by Jessie Lewis
“Good ’eavens, Mr. Darcy! Come in out the rain!”
She dipped a hurried curtsey and stepped aside. Darcy removed his hat and ducked beneath the lintel. Inside, he straightened and froze. There, before a fireplace, with not a hint of dampness about her and a look of astonishment upon her face, sat Elizabeth. Only ingrained propriety prevented him lunging forward to drag her into his arms, though restraint rendered his first words exceedingly brusque. “Mrs. Darcy. You are here.”
“I am,” she replied, gently manoeuvring a small child aside and rising to stand before him. “As are you, for which I cannot account. Has something happened at the house?”
He knew not whether he wished most to rail at her or to kiss her. “Nothing other than its mistress is feared lost in a storm.”
Her eyes widened. “You thought me out walking in this? How you must have worried! I would have sent word, only”—she lowered her voice to barely a whisper—“I thought you would know I should never be so foolish.”
“I assumed it began after you set out. You left Pemberley some hours ago, and neither of the ladies thought you meant to tarry here long.”
She gave a small, sardonic huff of laughter. “I do not doubt it! But no, that was not my intention. Only, Bess and I had such adventures on our walk, it took us twice as long as it should have to get here, and by then, the rain had begun, so I stayed. The children have kept me well entertained though. Master Timothy has sung to me, and Master John allowed me to hold his pet frog.”
Tearing his eyes from her for the first time since entering the house, Darcy became aware that two young boys were in attendance also. He bowed formally and thanked them for keeping Elizabeth safe.
“I kept ’er entertaineded too!” the child by the fire squeaked.
“Indeed you did!” Elizabeth said happily. “And would you like to show Mr. Darcy the sketch you made?”
The girl nodded and came forward, timidly bearing a slate on which was chalked some manner of beast with stick limbs, large teeth and flaming eyes.
“Very impressive!” Darcy told her. “What is it?”
She drew herself up proudly. “Miss Bingley.”
Elizabeth’s shaky outpouring of breath ill-concealed her laughter and in no way assisted Darcy’s attempt to contain his own. He bit the insides of his cheeks and sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, though it was Mrs. Powell’s stammered apologies that truly saved him.
“Do not distress yourself, madam. I am sure your daughter intended no impertinence.” To the child, he whispered that it was a remarkable likeness and promised to send over some paper and crayons that she might practice her skill at drawing. Her eyes widened in wonder, and she spun away to regale her mother with news of her good fortune.
Darcy declined Mrs. Powell’s subsequent offer of refreshments upon discovering that the storm had exhausted itself. Leaving his regards for her husband, he bade them farewell, and within a few minutes, he and Elizabeth were headed for home, his horse following behind them. He walked rapidly, wildly impatient to reach the bend in the lane that would take them out of sight of the little girl yet waving from the farmhouse door, but Elizabeth forestalled him.
“You are angry with me,” she said, as soon as they rounded the corner.
“No, I am not angry.”
“But you were when you arrived.”
Her disquiet puzzled him, for she was not usually much cowed by his temper, even when he was genuinely vexed. “You must understand: I had been searching for you in vain for half an hour in that storm, Elizabeth. You were not dressed to be out in the rain, you were alone, and you are with child.”
She looked down. “Forgive me, Fitzwilliam. I forget on occasion that I am no longer Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn.”
More mystified than before, Darcy stopped walking and tugged her gently to face him. “I happen to be very in love with Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn.”
Her mouth lifted into a small, rueful smile. “Yet, we both know Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley ought not to disappear about the country unaccompanied, endangering the master’s heir. I do not blame you for being angry.”
Darcy let go his horse’s reins and took hold of her face with both hands. “I was not angry, Elizabeth. I was terrified. Do you still not comprehend what it would do to me were you to come to harm?”
A delectable little frown pulled at her brow. “Then, you are not displeased with me for walking so far?” He shook his head. “Or that I went with little Bess?” He shook his head. She bit her lip guiltily, a spark of mischief lighting up her eyes, rendering her absolutely lovely. “Know you that I served her chocolate in the Spanish Saloon?” He nodded. “You are not angry about that, either?”
“Are you planning on making a habit of it?”
“No.”
He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Then no.”
She gave a little huff. “Well something vexed you, for it seemed as though you could not decamp from Mrs. Powell’s parlour soon enough.”
He held her gaze and lowered his face close to hers. “There you go again, woman, wilfully misunderstanding me.”
There was time enough only for her eyes to widen slightly with comprehension before he kissed her. Fanning his fingers out over her cheeks, he pulled her closer, pressing his mouth hard against hers in a bid to dispel all trace of his earlier panic. Her arms wound about him, her weight fell against him, and it was several magnificent minutes before he recalled there were but twenty yards and a hedgerow shielding them from prying eyes. He allowed himself one last lingering caress, and then, though her kisses were ambrosia to his fear-ravaged heart, he drew back.
She smiled up at him archly. “I stand corrected. But if you will insist on always looking so grave when you are thinking of seducing me…”
“It is a very serious matter and one that occupies my thoughts a good deal of the time. I cannot always be smiling when I am so constantly beset.”
“You poor thing!”
Offering his arm, he set them off along the path again. “It is some months since you mistook any look of mine, love. Might I enquire why you were so convinced this day that I should be displeased with you?”
She gave him a pained look. “Pardon me if I have offended you, Fitzwilliam. Actually, it never occurred to me that you would object until you arrived so fierce and severe. Then, I own, I did begin to worry Miss Bingley and Jane might be right.”
“They told you I would be displeased?”
She grimaced and nodded. He felt his lip curl into a snarl at the unpardonable audacity of both Bingley women.
“I would not usually have paid the slightest bit of notice to Miss Bingley’s disapproval,” Elizabeth spoke on. “But Jane’s was harder to overlook.”
Darcy chose his words carefully, for his opinion of Jane Bingley had never tallied well with Elizabeth’s. “Much though I respect her, your sister is in no position to judge what will please me. And if she believes that showing compassion to my tenants will not, then she has greatly underestimated the value I place in you.”
“Perhaps she is an imposter, and my Jane is still at Longbourn. Either way, I do not think I shall be sharing any confidences with her on this—my goodness, look at the river!”
They had reached the Rush. Darcy did not look but instead lifted her onto his horse, swung up behind her and nudged the animal forward.
“It is grown so fierce!” she exclaimed, leaning forward in the saddle and peering over the horse’s withers into the water. “It was not like this when I crossed with Bess. Look!”
“I have seen it,” Darcy replied, pulling her back and pinning her firmly against his chest. “I spent a good while looking in it for you on my last crossing.”
For several heartbeats, she made no reply and sat very still and very quiet in his arms. Too still and too qu
iet by far, in fact. He was unsurprised that, when she spoke, it was to tease him.
“You truly do have a penchant for the dramatic, do you not? You are determined to always think me injured—or dead!”
He held his tongue, glad she could not see his chagrined expression. She was perfectly right, of course, but the woman already knew she divested him of all reason and was heartless to cavil so. She said nothing more, though the look she gave him as he reached to lift her down on the opposite bank left him in no doubt of her vast amusement.
“Besides,” she said as he set her on her feet, “if you recall, you did not give me leave to die again.” Her grin promptly disappeared, and she proceeded to fulfil all his fears by taking one step and slipping on the muddy ground, stumbling directly towards the river. He tugged her sharply back towards him, but doing so lost him his own footing, and he skidded into his horse, off whose meaty shoulder he rebounded, colliding forcefully with Elizabeth before sailing past her to land unceremoniously on his seat in the mud.
If her hilarity was aught to go by, this was possibly the most diverting thing Elizabeth had ever witnessed. She laughed the sort of laugh that made no sound for want of air in the lungs, and tears streamed down her face. There was nothing to be done but fold his arms resignedly over his knees and watch his beautiful, vivacious wife slip and skate about on the muddy riverbank until she exhausted her mirth. When, after several moments, she did not look as though she would, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down into his lap, putting an end to her laughter by commandeering her mouth for his own purpose.
***
They walked home hand in hand with the sun hot on their backs once more, delivering his horse to the stables and stealing into the house through a side door. Not ready for their adventure to end, Darcy pulled her into an alcove and indulged in another leisurely kiss. It rapidly grew less leisurely, and he transferred his attentions along her jaw and down her neck. She made a little noise of pleasure in her throat that he felt on his lips and that was that. How the woman did what she did to him he would never know, but he was instantly aching for her.
“Think you we could sneak upstairs unnoticed?”
“You certainly ought to try before Miss Bingley sees the state of you,” she whispered. “She would not approve of all that mud.”
“When did you begin to care for Miss Bingley’s opinion?”
“She has so many. They are difficult to avoid.”
He would have laughed were he not so aroused. Instead, her wit made him want her more, which meant his thoughts had taken on a decidedly lascivious hue by the time she added, “Just this morning I heard her say that I am beneath you.”
His nostrils flared. “That is where I prefer to have you.” He savoured the look that earned him, but their interlude was not to last. A door banged open a short distance away, and a footman hurried out of the passage from the kitchen. After him wafted the distinct aroma of cooking, and that was enough to turn Elizabeth’s fragile stomach. She groaned and clasped a hand over her mouth, mumbling an apology through her fingers.
“Go! Get thee upstairs,” he whispered, nudging her in that direction. “I shall see to our guests.”
She nodded and disappeared around the corner at a pace. A heartbeat later, Bingley came around the same corner, his face overspread with concern.
“Darcy, you are returned.”
“We are.”
“Good. And, is everything—is Lizzy well?”
“She is, thank you.”
“You are certain? For I just saw her, and I must say she seemed rather distressed.”
Conscious of Elizabeth’s wish for discretion, Darcy dissembled with a vague reference to her being tired after such a long walk.
“She is not ill after being out in the rain, I hope,” Bingley persisted, frowning. “She looked uncommonly pale.”
“She was not caught in the rain.” She is with child—my child! he wished to say, and though he did not, he found himself hard pressed to keep the exultant grin from his face. “Mayhap, the Derbyshire air does not agree with her. No doubt, she will become accustomed to it in time or learn not to walk so far in it. Stop fussing,” he added when Bingley looked as though he would object. “Elizabeth is perfectly well. She has only gone upstairs to change. As must I, now I have informed you of our return. Pray excuse me.”
“Good God, what happened to you?” Bingley exclaimed as Darcy passed him by, apparently noticing his muddied apparel for the first time.
“Elizabeth happened!” he replied over his shoulder. “I tell you, Bingley, no one else’s wife seems to give them this much bother!”
***
Sunday, 6 September 1812: Derbyshire
Bingley rose with the rest of the congregation, grateful for the return of blood flowing to his legs, and since Darcy and Elizabeth had moved forward to speak to the rector, he offered Miss Darcy his arm and walked with her out of the church.
Their party numbered only four. Mrs. Annesley, he was told, had gone to Kympton with a friend. Jane and Caroline had both cried off altogether, the former claiming to be indisposed and the latter making no claims at all, only failing to appear downstairs in time to join them. Darcy had been in no humour to wait, and Bingley strongly suspected both his friend and his sister were still brooding over their exchange at dinner the previous evening.
He had little sympathy for Caroline. She really ought to have known better than to gainsay the Titan at his own table, but she would persist with her remarks on outmoded country town practices long after he decreed the matter of Elizabeth’s escapades closed to further discussion. Darcy’s rejoinder that Caroline would be well placed to learn some country town humility whilst staying at Netherfield had silenced the table completely until Elizabeth expressed an interest in his own venture in Nova Scotia, and the conversation had thankfully picked up once more.
Darcy’s disinclination to discuss Elizabeth’s kindness towards the little tenant girl troubled Bingley greatly. It seemed Jane and Caroline had been correct. He disapproved of her conduct. In an attempt to allay his concerns, Bingley had ventured to make some discreet enquiries. They had brought him little in the way of encouragement. Caroline had vigorously averred that Darcy’s dissembling was due to shame.
“For what gentleman wishes to admit that his upstart wife has made an exhibition of herself and his marriage is a catastrophe?”
He had erred in broaching the matter with Jane. She had disliked his interest as much as he had disliked her answer.
“If Lizzy cared half so much about her husband’s happiness as you do about hers, she might give him less about which to be displeased!”
Least reassuring of all had been Elizabeth’s typically arch remark.
“Pray, take pity on him and allow him to forget the incident as soon as may be! He has suffered quite enough distress for one day as a consequence of my actions, and I daresay tomorrow will only bring more.”
“Mr. Bingley?”
Miss Darcy was regarding him expectantly.
“I do beg your pardon. My thoughts were elsewhere.”
“Not at all,” she assured him, too polite to enquire further.
“I say,” he said, “do you suppose your brother was angry with Lizzy at dinner last night?”
She coloured deeply. “Oh! Well, I…goodness! I do not believe so but mayhap. It is difficult to tell sometimes because of their manner of talking to each other. Lizzy is excessively sportive with him.”
“And this he does not like?”
“He said he ought to have invited Mrs. Gardiner to stay since she had more respect for him than Lizzy does.”
That Darcy required his wife’s respect, Bingley was well aware.
“Just this morning I heard her say that I am beneath you.”
“That is where I prefer to
have you.”
He had not been meant to hear that, of course, and a true gentleman would have forgotten it instantly. Yet, he could not forget how Elizabeth had dashed away with her hands covering her ashen face. What had his friend done? Married a woman whom he considered beneath him and doomed her to a life of disrespect and misery? Bingley’s anguish was too great for him to say more, and he walked on in silence. Would that he had offered for Elizabeth when he had the chance…
“ACHOOOOO!”
The unheralded and almighty sneeze made Miss Darcy shriek and Bingley near jump from his skin. They both whirled around.
“Upon my life, Darcy! Were you worried we would not notice you were there?”
“Oh my, I hope you have not taken a chill from riding out in the rain!” Miss Darcy fretted. “Would that you had stayed in the dry as Lizzy did!”
Darcy deigned to answer neither of them. Bingley stared in dismay as, instead, he turned to Elizabeth, who had been grinning broadly up until that point, and said gravely, “Not a word from you, madam. Not one word.”
“I should not dare!” she replied, her beautiful eyes brimming with challenge.
Bingley turned away and climbed into the carriage, unable to watch. How long could Elizabeth’s wonderful, inimitable liveliness endure in the face of Darcy’s constant disapprobation? He could not reconcile the man whom he had, for many years, held in the highest regard with this one, who seemed content to forever look down upon his supposedly beloved wife. It was an unbearable situation—the worst of it being, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Netherfield, Hertfordshire
September 11
Dearest Lady Ashby,
We are back at Netherfield at last! I cannot thank you enough for the solicitous concern expressed in your last letter, which made what was indeed a difficult visit bearable.
Having admitted to her own selfishness when last I saw her, I had expected E might endeavour to make some improvement. Alas, she has improved in neither thoughtfulness nor manners. She made private jokes with the gentlemen, dominated every conversation, spoke impertinently to and of her husband with little mind to her audience, made no effort to behave as a woman in her position ought, and incorrectly assumed she would be universally admired for her independence.
