Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (117 page)

He intended only to persuade her not to ride too aggressively so soon after giving birth. However, allowing another horse to outrun Blackjack was not in his nature, and any solicitous regard for Elizabeth’s health was swamped by the spirit of competition. He spurred Blackjack forward, yet could not overtake Boots. It had been some time since he had enjoyed a race, but if he could not overtake a nursing mother astride a mare, he thought he would be most unhappy. The chance of which prodded him to urge Blackjack over a stone fence.

She made a hard left through the gate and, by virtue of his ignorance of their destination, he had to circle Blackjack to find her direction, thus losing what little he had gained. Frustrated that she was able to get out of sight so hastily, he wished he had brought his crop. As she had hers, he believed that was an unfair advantage.

They were far south-west of the house, upon the edge of a wood, when Darcy rounded the corner and saw Boots riderless and wheezing. He came to a skidding stop, called, “Lizzy, Lizzy,” and dropped his own reins as he jumped down, turning frantically to locate her.

He could not imagine where she lay, for she was not within his sight. Then he heard that same feeble attempt at a whistle. He turned toward the sound. It came from the wood.

Seeing a figure disappearing quite fleetingly into the trees, he abandoned apprehension and reclaimed the chase. It took him little time to catch up to her once they were both on foot. Seeing he had heard her, Elizabeth ran with as much dispatch as she could in the languid grass able to find sun enough to grow betwixt the crowd of trees. He reached her just as her foot caught a sagging cuff and she fell.

Their momentum carried him down with her and they lay in laughing exhaustion a few moments, catching their breath. Thereupon Elizabeth sat up and leaned back against a tree. Darcy turned upon his side to look at her, resting his head against his hand. He lay still so long, just looking upon her, that Elizabeth became uneasy. She had successfully lured him to this spot, and wondered if she would have to be even more forward and say in words what she wanted of him.

Sooner than she expected, she found her answer. He reached out, grabbed her foot, and drew her to him. He rose upon his knees, yanked his shirt off over his head, and tossed it aside.

“You never cease to astound me, Lizzy.”

“Pray, you have said you favour me coming to you.”

“Indeed, I do. That is not of what I speak.”

“Pray, what then?”

“Never once,” he reached out and grasped both legs of her breeches, “have I attended to the removal of any trousers but my own.”

“But husband,” she smiled quite fetchingly, “these
are
yours.”

I
n the next half year, the few letters Darcy had managed to hand to someone to carry from Belgium would betimes find way their to Pemberley, tattered, weathered, but intact. When the first one arrived, Elizabeth came upon it first, read it, and thereupon brought it to show him, thinking he would be amused he had found home first. When she realised it pained him to be reminded of that time, she notified the help to be certain if any more such posts arrived to bring them directly to her.

For she read and kept every one. It was through the letters that she eventually understood the peril and desperation that was endured. Darcy had forgotten that he
had written to her when John died. He had forgotten that he had written of Wickham’s treachery. Possibly, it was best he had, for Elizabeth surmised it unlikely to hear it from his lips (not in defence of Wickham’s newly unsullied memory, but repugnance of speaking the name at all).

Hence, it was Elizabeth who addressed the subject, aghast at what she had read, and it gave Darcy momentum to tell her everything he had uncovered and believed. It was true. Wickham was a venal rogue who had murdered John to desert. The only uncertainty was whether he survived.

Elizabeth had thought him no worse than an ever-dissipating lecher, so she spent a few moments diligently excavating for some blame for herself that he was not unveiled for the venal rogue he truly was. So relentlessly did she propose herself somehow responsible for the train of events that had unfolded, that she was in danger of usurping Jane’s firmly held office of martyr.

She sat there muttering these opinions to herself and was only distracted from her guilt of omission by Darcy drawing his chair next to hers. They had shared very serious moments of crisis, and she fully understood by his expression that what she had heard might be the worst, but would not be all. And that was alarming.

There was no way to say that Wickham was possibly his miscreant half-brother than just to speak the words. So he did. When he announced it, she almost laughed—but stopped herself—so astonishing was the revelation. Even fully explained, Elizabeth (not having the opportunity of discovery) would have been doubtful of the truth of it, had it not been verified by the independent information of Darcy’s mother’s good friend, Lady Millhouse.

The uncovering of the secret of Wickham’s connexion with the family, of course, revealed the mystery behind the sadness she had sensed in Darcy’s mother’s portrait, but this was not an observation Elizabeth would have bestowed upon Darcy’s already overworked sensibilities. Nor did she tell him of the conversation she had had with her mother over her own father’s coffin. If she truly was to believe what she told her husband about accepting those they love for who they are, there was no point.

Lydia would spend a year happily glowing in widowhood, for Wickham was much improved as a dead war hero than a live philanderer. And Lydia would, eventually, give up claiming access to her sons’ fortune and marry another major in the regulars. (There was an unfortunate incident when, a widow yet, Lydia produced a daughter of uncertain paternity. “That? Well, I couldn’t help that,” was her only explanation when she was scolded for the indiscretion.)

It was doubted her new husband fathered the child, but his new wife’s easy virtue was overlooked by his own easy nature, hence, no true injury was inflicted. Lydia said that he was not quite so charming as Wickham, but he was quite dashing, and that met the only other standard Lydia set for a husband (that and a proposal). What he lost in beguiling wiles was made up for in great, if blind, devotion to his wife, which met the only standard her family hoped for him as well.

True love found Kitty by way of a vicar in Shropshire (nary a swoon came to pass during courtship, but bridesmaid Maria Lucas managed to be felled at the wedding
breakfast). Mary was quite content to live a life of introspection under the unrelentingly disapproving gaze of her mother. Mrs. Bennet, however, would never tire of thanking Darcy for making arrangements with poor Charlotte and her unfortunate son for her to live out her life at Longbourn. (Her happiness at residing in Hertfordshire was exceeded only by his in that as well.)

Young Hinchcliffe was one of the Derbyshire soldiers who were left in a grave in France, forever removing from Darcy the opportunity to belittle. Young Henry Howgrave however, came home from war bemedaled and beribboned, was knighted, then elected to Parliament. It was in London that he met an exceedingly beautiful older woman and, thoroughly smitten, proposed marriage. There was talk at first that the lady of French birth was of dubious reputation, which only increased Howgrave’s margin of victory when he was elected Prime Minister.

It was somewhat scandalous that his new wife took such an avid interest in her new husband’s career and politicked for him relentlessly, awarding kisses to costermongers and butchers in exchange for their vote. When accused of relinquishing any claim to respectability by mingling with the coarse masses, Lady Juliette Howgrave merely tossed her curls. She was most happy in her elevated social status, but noted wryly to herself that, except for the currency, her situation had changed not a whit.

Never known to be the snitch to Lady Catherine, Cyril Smeads was given office as butler to Pemberley. But under the stern glare of Mr. Darcy, his guidance of the household became more outwardly circumspect. Goodwin and Hannah never actually found romance either with each other or another. Both remained quite content with continued furtive looks, rather than suffer the insult of sullied reality.

One of the lesser evils with which Darcy had to cope was an unexpected foaling by Boots. Darcy had always wanted to extend her bloodlines, but Elizabeth had not, always keeping her fastidiously in a stall when she was in season. In querying the grooms, it was understood the only horse that had been near her was Scimitar, the night before Fitzwilliam took him to France.

And, indeed, it was exactly ten months later (the precise date of Fitzwilliam’s departure was etched in the Darcys’ memory) when Boots presented without a complication. Elizabeth had insisted upon being called and, clad in coats over respective night-shirt and gown, she and Darcy went down to the stable to witness the birth. It was a beautiful young horse, all wobbly legs and stockinged feet. In want of hiding his pleasure at the sight, Darcy retook his position of opposition that the sire was Scimitar, not Blackjack. He groused about it unreasonably, and Elizabeth understood he did that in lieu of his sister’s husband.

Once Darcy accepted the inevitable, he also admitted that the single man he could find no fault in as a husband to Georgiana was Colonel Fitzwilliam. No ambitions to entailment, after a lovely (but hurried) wedding at Pemberley, they were happy to reside at Whitemore and welcome their new daughter. Georgiana continued to write and reminded Fitzwilliam often how dashing he looked with a patch over one eye.

The colonel’s leg wound did not entirely heal, but he insisted if his good leg was strong enough to lift him into a saddle, Scimitar’s son’s eyes would help him find his way.