Darcy & Elizabeth (41 page)

However abhorrent Lydia may have thought her new husband before their wedding, her opinion had quite altered by the next Sunday. Her bridegroom had been adamant that they attend church, but Lydia fell fast asleep in the middle of the sermon. So satisfactorily did she snore that any wife within earshot thought Kneebone not half as homely as they did before. Indeed, contented at last, Lydia would have wholeheartedly agreed.

The Painting

Sir Robert Morland sat in his coach as it once again rumbled upon the road to Pemberley. Swaying to and fro as the carriage made its way around and through various-sized puddles, he impatiently tapped the enormous ruby ring adorning his forefinger against the window whilst imagining what lay ahead. He was not merely anxious, he was all but giddy with anticipation.

It had been both a disastrous and roundly exhilarating experience when last he hied to Derbyshire. The likeness he had taken of Mrs. Darcy had been excellent—his best to date. Therefore, he had been much desirous of putting it on exhibit in London. Mr. Darcy had forbidden the notion out of hand. To his mind, the matter was simple. It was he who paid for the painting and it fell to his discretion where it would and would not be seen. Morland had gone into near hysterics. He had ranted and raved, he had wept and pouted, but to no avail. Mr. Darcy was implacable upon the subject. Sir Morland left in a snit, intending to throw himself off the first available cliff.

Mr. Darcy was not so chary of his wife's image that he refused it to be seen—quite the opposite. Every visitor to Pemberley was led first through the portrait gallery, Mrs. Darcy's portrait prominently displayed. Clearly, Mr. Darcy was proud of the likeness; he simply desired dominion over whose eyes were privy to it. Because visitors to Pemberley were many, eventually word of this masterpiece had escaped. To Morland's everlasting delight, its prominence only improved with every retelling. But that had been five years ago, and he was much in want of a new commission to enhance his already stunning curriculum vitae.

Hence, when he had seen Miss Georgiana Darcy, now Mrs. Col. Fitzwilliam, in Bath and learnt that the beautiful Mrs. Darcy had proliferated, he was immediately intrigued. She was a comely woman, and although her husband could be rather menacing, the man had regular features and was of quite masculine build. Their offspring could not be other than of the most handsome sort. It would not even be necessary for him to walk that purgatorial line between authenticity and flattery to render a painting of them his magnum opus. The recollection of the quarrel that he had partaken in loomed over him like a behemoth. Would Mr. Darcy be forgiving? Sir Morland recalled quite clearly that Mrs. Darcy had said that she intended to have a family portrait done to hang in the portrait gallery one day. His feelings for and about ever returning to Pemberley had unquestionably altered.

Gulping a huge helping of crow, he took pen to paper. He wrote to Mrs. Darcy (not Mr. Darcy—no, never) offering his services once again. Her reply was swift and favourable. They were to be at Brighton for several months and asked him to come immediately to Pemberley upon their return. Once again, he eschewed his policy of having his patron come to his studio in Bath. Indeed, so happy to endure such travail was he that he had very nearly leapt for joy at the prospect. To have his pocket richly rewarded and the privilege of enhancing his own reputation interested all his dearest emotions. The only possible bugbear was whether Mrs. Darcy's countenance had maintained its bloom. Betimes motherhood was less than kind to a lady's charms. To have birthed two infants could not possibly have benefited her complexion. If that was the case, he could always refer to his original portrait of her for direction. If need be, he could employ his unparalleled talents to render her unto canvas in a form befitting his considerable genius.

Indeed, from what he understood, there was to be a precipitous increase within the ranks of the aristocracy. Next to the royal family, those were his very favourite kind of people.

***

In the months after Napoleon's return to exile, the Darcy family and its immediate circle had proliferated beyond a recognisable number. Pemberley's august halls were now laden with squeals and squalls and all manner of ruckus from a pair of toddlers who were seldom disposed to be shushed. Adding to near anarchy was a gaggle of nieces and nephews who grew so fast and were in and out with such rapidity, Mr. Darcy not only failed to remember their names, he doubted he could identify with any accuracy just which of his relatives were their parents.

Had that not been test enough, Mrs. Bennet was to come to Pemberley. This visit was inevitable, but her lengthy observation of mourning had allowed Elizabeth to avoid that pesky little disagreement over a wet-nurse. Mrs. Bennet would only know that she had employed one, but not that Lizzy was the babies' primary source of nourishment. Elizabeth had been fully prepared to weather her disapproval, but fate intervened by way of the early set of teeth precociously grown by her son. When he began employing those teeth during feeding, Elizabeth concluded with the utmost rapidity that he was old enough to be weaned onto a cup. As he was quite happy to use a cup except when he saw his sister doing otherwise, they concluded that Janie would be weaned at the same time. Thus when she arrived, Mrs. Bennet would be denied the opportunity to engage in a fit of nerves over the matter and Mrs. Littlepage continued on as a second nurse.

Also soon to be on hand was Lydia, who, at last upon the arm of a husband not entirely repugnant to them, was happy for the Darcys to send a coach for her. Darcy had been surprisingly good-humoured about the prospect of having Mrs. Bennet and Lydia under his roof once again. If Elizabeth attributed this new-found magnanimity to a general relaxing of his usual hauteur, she was to be disappointed. Happy he was for Elizabeth's sister to come to Pemberley rather than to have his wife on the road to London. He would endure any inanity if it meant his wife was safe at home. Still, he steeled himself to endure what would certainly be Lydia's continued impetuosity.

“Pray, why does she engage in such rash behaviour?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “One may as well inquire, ‘Why does the canary sing?' Who knows what is behind any of Lydia's actions? I do believe that we have abused her so often for it that she has quite given up being a flirt for simply yielding on the spot.”

Indeed, when they arrived home from Brighton, they had not fully come to an agreement on just how, or even who, would betake themselves to London to see to Lydia. As much as he loathed the entire notion, Darcy had been fully prepared to undertake the office of corralling Lydia himself if it meant Elizabeth would be out of harm's way. But by happy chance before that particular fence was taken, a post arrived announcing Lydia's upcoming nuptials. Although they chose not to attend, the wedding gift they sent with their best wishes was substantial enough to leave Lydia quite happy for them to plead their regrets. In the Gardiners' estimation, Lydia's suitor was a very reliable gentleman of the highest sort. Everyone was astonished that Lydia could be so practical as to marry a man who would actually be a good husband, but they questioned it not (employing the axiom of “not looking a gift horse in the mouth”).

Robert Morland entered into this bedlam in quite the same temper he had before. He was accompanied by two assistants, five trunks, and no good word for anyone. When last he came to Derbyshire, he had been in great anticipation of whether Mrs. Darcy's beauty had been exaggerated. Once again he was most anxious to see to see if her beauty had waned and if the aspects of his newest subjects would rival their mother's.

As before, the Darcys had arranged for him to set up his paints in a northern-facing sitting-room. He left his men to see to those arrangements and immediately requested an audience with all the Darcy family members whom he was to paint. He was ushered forthwith into Mr. Darcy's study. Mr. Darcy was standing next to a large, ornately carved mahogany desk with his hands folded behind his back. His stance suggested that his disposition had not altered after a half-dozen years. As he had before, he did not meet Sir Morland mid-most in the room, but stood with his chin elevated with impervious disdain and one large foot foremost, waiting for Morland to come before him. Although he seldom allowed himself to be humbled in any man's presence, Morland was so eagre for this commission that he veritably scurried the length of the room and executed a graceful, low bow.

“Mr. Darcy,” said he.

“Sir Morland,” Mr. Darcy replied.

That was the extent of their exchange, for then through the door arrived Mrs. Darcy. She was as lovely as he had remembered and was accompanied by two nurses and two babies. Upon spying them, Morland took a great, gasping inhalation. He clasped his hands before him and then looked heavenward, whereupon he closed his eyes and silently mouthed a prayer of thanks. He was altogether delighted at their tiny aspects.

So delighted was Morland that he could not help but gush, “Had your children been paupers, Mr. Darcy, they would still be called exceptionally handsome!”

Mildly offended but uncertain as to why, Mr. Darcy said (with his usual effusiveness), “Yes.”

Sir Morland had not waited for Mr. Darcy's reply, for he had headed directly towards the children, arms outstretched before him. To the Darcys' distress, he looked for all the world as if he were going to take one of them into his arms. As neither of the twins took easily to strangers, Elizabeth reached out and grasped one of the painter's hands and began vigorously to shake it. That lured Morland from his quarry long enough for him to regain his composure.

“We are happy that you approve, Sir Morland,” Elizabeth said dryly.

But Morland heard her not, his painterly eye was already taking an assessment of his subjects. He immediately saw that both children had eyes the precise shade of ripe hazelnuts as their father's. And like his as well, both sets of eyes were encircled by a tangle of dark lashes. Although they were fair-skinned, both had very dark hair—but more brown than black. He then began to circle them, more like a cat and its prey than painter and subject. Their eyes widened as he moved about them, Janie warily putting her two middle fingers in her mouth—the better to take his measure. Suddenly, he gave a great clap of his hands, announcing, “Pray, take me to my paints! I must have my paints!”

Wordlessly, Darcy effected the smallest flick of his head towards the door and a footman moved forward, bowed to Sir Morland, and swung a graceful, gloved hand in the direction of the door. Morland flung his cape over his shoulder, nodded once each to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, and pranced from the room.

“Well,” said Elizabeth, “it begins.”

“Yes,” replied her husband.

Sally Frances, One Step Closer to the Truth

Fortune is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for certain is that it's bound to change. Sally Frances Arbuthnot had learnt that lesson well as she had spied on the Darcy house in Mayfair. It had been a tedious business standing outside the wall surrounding that grand house, hoping against hope to strike up a conversation with one of the servants.

Luck had played a better portion than chance that Daisy Mulroney had been familiar with where the Darcy family was domiciled in London. That her long-dead brothers had both been employed by that family had been more than fortuitous, it had been a godsend. (Daisy was altogether vague when Sally inquired after her kin, saying only that they were older than she and she did not know them well.) But had Sally not been privy to that tidbit of information, she would have had either to walk or to beg a ride all the way to Derbyshire to uncover the pertinent facts she sought. Few were unacquainted with the loose-lipped rattling that servitors of great houses were disposed, and she thought it possible that she just might uncover in town what had befallen her brother. Then if she chose to travel all the way to Derbyshire, it would be at her leisure. Although she would have given her life to kneel at his grave, she did not hold out hope that John's last resting place was in England.

New Oxford St., legend had it, was the “great divide” between the haves and the have-nots. Once Sally passed it and headed towards those nobs of the West End, she automatically smoothed the front of her apron. The street sign was the actual demarcation, but just as certain was an alteration in habitués. On her side of Oxford St., urchins chased coal waggons, fighting over those pieces that the uneven cobbles had joggled from the sideboards. To the west the streets were not only clean of hordes of scavengers, they were swept clean as a freshly scoured stoop. It was as if the horses which drew the fine coaches waited to relieve themselves until they had left the West End. So certain was she of this notion, Sally pondered how one went about training a horse to befoul on command. She did not doubt there were men employed by these inhabitants of Mayfair for that single purpose. She shook her head at such an extravagance and once again looked at her patched apron in order to detect any tell-tale stains.

Nell had taught her well that a clean apron was a passage to most anywhere she might need to go. But the boots that Daisy had lent her rubbed a blister on one foot and she had begun to limp. As she sat upon a fringe of grass and rubbed her toe, she looked about for a street sign. Once again, she drew the folded piece of paper from her pocket and read, “Park Lane.” Not seeing those words at that corner, she closed her eyes, memorizing that name before folding the piece of paper and stuffing it into her boot to cushion her toe. She got to her feet and tried out her patch, found it satisfactory, and then struck out once again.

It was the first time that she had ever ventured into the West End. The streets were bustling with handsome liveries and magnificent carriages, and so much richness initially gave her pause. She soon got accustomed to the more wholesome air, and gave herself leave to sniff some geraniums that sprang from a window box in front of one of the shops.

She turned up her nose, “Looks prettier'n it smells.”

In that she walked with a clean apron and the same air as someone who had every right to be there, no one paid her much mind. That alone gave her a bit of bravura, and she felt herself growing more brazen with every step she took unchallenged. When at last she came upon the street that she sought, she had tired of walking and breathed a sigh of relief that the end of her trek was in sight. But to her great disappointment, finding the proper street was only the half of it. She stood looking in both directions, uncertain of which way to go, for both ways were identically wide and tree lined. Every house that she saw was grander than the last. So used to the deplorable warrens of her neighbourhood, she felt her lungs constrict at the sight. She had expected to see riches beyond her wildest imaginings, but the opulence she beheld staggered her.

Her awe was arrested by the familiar squeal of an over-laden wheel of a cart behind her. Turning about, she saw a scurvy-looking man trundling along pushing a one-wheeled barrow before him. A shovel was slung diagonally over the top of it and its reek was the unmistakable one of manure. She watched him as he wearily crossed the cobbles to go to work on another steaming pile of horse-leavings. It did not look to be his first day of employment. As he finished scooping up and dumping the dung into his cart and betook himself down the lane, Sally stepped up beside him and paced her walk to mimic his slow plodding steps.

“Ye know this street well, sir?” she cautiously inquired.

“Well enough,” was his terse reply.

“I am sent by my master,” she lied, “to seek the house of Darcy. Do ye know it?”

“Aye,” said he, then nothing more.

Sally waited for what she likened a respectable amount of time, then asked a bit witheringly, “Care to prove it?”

Without breaking his slow but steady pace, the man lifted his arm as if it weighed ten stone and raised his equally heavy forefinger in an easterly direction, saying, “Just over there.”

Sally looked thither and beheld a home that rivalled the workhouse in subjugating its surroundings. Thanking the man over her shoulder, she betook herself in that direction but stopt upon the sidewalk before it, not actually daring to enter the property. Rather, she stood before it as if to absorb some truth in the sheer prominence of the five-storey structure. As she savoured the sight, she noticed that a coach stood beneath the portico. Although she had seen many an impressive carriage upon the street, this one was particularly grand. Four perfectly matched horses were harnessed to the coach. (She knew they were horses, but they bore little resemblance to the nags pulling waggons upon her street.) Two uniformed men sat in the driving-seat, and another stood at attention near the door. Sally realised that if she were patient, soon she would witness a personage of great import emerge from yonder edifice. Having never actually seen any one of eminence, she was much in want of doing so. Therefore, she made herself inconspicuous behind a stone hitching post to await the spectacle to come.

She was not to be disappointed, for in a matter of minutes a small drama unfolded as an elfish, nervous little man exited the door. Sally gave a great intake of breath, assuming that personage to be the owner of the house.

“Aye,” she whispered, “the great man 'imself.”

Watching with meticulous zeal, she observed every detail of his person—from the buckles upon his slippers to the elaborate arranging of his hair. Expecting someone as rich as Mr. Darcy to own some part of majesty, she did not much like what she saw. His costume may have been as fine as she had ever seen upon man or woman, but his bearing was altogether unremarkable. Indeed, not only was his aspect in total want of majesty, he was pigeon-chested, chicken-legged, and the feathering of his hair did nothing to disguise his balding pate. The only things he appeared to have in any prodigious amount was an aura of gravitas and an overweening smirk. But his demeanour left no doubt to Sally that he was a man of substance.

He proceeded directly to the open door of the coach, but stopt before he entered, turning to vehemently lecture two servants fast on his heels. Although both stood impassively during the gentleman's harangue, Sally was certain that she detected in their countenances a palpable dislike. Before the gentleman quit the two servants, he poked each several times in the chest for emphasis. By the time he took his leave in the coach, it was with such haste that Sally leapt back from the road lest she be overrun. Indeed, she believed she was nearly as happy to see him go as the recipients of his tirade.

Once the carriage was out of sight, she thought it was safe to take herself about the corner to find access to the alley and thereupon, the garden gate. All the houses upon the street were similarly set upon their grounds—house facing the street with courtyard, coach-house, and stable accessed by a separate alleyway. The mews was not hard to locate, for the small garden in the back was as impressive as the rest of the property. She was determined to linger there as long as she could in hopes that she might strike up a conversation with any servant who might pass her way. Her plan was not fully mapped out. She had only come to the Darcy town house for the purpose of reconnoitring—the first leg of what she knew to be a long journey of uncovering what had become of her brother. She knew herself to own no small amount of patience and intended to stand there all day were it necessary. But after hours at attention and with rain beginning to pelt her, she reconsidered whether at fate's mercy was an advantageous position. She pressed herself beneath the boughs of some unfamiliar flowering bush and tried to avoid the downpour. Her resolve, however, was not put to so severe a test. To her good fortune, a carter soon ambled up the way and halted next to her. He had a piece of canvas over his head for a head-piece, it peeking over his forehead like the bill of a duck. Wordlessly, he peered out at her for a moment and, thereupon, handed her two large packages.

“Thankee, miss,” he said as he toddled off.

Standing momentarily speechless at her luck, she called after him, “Nay, thank
you
!”

Initiating every bit of daring that she could muster, she then betook herself directly to the stair-steps leading down to the kitchen. Hearing snatches of singing within, she hesitated before rapping soundly upon the door. It was flung back directly by a potbellied woman who carried an enormous bowl containing some sort of floured mixture. The corpulent woman said nothing to Sally, but called over her shoulder.

“Adele, delivery! Adele!”

Presently Adele arrived at the door. She had an openness to her face that suggested a happy temper and looked to be not more than twenty. Adele gazed upon the now thoroughly-drenched Sally and clucked like someone twice her age.

“Come here, gerl—you'll catch yer death!” beckoned Adele, motioning Sally inside.

Sally happily complied. Adele took the packages from her and set them on the table, paying little heed to Sally, who was then inching her backside closer to the fire, hoping she would be ignored at least long enough for the rain to cease. In hopes of disguising her curiosity, Sally kept her head down as she sneaked peeks about her. She had heard of just such a room as this one—it was a brushing room where fine folks were relieved of any dirt from the road. One wall housed the bell-board, an apparatus that had also been described to her and she was thoroughly intrigued. Her fascination she tried to keep to herself lest it become apparent that she had never beheld such device. Her interest, however, was so keen that she was startled when Adele offered her a cup of hot coffee.

“Warm yerself, gerl.”

Gratefully, Sally took it and began to drink, alternately sipping and blowing. Adele looked on with satisfaction; clearly she was a woman of a kind disposition. Sally felt compelled to converse and was searching for some point upon which to remark when Adele took the conversational reins with a bit of chatter. It soon fell apparent that Adele's chief talent was that of enthusiastic discourse. So profuse and far-reaching was her conversation, Sally soon saw that if she just kept nodding her head with encouragement, Adele would natter on endlessly. Initially she held out hope that Adele would eventually come around to the subject paramount amongst her interests. Time was fast approaching when she would have to give up pretending she had any coffee left in her cup with Adele still deep in a one-sided discussion about the abysmal weather, hence, Sally cautiously interrupted.

Glancing at the silent bell-board, she asked, “The family aren't 'ere now?”

“Oh, no. No, they stay mostly at Pemberley these days,” Adele said, little furrows criss-crossed her forehead declaring her disappointment. “I've not seen them but twice m'self. What with the new babies and all. I s'pose ye heard 'bout the babies—twins, they was! Canna you believe it? Twins! My own master and mistress! And they be handsome ones, I hear. Not like those Fairburg twins—they were ugly as two babes could be. Not the Darcy twins—no, sir. The girl is handsome like my mistress and the boy be handsome like my master! None handsomer…”

At this disclosure, Sally's ingenuousness bade her interrupt again. “Master Darcy? Handsome? Aye saw 'im leave this house to-day and handsome I cannot call 'im.”

Sally immediately regretted such an outburst, certain she had insulted so new and important a friend. Adele looked at her as if she had somehow run mad, then she let out a laugh. She laughed so heartily that Sally did not much like being the butt of such mirth.

“Oh, no!” Adele warbled. “Law, ye didn't see Master Darcy—oh, no, no, no! That was my master's house steward, Mr. Smeads! That under-hung gnome isn't fit to hold Mr. Darcy's walking stick!”

“'Pon my honour,” commented Sally.

She was thoroughly mortified to have made such an unpardonable error and wholeheartedly pleased to see Adele did not hold it against her. Indeed, Adele was happy to acquaint Sally with all the doings of the Darcy family that Sally had been in want of knowing, as well as several that had never crossed her mind.