Darcy & Elizabeth (9 page)

The Private Struggle of Mr. Darcy

Although he appeared to all the world entirely unaware of the ridiculousness of his obstinacy, Darcy
was
aware. He was aware to a vexatious degree. He should have been pleased, for his wife's mare to have a foal by Scimitar. Despite his disputatious remarks to the contrary, Darcy knew that he was a fine animal—well-bred and stout of heart. He knew too that Fitzwilliam would forever regret his horse's loss in battle. Perhaps he might even second-guess his decision to take such a fine horse with him to Belgium and into what was to be the gates of hell. Regardless, that was what he did and it was Scimitar, not he, who had died a noble death on the blood-drenched field near Quatre Bas. He had lamented that loss through the haze of laudanum and the clarity of wakefulness. Indeed, during bouts of delirium, Fitzwilliam cursed himself for that judgement. Even when his mind returned to reason, he could not quite make himself quit the subject. He told again and again how it was Scimitar who bore the brunt of the blast that delivered his own horrific wounds. His horse had been courageous, loyal, and true. A hero of the British Empire.

That was quite the opposite in all respects of Major George Wickham.

Yes, Wickham. For Darcy, all other botherations paled in comparison to the sordid realisation of the entirety of
that
. The very repugnance of the name Wickham, much less the heinousness of his deeds, was so abhorrent that Darcy could not bear to think of it. If there were a God, Wickham lay dead in some unmarked grave near Bruxelles. He prayed that was true. After his return, he had discreetly discharged emissaries to sort out the matter of whether or not George Wickham was indeed dead or alive, but their findings had been inconclusive. Although Wickham's name was affixed to the list of those who were lost in battle, the resting place for his corpse remained unidentified. That question lying unanswered did nothing to alleviate Darcy's general pique. It only kept it redirected.

As time went on without his wife's amorous embrace to console him (or at least relieve his agitation), Darcy's temper was so compromised that had he been of a less imperturbable spirit, he might have accused himself of despondency. But he would not. For all the vexations he faced, there was much to celebrate. He was a father, Elizabeth was well, his sister was to be married, and Elizabeth's mare was in foal. All things in his life were in order and right. He insisted that to himself repeatedly.

His life was indeed altered, but all for the better—even his love for Elizabeth.

Beyond the gift of an heir, the birth of his children had delivered unto him a renewed appreciation of the woman: his wife and now their mother. He had long thought of her as quite indomitable. Her spiritedness was what had first drawn him to her. He had prided himself upon being the husband to her that he believed she deserved. There was nothing that he would not do, no lengths to which he would not go, no place he would not travel, and no person he would allow to stand between him and her absolute happiness. He had drawn blood in her honour and would do so again in a heartbeat. Being her champion was what defined his manhood. When he learnt that he was away when she needed him most, it grieved him to his soul. That she managed to weather the entirety of a pregnancy and birth with little help (save for Jane catching the infants as they were expelled) was well and good. Indeed, it was all most fortunate. In his heart, however, feelings of relief and happiness conflicted with those of niggling resentment that she had, indeed, done it all without him. Hence, her enduring such an arduous birth, in a coach lumbering at top speed on the road to Pemberley, left him feeling both aggrieved on her behalf and miffed upon his own.

These feelings remained deep within his breast, uninvestigated and largely ignored. Upon those rare occasions those thoughts attempted to invade his consciousness, he rebuked himself. He believed such selfish sentiments were unconscionable. But because they lay nameless, when those sentiments provoked strange attitudes about matters quite intimate in nature, they lay free to grow into inclinations that were most unexpected.

As time went on and Elizabeth's life revolved around their babies, he supposed that was only right. He began to look upon his wife and their children as his charges—to be guarded and nurtured. To do so effectively, one must observe objectivity at all costs. He was prepared to overcome any alteration that parenthood wrought upon their marriage. He feared that adjustment was inevitable. That had always been a thoroughly abstract presumption, but it was a presumption. He had not had call to apply it to his own marriage.

The time had come, however, for it to be put to a test.

Although it was not something that had been his constant study, his perception was that when a lover becomes a mother, even in those households where the children themselves are merely marital accoutrements, desires of the flesh often withered. He had actually heard husbands grouse that their wives found doting on their children sufficient excuse to plead abstinence from marital duties. These men either sought outside company or sat in their studies and sulked. Society not only condoned that response—it was expected regardless from which party such disinterest sprang. If he had ever truly doubted this truth, the philandering of his dear friend Bingley had solidified such a notion. Other than his own devotion to Elizabeth, he could think of no one more steadfast to his wife than Bingley. Beautiful, adoring Jane, who begat four children in five years. Bingley found consolation outside his marriage, in spite of all the affection within. That was troubling indeed.

Not that he would ever betray Elizabeth—he would rather submit to celibacy. Yet neither was he inclined to sulk. In that he would never impose himself upon her, he found himself enduring a feeling heretofore unknown to him—uncertainty.

In all things marital, the Darcys' happy marriage ran against the grain. Their society frowned upon marriages formed for any reason other than to unite fortunes. Unlike those loveless matches of his peers, their union was borne of love, and fuelled by passion. Based on that anomaly, one would have good reason to suspect that their proclivities would run contrary to the norm after the birth of their children as well. But like his peers, Darcy was raised under certain canons dictating the reverence with which one held a mother. His own dear mother had died in childbirth with his sister, Georgiana. He had been but ten years old. It was an impressionable time. His mother had been an ethereal figure to him in his childhood; her early death elevated her memory ever higher. The respect with which Darcy had always held his mother was seen by those close to him as endearing—a leaning to be admired. In this sentiment, as in all aspects of his deportment, Darcy was fastidious. If no one actually determined that trouble brewed because of this tendency, it could be understood. Nonetheless, like most men of his time, when his wife became the mother of his children, he knew she was not actually a Madonna, but she bore a remarkable likeness.

Had his blood not been consumed with adoration for the woman he loved, and hers for him, their story might have gone the way of countless indifferent marriages before them. As it was, it did not.

Darcy's desire was not dampened; it was inflamed—extraordinarily inflamed.

Normally a man of incalculable discipline in matters both spiritual and earthly, in this delicate matter, he was lost to reason. The woman whom he had relished with an all-consuming passion was now a mother. The instant he had beheld those young ones, he had vowed that nothing unclean would touch their lives. The unmitigated lust he had for their mother must be quashed at all costs. That portion of their lives must be forever banished. The office of mother was to be revered. Respected. Upheld. He struggled with himself with the same earnestness with which he confronted all things. She was no longer his Lizzy alone; he shared her with the babies now nestled at her breasts. It was an excruciating loss, but one he knew that, as a husband and father, must be observed.

But his will would not serve his conscience.

Hence, he rationalised. He supposed that having her so near, but indisposed, was the culprit. And after long and dutiful study, he concluded that for him to be aroused to such fervour by a nursing mother exposed him as nothing but a libidinous lout.

It would not do.

Demise and Consent

It came to pass that soon after the master had returned, old Mrs. Reynolds was taken quite ill. Although she had been a fixture in the house for as long as Darcy could recall, she was such a sprightly, vigorous spirit, few knew that she was well into her seventh decade of life. She was a bit of a complainer of the evils of others, but never upon her own behalf. Yet it was undiscovered that hidden beneath her skirt, Mrs. Reynolds had taken to wrapping her lower legs to alleviate the symptoms of dropsy. By the end of the day, her feet and calves looked as if they belonged to another woman altogether, for she was a wiry creature and her feet swelled out of the tops her slippers liked two loaves of freshly baked bread.

The protracted expectancy and dread of that summer certainly had drained what little stamina she had. Had anyone been aware of her affliction, they would not have been taken so unaware when her heart suddenly seized. Directly, Darcy notified her son, their London house steward, Cyril Smeads.

Smeads had begun his service in the dusting-room at Pemberley but felt constrained by his mother's critical eye. At the first opportunity, he travelled to work as a footboy in the Darcy's London house. Although he would be excessively loath to admit it, his steady progress from thence to bell-boy, to yeoman of the buttery, then on to under-butler and at long-last, butler was largely due to his mother's influence. He did not, however, return the affection. He did not visit Pemberley, or his mother therein, until he had advanced to steward of the town house. He had hoped against hope that he would be taken on at Pemberley as house steward so as to sit at the far end of the servant dinner table across from, and thus equal to, his mother, but it was not to be. When the old steward, Mr. Wickham, died, most peculiarly, he was never replaced.

When word came of his mother's dire condition, Smeads wiped a single tear from the corner of his eye and hastened to call for a carriage. Duty first, he gave a list of instructions to the butler before he took his leave. The two underlings who dared peek out the window to witness his departure could not help but take notice of the beginning of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as the coach leapt away. The maids each turned to the other with eyebrows raised, but they were not especially surprised. When the story was spread throughout the house, the only curiosity came from wondering which gave him the greater pleasure, riding from London to Derbyshire in the plush coach bearing the Darcy crest or the anticipation of finally obtaining his mother's position.

That was more than just a possibility. As it happened, Smeads did his job well. He was circumspect, discerning, and dutiful—at least whilst under his employer's eye. He had not, however, been under Mr. Darcy's eye for several seasons. For of late the family seldom came to town. But as it was expected of them, they maintained the house as if they might arrive at any moment. To do otherwise would generate talk. That had been a secondary reason for not abandoning it altogether, but not one to which Smeads was privy. Nor did he know that the paramount consideration for Mr. Darcy keeping it up was for the good of the retainers—some of whom had been with the family for generations. Provided that Smeads saw to it that he was not troubled by matters mundane to its keep, Mr. Darcy was happy to leave the house as it was. Left to one's own devices and judgement over an illustrious Mayfair address was a very advantageous assignment.

Seasons passed by without even the obligatory Easter trip to town. In the absence of regular visits and inspections by his employer to check him, Smeads had turned the grand Park Lane house into his own personal fiefdom. He became increasingly tempestuous, egotistical, resentful, and devious. As with most despots given a free rein, tyranny ensues. The only respite those under his thumb had from his dictatorial ways were the day-long jaunts he took from time to time. A few amongst the servants made unsavoury speculations about his doings, but most were so happy to see him gone for even so small a space of time, they were of no mind to care what he was up to. When Smeads hied for Pemberley that day, the happiness his aspect betrayed was roundly trumped by the expressions of unadulterated joy that overspread the faces of those he left behind. Most held no particular ill will towards Mrs. Reynolds beyond spawning the likes of Cyril Smeads, but they were very nearly as pleased as Smeads to hear of her impending demise. Indeed, Cyril Smeads was at last of the same mind of those under his will. All hoped Mrs. Reynolds did at last go to her great reward, and prayed just as fervently as did he for his elevation to head of the staff of Pemberley.

Upon his arrival at Pemberley's gates, Cyril Smeads did have the good sense to contain his near glee over his mother's demise until she was set in the ground. But whilst he waited for that to occasion, he set to nosing about the next addition to his curriculum vitae. He had scrutinized Pemberley with a covetous eye in the past whilst under the pretext of visiting his mother. That had been several years past, and he was anxious to see what alterations the house had undergone. It was a magnificent estate and he was happy to know it soon would be his home as well.

London did not agree with him. There were far too many others of similar rank doing business with the various shops. In Derbyshire, his position would be singular. He would be second only to Mr. Darcy in the succession of orders. He had fretted that when Mr. Darcy married, Mrs. Darcy might intrude upon his finely perfected operation of the house, but her attention had been far too compromised by her husband for her to meddle in his business in London. With two new chicks to keep her occupied at Pemberley, he did not expect that to alter. The only possible impediment for enjoying full rein of all aspects of the Darcy household was his cousin, Harold Goodwin. No doubt he had Mr. Darcy's ear. Smeads had come to rue every quarrel he had ever engaged in with him. Harold had a puritanical streak that rivalled that of Mr. Darcy's. Smeads feared that he was not above tattling to Mr. Darcy when the opportunity arose.

In the last hours before Mrs. Reynolds passed on, Mr. Darcy carried Mrs. Darcy to her bedside to bid her farewell. Mrs. Darcy had still been quite weak from childbirth and Smeads could not fathom why she would take such measures for a mere servant. And if the lady insisted upon engaging in so sentimental an exertion, one would have thought that a footman would have been called to see to her transport. Mr. Darcy was a fine figure of a man, he supposed, but it was unseemly for a gentleman to perform a duty that a servant could do quite as easily. Were footmen employed for nothing if not their size and a good leg?

At least Mr. Darcy had the good breeding not to weep when his housekeeper breathed her last, but Mrs. Darcy sniffled along with the maids. It was such a maudlin scene, Smeads took it upon himself to place the coins upon his mother's eyes, thus shooing the grieving out of the room. Mr. Darcy spoke to him personally, bidding him consolation on his “loss.” Smeads believed it was the ideal opportunity to put himself forth as his mother's replacement.

“I will be happy to stay on and continue on Mrs. Reynolds's behalf,” Smeads said, whilst touching the back of his forefinger to the corner of his eye.

Smeads was not particularly adept at feigning sentiment, but he knew it was imperative to strike whilst sorrow was keenest. He feared that he had overplayed his hand, for Mr. Darcy's eyes, which had an unusual softness about them, suddenly narrowed. He looked to be unready to acquiesce to such a plan, but his wife then called to him and his attention was diverted. He bent and picked her up once more and betook her towards the door.

Over his shoulder he answered absently, “Do what you must.”

Quite suddenly Smeads bethought his distaste of Mr. Darcy's attentiveness to his wife. Perhaps that too could benefit his own designs. Mrs. Darcy's lengthy recuperation would give him time to firmly wedge his foot in Pemberley's door. So smooth would be the transition, there would be little reason for him to return to London. The arrangement he had for supplemental monetary reward would blossom from having the Darcys within his eye-line. He would veritably be the fox in the Pemberley henhouse.