Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (26 page)

There were only a few years during which Master Darcy exhibited unrestrained behaviour. All fell midmost of his second decade of life. Goodwin had never been certain if his mother’s death had lent him such brashness or if it was merely the jubilance of new-found pubescent virility. For as diligent as Goodwin was about all aspects of Master Darcy’s personal habits, it did not escape his notice when the young master was introduced into carnal necessities by that titian-haired jezebel, Abigail Christie.

Where Goodwin’s loyalty lay was never in question. Therefore, he never entertained the possibility of reporting Master Darcy’s doings to his father. This, regardless of how disapproving Goodwin had been. And disapprove he did. For, however necessary it would be for Master Darcy to procreate on behalf of his family, Goodwin despised the notion that the young man practise with vulgar women. Conjugal acts of generation were one thing, getting one’s ashes hauled by a maid was quite another. It would not do.

The single time that arch rogue Wickham’s means suited Goodwin’s ends was when he went to Mr. Darcy and prattled about the young master’s indiscretions. A miraculous alteration overtook him literally overnight. Darcy had ceased his rebellion. Indeed, it appeared his disposition altered irrevocably. No longer was he the rambunctious boy. In his place stood a young man who was a lankier, if reserved, version of his father. The same kindness and generosity was exhibited with his servitors, but conversely he was just as staid, rigid, and unyielding as his father was amenable.

In his thirty-three years upon the earth, Goodwin had not ventured beyond Derbyshire, but he accompanied young Darcy to Cambridge. George Wickham went with them, as Mr. Darcy was committed to that young man’s education. However unhappy Goodwin was over the matter was of no importance. For young Wickham had been living at Pemberley for several years under Mr. Darcy’s condescension by reason of his affection for his steward, Wickham’s father. In Goodwin’s opinion (had he been asked), Geoffrey Fitzwilliam was a far more admirable companion than that truckling
lickspittle and incorrigible Lothario, Wickham. For in addition to his faults of character, he was exceedingly jealous of his benefactor’s son.

Betimes, this envy took perverse turns. More than once Goodwin had, unbeknownst to Wickham (and Darcy too), thwarted him. Covertness was an absolute, for Wickham was a young man who held grudges that were deep and mean. Whilst at Cambridge, it had been a little entertaining to watch the perfidious Wickham turn in circles, uncertain with which rich classmate he should next curry favour.

Rarely was he successful; his reputation as a tuft-hunter usually preceded him. And when it did not, Wickham could usually be counted upon to sink his own boat.

When Wickham was caught, not only with a young woman in his room, but with the answers to his tripos exam, Master Darcy had come to the end of his much abused tolerance of his roommate. Inclined to let him be “hoist by his own petard,” young Darcy was overruled by his father. Had not Mr. Darcy interceded, Wickham would have been cast out of Cambridge a fortnight before his finals with a first in nothing but whore-mongering. Though rescued, even Wickham knew when one was disgraced and made himself scarce when they returned to Pemberley. Master Darcy wisely chose to take the grand tour with Fitzwilliam.

It was soon after their return that Mr. Darcy took ill. Upon his death, however, George Wickham was front and centre, hand extended, awaiting what he believed was his due.

Goodwin knew he was hardly the only person who thought ill of George Wickham. His misadventures had become legend amongst the Pemberley help. As highly as he held Mr. Darcy’s memory, Goodwin could not fully understand why that very astute man had allowed Wickham latitude others found begging. A deep affection and regard for Wickham’s father, coupled with that man’s premature death was the only reason that Goodwin could fathom. But, of course, Goodwin did not pretend to know of that which he should not.

When the young master became the Master of Pemberley in actuality, little changed within the house. Mr. Darcy had been so ill for so long, his son had taken over his duties with little more than a ripple in the water. Sorrow over their dead master on the part of the house staff was gradually usurped by dedication to the younger. Indeed, young Darcy had earned their respect long before he asked for it. As Master Darcy had matured, his social obligations increased exponentially. Hence, Goodwin’s enlarged commensurably. His world broadened to include any number of illustrious homes, up to and including the royal palace. If he found himself impressed by his master’s station, Goodwin reminded himself, it was, indeed, his master’s station, not his own.

As a man in service, Goodwin never questioned. But much to his relief, if Mr. Darcy did not choose a life of celibate introspection, he was at least discreet in his pursuits and utterly circumspect in his liaisons. (Other gentleman’s gentlemen told tales of debauchery and excess.) That he had not to deal with inebriation and dissolution was a blessing. Unlike some gentlemen, Mr. Darcy expected Goodwin to be neither his shill nor pimp. He was never asked to carry messages nor deflect injudiciously flirtatious ladies.

As an unmarried man who would expect to remain unmarried, Goodwin was, however, not unlearnt in matters romantic in nature. That his master was inclined to be cautious of his own reputation regardless of the provocation, bid Goodwin understand the position he must himself undertake. Relating to Mr. Darcy, no female
enquiry was answered, no invitation acknowledged. What Mr. Darcy chose to honour fell to his own discrimination and volition. No one else would be involved. Mr. Darcy’s subtle requests eventually taught Goodwin of his predilections. When to be available and when not was followed precisely. Mr. Darcy was a private man. His wishes were law. All things were stable and predictable.

That is, until the tumultuous year of Mr. Darcy’s introduction to Miss Bennet.

A
remedy oft proffered to relieve undue anxiety is that of physical exertion. Hence one should have expected Elizabeth Darcy to be post-coitally languid. She was not. Howbeit her body was well-spent, her mind refused to be soothed. For despite Hannah’s incessant fussing, Elizabeth was most unhappy with the flowers adorning her coiffure.

Impatiently, she yanked them out, then reconsidered. Without the flowers, she feared she looked plain. With them, she was certain she resembled an overgrown wisteria bush. Even her yellow dress no longer pleased her eye. It not only looked unstudied, it appeared absolutely artless. She gazed unhappily in the mirror and made a half circle. At every turn, it appeared fate destined her for ignominious habiliment.

First impressions were immutable. She wanted Darcy to be proud to present her as his wife to Derbyshire. Yet her circumstance and station would be appraised by her appearance, and not with particular generosity. She longed to look more urbane.

“Do you suppose,” she queried Hannah, “I should consider wearing a turban?”

Before Hannah could determine whether that was a jest or not, there came a rap upon the door, the firmness of which announced it was Mr. Darcy. The merest flick of his head sent Hannah upon a curtsying fizzle out of the room. Across the length of the room stood his wife, and thither his gaze rested.

From beneath the veil of her lashes, she turned her eyes to him, and then hastily cast them away. It might have appeared to him a modesty, but it was not. She simply could not bear to see disappointment reflected in his eyes. Hence, she failed to witness his appreciative flush.

“How ravishingly beautiful you look, Lizzy.”

Surprised and disconcerted, a grand rubescence graced her cheeks. Her mind groped about for some comment, but she could only think to inquire of how well his posterior weathered their recent indecorous undertakings.

“Pray, did you bruise yourself when we fell?”

“Actually,” he said, “I did not think to look.”

With that recollection, they stared at each other a long moment. Her flush not only deepened, but also crept down her neck and nestled into her bosom.

“Husband,” she said, “you are a devastatingly handsome man.”

The only rejoinder he offered was an embarrassed cough. Thereupon, in apparent relief, he remembered why he had come and thrust forward the box he had been concealing behind his back.

“I should like for you to wear this tonight.”

She looked up at him and then to the green velvet box, which was tied with an azure satin ribbon. So pretty were the colours, she gave an admiring coo when she looked upon it. That sound continued long after she noticed that the azure satin ribbon was tied in a crude bow, almost disreputable. It was, as it happened, quite odd looking, such a fine box with a ribbon so badly tied.

It came to her then that her husband had tied the ribbon himself. He, a man who always had ribbons tied for his use, tied a bow upon the box for her. She thought that sad little bow was as lovely a gift as she might ever receive. She would prize it always. Her fingertips touched it affectionately, thus it took her a moment to realise he was patiently waiting for her to untie it. She truly hated to disturb it and her reluctant fingers fumbled when she endeavoured to undo the knotted bow.

Retrieving it, he easily opened that which he had himself wrapped and, with a bit of a flourish, held it out to her again.

Lifting the lid, she peered into the box. An elabourate diamond-cascade of a choker glittered within, more exquisite than any necklace she could have ever imagined about anyone’s throat (and that included Lady Catherine and probably the Queen). Momentarily speechless, she looked at it, then back to him.

A bit stupidly, she bid, “This is for me?”

“Yes, it is for you,” he smiled. “May I have the pleasure of putting it upon you? …You do wish to wear it?”

That he might actually have thought she would not was enormously ingenuous, and she stifled a laugh at such a notion by turning about for him to fasten it. It was heavy and cold against her skin, but the sensation was rather pleasant and the diamonds sparkled brilliantly in the candlelight. He stood behind her as she looked at herself in the looking-glass. Thereupon a possibility occurred to her.

“Was this your mother’s?” she asked.

“No,” he said, then leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It is yours alone.”

In timid appreciation, a flabbergasted smile crept across her face. In light of his reserve, such generosity was overwhelming. She understood forthwith, however, that it was only ostentation that he abhorred. For Mr. Darcy, extravagance was an impossibility.

Touched by the gesture, not the gift, she knew not how to say that without sounding coy. Turning to kiss him, she said as lightly as she could manage, “I am now free to commit any indecorum. My countenance, my gown, all will be forgot. No one will recall anything of me but this necklace.”

He looked then upon her with such silent intensity, she began to believe her response was not emphatically grateful enough. She considered additional plaudits. Her consideration was not only interrupted, it was severed irreparably when he abruptly grasped her beneath the armpits and plopped her atop her dressing table.

“However impolitic it is to contradict one’s wife, I must disagree, Lizzy.”

Jarred by this unceremonious act, she was fleetingly stunned. It fell apparent
immediately, however, that the reason he had perpetrated such a manoeuvre was to overcome her height disadvantage whilst he ran his hands up the back of her legs and kissed her neck. She was uncertain if it was the stroking of her thighs or the kissing, but for whatever reason her neck refused to hold up her head. Thus, it dropped uselessly to his chest. Had her voice not been strangled within the flaccidity of throat, she would have spoken. In the silence, he did instead.

“Lizzy.”

He said it only once, but he said it huskily. That singular calling of her name disturbed the very depth of her being, and though she truly did not mean to moan, she did.

That announcement of her passion granted him every liberty. Hence, from that precarious perch she found herself at the mercy of a husband in full cry, the entire appetency of which he did not withhold. Further foreplay an irrelevance, he simply thrust into her with all the considerable insistence and dedication of a pile driver. She could do nothing but cling to his neck and pray he did not lose his grip upon her lest she be cast to the floor once again.

With a gasp, he convulsed into her. He stood pressed against her for a moment heaving breathlessly. Then, he hoarsely bade her do the unlikely.

“Pray, do not bathe. Do not cleanse yourself.”

She nodded. He still held her close, his breath hot against her ear.

“Every time I look upon you tonight, I want not only to know my seed is in you,” his lips grazed her hair as he whispered, “I want to know you feel it running down your legs.”

He kissed her hard upon the mouth, withdrew, then took leave of the room.

Dazed, she slid to her feet and stood leaning against the table for some few minutes mutely looking at the door that had closed behind him. Hannah’s return broke her trance and she hastily turned away.