by Maria Grace
“Has something been bothering you? Too many guests perhaps? Or has Aunt Catherine been plaguing you again?”
“I honestly cannot say. Considering the size of the house, we do not have that many guests. It is not like at Longbourn where three visitors had us bursting at the seams. And truly, Anne’s friends are not ill-mannered or inappropriately demanding.”
“So, you consider Mr. Sadler’s insistence he only drink his own blend of tea not demanding?”
“It is a little unusual to be sure, but he did bring his own supply of tea. It is not as though he required I blend it for him myself.”
“You are all that is good and kind.”
“No.” She sniffled and pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve. “No, I am not. I am fussy and demanding and fear I might have my mother’s nerves.”
“Heavens! How can you possibly think such a thing? I assure you that is the farthest thing from the truth. Fitzwilliam has often remarked on your forbearance with Anne and our Aunt. He would rather be here with you than in his mother’s home—and she is known as one of the finest hostesses in all of England.”
“Now you are just being kind.” She choked back a little sob.
And that was suddenly now the wrong thing to do? He craned his neck to look into her face. “This is so unlike you. What is bothering you?”
“I … I do not know.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
He pulled her into his shoulder and held her. What else was he to do? She had never done this before. Was there something he should say that would not make things even worse?
“I am sorry. I am sorry. I do not know what has come over me.”
“Perhaps you have worked too hard. With Christmas dinner and the Twelfth Night ball, I know you have been very, very busy. I am sure it would do you very well to take some rest now. Why not go up to our room and lie down? I will tell Mrs. Reynolds to bring you a soothing tea and that you are not to be bothered for the rest of the day. Might that help set you back to rights?”
“I am not some frail little thing that I should need that.” She dabbed her eyes with her apron.
“I know you are not. I have never thought that of you. But that does not mean you cannot occasionally be tired, my dear.” He kissed the top of her head.
The door flung open and Fitzwilliam sauntered in. “Good morning, Darcy—oh, is this a bad time?”
“You might learn to knock.” The words came out more sharply than he intended, but only slightly.
Elizabeth jumped and swiped her face with her handkerchief. “No, no, not at all. Pray forgive me—”
“She is a mite tired this morning. Pray excuse us a moment.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.
“I will be fine,” she whispered.
“I know, but I am not ready for so much cheerfulness from Fitzwilliam so early in the day. Allow me to walk you to our room.”
She giggled and fell into step beside him.
Mrs. Reynolds intercepted them at the grand stairs, and he instructed her. She scurried away as they went upstairs.
“You did not need to be so severe with her. She has done nothing wrong.”
“I was not severe with her, and she is well aware of that. I merely want to make sure no one disturbs you.”
She pressed her head against his shoulder.
A few minutes later, he saw her tucked back into bed and dragged himself back downstairs.
Fitzwilliam waved a half-eaten Chelsea bun in greeting.
“I do not recall inviting you to partake.” Darcy pulled the plate with the remaining bun away.
“Nor did you ask me to refrain. I am certain there are more in the kitchen.” He jumped up and rang the bell for Mrs. Reynolds.
“Is Elizabeth well?”
“She takes on too much, especially with all these unforeseen demands on her. After all that happened last Christmastide, we had hoped for a simple, easy holiday this year. This—” Darcy gestured toward the study door, “is hardly what we were hoping for.”
“Then let us take the better part of the day and relieve Elizabeth of their company. Georgiana’s friend, Miss Roberts has invited Georgiana, Anne and Miss Gifford to visit this morning. I know the gentlemen are all interested in seeing the full breadth of Pemberley. So, whilst the ladies are gone, we might ride out and take in the land, leaving Elizabeth free from the demands of any guests for the entire day.”
“Save Aunt Catherine.”
“I have already seen her lady’s maid rushing out to find laudanum for her ladyship’s dreadful headache. I expect she will spend the entire day indisposed. I believe that not being needed to manage Pemberley disagrees with our dear aunt.”
Darcy sighed. More time spent in company? But if it would alleviate some of Elizabeth’s suffering, it would be worth it. “All right. But only after I have had my bun.” He scooped up the remaining bun and took a large bite.
∞∞∞
Two hours later, both parties left Pemberley. Who would have thought it would take Mr. Sadler as long to get ready as it did Anne and Miss Gifford?
The sun was already high in sky, warming away the sharpest edge of the December chill by the time they made it out. An excellent day for riding: brisk but not cold, bright enough to see clearly, but not squint, enough wind to keep one from wanting to stand about stupidly. Darcy led the way through a lush field toward Pemberley’s western border, while Fitzwilliam fell behind to talk with Mr. Wharton. Sir Jasper pulled closer to Darcy. Mr. Sadler seemed have his own agenda, almost as though he were riding with them only to have an audience for his horse’s fancy gaits. They were showy, but utterly useless and perhaps even unwise in open fields.
“Sadler just got that horse, you know.” Sir Jasper shaded his eyes with one hand and watched. “Imported from Spain perhaps? I don’t quite remember all the details, but it was from the continent.”
Darcy grunted. The grey speckled gelding had especially fine lines.
“Cost him a pretty penny, too. Would not even tell me how much. Afraid I will not approve I, suppose. He has quite the weakness for horseflesh.”
“Indeed? I admit I appreciate a good animal.” Darcy stroked his horse’s neck.
“Have you a matched set of four?”
“No, though I have a very fine matched pair. One of my mares foaled twins a few years back and they grew into almost a perfectly matched pair.”
“Sadler would love to see them. He dreams of having a matched foursome, but has not found one yet, poor sot. But then again, it is good for a man to have a goal and a dream. He would like his estate to be known for its horses, but it will be some time before he can achieve it.”
“Any venture of that sort takes time. Patience proves a virtue in these cases.”
Sir Jasper chuckled under his breath. “Not one of my cousin’s finer qualities, I am afraid. Between you and me, he has been a bit spoilt from birth and would rather enjoy his pleasures now than wait for something greater tomorrow.”
“You do not seem to think very well of him.” Criticizing a man behind his back was not an admirable trait.
“I would hardly say that. He has some very fine qualities. I just think it best to see both a man’s strengths and his flaws together. Helps one to have realistic expectations, I would say.”
“Tell me of your seat, I understand it is in northwest Derbyshire.”
“Lower Ilthorpe—I am excessively fond of it if I say so myself.”
Darcy’s brow drew up in a tight knot. That estate sounded remotely familiar, but no doubt one of his friends in the west would know of it.
“I doubt you have heard of it. The estate is not exactly well known, not yet in any case. I hope though to change that and pass my heir something greater than was passed on to me.”
“You have begun improvements on your land?” Darcy gritted his teeth—not being able to remember that estate would drive him to distraction!
“Not yet, but I hope to soon. Want to make sure I am
doing the right things, you know. No sense in wasting capital on efforts which will not pay for themselves. I would very much like to hear your advice. I am sure you know a great deal about improvements, and about hiring a steward. I need a competent man to assist me in the project.”
“I know of several men who might be good candidates—”
Fitzwilliam pulled his horse up to join them. “It seems as though we are to have a bit of a show.”
“Wharton?” Sir Jasper huffed and snorted, a little like a horse himself.
Fitzwilliam pointed into the field where Wharton was approaching Sadler at a trot. “It seems those two have been debating the complexity of those fancy gaits Sadler has been demonstrating. Wharton believes any horse can achieve those and Sadler’s purchase was a foolish waste of gold.”
Darcy covered his eyes and pinched his temples. Boyhood antics were not what he had anticipated when he agreed to this scheme.
“Do not be so dour, this should be amusing.” Fitzwilliam sniggered behind his hand.
Somehow, what Fitzwilliam found amusing often quickly turned into disaster.
Wharton stopped his horse close to Sadler. The animals sniffed each other as the men talked. They seemed to agree on a plan. Sadler wheeled his animal around and began a trot around the perimeter of the field. Wharton followed—no great accomplishment there.
Sadler guided his horse into two low jumps over hedges between fields. Wharton managed the first, but nearly lost his seat over the second. He was going to injure his horse if he continued on in this stupid fashion!
Sadler took another lap around the field to a spot immediately across from his audience and urged his horse into a fancy high-stepping gait. Wharton followed, but when he tried to direct his horse to copy the other, the creature clearly had no idea what to do and stumbled. Wharton tumbled to the ground with a startled cry of pain.
Darcy was the first at his side, handing his reins to Sadler. “Are you hurt?”
Wharton rolled to his side, then sat. “No, no, just got the wind knocked out of me, nothing more.”
“Let us help you up.” Fitzwilliam took one arm while Darcy took the other, and they hauled him to his feet.
“Bloody hell and damnation!” Wharton clutched his leg. “Twisted the ruddy ankle.”
Of course he did. Darcy held his breath to stifle a sigh.
“Can you bear weight on it?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“Ugh—a little, not enough—”
“If we can get you up in the saddle, I can lead your horse back. Bring the horse in close, Sadler. Darcy, help me now, steady him. Foot into the stirrup, there now—heave! Nicely done, man. Keep the horse there a moment whilst I fetch mine.” Fitzwilliam returned a moment later and took the reins from Sadler. “We’ll be back at the stables in a trice.”
“Have Mrs. Reynolds tend him. She knows what to do. Do not bother Elizabeth.” Darcy called to Fitzwilliam’s back.
Fitzwilliam tossed a small salute without looking, abandoning him to Sadler and Sir Jasper’s company.
∞∞∞
“You do not think it is broken, do you?” Fitzwilliam glanced back at Wharton.
“No, but it will not be a pretty scene when my man removes this damned boot. What a spot of rotten luck. Perhaps, though, Miss de Bourgh will take pity and read to me this afternoon to distract me from my discomfort.”
Anne, read to him? That was hardly likely. She liked to be read to well enough, but detested reading aloud, unless she were allowed to have her way with it, giving unique voices to the characters and altering the story to fit her whims. Did he not know that? “How long have you been keeping company with Anne?”
“Three maybe four months, I think.”
“And your cousins?”
“We were all introduced at near the same time. Sarah made the introductions, you know.”
“So I have heard. But as I understand, the school mistress knew nothing of it.” Fitzwilliam turned just enough to catch Wharton in a sidelong glance.
He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Was that his ankle or his conscience?
“I suppose that might be the case. But Sarah assured us it was all right.”
“What made you seek an introduction with Anne?” Fitzwilliam grit his teeth. The answer was taking far too long.
“Sarah had told us about her very appealing friend. Who would not wish to be introduced to her? Say, what can you tell me about Miss de Bourgh?”
Clever, turning the questions around; but not very clever.
“What do you wish to know? Her favorite poets or composers? The reason she declines to wear taffeta or eat trout? Perhaps the reason she wants a Pug who she will name Mabe?”
Wharton’s jaw dropped. “I was thinking something more along the lines of what confections she favored, or whether she preferred flowers from the hot house or the field.”
“I am sure Miss Gifford would be able to tell you those things.” Fitzwilliam certainly would not. If the man knew none of those things about Anne, he did not deserve to be told.
“Ah, very well, I see. You are correct, I should ask her. Tell me then, what do you think of Sadler’s tailor?”
Sadler’s tailor? Fitzwilliam had never given him a single thought. This might be a much longer ride than he had expected.
∞∞∞
December 21, 1813
“Mrs. Darcy,” Mrs. Reynolds peeked into Elizabeth’s dressing room. “The mumpers have begun arriving. We are entertaining them in the servants’ hall as you asked.”
“Very good, I shall be down to greet them in a few minutes.” Elizabeth set aside the letter she had been reading. How ironic it should be from Lydia. Wickham was leaving for France soon, and they decided it best that she not even try to follow the drum. She and several other officers’ wives were taking a cottage in Newcastle. What fun it would be, living with the other wives, like being back at Longbourn with her sisters.
Elizabeth pressed her eyes with thumb and forefinger. It would be a hard lesson for Lydia to learn that these other women would not pet and coddle her as she had been as the baby and favorite of the family. No point in putting that into a letter. Lydia would simply laugh at her. She wrapped her wool shawl over her shoulders and paused at the door. Charitable events were usually a pleasure to her, but seeing the mumpers had a particular poignancy. Lydia was only a few all-too-possible tragedies away from becoming one.
No, she had to stop such thinking. Darcy would never allow one of his sisters to go begging, even Lydia. Still though, war widows were far too common—how would Lydia take such a loss? Not well, no doubt. She lived in a fantasy world where she was the favorite and center of attention. Somehow, it felt like it could not last and soon life’s realities would take hold and shatter her fragile perceptions.
Enough melancholy thoughts, she needed to be a cheerful and welcoming hostess for the mumpers and for her house party. With a deep breath, she headed downstairs to perform her duties.
The mumpers were uniformly gracious and grateful for the hospitality and gifts offered by Pemberley. Mrs. Darcy’s wonderful qualities were highly praised. As pleasant as it was to preside over such an appreciative party, Elizabeth excused herself after a quarter of an hour. It was, after all, the proper amount of time for receiving a morning call, but more than that, there was something off in the scent of the sheep brains Cook had soaking in the kitchen. Perhaps they had gone off? Or maybe Cook was trying a new way to prepare them—either way, the effect was repulsive.
Elizabeth asked Mrs. Reynolds to deal with the matter and hurried as far from the kitchen as she could, pausing at a large vase of marigolds near the grand stairs. She pressed her face to them and breathed deeply. Not terribly fragrant, but much better than soured brains.
Soft strains of music wafted down the grand stairs. A duet? Was that Georgiana and Anne or perhaps Miss Gifford? It was a relief to know the young ladies were all getting on so well. Odd, when Anne was older than herself, to think of her as a young
lady. But in many ways, she was even more naïve than Georgiana.
Elizabeth peeked into the music room. With ivory paper hangings adorned with happy red poppies and yellow snapdragons, the room always felt cheerful. Sunlight streamed in through the windows that lined the longest wall, adding as much warmth as they did light. Though a mite inconvenient in the summer, this time of year it was one of the most comfortable rooms in the house.
Georgiana’s new pianoforte—actually three years old now, but they still called it the new one—stood in one corner, and a large harp in the other. Few knew that Georgiana played the harp. She avoided doing it in public as it drew more attention than she was comfortable with. The attention she got from her pianoforte performances taxed her nerves enough. Several sofas and chairs sat in three distinct clusters throughout the remainder of the room, with small tables nearby for refreshments or game play.
Fitzwilliam and Miss Gifford’s cousins sat around the largest table, playing what appeared to be whist while the three ladies congregated around the pianoforte, ostensibly working out a piece of music. Anne’s frequent, flirtatious glances toward the card table were difficult to ignore. Just inside of proper, Elizabeth bit her tongue—she really could not say anything, at least not yet. But it would still be better if Anne would stop.
Elizabeth pulled another chair up to the card table. Whist had never been her favorite game, but it was interesting—and at times informative—to watch the players. Mr. Wharton, his wrapped foot propped on a soft stool, stared in the direction of his cards, but mostly at Anne. Mr. Sadler was slightly more discreet, but not much, though he added in a few glares at Mr. Wharton, just for variety’s sake it seemed. Fitzwilliam studied his hand nearly as much as he did his partner, Sir Jasper. At last he played his card.
Sir Jasper threw back his head and laughed. “I do believe that settles the game, gentlemen. I suppose you should be glad our friend the colonel has insisted that we play for just pennies.”
