“I see.” Georgiana grew thoughtful. “Who would be her instructor?” Her brother offered her an elaborate bow. “You, brother?”
“Who better?”
“As you say …” Her voice trailed off, then took on new life. “Oh, look! There is our Aunt Matlock and Richard! Does Richard not look splendid? And Auntie as well!”
Darcy looked up. It was true; their cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam always did look to advantage on the back of a horse and the one he bestrode now appeared to be an excellent creature in all respects. His aunt also commanded attention in a very smart riding habit and on a horse on which most gentlemen would not dare to set a lady of any years, much less the mother of the soldier beside her. Darcy and Georgiana pulled up and bowed their heads in respectful greeting.
“Aunt, so good to see you. Richard, how are you?” Darcy spoke for them both.
“And you as well, my dears.” Lady Matlock smiled brightly. “Georgiana, my love, has your ball gown arrived from Madame’s?” Her ladyship reined her horse away from the men, turning back the way she had come, and motioned her niece to follow. The gentlemen fell in behind them.
“Well, Fitz?”
“He’s magnificent to look at, I grant you.”
“Look your fill, for you won’t see much of either of us when the shillings are down. We’ve already taken Sheridan’s grey, you know.” Richard cocked an impish smile at him. “Fancy a little go now or are Nelson’s racing days well behind him?”
“With all these people and carriages about?”
“Ha! There was a time,” Richard laughed, “when you were not a stodgy old … no, come to think of it, you always were. Ho, there!” Richard’s mount interrupted him with a sudden jump, hooves dancing a rapid tattoo against the turf. “What the devil!”
“I’m going to bring Elizabeth riding tomorrow,” Darcy announced as his cousin worked to calm his beast.
“What? Riding?” he huffed, the horse now wrestled into wary compliance. “But Elizabeth doesn’t ride. And what did you do to my horse?”
“I shall teach her,” he replied, ignoring his cousin’s very legitimate question. “It is past time that she should have learnt.”
“Well, Fitz, there must be a reason. Perhaps she does not like horses … frightened her as a child, or some such a thing.”
“Elizabeth? Frightened?” Darcy laughed. “It is not possible. Besides, I have found the perfect mount for her, a sweet little mare with the calmest temperament.”
Richard looked askance at him, but Darcy’s pose was assured. “You, of all people, would know,” he acceded finally. “Tomorrow, you say?”
Darcy nodded.
“Well, well.”
Elizabeth Darcy rose from the settee in the family parlor of the Darcys’ London home and firmly set the novel aside. “Abominable!” she breathed in disgust. In the next moment, she snatched the book back up and prepared to pitch it into the grate. “No, better yet, out the front door you shall go! Out to be trodden underfoot!” Such an ignominious fate seemed harsh for a tome no more ambitious than any other of the popular host of Gothic romances filled with secret passageways, ancient ruins, and vengeful ghosts. But it was neither these trappings nor the dark and ridiculously petulant hero that had roused her ire with the latest book to be pressed hand to hand among the ton. No, it was the heroine of the piece or, perhaps, the authoress, herself.
“Deceptive … insufferable … oh!” she exclaimed, and turned to put her impulse into action. So intent was she upon her course that she didn’t hear the knock before the parlor door swung open.
“Mrs. Darcy.” The housekeeper, Mrs. Whitcher, curtsied. “I was wondering if you had finished with the—Mrs. Darcy, ma’am!”
“In a moment, Whitcher,” Elizabeth tossed over her shoulder as she moved with purpose into the hall and toward the front door. “Nedley!” she called to the hall footman, “the door, if you please!” The footman scrambled to attention and sprang to the door, stepping back just in time to avoid the cheaply bound missile that was hurled past his head. The paste and board hit the sidewalk and bounced into the street, bursting apart to lie in a heap that was soon torn and scattered under iron-shod hooves and carriage wheels.
“There,” she sighed, wiping her hands as if they had been soiled. “Thank you, Nedley. You may close the door.”
“Y-yes, ma’am!” Nedley gulped and looked questioningly at the housekeeper. Mrs. Whitcher frowned him back into the unruffled countenance servants were expected to display regarding the behavior of their betters. He closed the door.
“Now, what were you wondering, Whitcher?” Elizabeth smiled and motioned her to follow.
“The menu, ma’am; have you decided on the menu for Miss Darcy’s ball? An’ then there’re the flowers. With the celebrating going on, they say lilies nor daisies are to be had.”
“Yes, the ball!” Elizabeth breathed and mentally squared her shoulders against the rush of dismay that swept over her whenever she was reminded of the enormity of Georgiana’s coming-out arrangements. Her experience entering Hertfordshire society at the age of eighteen and Georgiana’s entrance into the beau monde were hardly to be compared. Lady Catherine had warned her of this before her marriage and in the bluntest fashion: If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have been brought up.
How quick and confident had been her reply then! Oh yes, the boundaries of gentility had lain undeniably in her favor, but lately Elizabeth had found substance to her ladyship’s protest. At Longbourn, in the assembly room at Meryton, and even in the grand halls of her husband’s friends in Derbyshire, she had moved with confidence, happy in herself and her choice, perfectly justified in her claim to have left no sphere for another. Her husband delighted in her, and the gentry within Pemberley’s sway were, to all appearances, open-minded concerning their illustrious neighbor’s choice and happy that the continuance of a Darcy at Pemberley was assured.
But, London … London was an entirely different matter, for it was here that she had finally encountered that Society among whom Lady Catherine had been so concerned to preserve her nephew’s honor and credit. Entrance into that London had never been an option for Elizabeth during visits with Aunt and Uncle Gardiner in Cheapside. Her limited experience of the city’s grander inhabitants had been in public places such as the theatre, where she had observed them from a safe anonymity. The whims and inconsistencies, the ridiculous poses and airs which had amused her from afar were not so diverting when once she was plunged into their midst. It was not, as that dreadful novel’s authoress had portrayed, as easy as kiss-my-hand for a girl from a village in Hertfordshire to enter into that world where name and rank were everything and her every word and action would reflect immediately upon her husband’s standing among his peers.
Certainly, upon her arrival, curiosity had instantly swirled around her, the unknown woman who had captured one of England’s most eligible men. But as details of her lineage were discovered and the money and influence she had brought to the match set at naught, Society’s eager interest cooled, giving way to the blank stare and patronizing smile, the laughter behind unfurled fans, the furious whispers. Oh, she had no patience with such puffery, such self-importance and play-acting, but this was their world. The distance between Longbourn and London, she had come to know, was calculated in far more than miles.
And now, in exactly one month, she was giving a ball. She turned back to Mrs. Whitcher, her brows knotted in concentration. “Ah, yes, the flowers. No lilies or daisies, you say? Oh, dear …”
“My dearest husband, you can not mean it!” Elizabeth looked away from the horse and up into Darcy’s face, her consternation plain.
“But, I do,” he said, smiling down at her. “She is your very own.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, you mistake me. I meant—”
“Come,” Darcy interrupted, and took her arm, drawing her down the front steps to the street, “you must get acquain
ted a little. See; isn’t she lovely? I have no doubt that you’ll deal together perfectly.”
“Fitzwilliam—”
“Here,” he spoke to Harry, their groom, “give me the reins.”
Harry grinned and gave them over. “She’s a sweet one, Mr. Darcy. The mistress’ll not be having any trouble with her, I promise.” He turned to Elizabeth and tugged his forelock. “ ’Ad her out meself an’ she’s as nice a set o’ manners as I’ve come across, ma’am.”
“Hmmm,” Elizabeth responded dubiously, and crossed her arms as she turned her attention to her husband’s present. Darcy led the horse out into the street, first walking the little bay in a circle and then encouraging it to a trot before bringing it to a halt in front of her.
“See,” he repeated, holding out the reins to her. She ignored them, but he would not be discouraged. He reached out and drew her forward. “Talk to her, love; pet her a little. Here,” he murmured, releasing her, and digging his fingers into his vest pocket, he brought out a sugar lump, “make friends with this.”
Elizabeth looked at the lump, then at the horse, and finally into her husband’s hopeful countenance. He wanted this so much. Why was she so recalcitrant? Slowly, she extended her hand. Darcy dropped the lump into her palm. “I am not afraid, you know,” she told him archly.
“Assuredly not,” he replied with an amused smile. “As I remember, any attempt to intimidate you raises your courage, and a fearsome thing that is, indeed!”
Elizabeth’s response was tempered. “Now you make me to be ridiculous and a virago in the same breath! I doubt you may be successful at both.” She looked again at her present. “I can assure you that I already know how to give a horse sweets.” She took a deep breath and stepped forward, her palm outstretched. The petite little mare obliged her immediately, whisking away the sugar with a light, feathery motion. Elizabeth laughed, but then quickly pursed her lips. “Well, that was quickly done. I suppose I am to pet it now?” She gingerly passed her hand down the mare’s face and then stepped back, only to observe her husband’s crinkled brow. She raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Darcy drew a deep breath. “In Society, that would have been considered the barest show of civility, perhaps even insulting. I believe Sheba would take it as quite condescending if that is all the attention you intend to pay to her.”
“Sheba?”
“ ‘Queen of Sheba’ is, I believe, the name on her registration papers; but ‘Sheba’ is what she responds to.” Darcy ran his hand down the horse’s neck in a sure stroke. “And we shall all go for your first lesson as soon as you have changed into your riding habit.”
Elizabeth looked up at him in alarm, but the earnest desire in his eyes and the straight, determined line of his mouth stopped the protest that had risen to her lips. How she wanted to please him, to see the light of approbation in his eyes! If only it did not involve this and at such a time when she was already so distracted. An infant, a ball … and now a horse! She offered him instead a rueful smile. “I shall be down directly,” she promised, and in a whirl of skirts she skipped up the steps.
Elizabeth had barely released the bell pull before Annie Fletcher was closing the dressing room door behind her. “Oh, ma’am, is it that beast in the street?”
“Yes, a gift from Mr. Darcy.” She sighed and then straightened her shoulders. “My riding habit, if you please, Annie. It appears I am to make my equestrian debut in Hyde Park this afternoon.”
Annie hurried over to the wardrobe and dug back into its recesses for several minutes before withdrawing a very fetching riding habit that had yet to be displayed to the world from the back of a horse. “It’s a lovely habit, ma’am,” she offered in consolation as she ran her hand over the russet velvet and deep brown braid. “Lovely, indeed. You and the master will be quite the picture. Put them fine ones all to shame.”
“It is Mr. Darcy, I fear, who will be put to shame,” Elizabeth replied and turned the back of her morning dress to Annie’s quick hands. “Horses are all very well behind a fence, but I have never been able to bring myself to trust one. Once you are upon its back, you are entirely at its mercy. I do not know how my sister … well, yes, of course I do.” Elizabeth smiled. “Jane could tame the wildest thing with her kindness and patience, even Merrily.”
“Merrily?” Annie shook out the skirt of the habit and held it wide for her mistress to step into.
“Merrily, a horrid little pony! My father had purchased it for Jane and me so that we might learn to ride. Little did he know that he had introduced a fiend into our midst. We had no groom, only an older man from the farms who would saddle him and leave him tied to a bush. It was Jane who was afraid of him in the beginning, and I was the one eager to throw myself onto his back. Strange how it ended: Jane is the rider, and I have never learnt.”
Annie held up the braided jacket and slipped it up Elizabeth’s arms. “A right mean one, then, if he made you a-feared.”
“Oh, he had more tricks than a monkey and directly showed me who was in charge. Within a week I was too—well, I had too much respect for what he could do if he chose to, that I refused to go near him. I suppose that seems silly now, but as a child, I was convinced it was reasonable caution and nothing less.”
“There, ma’am.” Annie gave her mistress an encouraging smile as she fastened the last hook. “Now for that hat.” The maid hurried to another closet and brought down a hat box from an upper shelf. Gently lifting the item from the protective tissue, she turned it this way and that for Elizabeth’s inspection. “A ‘quiz’ is what my Mr. Fletcher calls it; says it’ll set the other ladies back on their heels.”
“If that is Fletcher’s considered opinion, then I have no doubt of my reception among the equestrian set!” Elizabeth laughed. Her husband’s valet was a man of exquisite taste whose creations in gentlemen’s neck cloths were highly regarded by no less a critic than Brummel himself. With Annie’s assistance, the be-plumed shako was secured at a flirtatious angle by a multitude of pins. “Well, I believe I am ready.” She surveyed herself in the cheval mirror. The ensemble was dashing. She also took pride in having regained her figure so soon after little Alexander’s birth, for the habit had been purchased hard after her marriage and had not needed to be let out. “Rather, I am dressed for the part. Whether it will make any difference remains to be seen.”
Darcy’s dressing room was a field under strict discipline, commanded by a valet for whom his profession was both a calling and an art. His canvas, alas, was not inclined to offer him much scope, but even within the bounds of Darcy’s tolerance for Fashion, Fletcher had won the envy of the rest of his breed. Then had come his master’s marriage and with it an entirely new sort of challenge to his genius.
While others might count off their days by months and years, Fletcher marked his by sartorial events. Today was such a one: the First Appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy in the Park on Horseback! Fletcher had considered it from every aspect and the challenge was, indeed, exceptional. Mrs. Darcy must be the focus—how could she not be?—yet, since she was no rider, it was the better part of wisdom that attention should be tempted away from her as well. It was a summons to greatness, a new prospect for his art.
That ladies’ riding dress tended toward masculine, even military cuts was vastly in Fletcher’s favor. So, in anticipation of this day, he had advised his master to make a bridal present of a riding habit. Thus, it was he who had designed the habit to be perfectly complemented by several of Darcy’s new riding coats and he who had tasked his wife, Annie, with properly adjusting it after the Young Master’s arrival. Life’s events, in Fletcher’s opinion, were much too important for one’s attire to be left to happenstance.
“Fletcher! Good, you are already here.” Darcy entered his dressing room with an energetic stride and a pleased, excited air. “We are to ride!”
“Yes, sir, so I have heard.” Fletcher bowed. “May I suggest the dark brown coat with the russet facings?”
Darcy cast anothe
r covert glance at his wife as they rode to the Park. Elizabeth appeared more relaxed than when he had first set her upon Sheba’s back. Her bravado on the ground had been charming, but once atop her mount, he was surprised to see how cleanly she was out of her element. A stab of uneasiness followed close upon the heels of that surprise when they entered the environs of the Park. Instead of the peaceful byway he had anticipated in this portion of the Park, the track seethed with the horses and carriages of Treaty celebrants. Liveried drivers from all over Europe jostled for a strategic position in the flow from which their master or mistress could see and be seen by those in passing vehicles or on horseback. Equally troublesome were the drivers of sporting vehicles. Those known for their driving skill wove smartly through the crowd, but lesser lights could be heard swearing terrible oaths at a scrape of paint, the negligence of a groom, or a perceived slight offered by another whipster. Surveying the scene, Darcy feared his mistake might thoroughly discourage his wife from attempting anything more than a return to the mews behind Erewhile House. He pulled Nelson to a halt.
“Elizabeth,” he shouted, leaning over to be heard above the noise, “perhaps we should—” Darcy’s voice was drowned out by a sudden crescendo of savage snarls and hysterical barking. He whirled about to behold carriage dogs atop two approaching phaetons engaged in vociferous objection to each other. Caught in the crowded track, their owners were wholly engaged in guiding their fractious teams and could only roar at their animals to behave. Up and down the track, lapdogs from other carriages, excited by the sounds, strained to see the contest and, setting up their own chorus of yips and howls, added to the general confusion.
Darcy looked back at Elizabeth just as Nelson began throwing his head and backing away from the carriages that were now nearly upon them. “Elizabeth,” he called, pulling the horse’s head around. What he saw sent his heart into his throat. Like Nelson, Sheba wanted none of the approaching dogfight. The little horse quivered and began a scrambled effort to back away. “Fitzwilliam!” Elizabeth cried, her eyes wide as she worked to maintain her seat and bring her mount under control.
Jane Austen Made Me Do It Page 33
