Licking his lips, Mr. Darcy stretched out his hand and traced the line of her cleavage down from her clavicle to dip most suggestively beneath the thin silk of her shift. "I believe you afford me greater forethought than I possess," and he abruptly removed his hand to gingerly lift the hem of her gown up from her ankle, to her calf, and then knee. "Now, shall we make extra work for my man and your maid, or are you as keen as I am?"
Elizabeth pouted for just a moment and her husband began to lift her gown from the other side. With a huffy flounce, she reached down to lift her skirts the rest of the way and show her husband she was just as keen as him, and more.
By the time Mr. Darcy did meet his man, Simmons, and mount Alexander in the front courtyard, no one dared ask the great man why he was more than two hours later than the time he had given the stables. Elizabeth had kept a brave face when she farewelled her beau from the doorway of their suite, but when she watched him ride off to the south, she allowed herself a proper cry. She had not counted on separating from Fitzwilliam for any length of time just three months from when they married, and the taste of distance was most bitter.
10
With her husband gone, Elizabeth Darcy did take a rest. The bed felt too empty and she had struggled to sleep for very long. Only an hour had passed since she watched him ride off, and she did not feel fit for company with the rest of her family. Instead, she decided to tackle a visit she had not yet done alone since arriving at Netherfield Park: seeing her father.
Selecting a book of Shakespeare's plays, Elizabeth called her maid Higgins to help her prepare to be seen. From time with her husband, to crying and a nap, Elizabeth knew she looked afright without utilizing the mirror in the dressing room of her suite.
When Jane had explained that the Darcys would be in a separate wing from the rest of her family, Elizabeth had not thought anything of it. After all, privacy and quiet was welcome to any newly married couple. But now that her husband was on his way to London, Elizabeth suddenly felt very isolated and unhappy by the sleeping arrangements. Briefly, she considered inviting Kitty to sleep with her as Higgins helped her change her gown. But then she worried such an invitation would be unseemly and a little insulting. As girls, she would never hesitate to share a bed with her sisters. But it seemed so awkward now that she was a married woman. She thought to ask Jane to move her room, but that would only create additional work for the staff and invite discord with her mother by increasing their proximity. No, Elizabeth Darcy would endure the solitary wing, and hope her nightmares did not return.
"Would you like for me to replait your hair?" Higgins asked as a gentle way of explaining that Elizabeth's curls had come undone in the back. As a married woman, she could just as easily don a cap like her mother often wore, but Elizabeth was still a little vain about her youth. To her, only old married women wore such hair pieces and she did not wish to join those ranks with less than a year of marriage under her feet. When Mrs. Darcy nodded, Higgins began to pull the pins from Elizabeth’s hair and gently massaged her mistress' scalp. Being Mrs. Darcy came with so many expectations and responsibilities, that Elizabeth greatly relished the few perks the position held, such as having her hair done anytime she wished.
After just a few moments under her skillful maid's direction, Elizabeth looked quite smart as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Higgins gathered up the laundry and asked if there would be anything else before dinner? Elizabeth shook her head, clasping the book of Shakespeare's plays to her chest. She took a deep breath and watched her shoulders fall as she exhaled. She tried to see if she looked so remarkably different that her father might be alarmed. But apart from a slight fullness in her cheeks and glowing complexion, Elizabeth Darcy looked much like the same Lizzie Bennet that had spent hours reading with her father long before his injury.
Without informing anyone as to her aims, Elizabeth walked quietly down the long corridor between the two wings, doing her best not to disturb anyone. While she did not believe that her mother would bar her entry to her father's sick room, neither did Elizabeth wish to give her mother the chance. One of her insecurities dwelled upon Fitzwilliam's departure bringing about a different conduct from her mother and two younger sisters since she was without the protection of her husband. Others might have found Elizabeth overly cautious on such a subject, but she remembered well the screaming and yelling that occurred the last time she and Fitzwilliam visited Longbourn just four months ago, begging to be married from the Meryton perish.
As she neared the suite of rooms where her father recuperated, Elizabeth walked right past the nursery, the door wide open. Spying Jane tending to her children, her sister said not a word but only nodded in her direction before returning to her task of feeding little Lynn. Elizabeth continued in her plans undisturbed. When at last she reached the door to her father’s room, it was only open a quarter of an inch. Elizabeth wondered if she should knock or merely open it. She listened closely for any sounds of someone inside with her father, and upon hearing none, she eased the door open. She poked her head around much like a curious child would while searching for their favorite playmate. But her smile fell as soon as she realized her father was alone and gazing directly at her from his bed with his eyes wide open with panic.
As Elizabeth stepped inside the room, her father began to thrash. So Elizabeth rushed directly to his side.
"Papa, Papa I am here. Your Lizzie is here. There is nothing to be frightened of," Elizabeth begged as she could see the distress in her father's eyes. He calmed the moment she placed a hand upon his shoulder, but his mouth made the most pitiful cry that was more of a guttural moan because he could not form any words.
Elizabeth sniffed to keep her own emotions under good regulation, then placed the book on the bedside table. She made her next task to help her father find a more comfortable position in the bed. She asked him, rhetorically, if he would like her to fluff his pillows and assist him in sitting up. When he made no sign of disagreement with his limited communication abilities, Elizabeth did just that. Her father's good hand began to motion as though he wished to write.
Excited that he would talk with her, Elizabeth dashed over to the small table across the room where ink and paper were left just for this very purpose. She proudly brought the parchment back holding the ink well and dipping the pen for her father. She watched him with great hope in her heart as he determinedly used his good hand to scratch a message before her very eyes.
But her hope was dashed when at last he finished and she took the message from him. He looked at her with such anticipation in his own eyes that Elizabeth did not know how to tell him the letters he had written were complete gibberish. A bunch of Js and Ts with Rs, but no vowels whatsoever. Elizabeth gulped as she tried to understand what he was saying. She didn't wish to hurt him or set his recovery back by confessing she couldn't understand the note.
"Perhaps I will save this for later," she said. "I shall carry it with me and treasure your note. In the meantime, I have brought one of your favorites. How would you like to hear a little bit of Hamlet?" Elizabeth asked and her father stoically accepted the kind way she concealed that his writing was undecipherable.
She read for half an hour before her father's soft snores alerted her that he had fallen asleep without the benefit of a dose of laudanum. She considered for a moment waking him to give him such a dose, but realized that it was actually a better sign he did not need it. On that errant thought, she recalled her own injuries and the very physician that taught her how less laudanum was a good sign: Dr. Matthews.
Elizabeth went back over to the writing table to pull out a fresh piece of parchment. She capped and shook the inkwell with gusto, sharpened the pen, and began to write with great determination. Her father would be made well.
September 30, 1812 Netherfield Park, Hertfordshire, England
Dr. Matthews,
I hope you will not find this letter to be untoward as most of your dealings have been with my husband, Fitzwilliam Darcy
. However, I find that I am in need of your prodigious care and services, but not for my own benefit. Two months ago, my father was in a great fire and appears to have suffered apoplexy that has affected the mobility of one side. He attempts to communicate, through quill pen and even through speech, but alas, we cannot understand him. The words he writes are undecipherable, a jumble of letters that do not even make up a puzzle to solve. And the sounds can barely pass for speech, though at times he has great inflection.
I recall how helpful you were in my recovery. Although I was in pain and suffered my own head injury, I do recall you speaking of your research into the latest theories about the recovery of our minds when we suffer a concussion. If anyone can help my father recover a small part of his former self, it is you. We are set to leave for Pemberley in two weeks' time and I would like to extend an invitation for physician in residence. My husband is in London and will happily work out your fee, and I suspect have more than a few reasons to see wisdom in my plan. Not only is he as eager as I to see my father recover; our family in residence at Pemberley will increase after this move for my mother, father, four sisters, brother-in-law, and infant niece and nephew will be moving with us. There are also signs of another joining our ranks perhaps next spring.
I know that six months of residence is much to ask, but I am certain my father, our household, and the surrounding countryside can benefit from your talents. I also have it on good authority the library at Pemberley holds numerous medical texts and anatomical studies if monetary inducement is not enough. Please say that you will help your former, most stubborn patient and join our fold. Response to Fitzwilliam at Darcy House is sufficient.
Regards,
Elizabeth Rose Darcy
After finishing her letter, she did not seal it so that she could send it via express enclosed in a note for her husband. Elizabeth would abide by their agreement to make all major decisions together and inquire whether he agreed with her plan in her loving letter to him. Remembering how fond her husband and Bingley were of Dr. Matthews' company, she also thought an additional male presence at Pemberley would vastly improve the dinners and other diversions she would need to hold to keep her mother and sisters content.
As she reread over both missives for any mistakes, she rested her eyes on the line hinting as to her own condition. She knew the signs of impending motherhood well, and lamented that the only obvious one was the absence of her courses. Both Jane and her aunt had long warned her such a sign was not alone enough to raise hopes, but Elizabeth had not felt any of the others. Her bosom was not tender, and though she thought perhaps her complexion was improved, there were many reasons for that. Nor was she nauseous or finding eating a difficulty, beyond that first day after the disastrous ball in Scotland.
Elizabeth took one last look at her father slumbering and bestowed a kiss upon his forehead. She held the two letters in her hand and would see them posted that afternoon. As for a clear answer on Dr. Matthews accepting her invitation or if her womb nurtured a child, Elizabeth would have to wait, and she could not count herself as one of God's most patient creatures.
11
Fitzwilliam Darcy and his man, Simmons, traveled the labyrinth of back alleys in London to reach the rear stables of his Mayfair town home. But even if he had taken the main thoroughfares, Mr. Darcy would have ridden through unmolested. The mobs had long been disbanded, and two soldiers routinely marched the walk on both sides of the street.
The kitchen staff were quite startled at the sudden appearance of the master, and a low scullery maid was sent to fetch Mrs. Potter. Cook wrung her hands upon her apron.
“Mr. Darcy, we are so glad to see you, sir. I’ll get a hot meal ready for you in no time!” she said, as the staff enjoyed a collective sigh of relief. Since the attack, two maids had quit for other households. Those who had remained worried that despite the soldiers, another mob would assemble at any moment. The presence of the master somehow felt reassuring, that he could act in ways they could not should danger present again. No one considered the home might be even more at risk with the very man the mobs wanted in residence.
The housekeeper reached her employer just as he was emerging from the convenient staircase that led to the dining room.
Mr. Darcy bowed his head in deference. "Mrs. Potter, I am to understand that you were instrumental in saving my home. I humbly thank you," Mr. Darcy gave his senior staff their due and Mrs. Potter's heart practically melted at his gentlemanlike ways.
“Of course, sir, Mr. Arthur and the lads were the real heroes.” She attempted to deflect the accolades, but Mr. Darcy shook his head.
"Nay, they might have moved the furniture, but I heard it was you who braved the madness and hurried to my uncle’s home. I am afraid without your bravery, we might not be standing in this home on this very day," Mr. Darcy involuntarily thought about the burned out shell of Longbourn from his memory with his wife. Although London had not seen riots to that degree in over a generation, the ease of lighting a match was always a threat to any home made of beam and plaster.
In recognition of her service, Mr. Darcy invited Mrs. Potter to enjoy a cup of tea with him in his study after he changed. He wished to hear a full accounting not only from the letters, but from the men and women who survived the ordeal.
"And open a cask of wine on my order for the servants’ dinner this evening. Anyone present, no matter their role, I wish them toasted tonight and heartily thanked. There will also be a small bonus in the quarterly wages," Mr. Darcy finished as he carefully climbed the stairs to his suite with his man Simmons just ahead of him.
After a soak in his claw-footed tub, Mr. Darcy met Mrs. Potter in the study. She apologized profusely that it might be best if he ate on a tray in his room or in the parlor.
“I’m afraid the windows are still broken in some places on the first floor. We keep the doors to the dining room closed, but finding plate glass has been a challenge, sir.” Mrs. Potter wrung her hands, feeling a bit of a failure that the home was not in tip-top shape when the master arrived.
“That’s quite alright. Inconvenient, but building materials have been harder to come by with the wars and building boom. We can close the shutters, and if outside pests are a nuisance, use oilcloth to close the opening.”
“Oilcloth, sir?” Mrs. Potter had been raised in London, in the finer homes of the gentry all of her service years. She had been in Mr. Darcy’s employ long enough to know that when she did not understand a tradition or method from the main estate of Pemberley, to simply ask and save them both a great deal of trouble.
Mr. Darcy nodded, with a small smirk. “You should be able to buy some in a draper’s shop, or reach out to Mr. Gardiner in Gracechurch Street. He might know of a supplier for both plate glass and oilcloth. There isn’t time to make it without an enormous stench,” Mr. Darcy remarked, impressing his housekeeper that the man prodigiously educated himself on all manner of topics in running his various homes.
“Now, tell me what happened when the home was attacked. I’d like to know all before I speak with my uncle tomorrow.”
Mrs. Potter explained how for days, the crowds milled around and jeered.
“Did you recognize anyone in the crowd? Anyone seem to come all the time?” Mr. Darcy asked, offering his housekeeper some sugar.
“Well, no, sir. I didn’t spend all day looking, and any staff I caught skipping their tasks to gawk, I gave a stern talking-to,” Mrs. Potter shuddered as she remembered her own terror as the crowd grew larger and larger by the day. “Come to think of it, there was one man,” she squinted her eyes as she appeared to remember some information her employer could use.
“Yes, anything at all that stood out could be helpful. Very powerful men are moving against my family and I mean to stop them.”
“Oh, yes, sir. I have no doubt that you will!” Mrs. Potter cast her support unequivocally to the Darcy corner.
“So this man, you say? What made you remember him?” Mr. Darcy prompted.
“He never joined the crowds. He stood over there,” Mrs. Potter motioned toward the front door, “across the street and just watched. Smoking all day, rarely left.”
“Did you see him send any messages or write anything down?” Mr. Darcy asked.
Mrs. Potter shook her head.
“No. He left each night and was back in the morning. Just watching.”
Mr. Darcy asked for a description of the man and Mrs. Potter smiled.
“Mr. Darcy, he’s standing out there now. I saw him while you were taking your bath,” Mrs. Potter explained and Mr. Darcy leapt up to rush to the front foyer.
The small panes of glass on either side of the front door were cracked, but intact. Gazing through a small area that was not shattered into a spiderweb pattern, Mr. Darcy could see the red glow of a lit cigarette. The man leaned against the home across the way, half concealed by the shadows of the long alley leading to Brook Street and Hanover Square.
“Do not disturb him and we will see if he is there again, tomorrow. If so, I will find a way to detain him and question him,” Mr. Darcy stated, though Mrs. Potter had hung back and didn’t quite hear.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
Mr. Darcy turned around and walked away from the window into the hall. “I said do not share this with anyone, and I’ll see that the man is apprehended.”
As there was nothing else Mrs. Potter could assist him with, Mr. Darcy again retired to his study. He penned a quick note and sent a hallboy to take it to the soldiers. In it, he said he had reason to believe one of the instigators of the mob was watching and waiting for the soldiers to leave, and described the man standing across the street. He asked that the man be taken into custody for questioning.
Then, he pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and sighed. All of the anxiety he had carried on the trip to London and fear of what their home would look like, felt like an enormous burden now that his stress did not keep his worries in a state of tension. He smiled as he wrote Elizabeth’s name, and then began to detail there was not much in the home worse for the wear. He noted the house was practically bare in every room, thus far, and suggested that next year, after the babe was born, perhaps they could come to London for a proper visit. And bring Mrs. Bennet for her excellent taste in selecting furnishings.
The Miracles of Marriage Page 6
