Her resolve may not have wavered, but her plans did go a bit awry.
She truly could not fault her rationale. After all, Darcy was seemingly lost forever on the war-ravaged Continent. Lady Catherine had thought the time was at hand to banish his wretched wife from Pemberley forever. The intractability that she had encountered from Elizabeth Darcy, however, was most unforeseen. Her headlong flight from her nephew’s home at the point of his wife’s smoking pistol was not a memory that Lady Catherine relished. It had been a brief inclination to hie to the magistrate and render charges against her. But as the entire incident had been far too…indecorous, she dismissed the notion. Alas, taking the moral high ground did her no service. For such an outrage should have sent her nephew post-haste to Rosings the minute he returned, bearing abject apologies and assurances that he had his wife in chains in the belvedere. He did come post-haste. Unfortunately it was not to render apologies. Rather, she was to suffer under the indignity of a threat by her own nephew with commitment to a mental infirmary! An indigent mental infirmary! And lest she forget, he threatened to “send her on her way in a dogcart.” In a dogcart! It was not to be borne! The thought of it all incited her into an outright conniption, influencing pets and servants to cower in terror (save for Henry the bird, who never cowered).
“It is that wife!” she bellowed.
Surely her nephew was under some manner of spell, she reasoned. Yes. Undoubtedly, that wife of his was a sorceress. There was no other answer! He was under a spell cast by a witch!
“It is she who should be imprisoned! No. Pilloried. No. Burned. Her body hanging from a gibbet!”
Unfortunately, under a spell or not, the single person in England (and therefore the world at large) who gave Lady Catherine de Bourgh pause was her nephew, Mr. Darcy. Hence, she was ever so ill-disposed to dismiss his threat of institutionalisation out of hand. (The magnitude of his displeasure had been evident in a particularly nasty expression of countenance.) Truly, she did not believe he could do it. But that he might tried her nerves most exceptionally (even more than the pistol incident—which plagued her in a most grievous fashion come black grouse season). The entire ordeal had nagged at her mercilessly.
Yet, for all her machinations to overthrow his marriage, these five years later, Mr. Darcy was at home in Pemberley, nestled in the happy bosom of his family with that wife by his side. Newly graced was he with the blessing of a newborn son and heir as if there had been no tribulations whatsoever. No doubt Elizabeth Bennet Darcy now spent her days draped in the family jewels and gloating over her victory. Fie upon her!
All this Darcy household happiness had caused Lady Catherine to fall into a despondent sulk, believing all was for naught. So relentlessly did she worry the notion, she was much discomposed. And she remained discomposed until the missive announcing the baptism of the Darcy heirs arrived. Heirs. She made one vow. It would not end here.
19
Mercy Twice Blessed
Although Darcy did not believe himself without fault (in that all God’s creatures were inherently flawed), he had rarely found personal shortcomings grave enough to necessitate correction. Due to his elevated station and the resultant lack of reproach, he had once been quite arrogant. He admitted that freely. That arrogance had caused Elizabeth to spurn his first proposal of marriage. Although still impenetrably grave at social indiscretions, he had purged superciliousness from his character as compleatly and expeditiously as humanly possible in order to win her. Now that his single failing had been corrected and Elizabeth was his, the agonizing months between her first refusal and her eventual acceptance of his hand were recalled as only a slight misunderstanding between lovers. That now conquered, conceit had been his single folly. (His penitence for intemperate behaviour as a lusty youth once had caused him much private grief—now it rarely came to mind.) When he thought of himself impersonally, he knew that he was a loving husband, considerate brother, and now, devoted father.
Few men could call themselves more altruistic, benevolent, charitable, fair, high-minded, righteous, hospitable, just, and kind. He had practiced each and every virtue until perfected. He was Master of his Realm and all who inhabited it. Nothing in or of his life proposed his honour anything other than exemplary.
However, lasciviously eyeing the newly voluminous globes of the mother of his children might pass to do just that.
As it happened, Mr. Darcy, owner of nothing if not his own will, victim of a self-imposed banishment from his wife’s comforting arms, found himself prodigiously aroused (to a vexatious degree) by Mrs. Darcy’s maternally enhanced…maternal enhancements. As closely guarded as were Mr. Darcy’s private perturbations, it was altogether mortifying to him that he was unable to comport himself in a manner befitting his station towards his own wife. As time and libido soldiered on, he was quite powerless to remember that his comely wife and her charming bosom were no longer solely for his delectation. To be driven by desire to have his wife once again was one thing, to be consumed by the need to bury his face between the mysterious, sweet-smelling crevice between her breasts was quite another. Lectures to himself, prayers, exercise—all were for naught. His every desire for her had congealed into this single lust. His notoriously stern will was losing ground and he knew not how to stanch the tide. As he had absolutely no domination over his thoughts, he strove mightily to constrain his conduct.
In this he was marginally successful. Never was he more charged with restraint than those evenings taken in a small upstairs sitting-room that had long been a favourite sanctuary of theirs when taking solitary evenings together. If company was in the house, they welcomed them in one of the grand rooms meant for that purpose. This room too was exquisite, but much more informal. Just as Elizabeth had longed to have a portrait of their family to hang in the portrait gallery, it had been her particular design that they would continue to betake their evenings here as their number increased. Darcy was wholly of the same mind—or at least he had been when that prospect only included their growing brood of children. It was an entirely different matter when their snug happiness constantly included the personification of his heart’s yearning blatantly adorning his wife.
Indeed, if one were unaware of the underpinnings of the scene, nothing would seem at all amiss. The family sat about a typical evening seemingly in beatific calm. Mr. Darcy carefully perused his paper. Mrs. Darcy attended to her embroidery in between loving gazes upon the babies slumbering at her feet—Mrs. Littlepage softly snoring from her perch in the chimney corner. Upon occasion, Elizabeth would fuss with the dainty lace fichu that she carefully draped over her shoulders, resituating it and retying the loose knot to obscure her over-flowing bosom. Each time she made that readjustment Mr. Darcy would glance in her direction, then, with great care, turn the page of his paper. Next he would exhibit a fit of vexation over the paper’s seeming uncooperativeness, rattling it until it was smoothed to his satisfaction. He did this with such frequency and vigour that a footman inquired if he should require Goodwin. No, Mr. Darcy said, he most certainly did not need Goodwin to re-press his paper, and he shook his head once (but soundly) at the notion.
Seemingly unaware of her husband’s discomposure, Mrs. Darcy set aside her handwork, leapt from her chair, and strode with impatient, broad strides across the room to rearrange the fire-screen. The footman gasped at this outrage against his office and hurried to assist her. The poor man then retook his station looking terribly perplexed. Mrs. Darcy, however, just as purposefully strode back to her seat and picked up her embroidery. With each and every step, her bosom bobbed, thereby revealing beneath the translucent lace the fleshly hue of her breasts. (The thought had occurred to Darcy that it may well have been that blessed lace stole that was the sole culprit for inflaming his desire for her so injudiciously.) Regardless, Mrs. Darcy could not cross the room (and she appeared to be crossing the room a perturbing number of times) adorned by that infernally thin lacy mantle, without Mr. Darcy
imagining her without it. Then, of course, he thought of kissing her neck and further undraping—whereupon he was driven either to view the dark of night from the window or to be banished entirely from the room lest his…adoration be evident to all.
Not that Elizabeth flaunted herself or her voluptuous figure. He fully admitted that it was quite to the contrary.
When abed, she wore a modest button-front night-dress which was not at all plain, but a lovely pink peau de soie, elaborately embroidered, the neck tied with tasselled cords. It was a fetchingly demure gown. However, he had little opportunity to admire it. For when one or the other of her infants were not nursing, Elizabeth fell fast asleep. So deep and peaceful was her slumber, he could not bring himself to wake her. It was important she get her rest. And when she was about, she alternated from day to day between but two frocks. He had asked if the dressmaker would be working something up for her, but her expression intimated she somehow saw that inquiry a criticism. He truly did not mean offence, but those two dresses were beastly tight—she really should have more done up. But he dared not venture another comment lest she take it as a reproach. Far too often these days, his dear Lizzy took the mildest of observations with ill-humour. He could not fathom what could be the matter. He was doing all he could to leave her in peace.
He thought that the culprit responsible for his unseemly appetence for her bosom was merely her fichu. In truth, that was merely a convenient scapegoat. Like most scapegoats, it did not insist that he inquire more deeply of his motives. Had he, the notion might have occurred to him that he was obsessed with her bosom for the single reason that it was not that more intimate part of her body—the part that he was not to corrupt.
As Darcy was unrehearsed in the politesse of motherhood, he had been of the belief that the fires of lust that burnt with ferocity were only his own. He was certain that Elizabeth’s attention was far too compromised by her babies to entertain thoughts of a carnal nature. Yet he could not forget that she had gone to the considerable trouble of indicating to him that she still wanted him as a husband. It still caused him a palpable pain that in his heated state he had taken her without due caution. Indeed, abstinence even then had subjected him to such a state of arousal that their encounter was very nearly over before it had begun. The brevity of their amour left him barely sated, but it would have been beastly to be at her again so soon. He withdrew from her that day of the opinion that, save for his unquenched libido, all was well and good—only to be faced with the unforgiving evidence that he had caused her great harm. At the time she had given no sign, made no word of discomfort. Although she had insisted to the surgeon that she was quite well, she had sat in her tub for half a day and walked in strange little mincing steps thereafter.
What had transpired upon that one occasion was a troubling recollection, for she clearly had done that for him alone. She had given herself to him solely to relieve his carnal cravings and then suffered from that generosity. Were there any doubt of her leanings, it was dispelled when she made no more overtures. It should have been no astonishment. Enduring a constitution enfeebled by childbirth, her recuperation was compromised by two infants on compleatly different feeding schedules. He had seen it with his horses. He had once had a mare that had foaled twins and she became so thin and weak they were forced to hand-feed both foals.
Beyond small notice of a certain amount of fretting and manoeuvring over whether or not Mrs. Darcy would or would not employ a wet-nurse, one would have supposed Mrs. Darcy’s husband would have remained indifferent to, or outright oblivious of, the entire commotion. Initially, he may well have been neutral. He was not, however, oblivious. He had dared not interject into an issue of which he had no part. Yet he came to be powerfully grateful that she had acquiesced. At least his Lizzy had not lost her health, much less her bloom. He thanked God above that she relented and allowed for a wet-nurse to assist her. Would that she would allow a second!
“Pray, just how long does human suckling last?” he silently mused.
His best guess was not months, but years, and that was not a comfort.
Another worry plagued him. Either entirely incited by sensual contemplations or merely spurred on by them, an odd caprice had overtaken him. He had begun to find any excuse to lean over her, pass by her in a narrow doorway, anything—just to catch her scent. And, most unforgivably, with absolutely no remorse he had stood gazing at her through the crack of the door whilst she bathed.
Both the act and the lack of remorse bid him know that he had sunk to near depravity. He was ashamed every time he did—which was often. To remedy this final insult to his probity, he alternately fenced to exhaustion and prayed for forgiveness. Yet his desire for her was not quashed. But with every slash of his foil, with every bend of his knee he recalled those heartless, merciless, uncompromising glimpses of seduction—the nape of her neck, the sweep of her hair—and, God help him, the very act of pulling the pins loosing her tresses into an unfathomable cascade of mahogany whorls. Was it any wonder he was driven mad with desire? Was God testing him or torturing him, he knew not. What he did know was that if he could not find release soon, he just might run mad.
It did not take many evenings such as these for the notion of their connection being forever altered, which had worried Darcy to distraction, slowly but deliberately to begin to crumble. Perhaps it was his inborn noblesse that resurfaced, eventually weaning him from self-flagellation. Perhaps it was that the round of ladies coming to visit Elizabeth allowed him at last to escape to the outdoors, which cleared his mind for some sorely needed objectivity. Regardless, those self-condemnatory thoughts began to be trespassed by others—equally well-ordered and especially practical. He bethought every moment since his return, this time to better advantage. He relived their initial post-natal coming together and considered that perhaps that encounter had not been entirely ill-conceived, but as he had first thought, just a bit premature. Certainly they would eventually consort together again as man and wife, would they not? That would be necessary if they were to have more children. Did not all but an unfortunate few married couples go on to have more children? Elizabeth had endured a successful labour and those fears for her that had once dogged him so relentlessly could be put to rest. She had made it clear that she wanted more children. Moreover, as the children grew, her time would be less monopolised. Perhaps they might even regain some shred of their previous love life. It might not be as…enthusiastic as it had once been—after all, she was a mother. Certainly a man with his discipline could be discreet in his ardour. Moreover, he would be circumspect in expressing it.
He would promise anything, go anywhere, and endure any strife to be able to love her as he had once again. And if, in time, motherhood bid that she did not return his passion in equal measure, he would bear that too.
20
Enough Is Enough
Whilst her husband skulked about in general denial that he was lusting after her voluptuous figure, Elizabeth remained totally insensible of it. Not only was she oblivious to his stalking her, she laboured under quite the opposite misapprehension.
Although she knew it to be the ideal, Elizabeth had never envied Jane’s willowy shape. She was self-possessed enough to be compleatly accepting of her own as more Rubenesque. (And had it not pleased her, her shapeliness had seemed to please Darcy.) Curves, however, were one thing—outright portliness was quite another. It was quite clear to her that pregnancy’s injustice took its sweet time in taking leave. The babies were getting larger every day, but she was not getting smaller with equal haste. Indeed, she felt nothing less than a bloated cow and looked upon her immense mammary appurtenances with, if not disdain, at least annoyance. She supposed their size merely represented the magnitude of the task they had been handed, but that did not mollify her pride. Other mothers nursed and remained quite svelte. She felt as if someone had played a cruel trick upon her and was convinced that her figure resembled nothing if not the forward mast o
f a battleship. Upon occasion a frown overspread her countenance that was quite persistent.
“Dowager Darcy,” she pronounced and shook her head in dismay. “Dowdy Dowager Darcy.”
Dowdy Dowager Darcy’s husband was entirely unwitting that she believed herself decidedly less than fetching, busy as he was endeavouring mightily at every moment to keep from ravishing her. Hence, he was heedless of his husbandly obligation of reassuring her that her desirability had not waned. In that absence, her imagination continued to foster the notion that her figure was objectionable. Had she taken a peek in her cheval looking-glass, she would have concluded that she was much on the mend, but she had remained disinclined to take uncensored measure of her own pregnancy-ravaged form. The one thing that she could not avoid seeing was the size of her bosom. She had hoped that it would improve, but it remained so prominent that the extent of her midriff was unknown to her and she supposed it had not shrunk to any degree either. Much desiring to remain uninformed of just how ill she looked, the very nature of her toilette altered.
Where once she had cavorted in her tub wearing nothing more than a few suds, she reverted to the dressing-gown draped baths of her youth. The occasional delight of slipping into her husband’s tub for him to sponge her back was but a distant memory. Since the birth of her children what baths she took were but perfunctory. She meant to relieve herself of the odour of sour milk and that left little time for a luxuriating soak. Where once she rarely wore a cap in their chambers, it became part of her daily wear, for she found it quite convenient to stow bedraggled ear-locks (which had become favourite baby hand-holds and hence, always straggling when loose). Devoid of jewellery, spit-cloth over her shoulder, she saw quite clearly that she was becoming an ill-favoured drudge. But save abandoning her motherly duties, she knew not how to forestall what looked to be her inevitable decline.
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