Revelations

by Kirsten Bij't Vuur

  'Please continue, Peter, we'll discuss the details later,' Fitzwilliam now said, and he stepped back to let the lesson proceed.

  And after another half hour of instruction Elizabeth had trotted with Daisy on the long line, a jarring movement that forced her out of the saddle and back in with a bump, unless she moved along with the horse to let the force of its movement be absorbed by her muscles. Very tiring, and undoubtedly very painful tomorrow, but also very satisfying.

  They unsaddled Daisy together, such a sweet natured horse, Elizabeth already loved her. 'You didn't need the whip at all, Peter,' she observed, a bit surprised.

  'You are right, Mrs Darcy, you already have a way of making Daisy understand what you want, so Daisy didn't get the opportunity to be lazy.

  You are a quick student.'

  They parted with Peter after Daisy had been cared for properly, and returned to the house with a feeling of satisfaction. Fitzwilliam observed, 'I didn't find that titillating at all, nor indecent. And you enjoyed it, didn't you?'

  'I did,' she replied, 'very much so. Though I'll probably be sorry in the morning. You'll have to lift me in a hot bath to loosen my muscles.'

  That idea didn't put him out at all, and they exchanged a very passionate kiss right there in front of the house.

  Chapter 17

  When they entered the house they once again ran into Mrs Reynolds, who very politely requested Mrs Darcy to come with her for a few moments.

  Fitzwilliam kissed Elizabeth again, a bit less passionately under Mrs Reynold's direct eye, but not exactly chastely either. Then he asked, 'Meet you in the library in half an hour, for our big search?'

  His eyes twinkled, he was looking forward to what they might find, and though Elizabeth didn't want to read any more of those demeaning stories, she did like the information her beloved managed to distil from them.

  Mrs Reynolds took her to the servants' part of the house, to the large storage space Elizabeth visited earlier. Going straight for one of the shelves, the housekeeper removed a package wrapped in paper, put it on a narrow table in the middle of the room and unwrapped it. There was fabric in it, pristine white, a whole stack of it, and the housekeeper took one piece from the stack, unfolding it for Elizabeth.

  'I don't know how the master convinced you to straddle a horse, Mrs Darcy, but it is clear he is over the moon and you certainly don't seem to mind. You might want to wear this until you've had some nice blouses made.'

  And she held up a beautiful blouse with frills and tucks that looked vaguely familiar somehow. It would do much better than Fitzwilliam's shirts, though Elizabeth indeed wanted to have some blouses with a little more colour made as soon as she could have a seamstress over. Without hesitation she took off the oversized shirt and put on the blouse, it was a perfect fit and probably looked very good on her.

  'It's part of the livery some of the servants wear,' Mrs Reynolds observed,

  'but no-one will notice with your posture and the rest of your attire. You look surprisingly regal in those whatchamacallits, like the old Mrs Darcy, she could wear anything and look like a queen.'

  She was clearly lost for words over the skirt, no, trousers, that her new

  mistress was wearing, though Elizabeth found them reasonably comfortable.

  Mrs Reynolds took out two more blouses and put them on the table, probably the same size, then re-wrapped the rest and laid the package back on the shelf. And she was not done, she took out another package, even larger, and heavy by the looks of it. Elizabeth helped her to lift it to the table. As Mrs Reynolds unwrapped it, she said, 'This is my emergency store of fabrics, usually we order fabrics from the seamstress along with taking measurements and choosing a pattern, but I'm guessing that whoever developed that riding attire will not share the pattern with our regular seamstress. Am I right in supposing it to be Peter's missus?'

  At Elizabeth's fond nod, the housekeeper continued.

  'I thought so, he's always telling us about her exploits on her father's horses, I didn't think she was doing that ladies' style, for her father has a reputation for breeding the best hunters within a day's ride. They don't usually teach those to bear a lady's saddle, you know, hunters are pretty high-strung. Is he any good teaching?'

  Mrs Reynolds liked Peter too!

  Elizabeth honestly replied, 'He is very good, he can explain things so clearly. Even Fitzwilliam was impressed, he merely stood back and watched. He asked to join the lesson tomorrow.'

  'Did he now, our master? Good, I did think that Peter fellow had a way with horses. And with ladies, the maids all adore him, though his missus has him well-trained.'

  Suddenly realising how funny that sounded, considering the lady in question's profession, Mrs Reynolds laughed merrily, showing a very pleasant human side, and she added, 'And since Peter's missus is sitting at home without anything to do, waiting for her baby to be born, I beg you to choose several suitable pieces from this stack to have her make you some of these skirts of your own. The fabric of this one undoubtedly wears well and is very sturdy, but she will be back on a horse as soon as the babe is born, so she will need it back, and you ride for leisure, not for profession, so you can wear a more lady-like quality and colour.'

  If that was all the criticism Elizabeth would get from Mrs Reynolds, she was very happy to get off so lightly. To Elizabeth, whatever the good lady was really thinking was of no moment, as long as she kept her censure to herself.

  It was clear the housekeeper blamed her beloved master for having his wife straddle a horse, and Mrs Reynolds' only concern strong enough to risk Mr

  Darcy's displeasure for interfering with his wishes over, was apparently that the lady of the house had to wear colours and fabrics suitable for a lady.

  No problem for Elizabeth, she browsed through the stack of fabrics to find three pieces pretty enough for a lady, but sturdy enough for riding, and in a colour she liked. Mrs Reynolds clearly approved of her choices.

  'A fine collection, Mrs Darcy, sturdy enough to resist constant wear, colours suitable to a lady but not likely to show staining, and fabric pliable enough to give the skirt a bit more flow to it. It actually suits you quite well, that riding skirt, it was a bit disconcerting at first when you moved, but I'm getting used to it. Master Fitzwilliam so loves to ride, even as a small child he did already.'

  That was endearing, the elder lady using his first name when remembering Fitzwilliam as a boy. Elizabeth found she was settling in quite readily with such friendly people around her.

  'I will notify the seamstress, will it suit you to have measurements taken tomorrow? And choose patterns and fabrics of course?'

  Elizabeth affirmed that was fine, she liked the blouses she had just gotten from the housekeeper rather well but white was not a colour to wear around horses.

  'And I suppose I'll just hand these to Peter, to give to his wife? And settle with him for the cost of the making? How is it for size, does it need adjusting?'

  Mrs Reynolds was very good at her job, she didn't forget any detail.

  Elizabeth raised her arms to let Mrs Reynolds check the skirt, which the lady did without hesitation.

  'It is a tiny bit too wide, and you're not likely to gain any weight with the master wanting you to ride all over the place once you're used to the horse.

  Better make it a tiny bit narrower, do you agree?'

  'I do, Mrs Reynolds, and thank you for your kindness,' Elizabeth spontaneously said.

  'It is my pleasure, mistress,' the elderly lady retorted, 'you've made the master very happy, which makes me very happy. I've never seen him smile and laugh so much, and he is positively lively these days, kissing you wherever it pleases him, living his own life and not being a gentleman to the exclusion of all else.'

  Elizabeth felt obliged to mention, 'Fitzwilliam did say he planned to visit Peter's missus himself, but if Peter takes the fabrics home she has something

  to relieve her boredom straight away.'

  Now Mrs Reynolds clearly h
ad something else on her mind, but from the looks of her it was a bit embarrassing. Elizabeth was afraid to get a lecture after all, on kissing in the hallway, or something similar, but apparently the housekeeper decided to merely show her mistress what she meant for she turned around and took another package from the shelf designated to fabrics.

  This package contained pieces of clothing Elizabeth would not have recognised before her marriage, before Fitzwilliam started to wear his hunting gear actually. They looked like breeches only put together rather loosely, and they were meant to be worn under them. Except Fitzwilliam generally wore such tight breeches he'd stick to his shirt as a layer between his skin and his breeches, convinced the loose undergarment would show, only wearing it under his hunting gear which was a lot less tightly fitted.

  'They're men's drawers, Mrs Darcy,' Mrs Reynolds now explained, still a bit embarrassed. 'You might want to try them on under those peculiar skirts. It might be a little more comfortable with an extra layer between yourself and the saddle.'

  That was so nice of her, to bear with the embarrassment for Elizabeth's comfort, for the new garment had rubbed the inside of her legs more than a little after half an hour on a horse.

  'These seem to be your size, they won't show at all under those loose skirt-things, and since no-one but yourself will see them they don't need to be lady-like. Just try them, and if you need more please let me know. We may even have some woollen ones, somewhere.'

  Elizabeth accepted three of the inelegant garments and thanked the housekeeper profusely, this would make riding astride a lot more comfortable.

  Their business done, Elizabeth took the blouses and the drawers to their bedroom, washed her face and hands quite thoroughly at the washstand and changed into a dress.

  Then she went to the library, where she received a hearty welcome from her ardent lover. He invited her on his lap and wanted to know, 'Did Mrs Reynolds give you an earful over straddling a horse?'

  'Actually,' Elizabeth replied pertly, 'she blames you. She merely tried to save what was left of my reputation by giving me three beautiful blouses to wear with the skirt, as she has decided to call it. I agreed to have my

  measurements taken by the seamstress for more suitable blouses tomorrow, the ones she gave me are part of your servants' liveries. She also made me pick fabrics for skirts of my own, from the emergency stash. Did you know you had an emergency stash of fabrics in your storage chamber?'

  'I did not,' Fitzwilliam replied, and a bit concerned, 'but Peter counts on his missus making the skirts, did you tell her that?'

  'No need to,' Elizabeth said soothingly, 'she already suspected, said Peter's missus probably wouldn't give out the pattern for the skirt. Mrs Reynolds will give the fabrics I chose to Peter, apparently that is what the stash is for, when the seamstress comes over it is customary to choose the fabrics for what she will be making then and there. She will come for blouses only. Mrs Reynolds was very pleased with my indulging you in your love for riding.

  Though I do want a bath tonight, love, I'm stiffening up already, and it's only noon.'

  'Maybe you'd better take that bath straight after lunch, I'll order it, and spoil you a lot for suffering for my pleasure. Of course I want you back in shape for your next lesson as well.'

  That cheeky face needed kissing, was this the same man who had stood off to the side in a ballroom, watching in disdain how the Hertfordshire people danced? Elizabeth could not believe it.

  'I was planning to write to my sister this afternoon, do you think we should offer her your special book to prepare for their wedding night?'

  But Fitzwilliam was not falling for her joke.

  'I thought it better to write my own personal account, Elizabeth, and send it to Bingley as well as your cousin. They might be shocked by the lewd language in the book.'

  He was truly learning to give as good as he got. As they cuddled closer, Elizabeth started to feel her abused muscles, and a little sound of distress escaped her. Her sweet lover looked at her in concern and bowed his head.

  'Is it that bad already? I'm so sorry, I feel really guilty for putting you through this.'

  'No need, beloved,' Elizabeth said very softly, stroking his hair, and taking his hand and kissing it, 'I enjoyed myself hugely. I know it's just muscle ache, it will pass. I'm looking forward to riding out with you very much.'

  And soon she forgot her aching muscles in the heat of their search for explicit books. Of course Fitzwilliam knew the most likely hiding places, but still Elizabeth managed to find the first stash. It consisted of five

  magazines with very naughty pictures, drawn very graphically in a certain order, forming an entire story with very few words needed to tell it. The pictures said plenty. Though the story was as unflattering to women as the written one was, the graphic images and the lack of text made it quite interesting, and they put it away on a shelf in plain sight for further study.

  Then they searched on. By lunchtime, Fitzwilliam had found another book, this one written by a travelling artist, relating his escapades with noble ladies of all ages, matrons, virgin daughters, very stimulating and somehow much more respectful, though clearly a scoundrel this writer knew how to please a woman and he wrote about it very graphically, leaving as little to the imagination as the pictures of the other books. The introduction promised everything in the book had truly happened, which was rather hard to believe after glancing over a few pages.

  After supporting Elizabeth to the dining-room, Darcy took the book to their bedroom to read to each other. When he returned he said, 'I've ordered the bath filled right after lunch, if you don't soak those muscles you will not be able to move tomorrow.'

  'I thought I was rather strong, being able to walk half a day without feeling tired. I'm a bit put out with myself.'

  Elizabeth was not taking this well.

  'Never mind, love, remember how much trouble I had climbing a simple hill? I can sit on a horse all day and not suffer so much as a twitch of muscle ache. It's the same body, but totally different muscles.'

  They ate quickly, then retreated to the room next to their bedroom, and Darcy indeed slowly undressed Elizabeth, then lifted her and gently lowered her into the hot water.

  'That's too hot!' she exclaimed as one of her feet touched the water, and he kept her above the surface with just her feet touching the water to get used to the heat, until his awkward position became too straining. Then he gently set her on her feet, and slowly she got used to the temperature, immersing herself deeper and deeper, until she lay in the bath altogether.

  Darcy removed his own shirt and knelt next to the bath, kneading her warm muscles until they were supple again, starting with her legs of course, they had suffered the most, but slowly moving up towards her thighs, buttocks and stomach. Elizabeth merely felt the cramps grow less, but Darcy felt something else entirely, touching his beloved this intimately could not but

  excite him. He massaged her neck and shoulders, and her back, and then turned his attentions to other parts of her body, parts that had no muscles but only sweet, pliant flesh and skin. With the water cooling and their mood heating, Elizabeth came out of the bath and Darcy dried every inch of her gently and thoroughly. She managed to step out of the bath easily, it had worked, hopefully she would not stiffen up again, so they could ride tomorrow. But now they walked to the bed, kissing all the time, Elizabeth removing his trousers and grabbing between his legs, very indecent, but very stimulating.

  'Read the book,' she said, 'and we'll just touch for a while.'

  That was not what Darcy wanted, he wanted to bury his face in her breasts, and in other places. But it was a good challenge, sticking to just touching for a while, whilst reading a very titillating story out loud.

  The story started with the youth of the author, that would supposedly ruin the mood they were in with a dry description of his early ambitions to paint the landscapes of the world, but in fact it wasn't like that at all. The boy Pierre, an outlandish name because his mo
ther was French, grew up with an upper-class father on the family estate in plain old England, and did indeed at that age set his first steps on his way to being a painter. Except he didn't paint landscapes, but portraits, and as a child he already had an eye for a face, and a nose for scandal. For apparently a lot of fooling around was going on in the rooms and the gardens of the old manor, and he saw and remembered them all, to describe them into the tiniest detail in his memoires, decades later, if indeed this all really happened.

  Fitzwilliam had a magnificent reading voice and he knew how to make the most of it by not trying to give each character a mimicked voice, he only changed the inflection with a different character, and the effect was astounding. The story came to life before Elizabeth's mind's eye, and when the first piquant scene announced itself with a crawl through the brush to get a prime view of Pierre's mother amusing herself with a family friend, Elizabeth was totally taken up by what she heard, transferring her growing ardour to the superb performer she would never have believed had such acting in him. He didn't falter or get distracted when the action started to unfold, he didn't comment, he didn't give a sign that her ministrations affected him, except for his easily excited manhood giving him away of course, but nothing else, no shudders, no moans, nothing. Just his sedate

  voice describing fabulous lovemaking, with the lady getting as good as she gave, and every word, every detail read perfectly, without an error, and without losing the character of a fifteen-year-old aspiring artist describing the whole.

  Holding the book and concentrating on reading, Fitzwilliam could not reciprocate her arousing caresses, but Elizabeth's ardour was stimulated quite enough by what she practically saw happening before her, and the resonant voice making it come to life. The lovemaking in the ornamental garden of Pierre's father came to a height without the boy experiencing any ardour himself, he was a neutral observer, not even judging his mother for making love with a man not her husband. When the two adults in the book lay back on a bed of ivy, spent, Fitzwilliam had clearly reached his own limit, his last sentence sounded a bit choked. Hearing that sound Elizabeth looked at him and saw him put away the book, then come towards her with abandonment, he was beyond excited, he was lost in lust. Immediately Elizabeth realised that what the lewd book warned might happen if one drove a man past his control, was now going to happen to her.