B006O3T9DG EBOK (66 page)

He said, “If this man, Mr. Thomas is George Wickham, he shall make himself known in some foul way. Call your footmen immediately. You must take heed.”

Without further comment, he made his away, leaving her flushed and aflutter.

Darcy had compleatly dismissed her ploy. Men of his station were wary of such traps. This time, pecuniary advantage had not been her true aim. She meant only to determine if he had forgotten those evenings—silent, fevered amours, not a dozen nights (but countless achievements). To him, it had been an arrangement; to her, an entanglement.

She sighed over what was and would not be again.

What to do concerning the snake she had allowed into her bed would come to worry her later.

Chapter 87

Noblesse Oblige

Her husband stood in the darkened doorway. At last he was home!

His countenance showed signs of grave displeasure. Elizabeth could not fully ascertain his mood, for she was wracked with labour pains. Her hands clutched and re-clutched the rungs of the headboard as the contractions ebbed and flowed. The effluence of toil soaked her hair and pillow. Next to her were a bowl of water and a stack of white cloths. Jane occasionally mopped her forehead. Darcy neither spoke nor came nearer to her than the doorframe. It was as if a line had been drawn and he was somehow not allowed to cross it. The contractions began to come stronger and more urgently. The ordeal would soon be over. Did his tortured expression betray catastrophe? She dared not ask.

From behind him, she spied Janie and Geoff peeking at her. Their little faces bespoke great apprehension. Why were they there? The rooms of Pemberley were beyond counting, the park, enormous. Could not one of the vast number of servants betake them from such a worrisome vigil?

“Margaret!” she called out. “See to the children! Take them out to play!”

Her poor children were frightened. Why had Darcy not seen to them? It looked as if his mouth was sewn shut. Another pain hit her and she turned on her side, agony overtaking her very being. Why could she not curb her own wails as she had in times past? Jane and Georgiana stood looking at her as if they were mute and she had gone mad.

“What is the matter with everyone?” Elizabeth mumbled, sitting up.

As she did, she realised that she had another, very exasperating, dream. However disconcerting, she gave brief prayer that she was no longer tortured by images of her husband cavorting with another woman. Labour was far less painful.

It was still dark out. Outside the door, she heard whimpering.

“Cressida?” she called.

Curled up in front of her door, the dog’s tail flapped weakly against the wall. Graeme crouched next to her. When he saw Elizabeth, he stood.

He said, “She would have nothing but that I bring her here, m’lady.”

‘Oh, dear,” Elizabeth said. “Poor dog.”

It was well apparent that old Cressida was not long for the world. She had been growing weaker by the day. All they could do was to see to her comfort. Kneeling next to her, Elizabeth petted her a moment. Then she instructed Graeme to carry her to the kitchen (for it was the warmest room in the house). Once the dog was settled on a pallet before the fireplace, Elizabeth crooned one of the children’s favourite lullabies to her. Cressida’s death would be both a great loss and immense relief to everyone. Watching her creep about was nearly as painful as it must have been for Cressida to bear it. Indeed, of late the children pulled her about in a waggon.

Cressida intermittently whined and whimpered. In time, she only panted.

When daylight came, Elizabeth called for the children. The twins had a number of speckled spaniels and two whippets with which to play, but they always favoured the old wolfhound. The other dogs were soft as butter and licked their faces. But eventually, they would all squirm away when pressed into service for various indignities. Only grizzled Cressida would allow any humiliation with good-natured forbearance.

When the children arrived, they sat next to her and took turns brushing her coat and scratching her behind the ears. Directly, Elizabeth had them make way for Graeme. He knelt next to the dog, placing a hand on her head. He then, quite hastily, quit the room. Elizabeth did not fault him for that. She suspected his countenance was wavering and he stole away lest the children see him weep. She could not keep from that herself.

Cressida’s imminent passing also begat a number of questions from the children in regards to dying in general.

“Why must she die, Mama?” Janie cried.

“She is old, dear,” Elizabeth replied.

“Why do we die when we get old?” inquired Geoff. “Why can we not live forever?”

Elizabeth began to relate of the various frailties that dotage assigns all the world’s creatures and why death was often a kindness.

Listening politely, Janie said, “But William was just a baby and he died.”

At first, Elizabeth was caught unawares. She dared not show that the observation troubled her.

“William was taken ill, dearest,” Elizabeth reminded Janie. “He was just a baby and not strong enough to survive such as that.”

“We must die if we are too young, and we must die if we are too old?” Geoff asked worriedly.

An explanation was not at hand just then, so Elizabeth drew her son onto her lap and kissed the top of his head. Janie’s greatest care was that Cressida would go to heaven. Soon after they discussed all possible variants of the great beyond, they fell silent and each took turns petting Cressida until her last breath was taken. Everyone wept unashamedly. Elizabeth drew her children to her breast, patting and crooning to them until the worst of their grief eased.

When it became obvious that the dog was to be buried with the other family pets behind the stables, both children were dismayed. They wanted the dog to be laid to rest next to William to keep him company. Had Darcy been home, Elizabeth doubted he would have approved of such a plan. Just then however, Elizabeth approved of any design that might soothe her children’s broken hearts—never mind hers.

The children mourned for some time, but by mid-afternoon they were back at play. Elizabeth did not regain her spirits quite so easily. She felt the loss of Cressida most keenly when she returned upstairs. Every time she had heard Cressida slide to the floor outside their bedchamber, it had been a comfort. The absence of that sound was painful—indeed, she muffled her tears in a pillow for several hours.

Such a show of grief was uncommon for her. No doubt, the dog’s death had rekindled grief over dear, little William. Nothing else could account for it—unless it was the loss of sleep during her odd, nightmare-filled night. Perhaps, that had made her more susceptible to lewd dreams and melancholy turns.

A nap would have rejuvenated her. She was disinclined to take one lest she be beset again by obscene visions. Elizabeth most fervently wished Darcy home. She wanted to be held, reassured, soothed—just as she had done for her children.

A knock upon the door announced a missive from Darcy. It said that he would be home by the following night. Again, she began to weep copiously.

Such tidings should have caused her joy. Her spirits were wildly capricious—quite beyond her reason or control. Was her state of flux attributable to the loss of a dear, canine companion or was she missing her dear, lusty husband? Perhaps it was both. Then, in the midst of her weep, she began to laugh.

A singular thought arrested all her emotions: Her husband was not the only thing that she missed.

Chapter 88

Interview with a Wench

Juliette composed herself from her wretched meeting with Darcy with singular ease.

Although she had been near brought to her knees with despair, one who happened upon her just after Mr. Darcy’s visit would not have detected it. However resilient was her countenance, her heart saw no reason to go on. Her plan to repair to Venice, once so full of promise, now twirled emptily before her, a vast and endless gloom.

Ensconcing herself upon her favourite settee, she called for a carafe of wine. There was no longer reason to abstain. In the morn, she might draw the drapes. But for this night, she meant to become quite drunk.

Before the footman returned, her quiet was broken by the sudden appearance of her husband. He gained the room in a huff, but she paid him no heed. Therefore she was taken by surprise when he walked over to her, drew back his hand, and slapped her hard across her cheek.

Startled by pain and humiliation, she covered her cheek with the back of her hand and looked at him incredulously.

“Husband!” she cried.

Both knew this kind of attack was not part of their agreement. He stood over her, stout and snorting, like a bullying boar. Hastily recovering her composure, she refused to ask him why he struck her. It was his to explain. Hand trembling, she took a dainty sip of her wine. Through sheer will, she did not spill a drop.

He snapped, “I spied Mr. Darcy leave these apartments just moments ago!”

With a deadly gaze, she replied, “Indeed?”

Enough time had passed that she knew that what he said was not true (unless he had a drink at Boodle’s between that time and this). Someone had given him that information. It was not difficult to fathom who carried the tale. Although Howgrave brought back his hand as if to strike her again, she did not allow herself to cower. Rather, she rose and walked to her escritoire and daintily picked up the letter-knife, making a great pretence of opening, and then inspecting, her latest invitations. As she dug the point of the opener against each seal, she saw that vulgar knife as embodying what her life had become—tasteless, dull, and passé. However, Howgrave had not ceased his tirade.

“I know it all!” he cried.

“I have no idea to what you refer,” she sniffed. “I readily admit that Mr. Darcy was here. His visit was a matter of business. It is the first time I have seen the gentleman in some months.”

“That is a bloody lie,” he hissed. “He has been coming here clandestinely whilst I attended meetings!”

“What
bêtise
!” she scoffed. “Mr. Darcy has not been in town for months. Ask for yourself—do not rely on malicious gossipmongers.”

“Then why was he here? This day? I met him earlier and he made no mention of a visit.”

“I shall share that with you when you have reclaimed your temper. For now I must prepare for the theatre. Shall you accompany me?”

Juliette was not yet prepared to recount Darcy’s odd allegation. She was in want of considering the prospect without fear of a scene (such as the snit her husband had just displayed). Had she her heart’s desire, she would have shaken her husband until he gibbered. Indeed, had she not so much to lose, she would have screamed the truth in his chubby, little face.

“Darcy was once my lover,
mon cochon!
Had I my way, he would be yet. He is no flaccid, ineffectual brute. He is strong, worthy—and potent.”

However much she would have liked to watch Howgrave squeal, she dared not speak such heresy. Rather, she stood, smiled coquettishly, and extended her hand. In it, she held Darcy’s card.

“Would a lover leave his card?” she asked.

Howgrave came to her side to nuzzle apologies against her neck. Imperceptibly, she dipped her knees to accommodate his bussing. Such ego-salving measures had not been a particular bother in the past. Now, everything concerning the endomorphic beast annoyed her. At least Alistair was tall and trim-figured. At the thought of him, she took another sip of wine.