Memory: Volume 3, How Far We Have Come, A Tale of Pride and Prejudice (Memory: A Tale of Pride and Prejudice) (21 page)

“Out?”  She stared at him.  “Where?”

“I do not know, rent a home . . .”

“And use up all that you have saved?”  Jane shook her head, thinking of her parents.  “No, that is our children’s future.”

“What children?”  He chuckled and drew her close to rest against his chest.  “Oh Jane, I just . . . It grates on me, having to wait for father to die to really make our home ours.  I feel like a ghoul.  And working is out of the question, Father is determined to have a gentleman son.”

“But the boys will be in trade . . .”

“I once considered leasing Netherfield, but I could not afford it.  I thought of buying it, too, but again, I would have to convince father to sell Lucas Lodge and that would not come to a quarter of the value of Netherfield.”

“There is nothing wrong with Lucas Lodge.”  Jane said sternly.  “And every other first son must live at home with his parents.”

“I know.”  He sighed.  “Darcy did not.”

“I think that he would love to have his parents alive and still be living on an allowance.”  Jane kissed him and he smiled.  “Now tell me, why did you feel so defensive tonight when Mr. Bingley and Mr. Harwick visited?  Surely you did not feel . . .”

“Jane, a man is an odd beast.  Even if he knows there is no possibility of losing his woman to another, he will always be unreasonably jealous of any man she may have once considered, and being a man, I also know that those men once considered being in this exact position that I am now.”  He smiled at her wide eyes.  “Yes, they did.”

“Oh.” 

“But I won.”

“I am not a prize.”

“Oh yes, dear Jane, you are.”  He rolled over to face her.  “Are you sleepy?”

“No.”

“Good.”  He kissed her.   “Neither am I.”

MARY LAY IN HER BED, staring out of the window at the moonlit night.  It would be dawn in only a few hours, and she had no desire to sleep.  “Are you sleeping, Peter?”  She whispered.

“Are you sleeping, Mary?”  Peter wondered and putting down his candle, sat in a large chair by the fireplace in his bedchamber.  He stared at the enormous empty bed and closed his eyes.  “All I had to do is ask.”  He smiled.  “Well, I did.”

Will you do me the honour of accepting me as your husband
?
Mary blushed and hid her burning cheeks in her pillow.  “Oh please, let that be the reason you asked to speak to me tomorrow!”

“Why did I not propose tonight?”  He wondered to himself.  “I certainly wanted to, when I took her hand and ran from the ballroom, that was the driving force in my mind.  Too many strangers danced with her.  Too many of them won her smile.  But . . . I want it to be special, memorable, not blurted out like some pimply-faced, adolescent on his first dance with a maid!”  He sighed and sank back in his chair, imagining where they had stood and talked, then imagining another conversation.  “Tell us the story of proposing to Mama, did you really do it behind a Grecian urn?  Was it really in the most public, noisy, miserable place you could imagine?  Did you really say it so fast that she stared at you in shock, not because she didn’t want the proposal, but because you were unintelligible?”  He smiled, imagining a dark haired boy standing by his chair.  “Yes, Son, it is true, your father, a man who has faced pirates and war, who spent more years at sea than on land, was rendered hopeless when faced with your mother’s smile.”  He looked to the bed and laughed.  “Son.  Well maybe someday.  I need to kiss her first.”  Stretching out his legs he rested his hands over his lap.  “No, no sudden proposal for you, my Mary.  No rushing off to secure you in fear of someone else taking you away.  I have no such fears for us anymore.  I want it to be right, I want the story of our engagement to be sweet, something that my wife can reflect upon when we are old and look at me with a smile.  I was tempted, but I was strong.  Tomorrow, dear Mary.”

“I think that it was on the tip of his tongue,” Mary smiled and hugged her pillow, looking out into the night, “but my captain will wait until he may ask me properly.  Very well, then.  Good night, Peter.  I love you.”

“Good night, Mary.”  He stood and leaned on the window frame.  “I love you.” 
  

Chapter 7

D
arcy opened his eyes, from the position of the sun he knew it was approaching noon; it had been a very late night.  Elizabeth was right where he had left her, curled against him, her bottom firmly pressed against his groin.  Closing his arms around her, he kissed her head and hugged her to him.  “Dearest?

“Good morning.”  She whispered.

“How do you feel, love?”  His lips settled below her ear, and he caressed her breasts.  “Better?”

“Not yet.”

Disappointed, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead on her shoulder, and touched the slight bulge in her waist.  “How may I help you?”  Elizabeth rolled over to face him, and he laughed when she quickly pulled back the covers to examine the treasure she now held firmly in her grip.  “Perhaps I should rephrase that.”

“Perhaps you should just kiss me.”   

“I am afraid that kisses will not be enough.”  Rubbing her shoulders, he captured her mouth.

“Oh, I see.”  Elizabeth draped her leg over his hip, and they slipped together.  “There.”  She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.  “That is all better.”

“It certainly is.” Darcy growled and proceeded to love his wife.

“Oh!”  Millie stopped at the door to the master’s bedchamber and heard their voices, the sighs and laughter, and the unmistakable steady creak of the bed.  Immediately she returned to the mistress’ chambers.  Mrs. Mercer entered and looked around.

“Mrs. Darcy?”

“Occupied.”  Millie blushed.

“I see.”  Mrs. Mercer smiled and glanced into the sitting room to the door beyond.  “I suppose that it will be some time.”

“Well . . .”

“No need to agree.  However, I am left with no clear direction.  Captain de Bourgh just arrived, and wishes to see Miss Mary.”

“The Lucas’ . . .”

“Occupied.”  Mrs. Mercer said with pursed lips.

“Oh.”

“By the look in his eye, I would say that the captain is most anxious to conduct this interview.”

“Oh!”  Millie smiled.  “It’s about time.”

“No doubt.”  The two exchanged looks and then both turned their heads at the sound of delighted laughter coming from the master’s chambers, followed by their voices calling out expressions of love.  Mrs. Mercer stepped forward and quickly closed the door to the sitting room.  “Well, perhaps I could let Miss Mary know that he is here, she is awake, I understand.”

“It would be a shame for her to have to wait.”  Millie nodded.  “I am sure that a chaperone is not necessary.”

“Well, what you are sure about and what Mr. Darcy is sure about are two different things.  I will alert Mrs. Somers, she may sit with them.”  She smiled.  “Discretely.”  Mrs. Mercer glanced at the closed door, and set off down the hallway, smiling and shaking her head when she passed the door to the Darcys’ room, then stopping to knock on Mary’s door, where she spoke to her maid.  Receiving a reply, she moved on to the sitting room where de Bourgh stood by the window, staring out at the park.  His hands were clasped behind his back; his stance was at rest, looking for all the world like a man calmly watching the prow of his ship cutting through the roiling sea.  “Sir?”  He straightened and turned, fixing his gaze on the housekeeper.  “Miss Mary is the only family member awake . . .” His body stiffened.  “However, she felt that her sister and brother would not object to her entertaining you with her companion present.  She will be along shortly; shall I call for some tea for you?”

“Yes, yes that would be . . .welcome.  Thank you.”  De Bourgh let out a slightly shaking breath and turned back to the window, resuming his watch.

“Very good, sir.”  Mrs. Mercer pursed her lips, checked quickly over the state of the room, and before leaving, noted that his hands were tightly gripping each other.  “Very good.” 

“HOW WAS THE BALL?”  Mr. Gardiner tilted his head.  “I am surprised to see you up and about so early.”

Bingley smiled.  “I suppose that I am used to the hours.  It is the Darcys who will be slow in rising, I think.  They were dragging at the end, especially Mrs. Darcy.  I cannot recall her looking so terribly tired before.  Darcy was worried desperately about her, but she refused to cut Miss Bennet’s night short.”  Mr. Gardiner’s brow creased in concern.  “I imagine that she is fine, she was working hard, deflecting the
kind
attention of the numerous friends who wished to see her and Darcy, as well as looking after Miss Bennet.  If she is not soon Mrs. de Bourgh, I will be very surprised.”

“So I am to gain a nephew.”  Mr. Gardiner chuckled.  “Cow eyes?”

“Oh he is pitiful.”  Bingley shrugged.  “Miss Bennet has blossomed into a lovely woman, I never considered her, perhaps I missed something there.”

“No, she is not for you, Bingley.” 

“No?” 

“Other than that coveted family connection to the Darcys, no, I would say that you are in need of someone a bit more lively.”

“Perhaps.”  He glanced out the window and towards the warehouses that lined the busy street.  “Well, I did not come here to talk of love, I instead would ask about business.”

“Advice is free, Mr. Bingley, I am happy to help where I can.”  Mr. Gardiner smiled and held up a bottle of whiskey.  “A drink?”

“That sounds promising.  I enjoyed a good bit of this in Ireland.”  He accepted the glass and sat back in his chair, surveying the endless beehive of activity below.  “I have spoken with Darcy and Lord Matlock, and deeply appreciate the perspective they gave me from, well from the world that I now inhabit.  Darcy recommended that I seek your opinion, as one who can appreciate where I have been.”

“I understand it is a question of the mills?”

“Yes.”  Bingley turned away from the view and back to Mr. Gardiner.  “You see, our looms are run by hand, the fabric is fine, the workers are skilled . . .” He sighed, “But I am not foolish enough to ignore that times have changed and if Bingley Mills are to continue, they must install steam-powered looms.  The volume and capacity, even the quality is significantly better.  I know of the fears and objections of the workers, losing employment, but what is better, to change with the times and lose a few positions, or not change at all, and lose the business?”

“I thought that you leave these decisions to your board, you are merely a figurehead who collects his share?” 

“I am.”  Bingley smiled.  “However, I have been made an offer for the mills, and I was actually considering that option when I at last purchased an estate, it is just that this has come up sooner than I expected.”

“So, sell now, without making the improvements, or modernize the factory, and sell for a much higher profit in the future, or . . .”

“Modernize and hang on to something that is very well an excellent investment, not to disparage the funds I have given over to you, sir.”

Chuckling, Mr. Gardiner sat forward and clasped his hands.  “No, not a bit of worry there.  What do Darcy and Lord Matlock say?”

“Lord Matlock said sell now, get the money before some radical mob burns the looms in a fit of rage.  Darcy would like me to sever the ties to trade, but he is aware that times are changing and that gentlemen are wise to have sources of income beyond their rent money.  He has spread his investments in great and diversified ways and his income from Pemberley is not even half of his take.  I rather think that his plans are sounder, and his uncle may be mired in the old school thinking.”

“And now my opinion.”  Mr. Gardiner rose to his feet and looked out over his thriving business.  “Times
are
changing Mr. Bingley.  Darcy is a man who quietly keeps his finger on the pulse of things.  He speaks with me often to get a feel for the up and coming.  I say modernize, and hang onto that income.  You have been accepted into the world you hoped to inhabit, through Darcy and the Fitzwilliam families, you will do well.”

“I thought as much.”  Bingley sighed.  “I just feel for the workers.”

“I understand, but the change is inevitable, whether by your direction or a new owner.”    Mr. Gardiner smiled and sat down.  “Speaking of families, I recently spoke to a man who has a daughter of your acquaintance.”

“Oh?” 

“August Martin.  He sells some of your fabrics, has a storefront just three doors down from here.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”  Bingley murmured.  “How was he?”

“Oh well, if you know Martin at all you know that he is a man in perpetual motion.  A good salesman, although rather challenged on the subtleties of polite conversation.  He means well, though.”  Bingley nodded and looked at his hands.  “He approached me, knowing our friendship . . .”

“How?”

“He asked around after you and Darcy, and traced you to me.”

Bingley’s eyes widened.  “What?”

Mr. Gardiner chuckled.  “Yes.  He could hardly believe that the occupants of Pemberley could be so kind to his daughter, inviting her for tea?  My goodness.  It is simply not done.”  Bingley’s brow creased.  “Come sir, it is not that long ago that you were the one on the outside looking in, you should understand his curiosity.”

“I suppose that I do.”  He sighed.

“In any case, Martin said there was some misunderstanding between the two of you when you last spoke and he wished to apologize for it.  He completely embarrassed his daughter by thoroughly misinterpreting her musings of you.”  Bingley looked up.  “She likes you quite a lot, I understand.”

“Not after I blew up in her face.”  He said quietly.

“No, actually, Lizzy stopped in there a week or so ago when she was here to see me.  She and Miss Martin had a nice chat.”

“Elizabeth . . . Mrs. Darcy?”  His gaped.  “What, what, what happened?”

“I believe that she made it very clear to Miss Martin that she and Darcy are very happily married and that she has never been tempted by another.”  Mr. Gardiner’s eyes crinkled.  “Miss Martin was most interested and happy to know of such felicity.”  Seeing Bingley leaning forward, he added, “She also spoke very kindly of you.”