However, for the immediate days after the garden theatrics the actions of both Mr. Falke and Miss Bennet were fodder for gossip. The primary deterrent to gleefully provoked scandal was the furious visage of George Darcy. His affection for Miss Kitty was deep and sincere. Much to the amazement of everyone, the perpetually sunny disposition of the good doctor was utterly erased, to be replaced with an expression as stern and dour as ever witnessed on Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. For many it was the first time, despite the obvious physical resemblance, that they fully recognized the familial similarity.
Kitty remained locked in her room for two days, appearing finally at the urging of Georgiana and bravely joining the gay entertainments that continued unabated. The sympathy of a few of the girls was genuine and encouraging. For the majority of the other guests her unseemly histrionics only proved their pompous assertions that the lower classes possessed no tact or propriety. Whispers, giggling, and pointing persisted despite Dr. Darcy’s frightening glare.
Kitty would learn valuable lessons through her heartache; her maturation swift and agonizing. Georgiana observed her flighty friend’s courage and resolve with awe and sadness. Kitty’s laugh was not as vibrant, but she did laugh. Her dimples not as deep, but she did smile. Conversation was stilted and laced with melancholy, but plenteous and without obvious bitterness. The long days remaining were torturous for her. But the tears were controlled and only shed when alone. Georgiana fully grasped her friend’s anguish and altering spirit, sharing and comforting as best she could manage while silently grieving at her gay friend’s metamorphosis.
The wounds were deep and the scars raw. The sultry heat of the Hertfordshire summer would not melt the frozen heart of Kitty Bennet. For months, she would suffer quietly until one day, at a wedding, as snow frosted the ground and winter air froze each breath, the sun would finally shine and thaw her heart.
Chapter Sixteen
THE DARK PEAK
That Darcy was a deep sleeper was a well-established fact. He no longer heard the bell that announced Alexander needing his mother, nor did he note when Lizzy left their bed or returned. Gale force winds and driving sleet battering the windows only served to make him burrow further into the warm mattress. Lizzy was quite convinced that a raging herd of jungle animals could storm the corridors without him flinching. Once Samuel had dropped a tray carrying several glass bottles onto the tiled floor surrounding Darcy’s bathing area, creating a noisy crash that echoed through the shut door into their bedchamber. Lizzy woke from her dead sleep and the only reason she did not jump a foot into the air was due to the immobile weight of her husband’s leg and arm securing her to the bed. He slept on, his breathing not even effected.
A month or so after their marriage, once she realized just how impenetrable his slumber, she had asked him with concern if he ever worried over a catastrophe happening that he would sleep right through.
“Not at all,” he had replied confidently. “Samuel knows how to wake me in the case of an emergency.”
“Oh. Is that why the doors are unlocked?” She looked nervously at the doors between their inner sanctum and the dressing rooms and sitting room beyond. Her disquiet over the doors remaining unlocked when they spent a great portion of their time in this room naked and engaged in highly intimate activity was a frequently raised topic. No matter how often Darcy assured her that no one would ever enter his bedchamber until he personally opened the door or left it standing wide open to be cleaned, she was not completely assuaged.
So he laughed as he always did, brushing aside her trepidation. “I have no reason to lock a door that none would dare enter. Not even Samuel,” he said before she verbalized what he knew she was thinking. “Trust me, I will and do respond when necessary.”
And he grew secretive as he often did when teasing her.
Several weeks after that conversation, she learned what he meant when he suddenly bolted out of bed one night, grabbing the robe hanging on the bedpost, and was across the room opening the door to the sitting room before Lizzy had fully assimilated that the sound that had woken her was a rapping knock. Why he instantly responded to the bang of the ornamental brass bob striking the plate affixed upon the solid oak was a mystery, but it roused him every time without fail.
This reality was again put to the test one night in early June, shortly after two in the morning. The resounding thud was heard by both of them, but Darcy was robed and reaching for the knob before Lizzy managed to drowsily lift her head from the pillow.
“Yes,” he said, his voice firm without any traces of sleep.
“A message from Hasberry, sir,” Rothchilde’s hushed voice carried to Lizzy, who sat up in bed eagerly.
She heard the rip of a wax seal, the paper being unfolded, and then seconds later Darcy’s instructions, “Have the landau prepared. Wake Mrs. Hanford. We will be leaving immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said, shutting the door and returning to their bed with the opened parchment sheet. “Sleep is over for the night, my love. Bingley writes, in trembling hand I must add, that Jane is laboring.” He chuckled, eyes on the words. “He apologizes for disturbing us but the process is moving hastily.” He looked at Elizabeth, who was already out of bed and drawing on her robe. “Is it too soon to tease over the fact that she is some weeks earlier than expected and that the labor is apparently of short duration?”
“Yes,” she snapped, glaring at his amused expression, “just as it is too soon for me to harass my sister for not taking two days to accomplish the task as it nearly did me.” Her eyes clouded. “Too much can yet go wrong.”
“Of course you are correct. Forgive me for jesting inappropriately. Get dressed and I will meet you in the foyer.” He placed his hands upon her shoulder, squeezing in assurance. “Jane will be fine, Elizabeth. Have no fears.”
They arrived to discover Bingley wide-eyed, pale, and pacing the parlor in circles. Unlike Darcy, Bingley had no intention of being anywhere near the birthing room. The thought was unappealing to Jane as well, for many of the obvious reasons but also because Charles was one of those individuals who became physically ill at the sight of blood. Thus, he was doing what most men did in these circumstances: pacing and sweating. Darcy assumed control, distracting the frantic father-to-be with conversation, an adorable six-month old who complaisantly latched onto being woken up in the middle of the night as a time to play, and a generous shot of brandy.
Lizzy rapidly ascended the stairs. Jane had chosen a local midwife to deliver her firstborn, again sticking to traditional methods. She admired Dr. Darcy, knew he was a gifted physician, but her timid nature quailed at the idea of any man, especially one she knew familiarly, witnessing her birth. George understood completely, so was not offended. He did, however, have the midwife’s experience verified and sought her out for a frank obstetrical conversation that may have shocked the poor woman to an early grave if not for the extraordinary reputation of Dr. Darcy that was now common knowledge. She saw their consultation with his approval as a badge of honor to increase her renown and her income!
George’s “interference” was based on his affection for the Bingleys, and was met with tremendous relief, especially from Charles, who was not handling the whole idea of birth very well. Since the esteemed Dr. Darcy could not deliver his child personally, the next best was a midwife who had passed the formidable doctor’s inspection. In truth his fears were the same as every man who loves his wife, but where Darcy possessed rigid control of his emotions for the most part, Bingley was transparent. It was rather comical, but Darcy was sympathetic enough not to point it out.
What Lizzy had said about so many possible complications was absolutely true. But in the end Jane continued the legacy set by Mrs. Bennet with all five of her deliveries. Minutes before eight that morning, after less than twelve hours of labor, Ethan Charles Howard Bingley was born. There were no incidents, no abnormalities, and no untoward aftermath. By the time Charles was ushered into the room
an hour later, his wife was sitting serenely in bed—as beautiful as always with only the dusky circles under her eyes and tiny burst blood vessels around her pupils an indication of anything unusual having occurred—with their son bundled in her arms.
Lizzy and Alexander stayed at Hasberry for a week. Darcy returned to Pemberley that day, as it was a busy season for him, but rode over frequently to visit. Alexander was introduced to his new cousin, but the six-month-old wasn’t terribly impressed. There was plenty of time to develop a cousinly relationship.
The close proximity of Hasberry to Pemberley was a continual source of joy for the four people involved. Lizzy often commandeered her curricle, taking Alexander for fresh-air drives to visit his aunt for an afternoon. Numerous evenings were spent together, at one house or the other, as the adults dined and played games. Frequently, they were joined by Gerald and Harriet Vernor or Albert and Marilyn Hughes, their nearest neighbors. But the fine weather of summer allowed for dozens of visits with those like the Sitwells who lived a bit farther away. The men gathered for hunts and rides on a weekly basis, the ladies meeting for tea and conversation while the children played. It was a period of gay entertainment from dozens of avenues.
Nevertheless, Pemberley Manor was amazingly quiet that summer. With George and Georgiana away, the upper halls and family rooms seemed surprisingly empty. Alexander was a good-natured child, not disturbing the tranquil atmosphere to any great degree. His moments of temper were exceedingly rare, so loud cries or tantrums were not a common disruption. There were adjustments made to the furniture arrangements in some rooms as he grew more mobile, learning to roll and then creep. Primarily, of course, he was kept to the top floor nursery and bedchambers, as this was where Darcy and Lizzy passed large portions of their day. But it was not at all unusual to find the infant lying on a spread blanket littered with toys and within eyeshot of Darcy as he worked at his desk. Or in the parlor or library with whichever parent was tending him at the time. Mrs. Hanford’s services were employed, naturally, both Mr. and Mrs. Darcy busy people. But a large percentage of his waking hours, or even when asleep, Alexander was with a doting parent.
Frequently, he accompanied his father to the stables. Darcy would hold him tightly as they walked among the stalls or watched the grooms and trainers at work. Alexander observed it all with intent eyes, fearlessly touching the enormous animals with his tiny fingers. Parsifal tolerated the oddity only because it was held by his master and did not interrupt the expected treats. Naturally the groomsmen and stable hands thought he was adorable, fussing over the baby while maintaining a reverential respect for the young heir of Pemberley. He was introduced to the Connemara ponies, although even Darcy was uncomfortable with placing the baby onto one’s back as yet. Lizzy glared and sternly reminded him each time they headed out the door that taking Alexander riding was forbidden. Darcy pretended to argue, just for the fun of seeing his wife’s eyes flash, but he agreed that it was too soon. The delight in observing Alexander’s infantile interest in the environs was enough for the present.
Lizzy welcomed the beautiful weather. She resumed her gardening, the joy of kneeling and digging in the soft earth one that could not be denied. Alexander joined her, usually sitting or sleeping in his well-used perambulator under the shade of a tree. Long walks were essential, both day and evening. Again the baby carriage was utilized, the springs devised by Stan providing for a smoother ride, and there were few Pemberley trails unnavigable. Alexander loved the outdoors, a trait that immeasurably pleased his nature-loving parents. His first touches of grass or dirt or the cool water of the pond were met with the serious gaze they were rapidly growing accustomed too. Alexander examined everything with an intensity that was remarkable. Whether it was a toy or flower or attached appendage, Alexander studied it carefully before deciding what to do with it, that usually entailing trying to eat it. The rescue of any number of inedible objects, some quite disgusting now that he was proficient at escaping his confines, was a fulltime occupation.
She and Darcy carried on their tradition of nightly strolls along the terrace and private garden with Alexander brought along to enjoy the expanse of stars, splashing fountains, and chirping crickets. Darcy happily toted the bright infant in his strong embrace, pointing to the constellations, vegetation, or glimpsed animal as he instructed. Lizzy laughed at his informative dictations, but Alexander listened to every word spoken in his father’s resonant timbre as if keenly aware of the meaning.
In this way, the lazy days of summer slipped by with little in the way of drama to intrude. The only lengthy excursion beyond the immediate area was a weeklong trip to the Peaks.
Darcy’s yearning to show his wife the one remaining region of Derbyshire that she had yet to fully explore had burned within his soul for ages. Interruptions of a harrowing nature so continually intruded upon his plans that the normally non-superstitious man was almost afraid to bring up the subject. But a casual comment by Gerald Vernor restarted the wheels in his mind.
A mutual friend named Mr. Ward Logan owned an estate outside of Castleton, his manor house on the banks of the River Noe in Hope Valley. Darcy and Logan were not close confidants, but did overlap at Cambridge and were friendly enough to play billiards and engage in stimulating discourse from time to time. Over the years since University, chance encounters would occur while in Town or at a Derbyshire function, each man genuinely pleased to pause for a reacquainting conversation. Lizzy had met Mr. and Mrs. Logan at several social events during the past year-and-a-half, first at the Cole’s Masque. Only once had Darcy traveled to the Logan estate, Chelmbridge. It was over eight years ago, before Logan was married. He opened his house to a group of Cambridge alumni, the gentlemen spending a week hiking the numerous trails, exploring the caverns, and hunting the wealth of game roaming the rocky moors of the High Peaks.
Thus when Vernor told Darcy that he had seen Logan while on a recent trip to Chesterfield, and that Logan had informed him that he was in town with his wife shopping for a planned summertime trip abroad, Darcy decided it was a sign.
He wrote to Logan, asking if it would be possible for his family to reside at Chelmbridge for a few days early in July while touring the Peaks. Mr. Logan’s reply was swift and positive. Darcy was especially pleased with the arrangement, knowing that the comfort and privacy of a house was preferred over a questionable inn. Above all, he insisted on his wife and child being pampered and untroubled. Additionally, Chelmbridge was beautifully located in the valley created by the Noe with uneven hills of green dotted with the gritstone and limestone boulders prevalent in the region. It was nestled on a slight rise above the river, almost precisely upon the dividing line between Hope Valley and the Edale Vale with Mam Tor shadowing. It was an ideal placement with the distance to the main four caverns of the area, and Kinder Scout to the north within an accessible distance.
The plans were set, arrangements made, and their baggage packed without the tiniest upset interfering. Still, Darcy did not breathe freely until the carriage entered the outskirts of Castleton and made the eastern turn toward Peveril Castle. Lizzy was mesmerized by the passing scenery, but not unaware of her husband’s foreboding. She shared a look, her lips lifted in the teasing manner that inevitably brightened his spirits.
“Peveril Castle straight ahead,” she declared, staring directly into his eyes with laughter held in check. “Our tour of the Dark Peak has official begun.”
“Ready for a hard walk, Mrs. Darcy? Your tour involves intense exertion.”
Lizzy grinned, accepting his playful challenge. “I bet I shall arrive at the top same time as you, Mr. Darcy.”
“We shall see,” he said smugly, finally releasing the residual threads of his tension.
As it turned out, he reached the summit of Castle Hill simultaneously with his wife, but that was only because he shortened his stride on the chance he was needed to assist her up the rocky, snaking trail. That, of course, was unnecessary as Lizzy was an excellent walker and climber, nav
igating the difficult terrain and cresting the hill with relative ease. She did pause, partially to fan her glistening face and inhale deeply several times, but also to appreciate the view.
The impregnable apex flanked by steep cliffs offered an impressive view of the landscape in all directions. The rooftops of Castleton nestled in the sylvan vale below with the blue ribbons of the rivers cutting through the dales. The full breadth of Mam Tor looming to the west, the rugged stone outcroppings bounding the flat pinnacle, and the heights of Hathersage moorland were all stunningly visible. Bravely, they gazed down the sheer precipice into the yawning chasm marking the main entrance to the greatest Peak cavern, Devil’s Arse, far below. The panoramic view was truly breathtaking and abundantly worth the strenuous climb even without the Tudor castle sitting in glory upon the knoll.
Built originally in 1080 and later fortified of stone by Henry II from 1155 onward, the once massive keep remained an evocative example of a time long past. Although largely fallen into ruins, the twelfth century gatehouse serving as the entrance to Perevil was intact, opening into a vast courtyard with the sixty-foot gritstone keep dominating the picture.
As with their visit to Bolsover last summer, another ancient castle built by a William Peverel only one hundred years later, Lizzy and Darcy were content to stroll about the grounds and examine the ruins. A brisk breeze blew, tempering the fiercely shining July sun. It was a pleasant way to begin their trip, the adventurous, nature-loving Darcys ready to explore.
The week’s agenda was set, Darcy ever the meticulous planner, but of course with Alexander along for the excursion, each day’s enterprise could not be as time consuming as they may have wished. They began each day slowly, not leaving the house until after Alexander’s morning nap, and maintained a sedate pace, piling into the carriage rather than walking the short distances to the surrounding caves. Mrs. Hanford cared for the infant from the safety of the carriage or shaded locale with Mr. Anders and Watson providing protection while Lizzy and Darcy were away. He was a compliant baby, easy to amuse and keep contained, and handled the rigors of travel and strange environs with amazing composure.
In the Arms of Mr. Darcy Page 33
