Darcy & Elizabeth (13 page)

Elizabeth was faced with a small conundrum. She was very tempted to explain to Georgiana that when inspired, as a lover her brother was not only attentive and romantic, but of exceedingly tender feelings. His brusque deportment was but a façade. However, as her premier example of that would have entailed a telling of the fresh rose petals that he had spread across their nuptial bed, she declined to share so intimate a recollection.

Rather, she said, “I think you vastly underestimate your brother and his sensibilities.”

Georgiana looked at her a bit queerly. In response, Elizabeth only smiled. But they came to an understanding that, while Darcy would be the vehicle, Elizabeth would hold the reins. Hence, to Georgiana's undying gratitude and the consternation of her husband, Elizabeth undertook the central decision-making, vowing to Darcy that she would stay mostly to her bed.

“I am quite well,” claimed she.

So insistent was she, despite the pallidity of her complexion, no one save her husband challenged her assertions of compleat repair.

Once all decisions were under Elizabeth's command, Georgiana was happy to be at Whitemore many days, fanning Fitzwilliam and planning her wedding trip. Hence, when she happened to be out upon the occasion of an unanticipated visit by the dressmaker, Elizabeth abandoned her afternoon rest for the first time. To toil over patterns and fabrics for Georgiana's trousseau, she took the precaution of seeing the dressmaker in a little-used parlour. To her mind this was not a deliberate deception, it was merely in the name of peace. Yet her forethought was for naught. For unbeknownst to her, Darcy had been minding her rest each afternoon, and when he found his wife not abed, he went in search of her. When at last he uncovered her furtive meeting, he was more disheartened than displeased. This is what he was, not how he behaved. Indeed, his exasperation was so very nearly uncivil; one only hearing him vent his unhappiness might have thought he had found her
in fla
grante
.

“Mrs. Darcy!” he thundered.

So stunning was his eruption, the dressmaker's assistant was startled. Thus, the stack of pattern boxes she was carrying seemingly exploded from her hands, turning their bits and pieces of odd-shaped tissue into an absolute maelstrom. The dressmaker had leapt to his feet and into the arms of his helper, both in trembling trepidation. Whilst paper wafted to the floor about her, Elizabeth gave no visible reaction to Darcy's rash outburst, merely turning her head in his direction and lowering her chin. It was Elizabeth's subtle attitude, not the quivering twosome, which bid her husband to recollect himself. (Her gaze always said more to him than any retort.) He had immediately undergone a flush of self-chastisement. It was his study never to allow a discernible show of pique. This loss of regulation, in addition to Elizabeth's small display of censure, influenced him to lower his voice, if not his disapproval.

“Pray, should this not be put off until your health is less fragile?”

She knew that although this was couched as an inquiry, it was not. It was now a request. As she was not inclined to entertain self-martyrdom, that she felt quite well was not the question. Clearly, he was still of a mind that she needed cosseting. Because her cosseting was his chief occupation of late, she acquiesced to his unasked appeal. As independent a nature as she had, she still believed that it would be quite impossible to be overly pampered—and she did so long to be pampered by the strong, pliant hands of her husband.

Hence she reached out and took in her hand a piece of satin. She turned then to the yet-quaking dressmaker.

“This,” said she, “and these.” She lifted several rolls of varying widths of ivory-coloured Chantilly lace.

The dressmaker bowed. Elizabeth then rose, daintily placed her hand atop her husband's extended one, and they both majestically quit the room. (It was, however, upon that perambulation that Mr. Darcy made his imprudent, if innocently meant, suggestion to Mrs. Darcy of new frocks for herself, receiving her unspoken reply in the negative.)

The dressmaker and his assistant remained behind and did not witness either that question or the response. They stood a moment, perchance allowing their nerves to settle, before they began the arduous task of gathering up the many pattern pieces and realigning them in the proper boxes.

“I do hope,” the flustered dressmaker said, “that Miss Darcy is more congenial than her brother.”

Georgiana

Indeed, Miss Darcy was a great deal more congenial than her brother. (Under her present situation, it might be suggested that her brother thought she had been a little too congenial.) In truth, she was more agreeable than congenial. At one time, those of her acquaintance would have believed her the most agreeable and malleable of young women, most unhappy to cause anyone undue distress. Consequently, when that most agreeable, malleable, and proper of young ladies took leave of her home and family without a word
and
in the company of a stable boy of questionable birth to follow the army like a common camp-follower (although there were very few brave enough to utter that slander even in the privacy of their own homes), everyone—to a person—was utterly aghast.

As assiduously as had this intelligence been guarded, word of it had leaked out. The fabrication that Miss Darcy had merely taken herself upon a scheduled visit to relatives on the Continent was publicly accepted without comment beyond the offering of felicitations for her safe journey. It was, however, commented upon in private. That she returned engaged to Colonel Fitzwilliam, a gentleman of the highest calibre and exceptional family was the saving grace on the entire scandalous affair. Had she returned to England under any other circumstances, even the Darcy name may not have saved hers from ruin.

Georgiana had pined for her cousin with considerable dedication in ever-increasing gradations through the whole of her life. She had never exposed her regard to anyone. Yet when she was confronted by the possibility that he might actually die without knowing of her love, the shy, sheltered Georgiana took leave of her hearth and home (and possibly of her senses) in daring pursuit of his regiment, determined to save him from himself. Her brother, under the misapprehension she had eloped with a servant, was fast on her trail.

Georgiana, however, found Fitzwilliam first. So consumed was she with nursing his wounds, contrition for her rashness was largely ignored.

The entire impetuous episode culminated (as many an impetuous episode) in an unforeseen alliance of a fertile nature.

But once returned to Pemberley, and much to her brother's displeasure, Georgiana behaved for all the world not like a ruined virgin, but as if she had somehow scaled an insuperable peak (so to speak). Contrarily, Fitzwilliam sat about, patch over one eye and gripping a forked staff, with a seriously stupid expression. The understanding that his sister was with child and by Fitzwilliam due to the intimacies undoubtedly undertaken by
her
whilst nursing him through an extended recovery of battle wounds remained unmitigated for Darcy by the passage of time. For weeks he continued to take his own personal umbrage with the situation. So distressing was it to him, upon occasion he still pondered the feasibility of calling Fitzwilliam out, saying if necessary he would prop him up to do it. Nothing is less ungentlemanly or more demanding of retribution than having one's sister defiled, he groused. Ruining one's sister is unworthy of a gentleman, said he.

He said that to no one save his wife. After Elizabeth's initial gentle observation that the invalid Fitzwilliam could hardly have seduced Georgiana, she need not have repeated herself. He would glance in her direction, eyebrows knitted, eyes brooding, with a vein in his temple threatening to explode, but it took Elizabeth only to remind him by means of one upraised eyebrow to cool his rekindled ire.

Despite all the tribulations surrounding her indecorous escapade, Georgiana was truly in love. Whether or not Fitzwilliam had been somehow ensnared in a web of Georgiana's making remained unexplored. Still, a wedding was demanded post-haste. The Darcy name could weather only so much prattling before it began to take its toll. So far no one knew of Georgiana's condition. She was of tall frame like her brother, that and
empire
fashion would conspire to conceal her pregnancy for several months, but time was still of the essence.

Once she knew Elizabeth—not her brother—would see to the plans, Georgiana waltzed about Pemberley in a manner previously unknown to her. Having experienced the throes particular to impending motherhood, Elizabeth was more than sympathetic. Defending her moods to Darcy was not productive.

“I dare say she moons about with her head in the clouds and feet barely touching the earth! She is quite oblivious to anyone or anything but her everlasting love, Fitzwilliam.”

Darcy had spoken with more than a small amount of exasperation and was compleatly oblivious that he had employed the words “everlasting love, Fitzwilliam” in falsetto—a first for him in Elizabeth's recollection. She had to stifle a smile, knowing full well that he was in no mood (nor often was) to be a target of mirth.

Perhaps collecting himself, he eschewed his mocking tone, but continued to complain, “These, of course, are on the days she is here at Pemberley...”

This was quite true, for as often as not she spent her days at Whitemore, where she lovingly tended to Fitzwilliam's rehabilitation. The one thing that she was not was any semblance of her former self. Gone, seemingly forever, was the shy, reticent, and uncertain girl that they had all known. This turn of events was not included in her brother's wishes.

After the first uneasy conversation about her condition upon her return home, when it fell to Elizabeth to tell Darcy of what had happened (apparently under his very nose) whilst they were stranded across the water with Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth and Darcy rarely spoke of it. Indeed, it was all but ignored. Elizabeth supposed that in choosing to ignore it, Darcy hoped in vain that it might all vanish from the horizon. Elizabeth knew too, that when he caught sight of her in her morning-gown in the parlour looking at dress patterns for Georgiana's trousseau, the truth had been horribly apparent. His distress was as much over her overburdening her strength as in facing what lay ahead for her.

Georgiana loved her brother with all her heart. She would bear his disapproval for, in time, she believed that with the happiness she would bequeath Fitzwilliam, eventually she would be forgiven her rashness. Her greatest fear was not her brother's disapproval, but his disappointment.

History of a Row

The detestable baptismal announcement had not been tossed into the blazing fireplace a moment before Lady Catherine reconsidered.

“Make haste! Make haste, Yewdell! Retrieve that letter!”

Yewdell scrambled for the fireplace, but Lady Catherine had already snatched up the poker and began furiously jabbing into the fire. With his mistress's screeching pleas deafening him into desperate means, Yewdell struggled after the paper, which had begun to turn an ominous shade of brown about the edges. Stabbed twice by the poker in her ladyship's hand, Yewdell finally managed to evade both her frenzied prodding and the flames long enough to take hold of the letter. Once it was in hand, he begat a hopping little dance, waving the smouldering letter furiously about before dropping it upon the tile and stomping on the smoking remains. When finally the deed was done, it fell apparent that the screeching Yewdell had been certain had originated from his mistress actually had been emitted by the bird, which was flapping wildly about its perch, small red pinfeathers wafting down even then.

“Make haste! Make haste!” the bird squawked.

“Silence!” Lady Catherine demanded. “Silence, Henry!”

Yewdell ceased his stomping and stood, dumbfounded, looking at her ladyship as if she for all the world, had run compleatly mad. It was not until she again turned to the bird to ejaculate her demand that Yewdell recalled that he and the macaw shared the same Christian name. The same did not occur to Lady Catherine, for with no further notice of her butler, she then gathered up the disintegrating remains of the paper and conveyed it, trailing bits of ash, to a table. Thereupon she carefully laid it out, making a few delicate strokes to smoothe the edges. Yewdell bowed and asked for his leave.

Said he, “Will there be anything else, m'lady?” praying not, for he eased towards the door to make fast for one of cook's healing balms.

In fortune, Lady Catherine's attention had been compleatly compromised by salvaging the half-burnt letter and she waved him away without looking in his direction. His feet abused, his fingers burnt, Yewdell was happy to be dismissed and bowed only twice before he quickly took his leave, Lady Catherine far too preoccupied to notice his abbreviated genuflection.

It had really not been important to save the letter, for there was nothing more to read. Still, she took out a cambric hanky and whisked away any remaining ashes with such care that one would have thought there was something she had overlooked. It was no more than a customary notification of baptism. Her fit of spleen was not because she had been caught unawares. Well-placed spies allowed her to hear of the delivery of his heir well-nigh as soon as Darcy had.

The baptismal had taken place within a week of the births. This was of no particular surprise. Everyone knew that it was imperative that a baby was sprinkled with waters at the baptismal font, with or without the accompanying naming ceremony, with all due haste. Birth and death far too frequently betided newborns in quick succession. Few families waited for the mother to be on her feet, lest the child die before being admitted into the church. What the announcement had accomplished was bid her recall the entire history of the double baptism as told to her in minute detail by the agent she had amongst the Pemberley staff. No minutiae was too small to feed her interest. She had heard how Mrs. Darcy had been carried to the Pemberley chapel in her husband's arms; how the vicar bore a ridiculous smile during what should have been a solemn religious rite; Miss Georgiana Darcy and Mrs. Bingley had each held a baby, both bearing equally inappropriate expressions of diversion; Mrs. Darcy reposing on a chaise longue, Mr. Darcy's hand resting on her shoulder in a most immodest fashion…. The entire occasion was vulgar and irreligious. She could not think of a display of such sentimentality without abhorrence.

Oh yes. She knew it all. Her outrage that day had been vented only at the reminder. Although she had taken great satisfaction in making herself miserable over all the little details, just as quickly, she had a change of heart.

In that brief time Lady Catherine conceived the nugget of a plan. It took a greater investment to calculate it into an intrigue of cunning refinement.

It had long been Lady Catherine's intention to triple her land and funds by uniting her daughter in holy wedlock with the illustrious Darcy fortune…beg pardon—the illustrious Fitzwilliam Darcy. From their cradles, her nephew and her daughter had been formed for each other. His mother was her sister. But her well-laid intentions were thwarted. He was bent on sullying their family through an alliance with a near-penniless young woman of inferior breeding and of no importance in the world. Her ladyship was more than a mite miffed at the notion of her nephew falling victim to such wiles. Foolish man to be drawn in by such a girl! But then, by their nature, were not all men fools?

It fell to her to rescue him from unmitigated disaster. She had been certain that when he learnt that his loving aunt, sister to his own dear, dead mother, did not look on the match with a kind eye, he would certainly forswear all regard of Miss Bennet.

Customarily Mr. Darcy was a man most misanthropically inclined. Nonetheless her Ladyship's pleas to his better judgement went unheeded. His implacability on having the Bennet girl proved indubitably to Lady Catherine that he had lost the use of his reason. Surely he had been taken in by arts and allurements of an egregiously libidinous nature. His virtue and the very groundsels of Pemberley had been compromised by a wanton temptress! From that day forward, Lady Catherine sat in barely contained rage, silently vowing that if she could not obstruct that marriage compleatly, she would queer the union in any way at her disposal—and she was content in knowing that her ways were many.

Her resolve may not have wavered, but her plans did go a bit awry.

She truly could not fault her rationale. After all, Darcy was seemingly lost forever on the war-ravaged Continent. Lady Catherine had thought the time was at hand to banish his wretched wife from Pemberley forever. The intractability that she had encountered from Elizabeth Darcy, however, was most unforeseen. Her headlong flight from her nephew's home at the point of his wife's smoking pistol was not a memory that Lady Catherine relished. It had been a brief inclination to hie to the magistrate and render charges against her. But as the entire incident had been far too…indecorous, she dismissed the notion. Alas, taking the moral high ground did her no service. For such an outrage should have sent her nephew post-haste to Rosings the minute he returned, bearing abject apologies and assurances that he had his wife in chains in the belvedere. He did come post-haste. Unfortunately it was not to render apologies. Rather, she was to suffer under the indignity of a threat by her own nephew with commitment to a mental infirmary! An
indigent
mental infirmary! And lest she forget, he threatened to “send her on her way in a dogcart.” In a dogcart! It was not to be borne! The thought of it all incited her into an outright conniption, influencing pets and servants to cower in terror (save for Henry the bird, who
never
cowered).

“It is
that wife
!” she bellowed.

Surely her nephew was under some manner of spell, she reasoned. Yes. Undoubtedly, that wife of his was a sorceress. There was no other answer! He was under a spell cast by a witch!

“It is she who should be imprisoned! No. Pilloried. No. Burned. Her body hanging from a gibbet!”

Unfortunately, under a spell or not, the single person in England (and therefore the world at large) who gave Lady Catherine de Bourgh pause was her nephew, Mr. Darcy. Hence, she was ever so ill-disposed to dismiss his threat of institutionalisation out of hand. (The magnitude of his displeasure had been evident in a particularly nasty expression of countenance.) Truly, she did not believe he could do it. But that he
might
tried her nerves most exceptionally (even more than the pistol incident—which plagued her in a most grievous fashion come black grouse season). The entire ordeal had nagged at her mercilessly.

Yet, for all her machinations to overthrow his marriage, these five years later, Mr. Darcy was at home in Pemberley, nestled in the happy bosom of his family with
that wife
by his side. Newly graced was he with the blessing of a newborn son and heir as if there had been no tribulations whatsoever. No doubt Elizabeth Bennet Darcy now spent her days draped in the family jewels and gloating over her victory. Fie upon her!

All this Darcy household happiness had caused Lady Catherine to fall into a despondent sulk, believing all was for naught. So relentlessly did she worry the notion, she was much discomposed. And she remained discomposed until the missive announcing the baptism of the Darcy heirs arrived. Heirs. She made one vow. It would not end here.