Darcy & Elizabeth (38 page)

“Whatever happened to the notion that a runaway match was something romantic?” Wickham had lamented to Lydia. “Certainly Darcy's understanding contains not an ounce of true passion.”

Always prone to hasty judgements, Lydia Wickham could but sniff in agreement.

He was reminded of that trip to London then for another reason, this one more immediate. The one who was instrumental in aiding them to elude Lydia's family for so many days whilst playing at being lovebirds was whom he would again seek out. He needed a place to recuperate from his ordeal and time to contemplate his next action. He would also need someone to help him with the baby. Looking after a child was quite new to him. He had never so much as taken a babe in his arms. His own children he had admired from across the room. He had wrangled assistance from any number of ladies sympathetic to a bachelor with an orphan on the crossing (one even culminating in a bum-tickle—which might have alleviated some of the coarser conjectures regarding the nature of his “wound” had the lady in question been less circumspect), but he would have to find more permanent aid if he wanted his steps to cease being haunted by the loathsome milk-crone.

After stopping in a shop for a replenishment of his favourite cologne, he went straightaway to inquire of the next post-chaise to London. It was a seven-hour trip and if they did not leave forthwith, they would be delayed yet another day, for travelling on Sunday was not done. The agent was busy with a young woman who wore what appeared to be her best travelling clothes. She was told that the next post's departure was imminent and she was to make her way down the footpad without delay was she not to be left behind. Wickham hastily purchased his ticket and took his place next to her as their trunks were loaded into the boot. He could sense it when she looked to him, but he did not return her interest. She gazed inquisitively at the bundle he carried and only looked a little puzzled as he oversaw the goat being loaded. The crone first objected at how the nanny's feet were being tied and then fussed as it was pulled up onto the top of the coach.

“Take care!” said she in French. “
Faites attention
!”

When at last that troublesome pair were both settled (the goat's bleating no worse than the old woman's), Wickham turned his attention to the cumbersome task of making his way inside the coach with the baby basket. Only then was he forward enough to tip his hat to the young lady. She turned her head away from his impudence, but he observed her to smile coyly as she did. Once all was ready, with gentlemanly grace, he handed her into her seat. He took his place across from her and perched the baby's basket on his knees. From thence came stirring noises. Wickham affected a look of concerned discombobulation as he fussed with the baby's shawl. The carriage lurched forward.

On the door of the coach just below the window was stencilled the name “Lightning.” How fitting, thought Wickham. He believed he would be quite happy to see London once again.

A Season Ignored

When love is strong—yea, even when love is not—the birth of a baby is both an inestimable blessing and a thankless bother. When into the lives of parents longing for but one child there are born two, it is reasonable to expect both labours and adulations to increase two-fold. As the Darcys' circumstances were more fortunate than most, little were they bothered with labours they did not solicit, hence they had ample time to enjoy their generative windfall. Regardless how often their father insisted their babies consisted of nothing but caterwauling at one end and unexpected discharges at the other, it was clear to his wife that he was absolutely smitten with them both.

Although she was not fooled by her husband's ostensible reserve when it came to the pleasure he took in his children, neither was Elizabeth fully aware of just how foremost they were in Darcy's every reflection. It was unfortunate she was unwitting, for had she been, she would have been both pleased and uneasy. For he was uneasy—uneasy and apprehensive.

Darcy's world had once been inert, stubbornly fixed, revolving around Pemberley, its wants and needs, its consequence. Now his world was moveable, seemingly from day to day. It had fast become a wonder to Darcy how very quickly two separate souls could so compleatly redefine his interpretation of family. When once it had been embodied in but a single word—Pemberley—now that great estate was merely a single leg in his particular holy trinity—Pemberley, Elizabeth, children.

But just as marrying Elizabeth brought both unalloyed happiness and palpable fear that some misfortune might befall her, fatherhood brought the additional alarm that attends one who has much to lose. This alarm had, in that single heartbeat of a moment when his children were presented to him, increased three-fold. If Elizabeth doted on, and in turn, feared for, the well-being of her offspring, he did so in remarkably similar fashion. Elizabeth was much on the alert for immediate dangers; his worries only began there but scattered onto those eventual. Soon, his children would not keep to the nursery; they had just taken them upon the road to Brighton. He had not meant for Elizabeth to learn that he was armed upon their journey. He had kept his pistol at hand, but out of sight. But he could in no way ever again take to the road with his family in any other manner. As husband, father, and master of his domain, he was not inclined, however, to expose his apprehension. That was unseemly. It was the duty of a man to weather the daily perturbations of keeping his family alive and healthy with all the aplomb he could collect. As a man confident in his manhood and bearing no small self-possession, anything less was unacceptable. At whatever cost, he would not give in to public disquietude. He would apportion that to nurse and his children's mother. He would stand in silent watch over them all.

His ability to contain such cares, however, suffered inversely to the degree of his family's growth. As much as he admired the notion (indeed, to an unseemly degree) of fathering more children by his beloved Elizabeth, the thought of such a happy prospect occasionally unsettled him. It would be another soul to fear for, another heart to protect.

Highwaymen and disease were not the least of his worries, just the foremost. Although they paled in comparison to those ostensibly trivial ones of his intimate household, there were additional bothers that threatened—for all of the countryside was in general upheaval in the aftermath of the war. As Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam had witnessed at Bath, tens of thousands of former soldiers were returning to the labour market, which quite overwhelmed the Tory government. Most of these men were not officers and not looking for work as dancing masters. They were labourers.

As a major landowner, the Darcys were, by obligation to their class, of Tory persuasion. The exceedingly poor harvests over the past few seasons had largely escaped them as their income came from some mining, but primarily from rents for sheep and other grazing. But it created a severe economic downturn in most of England, and what with several decades of war, the interest payments on the national debt were so high that the government could do little to alleviate the suffering. The single decisive step Parliament took was to enact the Corn Laws designed to regulate the price of grain, thus profiting those whose land grew it. Regrettably, this decreased the price of everything but bread, the staple of the poor. And at this, the poor were unamused. Unamused and out of work, they rioted. They rioted most frequently and most vociferously in London and they did not wage their war against their own neighbours. They sallied forth into the West End and towards the homes of those who made their fortunes from their land.

No, Mr. Darcy was happy not to take his family to London for the season. The season, it is said, knows no season, but to him, the season was as good as dead. He had only suffered it as such in the past to see Georgiana find a suitable match and be married. Now he realised that he would have a nice long respite from society, and it was a felicitous thought. He would not have to weather it again until his children were of marriageable age.

Of the many weighty matters that were his to attend, one of particular repellence had remained unaddressed. Indeed, he had spent a great deal of time locating pressing matters to attend to for some months until he could put off the most repugnant one no longer.

He had been forced to the conclusion, since independently verified through Lady Millhouse, that the despicable Wickham was the—yes, he had to speak the word, to himself if to no one else. Wickham was the bastard son of his father. Wickham was, therefore, his half-brother. (Repeating it silently in his mind did nothing to remove the unmitigated repellence of that fact.) He had accepted it with his understanding, but not his heart. Never in his heart.

Returning to Elizabeth compensated that ignominy amply. To have returned to her as mother of his children made all other worries tolerable. He struggled to keep that perspective. Wickham was, if there was justice in this world, lying in an unmarked grave in Belgium, noble warrior to the world, murdering maggot to all that was holy. After disclosing the entire sordid affair to Elizabeth, together they had decided on a course. They would speak neither of Wickham's dishonour in battle nor his humiliating connection to the Darcys to anyone. Ever.

It may have been thought that Darcy would perchance have had to reconsider his place and heritage in light of the revelation about Wickham being of his blood. And in doing so that would have been reflected in a lessening of his arrogance rather than the reverse. However, it did not. He now found himself obliged to make up for Wickham's degeneracy by his own comportment. When once his consideration of his hallowed position has softened under Elizabeth's influence, his hauteur was reinstated. At least it was reinstated insofar as his outward mien. He had the spectre of Wickham's degenerate nature to overcome and two children to guide by example. He would begin the reconstruction of his family's dignity forthwith.

Mrs. Darcy's Duty

The Darcys returned to Pemberley before their children turned one. That approaching anniversary brought other, more sombre recollections. The remembrance of Elizabeth's father's passing was one of considerable sadness, but it meant that their official mourning period would end, giving them leave to open Pemberley once again to one and all just in time for their children's first birthday.

***

Although he did not share them with her, Mrs. Darcy was not entirely unaware of her husband's concerns. But she was much occupied at the moment in her office as hostess under whose watch visiting ladies were not in want of coffee and muffins. As the lady of the manor, it was her habit to make herself the proprietress of hospitality. But as there was a great deal of disorder within England, upon the right occasion she would have been happy to find an excuse to enjoy the talk of gentlemen. Pemberley received newspapers from London regularly, but in the far county of Derbyshire any news of Parliament was sorely behindhand. Although intelligence was sparse, additional details could often be gleaned within the discourse of the landed gentry surrounding her husband.

Her forehead crinkled slightly as she thought of what she might be missing. But as was her duty, she sat amongst the ladies, reminding herself that it was Sunday, so even the talk of men must be mundane. Albeit, this Sunday was one of particular note. It had been especially set aside to officially introduce their offspring to the neighbourhood. Elizabeth had planned for the event with extraordinary care. So keen was her desire to present her children to their greatest advantage, she secured an oversized wicker carriage from London in which to display them. Satin ruching covered the cowl and Austrian lace strewn with salmon ribands was so abundant about the edges, it was clear that Elizabeth found herself much more pleased with frippery when it promoted her precious ones. But despite the fuss and bother, like all best-laid expectations, things did not go according to plan.

Janie was, as usual, quite placid, but Geoff kept crawling about and spoiling the well-thought-out arrangement. This, of course, provoked no little tsk-tsking from the grey-haired fusspots long past embarrassment by their own children's misbehaviour. It was not a matter of forgetting herself, Elizabeth simply could not stop herself from gifting a glower in the direction of the scolding noises. Thus chastened, the audible disapproval ceased. Satisfied, Elizabeth resettled her son and straightened the bow under Janie's chin. Nothing so insignificant as small-minded matrons could dampen her pride in them, or her spirits.

As any parent could guess, however, on the one day when the most eyes were upon them, the Darcys' usually amicable children were not inclined to suffer company. Geoff's attempt at escape was but the half of it. For every chuck under their chins became an ever-escalating pique. More might have been made of their ill-temper had not by happy chance the Darcys been of such fine repute. Hence, this lack of friendly compliance by the tiny guests of honour did nothing to quash the admiration the twins garnered, save for those few who were determined to find fault on general principle. Having silenced that small group with her disapproving look, Elizabeth stood over the carriage and basked in the singular pleasure of hearing nothing but compliments for her children. She would have liked to know her husband took note of their success, but his mind seemed otherwise engaged. She could not catch his gaze once.

Even with nurse's help, Elizabeth had her hands full keeping the twins' costumes straight and their chins wiped. Eventually, she altogether gave up her attempt to keep them settled in the carriage. She plopped little Janie into the nearest friendly lap and looked about to see where young Geoff had crawled. She quickly spotted Margaret in an all-out pursuit of him across the lawn. He was in petticoats and occasionally tangled with the hem, but was making good time in that he had all four appendages in full use and Nurse had but two. With great dispatch her charge managed to reach, and thereby trespass, into the gentlemen's sanctuary. Much to nurse's horror, she could not quite catch hold of the tail of his frock to haul him back—he was far too quick.

Indeed, quite without warning Mr. Darcy was assaulted from behind by way of a colossal yank upon his coat. It was a sizeable enough tug to cause him to take a step back just to offset it. Fortunately, Darcy was nimble enough to regain both his footing and his composure without trampling his son, but this insult caused a collective gasp of astonishment to erupt from the witnesses. Mr. Darcy, however, gave little notice of this violation of his person beyond resituating his lapels. Without comment or a downward glance, he then resumed his office of the recipient of generalized obsequiousness. To the delight of those few brave souls who dared venture to look, a peek revealed the culprit of this
lèse majestè
as a dark-haired babe standing tenaciously by clinging to his father's coattail. Still in leg-swaying triumph, the baby grinned happily, wholly unaware of his colossal breach of decorum. He clung determinedly to the tail of his father's frock-coat, seemingly disinclined to loose himself from the means by which he had struggled to his feet. As Darcy refused to acknowledge this new accessory to his costume, a few gentlemen found need to scratch their noses or cover a small cough, but not a soul dared to laugh.

By then Margaret was so wholly mortified that she stood in a hands-extended dither, uncertain just how to rectify the situation. Geoff remained attached to his father and his father continued to ignore that he was indeed there. It thereby fell to Mrs. Darcy, who had come lately upon the scene of this felonious behaviour to daintily extricate her husband's frock-coat from their son's clenched little grasp. Although he was the perpetrator, Geoff was most displeased to be rescued from this ignominy and began to bawl. As Elizabeth hustled him off, she explained to those still taken with interest of the incident, as only mothers are wont to do, that the child was much overdue for a nap.

“Shall I take him, m'lady?” said nurse.

She did not wait for a reply before taking him into her plump arms. And as his howls of outrage faded into the distance, those ladies not previously under Mrs. Darcy's custody reshouldered their sagging parasols and with heads together formed a small pavilion where they could natter about unruly children without fearing for their complexions.

With Mr. Darcy's imperiousness fully reemployed, the men resumed their talk. And again, without ever altering his expression, Mr. Darcy occasionally offered a contributing nod.

As for Mrs. Darcy, as Nurse swept her son away off to his nap, she returned to Janie, who was behaving herself in a manner befitting one who even at that tender age knew that she was a Darcy. Upon gazing at that tiny, decorous countenance, Elizabeth rewarded her with a quick but tender kiss. Janie's expression was so solemnly familiar that she gave herself leave to steal a backward glance at her husband. There seemed to be no lasting havoc from her son's little adventure. Once that had been determined, her gaze lingered. She admired the broad expanse of her husband's back with some leisure. She had no fear she would be caught by him in this open veneration for his figure, knowing full well that he would not return her gaze. But that was of little consequence. He was in company. He did not expose his private inclinations to others.

That her pleasure at that moment was singular did not diminish it in the least.

It was long understood that when Mr. Darcy sent his cards out for an afternoon's entertainment, unlike some more convivial hosts, the invitation did not extend beyond dusk. The shadows had by then lengthened ominously and the air grew chill. The looming night would drive even their most diligent friends to call for their carriages. Although she was far more sociable than her husband, Elizabeth was quite happy for their guests to depart. As she gave one last pert look over her shoulder, she betokened a generous, if subtle, sigh. But then she seldom looked upon her husband's virile figure with other than unadulterated adoration.

As for her son's modest insult upon his father's sizable dignity, Nurse may have, but she fretted not. She knew that had her husband been truly displeased, he would have bowed with exaggerated courtesy rather than appear oblivious. Unlike his wife, who delighted in anything ridiculous, he was excruciatingly grave when confronted by indecorous behaviour, even when it involved his children. The thought of it all made her laugh—but only to herself.

On this occasion her laugh was accompanied by a regret. To behold her son's first wobbly attempt to stand had been a treasured moment, and yet she only shared that instant with nurse. Although Darcy was the means by which it was exacted, the moment was forever lost to him. She lamented that loss on his behalf and then wondered if to do so was maudlin. Were fathers to take sentimental note of such milestones? Or more to the point, did Darcy? His moods were of late so unpredictable that it could be quite perplexing to endeavour to determine just what turn his inclinations might take.

As she gained the shade of the loggia, the increasing chill gave her a shiver. Elizabeth longed for the night with even greater anticipation. It would only be with the dark that the tender feelings Darcy spent his days endeavouring to deny would have any opportunity to be coaxed forth. Their history suggested that the more repressed his emotions, the more explosive their release. This day had required far more than even his accustomed reserve. That was a tantalizing prospect.

She would enjoy what time they had in quiet, for it would soon be a precious commodity. She had received a post from her mother saying that she would be arriving within the week. And Lydia would soon follow…