B006O3T9DG EBOK (26 page)

“That is a waste of good flowers, girl,” she said. “For they shall die and we must take your brother’s humble remains with us.”

“Well,” thought Sally. “The lady was right about that. It was a rare gentlewoman who was both plain spoken and sensible.”

Sally nodded her agreement and stood aside as a half-dozen men bearing shovels went to work. For some, the exhumation would have been too gruesome to watch. Lord Millhouse walked back to the coach holding a handkerchief to his face (one not meant for tears). Sally Frances and Lady Millhouse were too engaged in overseeing that the task was done right to be off-put by the earthiness of the activity. Lady Millhouse disliked how the men were doing the job and was in a pother because of it.

“Stop you fuddle-headed oaf!” Lady Millhouse boomed as a shovel hit the crumbling wooden coffin. “Shall I do it for you?”

The diggers spoke French and the string of oaths they issued was uncomplimentary to the English race in general and to the English lady in particular. Sally knew enough French (at least of the sort she just heard) to know her ladyship had been deeply maligned.

To her, Sally said, “I think they just said you got brass whennymegs, m’am.”

Lady Millhouse sniffed, “I dare say I have more stones than the lot of them together.”

With no blows thrown or shots exchanged, John Christie’s bones were extricated and brought home. Although Sally Frances knew the intimate connection her brother had to the Darcy family, she kept that confidence. (She had a notion that Lady Millhouse knew something about it anyway.) Despite his qualms, Mr. Darcy had been kind enough to let it be known that because her brother had once been employed there, he would not oppose the boy’s remains be committed to the Pemberley cemetery.

That, however, was not Sally’s intention. She wanted all her loved ones together. How to go about it was a conundrum. John was no kin to her Grannum and having him interred in the little churchyard cemetery in London did not seem right. The closest connection he had was to the Pemberley horses he so loved. Lady Millhouse understood. Herself a horse-lover, she could think of no finer place than to share the earth with those magnificent beasts. So she insisted that there was but one place for John—on the hillside where Pemberley’s finely-bred animals were laid to rest.

Mr. Darcy was initially opposed to it, pronouncing it unseemly. But in time, he relented. After all, John Christie was not only sired at Pemberley, he was a heroic grenadier of The Wars. Sally, so difficult to please in many ways, was satisfied with that. Her kin might not be together, but they would lie where their souls would be content.

Lady Millhouse had looked with a keen eye as Sally Frances dutifully counted out repayment for all the expenses she had incurred along their journey. Her ladyship was taken with the girl’s singular pride and diligence. Impetuously, her ladyship said that she was much in want of taking her home that minute.

“You shall have a bath and I will call the seamstress....”

Sally was grossly insulted.

“I ain’t like no dog to come lay by your fire.”

Seeing she had overstepped, Lady Millhouse bethought her design. Sally was wilful; Lady Millhouse more so.

“Do not be obstinate. I have need of your assistance. It is an employment that your brother would particularly approve.”

Lifting her chin, Sally was all ears.

Chapter 35

What Duty Demands

When she had learnt of the turn Sally Frances and Lady Millhouse’s scheme took, Elizabeth had been quite happy with her portion in it all. She had been so pleased that she veritably beamed when she had told her husband of it. Mr. Darcy, however, was a good deal less pleased than everyone else. Indeed, he was quite vexed when his wife told him.

“Is she mad?” he spat out before he caught himself.

He had not designated which female’s sanity he questioned, hence; his wife raised an inquiring eyebrow and waited patiently for him to do so. With one flick of his head in her direction, he both apologised for his curtness and told her his pique was directed elsewhere. His vexation should have been anticipated. Although he had not shared the particulars of the many tribulations he suffered to save John Christie’s body from being committed to a mass grave after the great Battle of Waterloo, she knew enough of them to see that his fit of temper was understandable. Before she could offer him her commiseration, he attempted to voice his reservations more succinctly. (In truth, it was more of a complaint.)

“I went to a great deal of bother to see to it that the boy was buried properly. I am not altogether happy to learn all my trouble was for naught.”

Suddenly, Elizabeth was not half so pleased with herself. Not only had she erred in encouraging the venture, the whole plan had stirred her husband’s recollections of exceedingly dreadful days. She did not speak in self-rebuke. That would imply justification and possibly beg further gentlemanly apologies. Rather, she went to him and pressed her forehead against his breast. This expression of regret meant far more to him than mere words.

His enfolded her in his arms, saying, “Once our Miss Arbuthnot and good Lady Millhouse put their heads together, no mere mortal has any say in the matter.”

In truth, the introductions may have been made, but a word from Darcy and Lady Millhouse would have abandoned the business altogether. They did not believe that it was theirs to thwart a sister on such quest—or a brother on his either. He withdrew his objections.

“We must bear that which is inescapable,” he said.

———

That past bid for shouldering one’s own travails became quite well-used.

After the unexpected (and altogether) unnerving interruption of her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner’s connubial exchanges, Elizabeth feared facing them again. The first moments of breakfast were exceedingly uncomfortable. Her husband (as was his nature), remained entirely composed. Unknowing of the incident, the Bingleys and the Colonel Fitzwilliams conversed with ease and amiability. Elizabeth was pleased to believe that the Gardiners were unaware of her intrusion, just as they were pleased to believe she did not intrude.

It was a great consolation to know that passion, as the Darcys knew and enjoyed it, could endure even after twenty years of marriage. That tenet was one she reminded herself of with regularity—and Darcy as well.

Before, during, and after that visit, young Geoffrey Darcy had his own tribulations. They were small, but insistent, and he did not bear them well.

As it happened, he had meant for his baby brother
to be his (if not literal, at least spiritual) second when he lorded over his sister Janie. Regrettably, Janie claimed William as her own particular ally. She solicitously combed what there was of William’s honey coloured curls, oversaw his meals, wiped his chin, and generally hovered over him, whispering conspiratorially as she did. As he could not yet speak (but jabbered quite well), she usurped his will whenever she needed furtherance in her schemes to thwart Geoff’s increasing dictatorial behaviour.

Somewhere, somehow, he had come by the information that he would one day (and forever more) hold the whip-hand over his sister.

“You must do as I say, sister,” Geoff announced. “One day I shall be your master.”

Flipping her hair defiantly, Janie refused him with one single, disobedient word.

“No!”

“You must do as I say!” demanded Geoff.

“No.” she said.

Witting that he should never hit his sister, he pulled a ribbon from her hair.

“You
must
,” he pronounced evermore adamantly.

“I shall not! I shall do as I want!”

“You shall do as I say,” he said stiffly, his demeanour strikingly similar to his father’s own. “I am to inherit. You must do as I say or you shall be cast out.”

Putting her ear to William’s jabbering little mouth, Janie pretended to interpret.

She replied just as curtly, “Willy says that you are not anything unless Papa says so.”

Geoff sputtered, “I heard William! He did not tell you that....”

Airily, she replied, “You cannot hear him, for he speaks only to me.”

“That is not so.” Geoff countered.

His voice did not rise, but the colour in his cheeks did. William babbled happily.

Wearing stately hauteur, Geoffrey Darcy claimed the office of William’s interpreter.

Bowing next to the baby’s ear, Geoff said, “See there, he told me I am to be the master.”

As Mr. Darcy overheard this conversation, he was of two minds upon it. He admired his oldest son in all ways (for he was, in all ways, quite like his father). He was also quite impressed with his daughter’s ingenuity. Quite probably this discourse was a precursor to many more arguments to come. He was also quite astonished that young Geoffrey, not only knew that he was to inherit, but that he had an elementary understanding of what that meant.

Darcy intended to lead his son by example. However, he saw that an instructional talk was necessary. The Master of Pemberley was required to exhibit unfailing decorum and a certain level of humility. (If he was of true Darcy strain, decorum should come far more easily for him than reining in his pride.) To converse with his son it was necessary for Darcy to recall another conversation between a boy and his father—the circumstances whereof he would have liked to forget.

Darcy had been considerably older when his father instructed him upon what it meant to be master of such a vast estate as Pemberley. He had been remonstrated only after he had engaged in a serious affront to his station with a very willing upstairs maid. (As the upshot of that seemingly innocent tryst was reverberating about the great halls of Pemberley still yet, he did not try to justify that youthful indiscretion.) He had admired his father above all other men. Therefore, that verbal switching stayed with him always. When he learnt that his father was just a man and not a god, he loved him no less. He could only hope that he inspired the same loyalty in his own son.

Calling to Geoff, Darcy drew him to his knee. It was a test not to tousle the boy’s head, but the solemn expression upon his small countenance begged otherwise. It was evident that he knew his father meant to engage him in manly conversation for he stood with his hands folded behind his back.

“Begone, sister,” Geoff said over his shoulder, lest she interrupt them.

Had her father looked in his daughter’s direction, he might have observed the rude gesticulation she gifted her brother. He would not have approved. (It would remain for her mother to explain to her what was expected of a gentlewoman.) Her gesture did not escape Mrs. Heff’s notice—nor Franny’s (whose look of disapproval was ignored by her young ward). Both the nurses scurried to Janie’s side and Franny took her by the hand.

Margaret mumbled, “Law, where do these babes learn such foul business?”

Darcy disregarded that small contretemps and recollected the very words his own father employed in elucidating how he must never be ruled by anything other than the highest of motives and the worthiest of principles. His son was but four, so he paraphrased.

“You are a Darcy, a gentleman of honour. You must never use your place unkindly.”

Putting a hand on each of his shoulders, he said, “You are to be your sister’s protector.”

Geoff’s large eyes grew ever bigger as his father spoke. With those last words, they filled with tears. He refused to blink, perhaps knowing that should he, his tears would fall upon his cheeks and trail down his face. They pooled in his eyes in such a way they were highly injurious to his father’s reserve.