.”

Lord Millhouse was as silent as his wife was candid, yet laughed heartily at his wife’s remark. Darcy had long accepted her earthy euphemisms, but until that day, only others had suffered them. If Elizabeth heard, she made a great pretence of being unwitting of it.

Hitherto, Darcy knew he should have taken offence at such a comment. His dignity was abused somewhat that day too, yet the sun-dappled grounds they trod bade him not to deny what he knew to be true. Protestation always invited further study.

Therefore, he simply spurred his horse up to Fitzwilliam’s, and, in penitence, asked him of the hunt.

Within a month of first setting foot upon Pemberley soil, John Christie had allowed himself a very singular pleasure. He endured the unaccustomed sense of belonging. Yet the manor hold still rendered him in awe.

So imposing had the manor house and holdings been when first he had dared approach them, John had taken his first measure of them from a peek around the trunk of a sizeable oak. The beauteous sight had done much to excite his esteem.

* * *

Pemberley was a considerable eminence, one that included an enormous park with an untold variety of ground, all fetchingly framed by a wood. Pemberley House situated itself prettily on a rise beyond a lazy, but consequential, stream, one that swelled into a small lake at the bottom of a narrow valley.

A soft wash of dusk bathed the stables as John’s eyes lit upon them, eliciting from him a swift intake of air at their beauty. His gaze ascertained that they were surrounded by hedges neatly trimmed and connected by a covered galley. The ground betwixt the outbuildings was not dirt, or even gravel. It was cobblestone. So well-tended was the place that nary a tussock sprang from between them, although a neat ring of turf surrounded the paddock. Beyond the carriage house was a trellised path that led to the great house itself.

Squatting within the concealment of some heretofore unfamiliar berried bushes, he gaped in wondrous awe. This shelter allowed him to take a more detailed inspection of what interested him most.

There were two horse barns, each large enough to lodge at least a dozen and a half horses. Several fine-looking mares were loose in the enclosure and nibbled at the -winter grass whilst a foal capered about in a frisk. Whilst eyeing their doings, the boy idly plucked a berry from the bush, and then hastily spat it out. It was unexpectedly bitter.

So very little notice did he take of this, the offending fruit lay at his feet uninspected. He was much taken with the aroma of clover hay, which filled his nostrils with unerring seduction. Enthralled, he fancied taking a running leap onto the stack that tumbled out of the big doors at one end of one barn. Had he, he thought it quite probable that he could lie within it for a lifetime. It was a temptation to take a run even then, but there were too many people about to make it a serious consideration. In time, he edged out into the sunlight and a groom espied him.

“What d’ ye want ’ere, boy?” said the man.

John thought to wrest his hat from his head and clutched it tightly before him.

“Work, sir,” he answered.

The man made no effort to speak in response and dismissively waved him begone. John turned away quite reluctantly, disappointed he had not the opportunity to make his case for employment.

As he turned, the man called out, “Ain’t ye that boy from the inn? The one what’s ma died?”

Villages. Was nothing safe from gossip? Everyone knew everyone and everyone’s business.

Pity he sought not. He sought honest work. Yet his situation was dire. Hence, he nodded in affirmation that indeed, he was. The man then asked his age. Understanding that he was too old for someone to take him in and too young to be expected to do a man’s work, he weighed what answer best would increase his chances before responding. Thinking it more likely that he could be taken for older than younger, he stood tall and told a bald-faced lie.

“I’m sixteen, sir.”

In fortune, the man did not blink at the prevarication.

“It’s not likely ye are needed ’ere, but stay and talk to the man. He might ’ave somethin’ for ye,” was the reply.

Certainly, that was no absolute, but he had managed an audience. This was a considerable feat in that customarily, a stranger would be run off, as thievery was known to be the prevalent occupation of strangers in the countryside.

Finding a barrel, John settled upon it to wait for “The Man.” He watched as the half dozen stable-hands fed the horses and raked what had been eliminated and shovelled it out the door. The odour of manure was not unwelcome, for it smelled of profit. Many an hour he had spent upon the handle end of a pitchfork and was paid, if not wages, at least a meal. There were far less worthy occupations than mucking out. Certainly, that was better than cleaning the floor of an alehouse (that was truly execrable). Indeed, he would much rather smell the stench of a horse.

It was several hours before a short, jowly man with chin whiskers arrived. He was pointed out to John Christie as the overseer of the estate. However, Mr. Rhymes had no more than begun their interview when a fine gentleman and his lady arrived. Rhymes immediately quit him and diverted all his attention to this obviously illustrious couple. The gentleman was impressively tall, even when he alit his horse. And the lady was beautiful, as befit a man of such prominence.

In all good time, the gentleman spoke to Rhymes, the lady spoke to the gentleman. Mr. Rhymes returned to John and shook his head with finality. John gathered his few belongings with resignation, not truly disappointed, just downcast. He had known he was unlikely to have found work at Pemberley. An estate such as it was could have service of the most practised of servitors. It had been folly to believe in his mother’s omens and superstitions.

The groom to whom he had first spoken looked upon his crestfallen face and took pity upon him. He offered John to attend his own table, then allowed that the hayloft suited sleep most admirably.

“First light is soon enough t’go,” he had said kindly.

Yet no sooner had John settled into his bed of hay when the harsh light of a lantern aroused him. Beyond the beacon was the face of Mr. Rhymes. His first thought was that he would be routed. He stood eyeing the man toe to toe, considering whether to offer that he was there by invitation or leave without a word.

Rhymes anticipated no explanation, he said, “We’ve been lookin’ fer ye. Aye donno’ know why ye be so fortunate, son. But Mr. Darcy ’imself has said for ye t’stay.”

Mr. Darcy, it would seem, was the tall, imposing gentleman he had seen. It was his lady’s horse to which he owed his employment (thus enhancing his previous thin regard of superstition). The Good Samaritan who offered supper introduced himself as Edward Hardin and his wife as “the missus.” With a jerk of his head, he told John to follow him to see where he was to stay.

Never had John seen such luxurious lodgings. The grooms’ quarters had windows. They had windows with glazing and beds with legs. (A pallet upon the floor was the best his mother could give him.) Moreover, even the stable-hands at Pemberley enjoyed muslin sheets. John had never seen a bed that actually had sheets. He had heard of such a thing, of course. He had seen bedclothes hanging out to dry, the Kympton Inn being of greater largesse of soap than many. Perhaps his intuition to come to Pemberley had not been a folly. The place was fine. The servants were evidently happy. If he was not so innocent as to believe a compleat farewell to disappointment and spleen was at hand, he held hope that it might well be nigh. Yet superstition and premonition held him prisoner, and the very delectation of the situation led him to expect something equally contrary to befall him.

It did. John Christie had but a day of respite before he espied, with utmost incredulity, none other than Tom Reed lounging against a door, cleaning his teeth with an obscenely large knife. A few other employees stood about, some in willful occupation of not hearing his disreputable remarks, others thanking them with harsh laughter. Dejectedly, John could not help but recall seeing him in Kympton on the eve of his mother’s death.

Reed embodied every evil that a boy could conjure: sloth, greed, envy, gluttony, lust, and anger. (If he could have remembered the seventh, he may well have found Reed guilty of that, too.) Immediately upon Reed recognising Abigail’s boy, he abandoned furthering the complaint that he was not allowed inside the great house to serve as footman (there was vanity). Edward Hardin had newly informed him that he was forthwith stricken from thence and relegated to riding upon the coach and to the stables. Reed had been convinced he should serve the table and was furious to be denied access to even the lowest floor of the manor-house. Of this, he complained with all the vehemence of an exceedingly vile vocabulary.

Great was John’s horror upon seeing such a despicable apparition, and he jumped behind a wall and gave making himself thin full occupation. But all was for naught. Reed had espied him.

“Boy!” he had exclaimed. “Boy! Come ’ere!”

John stepped forward in quivering reluctance. Reed grabbed him by the nape of the neck with a hand so huge, the thumb and forefinger almost met beneath John’s chin.

He said to the other men, “See this boy? There be no better wagtail than his ma. Am I right, boy?”

The other men who stood with him instituted a murmured disapproval, but none were of a notion to actually intercede. Displaying more gumption than prudence, John defiantly announced that his mother was not loose, and more specifically, was now dead.

“Pity,” Reed said, his countenance contradicting the sentiment.

Thereupon, he turned to the other men there, saying, “She were a bit of a muck-suckle, but she could blow my bag-pipe good as any…”

Time upon the brutal streets of London was not without its education. Hence, John Christie imposed a quick feint, releasing Reed’s stranglehold upon his neck. His instinctive reaction was to kick Reed in the danglers for good measure, but an innate wisdom told him this time he should invest all his energy in escape. As he broke free and ran, Reed angrily reached out after him. Seeing he had lost his quarry, he laughed the only way he knew how—meanly.

John eluded Reed that day and for many after. Other interests deflected Reed, for he was never in want of a scheme of some sort. John avoided him conscientiously. He knew no good would come of such an acquaintance. For the first time, John had pride of employment and did not want to jeopardise it. Reed was an impediment. A sorry impediment.