My Dearest Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  “Well,” George boomed as he rose with a spine-cracking stretch, “I am free all next week. You, Colonel?”

  “My docket is empty for a couple weeks,” Richard shrugged. “A wedding is an adequate entertainment, I suppose.”

  With the family thus settled, the last weeks of September glided by with happy serenity felt all around. The weather held clement and sunlit during the day with a slight chilling come sundown. The gradual metamorphosis about the extensive grounds began as autumn colors invaded, leaves burnished with golds and reds. The emergence of the multihued dahlia, purple toad lily, marguerite daisy, calendula, nasturtium, rosemary, and salvias provided a fresh plethora of vibrant color and fragrance to the summer-fading blooms. The numerous bushes with variegated foliage accented the already dazzling displays. The gardeners were especially busy preparing the vast gardens for the winter freeze and spring flowering, bulbs arriving by the wagon loads.

  Lizzy watched the digging for several days before gathering the nerve to ask Mr. Clark if she could assist with the care of the private garden to the east of the manor. If he was shocked or dismayed in any way by her request, it did not show. Thus it was that Lizzy could be found most days on her knees in the soft turf with two gardeners named Robert and Harry aiding nearby. Naturally the modest garden was already faultless, and Lizzy had no desire to radically transform anything. She merely wished to plant a few of her favorite plants and to fulfill a long-standing pleasure to work with soil and flora, gardening having always been a pastime she enjoyed.

  Additionally, she resumed her duties as Mistress. She had not consciously recognized missing the simple household tasks while on her holiday, but once confronted with the pile of papers Mrs. Reynolds had carefully organized on her desk, she delved in with nearly as much gusto as Darcy. Naturally Mrs. Reynolds had managed all matters efficiently during her Mistress's absence, but she had no qualms with relegating authority to Mrs. Darcy. Rather she considered it her proper duty to do so. Thus the ledgers, purchasing notes, detailed lists of tasks completed, staff concerns, and so on were methodically perused in a series of meetings between the two women over several days.

  Lizzy and Darcy rediscovered the contentment of evenings working side by side at their sitting room desks and in the joyful sharing of estate business. They naturally fell into the previous pattern of quietly attending to individual tasks or engaging in extended discussion of estate affairs. Darcy had accepted his wife's innate common sense that frequently opened a new avenue of thought regarding a subject or dilemma. However, in general he managed the business of Pemberley with minimal input, and Lizzy was unconcerned since she knew he did not need her participation. Plus there was still a large amount of his ventures that she simply did not comprehend. Instead, the dialogues were more for the joy of sharing.

  Lizzy's curricle was utilized frequently as the fair weather continued. Darcy fretted, as always, but kept his fears mostly hidden. His only stipulation—stated softly but with an edge—was that she never travel too far and always have Georgiana as her companion. To this she agreed. Fortunately her dearest friends were in close proximity.

  Sanburl Hall, home of Harriet Vernor, was less than two miles from door to door. She could easily walk the distance, and had numerous times during the spring and early summer months, but walking long distances was fast becoming a difficulty. Marilyn Hughes lived three and a half miles away, Rymas Park nestled on the edge of Rymas Brook and such a beautifully serene locale with the forest encasing the quaint house that Lizzy delighted in her visits there. The need to feel the wind upon her face and command the little carriage was too great to completely ignore, so even when a visit was not planned, Lizzy and Georgiana would commandeer the vehicle for a jaunt about the estate and a picnic.

  Generally, however, her friends chose to visit Pemberley, all of them understanding the necessity for their pregnant friend to remain close to home. Julia Sitwell and Alison Fitzherbert, who lived near each other in the region north of Chesterfield, journeyed together for a stay of three days. Of course it pleased Darcy considerably to have his wife safe within Pemberley's walls, a fact not entirely lost on any of the women!

  When not attending to business of some kind, digging in the garden, or visiting with her lady friends, Lizzy was usually with Georgiana.

  “What song are you playing? I have never heard that one before.” Lizzy glanced up from her embroidery, directing the question toward her sister-in-law, who was entertaining on the pianoforte.

  Georgiana reddened, evading Lizzy's quizzical look. “I wrote it,” she replied in a small voice, speaking louder at the dawning astonishment on Lizzy's face, “but you cannot tell William! Promise me.”

  “Why not? It was beautiful, Georgiana. I had no idea you had composed music. I am very impressed and know William would be as well.”

  “I do not think he would understand. And besides, it is merely a trifling thing. Not very good at all.”

  “I beg to differ. It was lovely. Perhaps not of the quality to worry Mr. Beethoven that he has serious competition, but certainly enjoyable to hear.”

  Georgiana laughed at Lizzy's tease. “No, I doubt any true composers need be threatened.” She sighed, her eyes suddenly dreamy. “It was fun to try my hand at writing. Lizzy,” she paused, speaking haltingly when she resumed, “do you believe, as Uncle says, that someday females will be able to… be more… be accepted beyond… not be frowned upon or chastised for pursuing… something else… or. Oh, I am making no sense!”

  Lizzy laughed. “I understand you, Georgiana. Your uncle is a bit of a revolutionary, is he not?”

  Georgiana nodded, giggling. “Indeed. Although I think he usually says radical comments just to see William's face and enter a debate. Still, it would be nice to have an option in life.”

  “Do you not wish to be a wife and mother?”

  “Oh yes! Yes, I do!” Georgiana nodded emphatically. “Very much! But,” she rose then, pacing with uncharacteristic energy, “there are times, when I am listening to music, or learning a new piece, when I will see notes upon a sheet in my mind. New notes, joined uniquely as the sounds play within my head, forming sections and whole movements. Cadenza, scherzo, ostinato, toccata. Melodies I have never heard before. Unfamiliar arrangements.”

  She stopped, sighing and shrugging. “So I write them down, sometimes. Wondering if they are truly my own ideas or lost remembrances.”

  “I see nothing wrong with you placing your musical visions upon paper, Georgiana. If this is a gift you have been granted, then explore it! Creating music, even if only enjoyed by a few, is a beautiful, worthwhile endeavor.”

  “You do not think it silly? A waste of time?”

  “Of course not. Why is it any different than painting or weaving? If you enjoy writing your own songs, you should. I know I would love to hear more. How many have you composed?”

  “Only a few sonatas, an impromptu, and I am working on a nocturne. All of a romantic bent, thus confirming my hopes in life and lack of wild inspiration.” She finished with a laugh.

  “What an accomplished woman,” Lizzy whispered with true pride and awe. “Your brother would be immeasurably proud.”

  “Truly?”

  “Without a doubt. He adores you, Georgiana, and only wishes for your happiness. You have no idea how proud he is of you. Play any of your tunes, especially the one you played for me, and he will probably burst from the joy.”

  “Did you know that women are allowed to enroll as students at the Conservatoire in Paris?” She glanced at a nodding Lizzy, her cheeks rosy and voice wistful. “It must be amazing to be surrounded by people desiring to learn nothing but music. To be immersed in music all day. To meet great musicians and singers and composers.”

  “You will travel to the Continent, Georgie. You know William plans for it. There you will encounter innumerable opportunities to enhance your skills. Paris is going nowhere and the Conservatoire will wait. Of course, this is provided you do not fall in love wi
th the first man you meet at Almack's next spring.”

  “Oh, heaven forbid! William would surely have a heart seizure! I think he would sooner allow me to take the Grand Tour or dwell in Paris than that! Frankly I pray I am refused so I do not have to face such agony.”

  Lizzy laughed. “I am sorry to disappoint, my dear, but the odds of that are miniscule.”

  “One never knows, Lizzy. The Patronesses are whimsical in their approval. I heard that Angelica Cole was refused and Mary Ward!” Georgiana sat next to Lizzy, her face pale. “William would be devastated if I was denied, but then I am terrified of dancing with all eyes upon me. Oh my, I truly am a mouse as Richard insists!”

  “Silly girl! First, Richard calls you his 'little mouse' because you are sweet, adorable, and mild. Second, no Darcy will be refused at Almack's. And third, you have had some practice dancing while in Wales, and after your presentation at Court, Almack's will be nothing.”

  Now it was Georgiana who laughed. “You say that because appearing at Court is what you dread!”

  “Indeed I do,” Lizzy shuddered. “One look at the gate before St. James's Palace and I knew I never wanted to walk through them. How can you be so complaisant? I was perfectly content to forego all the 'coming out' nonsense. Why does William insist I must?”

  “Because you are Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley. He is proud of you and wants everyone to know how immensely fortunate he is.”

  “I shall trip over the formal gown and train, I know I shall. Or forget the proper phrases. The Prince will be insulted and I shall be mortified.”

  “Nonsense. Aunt Madeline will prepare us adequately, and besides, it is in and out within five minutes. I, on the other hand, will suffer the trauma of a whole evening being stared at and probably tripping over my own feet. It shall be torture!”

  “Be cheered, dear sister. William will be there with you as chaperone, most likely glowering at every eligible male in the dance hall, so none of them will have the audacity to ask you to dance anyway!”

  Darcy resumed his forays into the storage areas of the attic that had begun with the quest for baby furniture. Along the way he discovered numerous boxes containing a plethora of infant toys, memorabilia, school implements, childhood clothing, and more. Additionally there were the odd pieces of furniture, old clothing and trinkets, and assorted items that frequently sparked a memory. Darcy was overjoyed and rather amazed, the hours spent in investigating the past quite pleasurable. He knew his parents had amassed a large quantity of keepsakes, their penchant for saving valued items a character trait passed on to their children, he just had not realized the breadth. Of course there was also an enormous quantity of what could only be labeled junk: objects that were clearly decades old, moldering and decaying into dust. His organized mind shuddered at the rampant chaos, and although he did not need to add another chore to his docket, he ended up embarking on an extensive cleaning mission. The household staff wasn't exactly thrilled by the expedition but did their assigned duties, while dozens of families in the nearby communities benefited from the used clothing and furniture.

  Therefore, what had begun as a simple retrieval of cradle and rocking chair ended up being a massive scourging and a chance to revisit past memories.

  Thus it was common during those long days of autumn for Lizzy to discover her dusty spouse surrounded by boxes and scattered piles of oddities. One such day, not too long after their return from the Lathrops, she heard the ghost of his laughter reaching her ears as she approached the narrow stairs leading to the eastern attic where the family artifacts were accumulated. She smiled as she mounted the steps, grinning further at the sight of him sitting on the wooden floorboards with long legs crossed amid the cobwebs and chaos. Coats and cravat had been discarded in the stifling heat of the airless room, folded neatly over a threadbare chair, his fine linen shirt smudged with grime and hands filthy. He was reading a tattered book of sorts, grinning and chuckling.

  “What is so humorous?”

  He glanced up at his wife, motioning for her to come forward and clearing a space amongst the clutter by his side. “Remember I told you that when I was a boy I attempted to write a story about traveling to another planet? My mother kept it!” He shook his head. “I never spoke of it to a living soul so have no idea how she confiscated it. She kept everything! Every report I wrote, test I took, all my tutor's comments and marks, love notes to my family. Georgie's as well. Her boxes are over there.” He waved to a group assembled in perfect order against a far wall. “I will bring those down so she can look through them.” He shook his head in amazement. “Unbelievable. I fear I have not been so diligent with Georgie's school work, but think Mrs. Reynolds has as some of the items I saw are from well after Father died.”

  With barely controlled mirth Lizzy read the juvenile novel of a hero named Admiral Achilles and his red-haired companion Sergeant Hector conquering celestial planets. Darcy glanced at her face and nudged her side. “Go ahead, laugh. God knows I did. Give me some latitude, please, as I think I was eleven when I wrote that.”

  “And reading The Iliad at the same time?”

  He shrugged, reaching into another box. “I always wanted to be Achilles. Handsome, nearly immortal, fleet, heroic.”

  “And how were you supposed to have arrived upon the shores of Mars?”

  “I do not think I ever worked that part out. Look here, the puzzles I remember playing with!” He pulled out numerous twisted wooden and metal brain teasers such as those purchased in Derby. “Hmmm… I shall have to take these down and see if I can recall the mystery. Add them to the others that I have yet to solve. This whole box contains classroom apparatus: slates, abacus, a globe, old textbooks… Lord, these are outdated! Why keep such things?”

  Lizzy had finished chapter one of the Martian tale, turning to an open box by his feet. The box was larger than the others, really a moderate-sized chest with elaborate scrolling, and had Fitzwilliam etched onto the lid in gold embossed cursive. “What is in here?”

  “All my infant things. My grandfather built that chest. He was an incredible whittler. You recall the collection of miniature sailing vessels in the library that he created? Some of these,” he indicated the interlocking wooden puzzles, “were designed by him. He was very gifted. Unfortunately neither my father nor I inherited the talent. Father built a similar chest for Georgiana, but it is more functional than ornate. Hers is in her room as was this one in mine until I moved to the master's chambers. I am not really sure why it ended up in the attic.” He shrugged.

  He watched Lizzy pull the various items out, both smiling as he reverently fingered each one. “I thought my mother foolish for keeping so many silly things. Until now, that is. As a soon-to-be father, I appreciate the value of every token, each one a testimonial of a precious moment lived and deserving of remembrance. I suppose when one is young, one imagines that all events are etched permanently upon the mind, but time has a way of eroding some memories, or perhaps the brain can only hold a finite amount of information.”

  Among the maternally cherished treasures were two tarnished silver and polished stone rattles; well-gnawed and cracked teething rings of rubber, ivory, and coral; several sets of dented, tarnished miniature dining utensils, cups, and bowls; a stuffed grey Irish wolfhound that was threadbare and lumpy, missing one button eye and floppy ear; three equally ratty, stained blankets; a pouch containing a mass of fine, light brown hair; a collection of bibs, bonnets, booties, and gowns likely special gifts from some relative or friend; a tied bundle of envelopes enclosing birth congratulations; a hairbrush and comb, both missing teeth and bristles; and a dozen odd toys perfect for small hands.

  Lizzy had lifted the lid on a tiny silver case lined with scarlet velvet in which resided dozens of varying sized, pearly white teeth. She chuckled, grasping one of the tiniest between her thumb and index finger, “Yes, it is as you say, dearest, but much more.” She placed the tooth onto the palm of his hand, continuing in a soft voice as he gazed at the miniscule
white rock lost on his large hand, “It is so that years later you can do precisely what you are doing now, rumbling through old boxes covered in dust and filled with seemingly useless paraphernalia, and know that your parents loved you so much that nothing was deemed superfluous.”

  He smiled, rolling the tooth about on his palm. “They waited many years for a son and after losing my sister, I confess I was hideously pampered and a bit spoiled. Then there were all the long years until Georgie. Naturally I was loved, but I judge it was partially because my mother had no one else to dote on.”

  Lizzy laughed. “There is likely a great deal of truth in that. I know my mother kept very few of our childhood mementos. What souvenirs I have were kept by me. She was far too busy having more babies, not to mention definitely unsentimental.”

  “However many children we are blessed with, Elizabeth, they will be equally overindulged. I promise you that. What's this?” He withdrew a carefully sealed smaller box, placing it on his lap.

  Lizzy gasped at the revealed contents, fingers immediately caressing over the delicate fabric. “Is it yours?”

  “Must be, as this box contains all my keepsakes. Ah, yes, look here, my birth announcement: Fitzwilliam Alexander James Darcy born to Mr. James and Lady Anne Darcy on November Ten of 1787.”

  “It is beautiful.” Lizzy spoke softly, truly stunned by the gown of exquisite satin and Alencon lace overlay. It was white with short puffy sleeves, a lined skirt three feet long with the lace extending three inches to end in a scalloped pattern of leaves and bluebells, and minute pearls sewn over the bodice. “You wore this.” It was a reverently whispered statement rather than a question.

  “Apparently. I remember Mother saying she sewed a gown while expecting my sister. There is a box of belongings that were Alexandria's over there,” he pointed to a lone box. “The awaited heir required something extravagant, she said.” He smiled wistfully, eyes dim in memory.