Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (51 page)

“Condemning all husbands because you believe Wickham has caroused about is ill-considered.”

“’Tis not! Look about you, Lizzy. Men get their oats when and where they can and marriage is no impediment. They are beasts once they get the scent. Some more relentless than others. Be not smug. You may believe your husband constant, but I have heard those dogs howl outside your door. His blood is hot.”

At this obscure reference, Jane looked baffled. So confused did she look, Lydia felt it necessary to aside an explanation, “He is at her night and day, Jane.”

As Elizabeth sat in open-mouthed fury, Lydia obliviously continued her harangue.

“I too obliged Wickham regularly. Yet he forsook me. Think of it, Lizzy. If a man who has nothing but his charms to promote him can find willing arms, what of a man as rich as Darcy? Unquestionably, wanton wenches fling themselves at his feet…”

With all due restraint (she did not coldcock her with a girandole), Elizabeth spluttered briefly. Then, voice escalating, she said, “Is there no limit to your slander? Do not defame my husband as a blackguard by virtue of Wickham’s sins!”

Realising she had over-stepped a rather strict boundary, Lydia regrouped and then cajoled, “Oh, Lizzy, true, I know not of your husband, I only conjecture. But if our mother says our own father did not stay faithful to their marriage, how can we fancy our own husbands would do better?”

“Mama could never have said such a thing!”

Knowing she then had the whip-hand, Lydia inspected her nails whilst saying, “She did. Ask her.”

Elizabeth and Jane both sat in dumbfounded confoundment. Their silence bid Lydia to suspect victory and take her leave. In fortune, for Elizabeth was still in a barely contained rage. The double affront first to defame Darcy, then their father, was beyond reprehensible. It was unforgivable.

Finally, her face possibly the colour of stewed beets, Elizabeth spit out, “I cannot believe even Lydia would speak so…”

Words failed her. Born of unequivocal ignorance, Lydia’s comments about Darcy, though despised, could be dismissed. Hence Elizabeth’s wrath toward Lydia descended upon and engulfed her defamation of their father. She knew that he was not of a disposition to seek comfort in any of those pleasures that too often console those disappointed by conjugal infelicity.

“How could she repeat such a thing, Jane? How could our mother tell her such a thing? There is no finer man anywhere, no better husband, no better father!”

Jane sat quite still for a moment before agreeing, “I cannot bear to hear him labelled a philanderer either, Lizzy.”

“Libelled, you mean,” responded Elizabeth.

Ignoring the clarification, Jane hesitated a moment, then added, “But as dearly as we hold Papa, we had daily proof that our parents’ marriage was not a happy one. Moreover, as I sit here I wonder why our mother would have told such a fiction to Lydia—it would lend her no service as a wife.”

It was Elizabeth’s considered opinion that their mother was capable of uttering such a blasphemy simply to reassure Lydia that Wickham’s betrayal was not her fault. Nevertheless, she did not say so to Jane. She simply shook her head in denial of Lydia’s allegations and vowed not to think of it again.

Upon the trip home, Jane sat napping upright, thereupon giving Elizabeth time to ponder her father’s fidelity. The possibility that it was compromised was far too painful; hence, she thought of it no more.

Darcy weathered his auricular plight with considerable ill-humour. Silence would have been vexation enough, but his injury instituted a profound ringing noise that drove him to distraction. Hence, an eminent auditory specialist was called from Edinburgh to see to his malady. Had not Sir Malcolm MacFarqhuar been knighted by King George himself, Darcy might have refused his counsel. Nevertheless, he harrumphed at the notion of being seen by any other than an English physician.

Darcy’s Anglophilia well-entrenched, Sir MacFarqhuar’s person did little to placate it. For howbeit he arrived at Pemberley with all due haste, his russet beard, pleated kilt, and melodious burr were a profound reminder from whence he came. Already -agitated at the repeated prodding of his ears, Darcy did not suffer the Scot with for-bearance.

Not only did he despise being inspected, the infliction of the sight of the doctor’s hairy knees did nothing to becalm him. But as the doctor was quite efficient and not particularly wordy, he suffered his examination in peevish silence.

Elizabeth stood by her husband witnessing his dour countenance and issuing just enough commiseration to keep his temper at bay. After an extensive consultation with an odd assortment of peculiar instruments, the prestigious doctor made his diagnosis.

“Mr. Darcy shall regain his hearing,” he pronounced. Then cautioned, “Although his eardrums are not ruptured, they are severely inflamed. It is a precarious situation. Another assault upon them might render him permanently deaf.”

Because of his deafness, this warning was issued to Mrs. Darcy, whose own countenance did not belie her alarm at such an ominous declaration. With studied patience (and an annoyed expression) Darcy awaited whilst his dismayed wife wrote the doctor’s judgement out and handed the paper to him. Upon reading it, he seemed little concerned beyond the eminent physician’s suggestion of the use of an ear trumpet. (“My great-aunt!” Mr. Darcy had responded indignantly, and those present took this as a negative.) The possibility of auricular foredoom was of no particular consequence to one who is both pragmatic and not easily unnerved.

Such insouciance is seldom the reaction of a loved one, however stout-hearted. Elizabeth was unnerved, and she cared little who knew it.

Not wanting to unduly distress illustrious Mr. Darcy’s illustrious wife, the doctor attempted to mollify his diagnosis thusly, “It is true Mr. Darcy’s hearing has suffered grievously and Aye fear that another loud noise might take it from him permanently. But that is unlikely. Aye understand that poor Mr. Collins is newly departed?”

The nature of the accident and culprit responsible had obviously been explained to the doctor.

It was indisputable that few who walked the earth could have rivalled her cousin’s ineptitude, but the doctor regretted his small slander against kin of the Darcys as soon as he realised he had committed it. He announced he understood his faux pas in a fit of coughing.

Amused, for Sir MacFarqhuar had revealed himself a ceaseless toadeater (not even close in rank to the Vicar Collins, but then no one was), Elizabeth answered his question with deliberate obtuseness.

“Well, Mr. Collins did make a hasty retreat to Kent. Hence, depart he did, but forthwith dropped dead.”

Having been of Mrs. Darcy’s acquaintance only a brief time, Sir MacFarqhuar was taken aback by her lack of politesse. As a man whose occupation demanded considerable pussyfooting when rendering an opinion of an unfavourable nature (and who never, ever spoke any variation of the word death), he was rendered somewhat befuddled by Elizabeth’s bluntness.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, but found himself unable to quit the subject in such frank disorder.

Thus he intoned (leaving nary an “r” untrilled), “Plucked he was from your midst to wing his flight from this merciful world. How very regrettable. But we must all pay nature’s last debt. Aye hope his passing was peaceful.”

“I fear it was not,” announced Elizabeth.

At these words, the doctor’s eyes widened in anticipation of a harrowing tale of death and dying (his delicacy extended to circumlocution of one’s demise and not, apparently, the gory details). Albeit Elizabeth’s verbal inclinations strayed from the metaphorical, neither was she of a mind to feed another’s imprudent curiosity.

Thus, she abandoned candour and resorted to the tergiversation of one raised eyebrow.

“Bees,” said she.

This single, cryptic word was enough to ignite the good doctor’s imagination and he nodded his head as if he had heard the entire, bloodcurdling account. Because this exchange was denied him, the humour of it was begrudged Darcy as well. And this silent purgatory was endured by him only because there was no choice.

Volition was something that had rarely been denied a man of his literal and figurative stature and (was other expected?) he did not submit to this revocation with resignation. So ill was his temper during this epoch, few dared to traverse his path. Bingley made perfunctory visits if only because his Christian duty demanded he not abandon a friend in time of adversity, no matter how sour said friend’s disposition.

Fitzwilliam ventured thither for the same motive (the word “family” substituted for Christian).

Most of Darcy’s days, however, were spent upon solitary rides astride Blackjack. Evidently, in lieu of hearing of it, he intended to inspect every foot of earth under the auspices of Pemberley. Although he spent a perfunctory morning visit with his wife, he set out before noon, partaking only of a Spartan midday meal and often not returning until darkness overtook him. Moreover, he did not consume his supper with particular gusto. His lean frame had always camouflaged a build of substantial thew. His withered appetite began to take its toll upon his weight, but it was only his wife (and probably Goodwin) who knew it. Other than to entice him with his favourite dishes, Elizabeth had not a clue how to counter melancholic malnourishment. It was her personal understanding that if one had not the inclination to eat, it could not be coaxed. Furthermore, howbeit she truly did not believe his sense of taste was physically affected by his hearing impairment, she was certain that they would both return simultaneously.

His lone figure, however, was still a sombre sight. Not only did he forsake Elizabeth’s company, he refused to be attended at all. Silently, she fretted for his despondency. Aloud, she insisted that it was unsafe for him to ride about thus.

“Pray, should your path be crossed by some misfortune…”

“Misfortunes occur to the most healthy of souls, Lizzy. I should think I would be merely saved the ordeal of hearing it befall me.”

Though she was miffed that he disregarded her upon that matter, she was recompensed.

For within his disability, they did discover a previous delight. By reason of opportunity, an ancient adage was proven true. The absence of one of the five senses did enhance the others. Two impaired was an exultation of sensory riches. The pier glass was unearthed from its hiding place beneath their bed and put to good use reflecting innumerable capital acts. Conversation was not needed for any of them.

* * *

Beyond those connubial, however, pleasure was not his companion. Tolerance for his self-perceived ridicule made him increasingly fractious. Alas, the inadvertent gun blast and resultant injury could not have happened more incommodiously. In his -cotton-headed vulnerability, he had little to do but stew. And of the vast pool of possible vexations a man of Mr. Darcy’s standing could select to gnaw upon, his mind seized upon but a single perplexity. That of the paternity of John Christie.

Other than once wanting rather dearly to wring his neck, Darcy had not given the lad a thought. He cowered about so, had Georgiana not taken the notion to school him, Darcy was uncertain he would have recognised his visage. Perchance that is why no one ever remarked upon a resemblance. John rarely allowed himself within the same eye-line as his employer.

Upon Darcy’s commencement of a surreptitious study of the boy, a disconcerting revelation was uncovered. Clearly, John Christie was a tall, dark-haired, taciturn fellow and carried himself with a graceful amble of a walk. Even Darcy could not deny that, except for a more purposeful gait, it was the very description that might have been used to particturalise himself. Once one accomplished the feat of overlooking grimy fingers, crude garb, and common speech, it could be noted that John’s features and figure were remarkably regular and straight. Even noble. Close observation and cautious interrogation of Edward Hardin revealed to Darcy that John was also industrious, honest, and bright.

Imperceptibly, Darcy began to feel a swell of pride. Many men of station (and almost all those royal) could not claim such fine attributes. Breeding will out, he concluded. The august Darcy blood overcame all manner of nurturing deprivation.

Few men would be able to compleatly abandon a certain conceit on behalf of the potency of their loins. It was the most primitive of instincts. However he might have wanted to believe otherwise, Darcy was no exception. Who should not want to bask in the glow of begetting a strong, handsome boy-child? Even in silent self-satisfaction, Darcy would not. When he realised he had leapt from speculation to acceptance, the smugness of those particular deliberations were roundly quashed in favour of less heady ones.

If it were true that the boy was of his seed, it was his duty to acknowledge him. Was he to do just that, it might well be the most shocking thing to come to pass in Derbyshire since the passing of the Duchess of Devonshire. Howbeit to Darcy’s way of thinking a significant scandal it would be, as far as aristocratic indiscretions were concerned, it was rather minor. More gentlemen than he cared to name had harboured intrigues or kept paramours. If discreet, offspring resulting from such liaisons were tolerated amongst society. Seldom, however, were they acknowledged.

There lay the infamy.

Gentlemen dallied and society turned a blind eye so long as such peccadilloes did not become public. Darcy respected the lessons of the station to which he was born; however, his notion of honour was a little weightier in scruples than most. Holding the generally unpopular belief that public and private disgrace were one and the same, he wrestled relentlessly with his conscience. Could he cast all decorum aside and openly claim a bastard child of his chambermaid as his own son? Give him the Darcy name? His father’s name?

Notoriety, particularly for sins of the flesh, was indefensible. As abhorrent as he held a rupture of his privacy, Darcy’s private mortification eclipsed even that. There was nothing upon which he prided himself more than self-discipline. Although he had never quite reached a reckoning with his unequivocal surrendering to the fever of his youth, he had believed it was an ancient imprudence. Admittedly, when he married Elizabeth, he was not an innocent. But if he had once succumbed to the call of his libido, he had truly believed his reputation was unsullied by any, shall we say, lasting evidence of it. Except for that unguarded initial frolic into carnality, he had been meticulous about how and with whom he bedded. Hence, the appearance of this particular misbegotten bairn thrust unknowingly upon his doorstep (if memory served, literally upon the inception of his wedding), proclaimed itself unto Darcy as a harbinger of judgement. He saw it clearly as a condemnation of his early sins of the flesh. And if it was not divine, the difference was indiscernible.

Tormented with guilt, he wrestled with how best to announce to his wife, his family, his friends, and society in general that he was no better that Henry Howgrave’s father. How could he find the moral courage to deliberately besmirch his father’s memory in such a vulgar manner? After weeks of vacillating, he knew he must make a move, for he was out of humour far too frequently. However, he wanted to reach a decision uncluttered by sentiment before burdening Elizabeth with his public disgrace.

Ere that opinion could be reasoned, fate intervened.

* * *

It was a perfectly lovely afternoon for midwinter. Not a finer day had been had for weeks. It was then Mrs. Reynolds chose to board a waggon for Kympton to personally berate the costermonger for the unacceptability of their most recent delivery.

The old woman issued orders to bring the waggon about whilst complaining bitterly about the necessity of having to endure the fallowness of winter at all.

“Was it not such a dry autumn, the cellars would be full. There would be no need for such flummery as this!”

Just outside the steps of the house, Mrs. Reynolds checked a sheet of paper with her index finger, methodically reviewing what appeared to anyone else as hen-scratching. Evidently, the costermonger’s sins were so numerous as to need explicit delineation. Once that was accomplished, she was impatient to light into the man and stood about in irascible wait for the waggon.

The footmen scurried about, none anxious to invoke her wrath, which led to undue hastiness in preparation. The harness needed adjusting. But as Mrs. Reynolds was getting testier by the minute, a dirk that was both too long and too dull was produced. It fell to John Christie to employ it. Had Mrs. Reynolds glowered less relentlessly or the wielder been more experienced, greater caution would have been observed. But as it was not, the knife slipped, gouging John’s hand nearly to the bone just below his index finger.

The geyser of blood that erupted caused the usually unflappable Mrs. Reynolds to shriek, thus alerting the house of the accident.

Georgiana and Elizabeth rushed to the scene, then ordered John whisked into the kitchen. Most knife wounds occurred there and, as a veteran of such mishaps, cook was charged with repairing this one. This was neither a solemn nor a solitary procedure.

Surrounded by an assortment of scullery help, cook still set about this task with all the aplomb of a surgeon.

Howbeit Mrs. Reynolds covered her eyes, Georgiana observed the doings closely. So carefully did she watch, it appeared she might actually take the needle and thread from cook’s hand and compleat the operation herself.

Elizabeth was both mesmerised and repulsed by the ordeal. She noticed that the victim, however, was astonishingly stoic (the ladies were quite unwitting that it was their presence that bid John’s denial of pain). Indeed, during the close scrutiny of this process, Elizabeth considered howling upon his behalf. But as screaming in empathy was not an acceptable option and a chorus of “o-o-ohs” erupted with each stitch taken, she busied herself shooing out unnecessary observers.