by Jessie Lewis
“And from that answer you took it that I had…what? Lain with another man out of wedlock? And this you thought me capable of concealing from you?”
After a moment’s silence, he let out a harsh breath and lowered his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Had I felt less, I might have given it more thought, Elizabeth.”
“Or indeed any.”
He looked up at her then frowned, possibly at the grin she could no longer conceal, and stiffened indignantly. “I beg you would trifle with me no longer. Tell me Mrs. Gardiner’s meaning!”
With a quiet sigh, Elizabeth raised her hands to feel for the few remaining pins in her hair—as much to shield herself from her imminent mortification as to finish the much-interrupted task. “Mr. Craythorne took a fancy to me some time ago when he lived near Meryton. He approached me in the garden one day and attempted to charm me with some pretty words—at least, I presume they were pretty. I have never been able to recall them, for it was not his speech that formed the memorable part of his address. His prevailing claim to affection was more inelegantly displayed in the distension of his breeches.”
Darcy’s appalled expression made her laugh a little. She set the last pin down and turned to face him fully. “I cannot say what his intentions were, for my aunt intervened almost immediately. But I later insisted she explain what I had seen. And after some persistence on my part, she consented to tell me far more about the marriage bed than a maiden ought to know.”
Darcy stared at her for a moment then closed his eyes and shook his head. “My God, forgive me. I am a damned fool.”
Elizabeth well knew how he would now berate himself for accusing her thus, yet she could not be overly angry. In addition to the compliment of his possessiveness, reason had by then arrived to remind her of all the ways in which he had cared for her this evening that anger had prevented her admitting at the time—his concern for her fictitious headache, his having arranged for a hot brick to be placed in the footwell of the carriage home, his care for her well-being when she refused supper, his regret for not comforting her in the face of society’s derision—all of it done whilst struggling under a most heinous misapprehension.
“Yes, you are. But you know how I love to laugh at folly.” Unfastening her necklace, she turned to lay it carefully on her dressing table. “How fortunate for you that I am not so unreasonable about your previous lovers.”
It was a passing remark, ingenuously made, and she did not comprehend its impact until she turned back and observed his horrified countenance.
“How did you—” He clamped his lips closed and ran a hand over his face.
She pulled a wry face and set about removing a stocking. “I may have come to your bed a maiden, but I did not come to it a simpleton.”
“Elizabeth, I…it is not—”
“Fitzwilliam,” she interrupted, holding a hand up to stay a conversation neither of them wished to have. “I harbour no resentment for the life you lived before you met me, but I have absolutely no wish to dwell on it. I ought not to have teased you.” She bent to remove her other stocking. By the time she was done, Darcy was by her side, tenderly turning her towards him.
“You are the most remarkable woman I have ever known. I do not deserve your clemency after my behaviour this evening.”
“It has not been your finest few hours as a husband, but there were a few redeeming performances. You have not done as badly as you think.”
He was so very serious, his eyes black in the candlelight. “I love you.”
She slid her arms about his neck and pulled herself up to lightly kiss the scar on his cheek. “I know. That is why you are forgiven.”
He rested his forehead against hers and wrapped his arms around her, whispering his heartfelt thanks. “Though I would have you cease walking alone in gardens,” he added. “You are entirely too prone to being propositioned in them.”
“Fear not. I only accept propositions in churchyards.”
He smiled the understated smile she loved so well.
“And bedrooms.”
He stopped smiling and upon having his propositions agreed to, bestowed upon her such attentions as went a considerable way to earning him the clemency he claimed not to deserve.
11
Distinctions in Connubial Felicity
Friday, 23 October 1812: Derbyshire
The weather took a decidedly wintry turn towards the end of the month, hindering the Darcys’ journey home with persistent rain and icy winds. They endured two days of uneven, occasionally jarring passage over deeply rutted roads and by the third day, to Darcy’s dismay, it had begun to take a toll on Elizabeth. Sickened by the motion of the carriage, she had not once slept as she had become accustomed to doing on long journeys. Fatigue and nausea had rendered her pale of countenance and dull of spirits. When they stopped at noon to change horses, he insisted she order something substantial to eat but watched her poke it ineffectually around her plate.
“Did I tell you I had to prevent my aunt from writing to Jane?” she enquired quietly, breaking a piece of bread into two pieces and putting neither in her mouth.
“You did not.”
“She mentioned it after dinner on Monday. She meant well, yet I cannot see that a reprimand could possibly improve Jane’s opinion of me.”
“Your sister ought to be concerned with improving your opinion of her, not the reverse.” Elizabeth’s miserable expression bade him regret speaking so severely, and he hastened to redirect the conversation. “At least the Gardiners’ opinion of me is salvaged. They seemed to have forgiven my incivility at the theatre.”
“They were not angry with you to begin with, least of all my aunt.”
He chuckled quietly. “I confess I was relieved by our reception at Donaldson’s ball on Friday, also. My behaviour seems to have done us no lasting damage.”
“I was never concerned that it would. Your reputation has survived this long, and I speak with authority when I say that was not the first time you have been seen brooding in public.” She smiled at her joke but weakly, then put her bread down and pushed her plate away with a sigh.
“Elizabeth, you need to rest. I shall take a room for the evening.”
She snapped her head up. “Do not dare! We are almost home!”
“We are five-and-twenty miles from home.”
“That is half what you call an easy distance.”
“On good roads, of which we do not presently have the luxury.”
“And if it rains again, which is very likely, the roads will only worsen.”
He gritted his teeth. “You are unwell.”
“I am not unwell. I am with child, and unless you intend for me to remain here until my confinement, I shall simply have to endure the journey. You worry unnecessarily. I am only tired. ’Tis nothing more serious.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Darcy,” interrupted a servant, “your coachman asked me to inform you your carriage is ready.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth answered for him. “Tell him we shall be there directly.”
Darcy shook his head resignedly and stood to offer her his arm. “Nothing more than tiredness, my eye. You suffer from terminal obstinacy, woman.”
She grinned at him and whispered her thanks. Yet for all her bold assurances, the jouncing of the carriage continued to make her ill. By the time they reached the final coaching inn, her countenance had lost what little colour she had regained at the previous one. She even refused the opportunity of a walk, preferring to wait in the carriage while the horses were changed one last time. The properly kept roads surrounding Pemberley were rather too little antidote too late, he feared, for her pallor was not noticeably improved by the time they arrived at the house. Her spirits, however, were vastly buoyed.
“I have never been so happy to be home in my life!” she exclaim
ed.
He smiled, never tiring of hearing her speak of his home as hers. “I am sorry it was such a difficult journey, love.”
“Even you cannot assume the blame for the weather. Besides, I believe it was I who refused to stagger the journey.”
“True,” he said, climbing from the carriage and turning to help her down.
She took his outstretched hand and leant forward to duck through the door. “But promise me we shall not go anywhere again in a—oh!” She cried out and sat back down heavily on the seat.
“What is the matter?” he cried, leaping back into the carriage. “Are you in pain?” His heart leapt into his mouth upon noticing her hand on her stomach. “Dear God, is it the child?”
“Yes, I—oh!” she gasped again. Far from looking distressed, however, her countenance was a picture of wonderment. She raised her eyes to his. “I felt it!”
There truly was no end to this woman’s assault on his sensibilities. His heart returned to its rightful place with a thud and promptly swelled to overfill the cavity with elation.
“Oh my,” she said softly. “It—oh, Fitzwilliam! I have been so anxious something must be wrong, today more than ever, but ’tis really true!” She reached for his hands. “I am so happy!”
Magnificent though her jubilant relief was, the intensity of his own feelings rendered Darcy silent and serious. All doubt was removed, all anxiety for the most uncertain stage allayed; his beloved Elizabeth would be mother to his child. Nothing and no one had ever been so precious to him. He lifted both her hands to his lips and kissed them with wordless reverence.
Twice more over the course of the evening did Elizabeth feel the fluttering of their child. Each time she gasped, not yet accustomed to what she described as a most uncommon sensation. Each time he reeled, likely never to grow accustomed to how profoundly he loved her. She fell asleep early. He stayed awake watching her until the very last candle guttered out, unwilling to miss a single moment of her existence, now so irrevocably and blissfully entwined with his own.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
October 29
Dearest Lizzy,
Our happiest congratulations! You cannot know with what joy you have filled your parents’ hearts. I am glad to hear Mr. Darcy is looking after you properly. Your task is to do everything in your power to ensure you provide him with a son. With that in mind, I have enclosed a list of every method I ever employed to beget a boy, which you must read in detail and avoid at all costs, for none of them work.
You will very soon find that all those fine gowns Mr. Darcy has bought you will no longer fit, likely never to again. Some might lend themselves to adjustment, but those that do not, I ask that you send to Jane, for she has not yet managed what you have achieved and could do with a little assistance.
She is exceedingly dull of late, Lizzy. Miss Bingley is gone off to Town to stay with her sister, who was delivered of a daughter this week, and Mr. Bingley manages to keep himself excessively busy for a gentleman without an occupation; therefore, Jane is often alone at Netherfield. Your sisters and I visit as often as may be, but all our best efforts have not succeeded in making her any livelier. A child would occupy her creditably. I cannot comprehend why she delays.
My head is aching today, and I can write no more. Pray do not resist your Mr. Darcy’s attempts to take care of you, for I know you will not do it properly yourself, and I shall have no rest unless I know you are well.
Love,
Mama
Pemberley, Derbyshire
November 8
To Jane,
Be not alarmed that this letter contain any mention of those events which transpired at Netherfield. I have no wish to dwell upon them, and since you have offered neither explanation nor apology, I must assume neither do you. Nevertheless, we cannot continue to ignore one another, else family occasions will become impossible and our husbands’ friendship will suffer. Moreover, I miss you, Jane, and I worry for you. If we can exchange letters without animosity, perhaps in time we shall be able to meet again as friends and forget these few difficult months. With the sincerest hope of achieving such an end, here is my beginning.
Darcy and I have been back at Pemberley for three weeks now. He indulges me almost every morning by walking out with me, and the countryside hereabouts is growing dearer to me by the day. The view from the rise behind the house has become my favourite in all the world, though the one from Oakham Mount will forever retain a special place in my heart.
We are to dine tomorrow evening with our neighbour, Mr. Peterson. He is shortly to be married to Miss Hawes, whom I have met twice now and like very well. I hope we shall see much of them and believe they will make charming neighbours.
I imagine it is much the same for you as it is for me, being thrown into new circles. Quite apart from becoming acquainted with all of Mr. Bingley’s friends, with Charlotte and me gone, your own circle is depleted to fewer people your own age. I heard from Kitty, though, that Marianne Etheridge has returned from her uncle’s establishment. Have you had opportunity to see much of her?
November 15
Mrs. Ferguson, whom I met in London but whose husband’s estate is in Dumfriesshire, has written to invite us to their Twelfth Night Ball. I should have loved to go, but apart from being quite unequal to the journey, we shall have a houseful of guests of our own to entertain. There will be Aunt and Uncle Gardiner and the children, of course, then Lord Matlock, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Sinclair and, I have recently been informed, Lord and Lady Ashby. Lastly, Lady Catherine, Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery, and their son, Master Jonathan, will join us from Kent. I hope especially, despite all our differences, to make their Christmas enjoyable since it is likely to be Lady Catherine’s last. Indeed, I believe that is why Lord Matlock insisted that Lord and Lady Ashby join the party.
I own I am a little daunted by the prospect of being hostess to so many but anticipate it nonetheless. To have such a gathering, such a mix of characters, it ought to be entertaining at the very least!
November 18
Jane, the tone of Mary’s most recent letter to me was rather downhearted. I believe she is missing our presence at Longbourn. I shall invite her here as soon as may be, but in the meantime, I believe she would be pleased to spend more time with you at Netherfield. Might you perhaps invite her to practice on the pianoforte there? Then you could sing with her, as you used to do with me.
November 20
I am a little forlorn today. Mrs. Annesley, Georgiana’s companion of above a year, has given us notice. I shall be sorry to see her go, but we shall not replace her for, barring the weeks of my confinement, I ought to be able to act as companion whenever Georgiana requires it.
Just as she is leaving us, we must begin the search for a monthly nurse and nursery maid. I should be happy to employ one person to fill both positions, but though it seems a sensible economy to me, it has been impossible to achieve. Lady Catherine has provided a list of names as long as my arm, all of whom Darcy has dismissed out of hand based on the ill-fated experience with another of her recommendations, Mrs. Younge, if you recall. Have you been required to appoint any new servants as yet? I should be grateful to hear how you went about it.
November 21
I have given much more time to practicing the pianoforte since I arrived, and my playing is at last beginning to reflect my efforts. Even better, when Georgiana and I play together, we have perfected the art of arranging the pieces so that her proficiency disguises my weaker talent. We played a duet for Darcy after dinner yesterday and he seemed genuinely delighted with our performance. Whether we receive such generous praise from a less partial audience remains to be seen. I do not doubt that some of my imminent guests will prove suitably severe critics.
November 23
Much though I have taken pleasure in writing this letter as though it were for the Jane I
knew before all our recent difficulties, sending it to the Jane I left behind at Netherfield two months ago is a truly daunting prospect. I dread that you will receive my news unwillingly and reply in bitterness. I dread more that you will not reply at all. Regardless, you can hardly respond to a letter that has not been sent, thus I have at long last summoned the courage to post it.
I hope you and Bingley are both in excellent health and wish you both a very merry first Christmas together.
Yours in love and hope,
Lizzy
***
Monday, 7 December 1812: Hertfordshire
It was several years since Jane had been in company with Marianne Etheridge, and she was surprised by how little the woman had altered. She had gained none of society’s graces, despite her time in Town, and had returned home after two Seasons still plump, awkward, and single. It was polite of her to call, however, and were it not for Elizabeth’s unsolicited and presumptuous counsel on how she might broaden her circle of acquaintance by seeking just such an audience, Jane might have been better pleased that she had.
“How are you finding it here at Netherfield?” Marianne enquired. “Is it strange to be away from Longbourn?”
“On the contrary, it is delightful to be mistress of my own house.”
“I imagine it must be very agreeable,” Marianne replied, though her tone gave the impression she was wholly indifferent to Jane’s domestic felicity.
“And you?” Jane said. “Do you find Meryton much changed since you went away?”
“Very little, for which I am excessively grateful. I have never been suited to London society. I am only sorry it took me so long to convince the rest of the world of that fact.”
Jane smiled. “As my very good friend Lady Ashby says, a woman ought to be sensible of her station.”
“Indeed.” Marianne looked at the clock. “Pray tell me, how does Lizzy? Her marriage is quite the talk of the town.”
