Darcy & Elizabeth (8 page)

Still, there wasn't a rich man, poor man, beggar man, or thief in Derbyshire County who didn't know the particulars.

Mr. Darcy Loves Miss Bennet

As were many of the largest estates at the time, Pemberley was entailed to the male line.

Therefore, the burden of producing an heir did not encumber the willowy figure of Georgiana Darcy—it fell squarely onto the exceedingly broad shoulders of her older brother and only sibling, Fitzwilliam Darcy. (To those whose leanings embraced the tenets of good breeding, Mr. Darcy's exceedingly virile figure was seen as a great advantage.) Indeed, as Miss Darcy was for all intents and purposes exempt, successionally speaking. Her single duty was to marry well. Her brother alone bore the responsibility of begetting an heir apparent. Of course, to do this properly, his foremost objective would have been to obtain a suitable wife. Providentially, the amplitude of Mr. Darcy's fortune was exceeded only by the liberality with which nature had blessed his propagational apparatus. Whatever capital happened to incite their interest most keenly—that in his breeches or that with his banker—it was of no great astonishment that there had been no dearth of applicants for the office of Mr. Darcy's wife. Of the allurement of his wealth and position, he was well aware.

In spite of the spate of ladies throwing themselves in his path, finding a potential wife who was not only of similar station, but met all the others of Mr. Darcy's notoriously stringent standards, had been no easy quest. By the time he had reached the age of eight and twenty, he had come to understand that what reason demanded his matrimonial ideal to be was quite out of harmony with that of his heart.

When he beheld Elizabeth Bennet, his struggle was substantial. For her countenance may have been lovely, but her less than illustrious connections were not easily dismissed by a man whose filial pride, it could be said, was felt a little too keenly.

The road to a happy engagement had not been without its occasional rut. Indeed, for a man of Darcy's standing to disregard the inferiority of Miss Bennet's station and marry her for love and love alone not only flaunted convention, it very nearly kicked it in the knee. Mr. Darcy's arrogance and Elizabeth's prejudice against him were gradually overcome. Their regard was very nearly put to ruin before a match could be formed when Elizabeth's barely sixteen-year-old sister Lydia impetuously ran off to live in unmarried condition with Darcy's arch-nemesis, George Wickham. A scandalous act such as that would have disgraced the entire Bennet family. Unforgiving society would have condemned her sisters to partake in her ruin.

The only good that came out of the entire debacle was Elizabeth's discovery that it had been through Darcy's auspices that Wickham and Lydia were eventually wed.

When at last Darcy and Elizabeth's marriage bed was initiated, it was with equal parts tender desire and unrestrained lust. Thus, it was proven unequivocally that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's union would be one of passionate heat, not cold indifference. And as befitting a pair so well matched in ardour but at odds in disposition and temperament, once the marriage was in place, Elizabeth and Darcy set about fulfilling their connubial obligations with considerable zeal.

Their dedication to begetting certainly could not be faulted, indeed, it was extraordinarily thorough. Yea, no couple could have executed their duty with greater frequency or more passion. Their happy existence, however, was trespassed by procreative failures. Not only was it their plight to battle nature's impetuosity, but they were confronted with a more pitiless evil as well—their own singular torment for bringing to naught the Darcy ancestral duty. Although neither spoke a word of their own disquiet, guilt festered within the breast of each unreasonably.

Because she had been impregnated but unable to deliver a baby successfully, Elizabeth had considered herself the culpable party. That his own virility was proven was of no particular comfort to Darcy, for he weathered guilt in equal measure. The very prominence of his own frame imbedded within him the fear that his attributes alone were accountable for the suffering she endured. That fear weighed so heavily on his heart that endowing Elizabeth with such a grave encumbrance as the Darcy family legacy became the lesser evil. Yet it was still a significant one.

Understandably, it was with a joy bordering on the rapturous that upon his return from abroad Darcy was met with the happy news that he had finally (if unknowingly) saved the family name from oblivion. Granted, it had been somewhat confounding for him not to be privy to this extreme turn of events prior to the newborn infants being thrust before him. But it was exceedingly agreeable in all other regards. Elizabeth had not disclosed to him she was with child before he left for the Continent because she did not want to further burden him. He was conflicted quite enough over taking leave of hearth and home in dangerous pursuit of his errant sister.

When he had gazed upon his firstborn son and second-born daughter, it was with unadulterated admiration and no small astonishment. His relief had been so sweeping and profound for the health and well-being of all concerned that he had not even thought to inquire of their gender. It was not until someone offered up the small detail that one was a son did the realisation descend upon him that he had, at long last, paid his patriarchal dues in full. (Indeed, as he looked down from one babe to the other, he thought from those dues, he may well have been owed some change.)

He was truly grateful that he had finally made his contribution to further generations carrying the Darcy name—but of far greater importance was that his beloved Elizabeth no longer bore that burden with him. Indeed, the gods were appeased, the populace elated, and Elizabeth excused from further service to that onus to which she had obligated herself.

***

In the days and weeks that followed, Darcy allowed himself to imagine what their union might have eventually become had not the joyful event come about. He held no small fear that, in time, Elizabeth might have taken umbrage at being plagued by a debt not of her own making. If, indeed, she had been thusly disposed, there was little likelihood he could have faulted her for such a leaning—he was not so certain he would have behaved with such charity had their positions been reversed. He thought he would not like to have had the albatross of a family dynasty hanging solely upon the fruitfulness of his internal organs. Hence, beyond the boundless love and undying devotion he felt for her, he was exceedingly grateful that she bore him no lingering ill will.

Nonetheless, finding himself suddenly a father to not one, but two children was only the first of many stupefactions with which he had to contend upon his return. As was his nature, he confronted each odd twist life had presented him in his usual exacting fashion, one by one, as they arose.

And arise they did, certain as the sun.

Lady Catherine's Pique

When a post bearing the Darcy seal wended its way to the county Kent, it was taken on the doorstep of the manor-house by the hand of a man wearing the distinctly handsome livery of Rosings Park. It was a magnificent dwelling, and while less admirable than Pemberley, the abundance of ornamentation upon its façade persuaded all who visited of the importance of its inhabitant.

As this post was directed to the lady of this impressive house, it was with great delicacy that it was placed upon a linen-draped silver tray and carried thusly upon the gloved fingertips of a footman through the vestibule. With elaborate ceremony the letter was surrendered unto the similarly gloved hand of the butler, Yewdell, who awaited a few steps down the foyer. From thence, the letter was carried down the corridor through the gallery and into the grand salon, gathering ever more portent as it did.

Once inside the room, the dainty footfalls of the butler ceased. He turned, and with eyes trained dispassionately ahead, extended the tray, wordlessly presenting the missive. Directly in Yewdell's eye-line sat an ancient red macaw (a notorious imperilment to visitors) incongruously mute save for an occasional resituating of his feathers. Hence there ensued a fierce eyeing standoff, one Yewdell refused to surrender to a cantankerous bird. This little confrontation took place in silence—a quiet absolute save for the insistent drumming of a forefinger of his mistress. So insistent was it, it stole Yewdell's attention from the parrot. The butler did not look towards her, but remained still as a stone (excepting a barely perceptible sneer at the bird) waiting to be beckoned. Yewdell did not presume to wonder why his lady dallied. He only knew that the new velvet slippers that had arrived a size too small hurt his feet. Yet, her finger drummed on.

Customarily, it would be a considerable folly to attempt to sketch a person's nature merely by observing the doings of a single digit. On this occasion, however, it was not. The owner of this particular be-ringed finger was aristocratic, autocratic, and overweening. Indeed, that her finger drummed incessantly on the carved ivory scroll adorning the top of a bleached-teak walking stick seemed quite beside the point.

In any other circumstance such a benignly annoying activity, even by a so ornately decorated finger, might not be noteworthy. But both the stick and the finger belonged to the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh and Mistress of Rosings Park. Of the importance of rank (hers above all others), Lady Catherine was most sensible. Indeed, pride of circumstance draped itself across her countenance like a veil, snaked down her arm, and initiated the impatient rap on her stick. With all due pomp, she sat pondering the letter and its seal, which lay upon the silver tray before her.

All about her, but beyond her notice, Rosings had come to life. It was as if by magic that the news that a post had arrived from Pemberley had spread through the great house. Those like Yewdell who were privy to her ladyship's ongoing and one-sided feud with her nephew's wife held their collective breaths. Lady Catherine was not of a conciliatory disposition. Nor was she used to having her judgement controverted. Every person in her service was aware of Mr. Darcy's visit the previous week. Indeed, everyone in her service, in the service of Pemberley, and a goodly portion of the countryside between the two estates knew the exact nature of his call. It was difficult to decide which was the greater astonishment—what Mr. Darcy said to his aunt or that his aunt made no retort. The poor woman had sat for the whole of an hour in stuttering stupefaction. (Her servants fled behind the baize door, sniggering merrily at their dictatorial mistress's comeuppance.)

Customarily Lady Catherine was happy to have the opportunity to interfere in the smallest concerns of her family and neighbours. Indeed, no detail was too small to escape her attention. However, upon the occasion of the letter lately come to her house, she had procrastinated. Her servants' desire to know just what the letter held had reached the level of near hysteria. Lady Catherine's curiosity, however, was not so keen. It occurred to her that it might contain further threats upon her dignity and she needed a moment to compose herself to address them. When finally she did take the letter in hand, however, she wasted little time in ripping open the seal.

The contents of the note (and that it was no more than a note) were quite perplexing to her. Less than a se'nnight after her nephew's mortifying call, here arrived an announcement from him of the most censurable nature.

She gripped the vellum announcing the baptism with such ferocity that the script was all but strangled upon the page.

A Horse of a Different Colour

All events, calamitous and merely annoying, Darcy withstood with no small grace. Upon one issue, however, he was absolutely intolerant. Indeed, he was all but immoveable in his resistance. Surprisingly, the issue that caused such agitation and distress involved not a matter of the family—at least not their human family—but of one much loved all the same.

To understand compleatly one would have to know that of the many traits upon which Mr. Darcy prided himself, one he felt with particular keenness was his judgement of horseflesh.

He was put upon a horse's back for the first time when he was but three years old. This early introduction to the saddle set precedent for all time. The sheer magnificence of the seventy-odd horses that were kept in his stables reflected the priority he saw in their care and their lineage. His interest was not, however, merely administrational. Although he partook of the hunt, he did so only because it was expected of him—he had hunters that were bred for that purpose. He rode for the sheer pleasure of it. Blackjack had been his favourite mount for a decade. As a stallion, Blackjack was a high-spirited and challenging mount, not a characteristic that Mr. Darcy avoided. Indeed, he never once considered having him gelded. He had obtained him as a colt and schooled him personally. In the days before he and Elizabeth married, there was no diversion he enjoyed more than sitting astride that horse as he took the trails beyond the park and woodlands to the surrounding leas across his vast estate. He was quite happy to take these excursions unaccompanied. If he was to be accompanied, he favoured the companionship of his cousin and friend, Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Darcy had always understood it was his duty to take a wife, but it had never occurred to him that he would eventually want to share this solitary pleasure with her. It was not a particularly feminine pastime. The few young ladies who rode to hunt were in the mould of dear Lady Millhouse, whose robust visage was not the same image in which he had cast his future bride. Any young woman of his acquaintance who admitted an inclination to take fresh air was not much of a mind to enjoy it upon horseback, but to be drawn in a carriage. He thought no more of it. Nor did he remind himself that he had inherited his love of horses from his own mother.

Once his marriage to Elizabeth was in place, however, he had a compleat alteration of opinion. It was then his wish that his wife join him whilst he inspected every lovely vista to which a day's ride would take them. That Elizabeth rode but little was of no impediment. He taught her to ride. (This tutorial was not the most favourite of those upon which he initiated her, but was the single one that he did not eschew speaking of in company.) The only thing lacking had been an animal worthy to carry Mrs. Darcy. Elizabeth was excessively pleased when she beheld Darcy's selection, for it was a fine-looking dusky-coloured mare. The horse was marked with a star on her forehead and white stockings up to her knees. Her name had been Dulcinea, but in what could only be called a fit of whimsy, Elizabeth renamed her “Boots.” At the time, it had been supposed by the gentlemen that the mare had been named for her white feet. After the Darcys engaged in an extended thank-you session that, at her particular request, required his costume to entail nothing more than his tall riding boots, he bethought the matter. Regardless of from whence it sprang, the horse's name remained Boots and the affection Elizabeth held for the animal increased with time.

Due to both the vastness of his stables and the particular regard he held for the lineage of his horses, Mr. Darcy always deliberated with grave intensity upon their bloodlines. He plotted mare and sire with no less diligence than Wellington had for engaging Napoleon. He had long desired and planned for his Elizabeth's mare (for reasons of propriety, he refused to call her by her sobriquet, “Boots”) to be bred by his own horse, Blackjack. It would have been a melding of the finest points and characteristics of two immaculate lines.

However, upon this intention, Mr. Darcy was thwarted.

After his return, when the onslaught of precipitating events had gradually waned, his attention finally turned to matters of the estate. In his first inspection of his stables, it came to his notice that his wife's mare was with foal. Although he had not dared to take Blackjack with him across the water, he had given no such order in his absence for Elizabeth's mare to be bred. Indeed, he had left no orders for any breeding whatsoever. This, as in all things equine, he trusted no one to execute without his personal direction. Yet before him stood poor besmirched Boots bearing the unmistakable signs that she was to foal. With this single turn of events, Mr. Darcy erupted into a display of displeasure heretofore unseen in him—if one discounts the other single instance of a loss of temper by Mr. Darcy in front of his men.

That first of several unsettling events had occasioned upon the very evening that Darcy presented Elizabeth's horse. They had been still admiring the animal when all first heard, then caught sight of one of the footmen, the ignominious Tom Reed, whipping a horse. Mr. Darcy reacted before Colonel Fitzwilliam or Elizabeth had quite ascertained what was coming to pass. He raced to the scene (the first occasion on which Elizabeth had seen him move so swiftly), took the whip, and then laid it across Reed's back before banishing him from his service. The story did not end then and there, but so rich in the memory of all who witnessed Mr. Darcy thrashing the hulking Reed, it still provoked within them a distinct disinclination ever to incur Mr. Darcy's wrath. Hence, upon this occasion whilst he ranted, as only Mr. Darcy could (with a kind of peculiarly reserved fury), any grooms and stable boys about became unusually industrious lest they draw his unhappy attention.

Darcy's man at the stables was Edward Hardin. He had been in the Darcys' service in some capacity all his life (and had been there to witness that event some years before). Moreover, Edward Hardin personally discharged all of Mr. Darcy's instructions pertaining to his horses. Indeed, if any problems arose within the confines of the stables, Edward Hardin answered for them. Had not Mr. Darcy by chance seen Reed first that evening, Edward Hardin would have taken after Reed himself. He may not have laid a whip across him, for Reed was a brutish sort, having near a foot in height and several stone in weight advantage over the wiry Hardin. But Hardin would not have hesitated in having Reed run compleatly out of the county.

Edward Hardin believed he knew Mr. Darcy as well as most anyone, excepting Mrs. Darcy. He respected his master implicitly, but he did not truly fear him. Yet the sheer rarity of any overt display of temper by Mr. Darcy was, like the man himself, to be respected. He knew well what Mr. Darcy's design had been for Mrs. Darcy's favourite horse. He knew the master intended to have that fine-configured saddle horse, Blackjack, as sire for Boots. Therefore, his horror had grown at the exact pace as Boots's belly swelled.

As neither Mr. nor Mrs. Darcy had been to the horses of late, as they were much engaged with their own new little ones, it fell to poor Edward Hardin to share this odious state of affairs with his employer when first he visited the stables. Hardin did not exactly quake at the thought, but it was a consideration. Whilst he reported it, the hands in which he wrung his hat shook just a bit. They did not exactly steady themselves when he learnt that Mr. Darcy had already observed Boots's condition and was most decidedly displeased. Even decrepit old Cressida cupped her tail and made for a nearby waggon, under which to cower until her master's displeasure abated.

This inadvertent breeding certainly should not have been an ordeal at all, much less one so disproportionately ill-taken. For although the care Mr. Darcy took with the lineage of all the horses in his stable was of legend, in the grand scheme of things, it did not seem the greatest of evils. Mr. Darcy's travails of late certainly should have reminded him of that, but this seemingly niggling matter inexplicably vexed the man to distraction. For despite great deliberation and careful watch, it was unmistakeable that the mare had fallen prey to an interloper, the identity of which was impalpable to him.

“I simply will not have it!” announced Mr. Darcy.

It was a demand as unyielding as it was unreasonable. Nonetheless, at this outburst Cressida whimpered and tucked her nose even farther beneath her haunch.

His pique was too strongly felt to register his dog's disconcertion. He was far too caught in the throes of information that he abhorred. For Hardin said that in all probability (only couched in this manner because Edward Hardin was convinced that the lack of an absolute would be a brief comfort) that the sire had to be Colonel Fitzwilliam's handsome mount, Scimitar. Edward Hardin recalled the night and the particulars well, for it foretold momentous events. Whilst doing his level best to avoid looking directly unto his master's unhappy countenance, he related that the breeding undoubtedly occurred the night Colonel Fitzwilliam had visited Pemberley before he left with his regiment for France. Hardin particularly recalled the colonel remarking that, because of the impending war, it was apt to be a late night. As was the colonel's habit when his visit was to be lengthy, he removed his own saddle and had Scimitar turned into a paddock to await his return in comfort. As it happened, Mrs. Darcy had taken out Boots that afternoon. The horse was behaving more unruly than usual and she was turned into an adjoining paddock to cool down. Regrettably, the horse's behaviour indicated that she was coming into season—something the boy who had seen to her had not detected. At this point in his recitation, Hardin paused for a deep breath.

Thereupon to the scene came Elizabeth, who, having heard about Boots's condition and the ensuing commotion, had made her way down the short path to the stables with the intention of enlisting a bit of reason with her husband. She stopt short of the conversing men, listening intently.

“He went and jumped the fence—five boards it was—who would have thought it? Our best hunters would have needed more lead to take that fence,” Hardin shook his head in wonder of the feat. “The boys got 'im right out but 'twas too late, of course.”

Elizabeth had been standing slightly to the side during this exchange and Cressida felt reassured enough by her presence to come and lie at her feet. Elizabeth, however, reached out and pulled at Darcy's sleeve, having the good sense to ask her question out of the hearing of Hardin.

“I am certain I witnessed this event,” she said in a low voice.

Cressida heaved herself back to her feet and trotted back to her sanctuary beneath the waggon.

“Did you, indeed?” Darcy replied giving his wife his full attention.

“I am happy to assure you that nothing could have possibly occurred in the nature of what you fear for Scimitar only scuffled with Boots briefly—the merest of moments. I had only feared that she might have received a nip on her shoulder, but there was nothing. All was well.”

She stood back in all happiness to be able to reassure her husband that his fears were unfounded. If Boots was to foal, if it was not by Blackjack, it was by another of their own horses.

“A mere scuffle, say you?” inquired Darcy.

If she was not mistaken, she believed that enquiry to be a trifle contumelious. Hers in return encompassed as much resentment as one word could possibly convey.

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes and briefly pursed his lips. He then slowly shook his head.

“Lizzy…” he began, before apparently remembering himself by saying, “We shall speak of this later.”

She narrowed her eyes, but realised that the entire subject of just what horse did what to another horse and how long it took to do it was not a subject that should be broached in company. Hence, glancing at Edward Hardin (who was doing his best not to hear their discourse), she acquiesced. She did not acquiesce with great generosity, but she did acquiesce—but only upon that one point.

With all due reasonableness, she offered, “Is it as abhorrent as all that? I mean to say, Scimitar is a beautiful horse—and of the same line as many of Pemberley's horses.”

Poor Hardin stood in nodding agreement with the good sense of Mrs. Darcy's words. He had believed the learning that such a fine animal as Scimitar was the culprit would have appeased Mr. Darcy. For some unfathomable reason, that information had only inflamed his ire. Elizabeth's interjection did nothing to soothe Darcy, and he stomped about unhappily to such an extent it frightened the grooms to head for the safety of the nearest byre. His pique nearly moved Hardin to do the unthinkable of tugging upon Mr. Darcy's sleeve to bring him back to his senses—for clearly he had left them behind. Of the same mind, Elizabeth actually did so.

Quietly, she asked, “Pray, what is the matter? Certainly it cannot be this alone.”

He did not answer her directly, continuing to put forth the inadvertent breeding by Scimitar from whence his displeasure sprang. For the first time, he called the horse by its actual name.

“Scimitar was a fine battle horse. I simply cannot bear to have Boots's lineage sullied by the inferior blood of a horse that clearly…” (here he struggled to think of some fault of that particularly handsome specimen of a horse) “…short-coupled. Yes, Scimitar was a U-necked, short-coupled nag!”

It was unthinkable. It would not do.

Elizabeth discreetly took her husband's hand. It was an unusual thing for her to do when others were there to see. He took hers briefly in return—an even more remarkable act. He ran his thumb across her knuckles before placing her hand in a more sedate posture upon his forearm and allowing himself to be led up the path to return to the house. As he watched them take their leave, Edward Hardin placed his hat firmly back upon his head. He did not notice that the abuse the hat had taken revealed itself by an absurd crimp in the brim. Had he, he might have thought it fitting—his sensibilities felt a little interfered with themselves.