B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  The dray was stacked with cages, each filled with chickens. The noise was apparent, even from inside their coach. The waggon driver hollered at his oxen and slapped his reins across their backs, but the wide wheels would not budge. Geoff bounced up and down on the seat in excitement. Darcy had less success at quieting him than the driver had moving his oxen.

  The commotion awoke Janie, her pique forgot, she said, “What is it, Mama? Are there chickens?”

  Initially, their coachman attempted to go around the waggon, but to no avail. Several footmen leapt from the Darcy coach to assist the dray, one grabbed the reins and began to tug, the others pushing from the rear.

  Mr. Darcy opened his window to allow a footman’s report, “The driver’s pissed as a newt—‘scuse me sir—what shall you have us do?”

  “As you were,” Darcy said.

  He closed his window and Elizabeth opened hers for some air. She fanned both Janie and herself in relief of the sun which was beating down on their side of the coach.

  As the footman tugged on his oxen, the soused driver searched for further libations beneath the seat. As he did, his cargo began to lean ominously. It was only a matter of time before the entire load collapsed in the dirt. Several of the top cages broke loose and slid to the ground. They splintered when they hit, causing a dozen pullets and a very vocal rooster to escape.

  The prospect of losing his whole load brought the man to his senses. He scrambled after the birds. Fortunately, most of the fat pullets settled back on the rail of the dray and were easily caught. But a number of others and the cock scattered. The commotion caused the horses to prance a bit, causing Mr. Darcy some alarm. He cracked his window to better observe the doings. His footmen were chasing the loose chickens and soon had them in hand. (It was quite a sight, even for those not easily amused.) Unfortunately the rooster was less tame than the chickens and it continued to elude its pursuers.

  When it finally lit, it was upon Mrs. Darcy’s open window. The bird sat there eyeing them whilst Janie shrieked with laughter.

  Elizabeth cried, “Shoo!” Shoo!”

  Her intention was for the cock to take its leave out the window from whence it came, but she only succeeded in exciting it. It flapped its wings wildly and, seeing the other window, attempted to make its escape through it. Darcy encouraged it back out with a swipe with his newspaper, but it made another circle of the coach. On the second attempt, it hit the closed window and knocked itself senseless. It fell to the floor of the coach with a dull thud.

  Janie said, “Oh, no! Poor bird. Is it dead?”

  The fear that the cock was indeed dead at their feet, Mrs. Darcy endeavoured to shield poor Janie from the scene by means of a motherly hand over her eyes. Janie squealed her indignation and Geoff leapt from the seat and began to poke at the bird.

  “Poor, poor rooster....”

  Grabbing his son about his waist, Mr. Darcy opened the door and beckoned his man.

  “Have this unfortunate fowl removed.”

  A footman let down the steps. Before Mr. Darcy stepped a foot out the door, the bird awoke and hopped to his feet. Settling his feathers like a lord, he preceded Mr. Darcy, hopping down each step until he reached the ground. There, he flapped his wings, gave a small, gurgling crow and walked towards the dray. By then, the driver caught up to his rooster. Removing his cap, he nodded to Mr. Darcy.

  “Beg pardon, sire,” he slurred.

  Then he tucked the bird under his arm and slunk away.

  With the aide of more footmen, the dray was pulled out of roadway, allowing them all to go on their way. The Darcy coaches’ stately pace was barely injured by the passing interlude. Elizabeth straightened Janie’s bonnet and retied the ribbon under her own chin. Feathers were everywhere, but that would be attended to when they stopped to rest the horses. Darcy repositioned his hat and gathered himself.

  Elizabeth marvelled at her husband’s ability to remain composed when suffering the most unnerving events. Granted, their lives were hardly in danger, but his expression barely altered during the entire fracas. (He displayed more excitation over his daughter’s near basting of her brother.) Elizabeth’s heart had not quite settled. A cock scratching about the yard was benign enough. When caught with one desperate to escape, its claws could do damage. She had feared for everyone’s eyes. Impulsively, she took her husband’s arm and rested her head against his shoulder. He patted her hand. All was well.

  “Papa, what is that?” Geoff queried.

  Elizabeth smiled wanly at her husband. There had been but a small respite from her son’s questions.

  With kind condescension, Darcy bid, “What do you see?”

  “There,” Geoff pointed. “Upon your hat.”

  Darcy dared not look at what was upon his favourite hat, but at times it was necessary to do distasteful duties. Without looking, he knew that when the rooster had been excited into flight, it had done so with a fit of incontinence.

  “Janie! Janie, look here,” cried Geoff. “The bird has done something very bad upon Papa’s hat!”

  Jane pointed at her father’s hat, saying, “What a bad bird, Papa!”

  Mr. Darcy’s expression remained fixed. (Perhaps his hauteur intensified ever so slightly.) He rapped upon the roof with his walking still. The coach came to a halt. With grace and semi-good humour, he instructed his man to exchange his hat for another.

  Sitting back with a clean hat upon his head, he said, “There.”

  Between them on the seat he laid a penny. She smiled, but chose not to crow.

  Chapter 54

  No Going Home

  A second disconcerting event came about not long after the rooster attack. This (like most) came about from good intentions. Elizabeth was simply in want of keeping the children settled and entertained. She noticed that they were just up the road from Fleckney and pointed to a large tree next to the road.

  “Look, see there? You were born just there.”

  “But where, Mama? Where?” begged Janie.

  Unwilling to go into the untoward details of their birth, her mother told a fib.

  “The place is gone now.”

  “We were born in a coach, Janie,” said Geoff. “Mama meant to go to Pemberley, but....”

  Astonished at his store of information, Elizabeth playfully caught the end of his nose and said, “You and your sister were too impatient to wait.”

  With an expression of amused chagrin, Darcy looked out the window. As he did, Elizabeth made an admirable (but ultimately unsuccessful) attempt at altering their discourse.

  She said, “To our great fortune, Aunt and Uncle Bingley were there to catch you both.”

  “Where were you, Papa?” Geoff asked suddenly.

  Just as hastily, Elizabeth replied, “Papa had business.”

  Mr. Darcy continued to distance himself from this conversation. His son, however, was not easily satisfied by silence. He turned to his mother who was always more forthcoming. He asked another, even more difficult question.

  “Why was I born with a sister, Mama? Did you find her next to the road?”

  “Yes,” interrupted Mr. Darcy. “We discovered you both in a cabbage patch.”

  Adding misinformation to generalities did not improve the situation. Indeed, this bit of news disturbed Geoff further. It only incited more questions from his sister.

  Janie queried, “Where is the cabbage patch? Did Aunt and Uncle Bingley help find us there? What if a fox had found us first?”

  Ruefully, Geoff whispered to his sister, “The cabbage patch is just a story people tell.”

  Their son’s precociousness, as a point of pride for the Darcys, was waning precipitously. Whilst this conversation droned on, Mr. Darcy was becoming evermore apprehensive over what indecorous tidings the loquacious Mrs. Bennet might introduce to them. (Her discourse could often be as indelicate and uncensored as Lydia’s.) Mr. and Mrs. Darcy exchanged glances that suggested they both feared the same evil.

  “Whatever shall come from
the mouths of your children next?” asked he.

  Noting that she was now the sole parent of the inquisitive duo, Elizabeth said stiffly (whilst hiding a smile), “I am sure I have no idea to what you refer.”

  “I am certain you are aware that discretion is a stranger to your mother,” he replied.

  “I agree, she is most indiscrete.”

  To be reminded of her mother’s tactlessness, Elizabeth had only to recall her mother’s response upon learning that the Darcys would visit.

  “Does Mr. Darcy come?” she wrote. “That man’s elegance of manner honours my home when he is so generous as to come here. Do not think of coming here, Lizzy, if he does not accompany you.”

  By his own design Darcy rarely came to Longbourne. (He did not admit to any disdain for the house or its surroundings, but any affection he had for it was because it had once been Elizabeth’s home.) As he seldom came, having the grand man for even so small a time was quite a coup for his mother-in-law. Once the visit had been decided upon, she would have reason to boast about her daughter’s fortunate marriage to every neighbour who was not hasty enough to avoid her.

  Elizabeth could imagine her Meryton neighbours fleeing her mother’s approach even then.

  Of Elizabeth’s sisters, only Mary had not married. She remained at Longbourne as her mother’s companion. Mary had neither genius nor taste—and her pedantic opinions did nothing to improve Mrs. Bennet’s disposition. That meant Longbourne was no longer a particularly hospitable place. Given that, Elizabeth did not wonder that Darcy was astonished by her sudden desire to return. Indeed, she had begun to question her own decision. When someone as immovable and unalterable as Mrs. Bennet stood between them, and peace and decorum, it was unlikely decorum would will out. Elizabeth vowed to be a bastion of civility—and dearly hoped it would last the duration of her visit.

  When their coach at last arrived at Longbourne, they gratefully descended. Their happiness to escape further interrogation by their children was mitigated by the excited welcome given to them by Mrs. Bennet. Although she was all but prostrate in deference to Mr. Darcy, she greeted Elizabeth fretfully. Before the children were allowed past the doorway, she urgently questioned Elizabeth as to their health.

  “Are you certain there is no chance you have brought illness here with you? Your children look peaked. Do they cough?”

  They were perfectly well. Nonetheless, Mrs. Bennet could not help but worry. Her health was dearly guarded and children were notorious carriers of disease and caused household disorder. She was often heard to admonish against forming early attachments for the little tykes. Keeping them at arms length avoided the inconvenience of being out of sorts should the little ones up and die on you.

  Despite her denials of happiness, Mrs. Bennet did look remarkably well. Her hair did not yet have a single strand of silver. Once assured that there was no threat of communicable ailments, a flood of affection erupted. Mrs. Bennet gifted them all big hugs and wet kisses. She did her best to bestow a motherly buss upon Mr. Darcy as well, but he was tall and she was not, he stayed out of reach.

  “Still proud, I see,” she whispered to Elizabeth as they came inside.

  In the vestibule to greet them stood Elizabeth’s sister, Kitty. That was a happy surprise. Kitty and her husband were visiting Longbourne and extended their stay to visit with the Darcys. Seeing Kitty was a pleasure for Elizabeth and made her homecoming all the more promising. The youngest Bennet sister, but one, Kitty had settled in Shropshire and Elizabeth did not see her as often as she would have liked. Once out from under Lydia’s influence, her notorious contentiousness was much improved and her marriage to a young vicar had prospered.

  Although John Malcolm Finch did not strike a particularly handsome figure, he was of an affable nature and read aloud well. He was also suitably modest in his ways. Unlike poor Mr. Collins, Mr. Finch was not the sort to flatter himself nor was he immoderately obsequious to those above his station. Mr. Darcy was quite pleased to meet him.

  Kitty boasted on behalf of her husband.

  In rapid succession she said, “Mr. Finch delivers two sermons a week. This year we shall have two students. They shall read both Latin and Greek, for they are to take their degrees from Oxford. Everyone says that Mr. Finch’s sermons have improved society in the village. The last curate there was enfeebled by age and drink and he could scarce be counted upon to come to church. More than once the bells called whilst he was found beneath the gooseberry bushes drunk as a lord!”

  With a quiet shushing from her husband, Kitty remembered herself. When she spoke again, it was not of what she heard, but only of what she knew.

  “It is a handsome living we have. The glebe itself is so large that we rent it out to several households. Even if we did not, the tithes alone would allow us to keep a carriage.”

  Mr. Finch interrupted again, reminding Kitty, “It is but a curricle—and one ten years on the road, Mrs. Finch.”

  Curling her nose, Kitty added, “It is a buckish parish, what with all the grouse and streams for fishing and I know not what. Despite that, the congregation is thick with old people. There is little need for his services for marriages and baptisms, but the aged drop faster than autumn leaves, so he is amply rewarded then.”

  “I understand, Mr. Finch,” said Elizabeth, “that you have an interest in globes.”

  Indeed, Kitty was a far better correspondent than any of her sisters and had related that information to her. Elizabeth was most pleased to have something to ask him.

  Before Mr. Finch could do more than nod, Mary interrupted.

  “My father kept an atlas, but Lydia’s boys were very violent with it and it has gone by the way.”

  This gave Mrs. Bennet a chance to shush her middle daughter and begin her own recitation of the many vexatious encounters she suffered at the hands of her neighbours in Meryton. Although they had all dutifully come to Longbourne to meet Morland and admire her compleated portrait, to her mind they had never forgiven her for all her many blessings.

  Indeed, after Mr. Bennet’s demise, some believed that she would live out her days with the Darcys—for who would deign to reside in so humble an abode as Longbourne after enjoying such splendours was had for her at Pemberley. After all, Mr. Darcy had a portion of the house decorated especially to her particular taste (which ran to Spanish shawls and winged cherubs).

  Some said that Mrs. Bennet favoured residing at Longbourne owing to that handsome portrait now hanging above her fireplace. Regardless, no other house had handsomer furniture or a prettier park in all of Hertfordshire (this, through the auspices of her generous sons-in-law). Those neighbours who tired of hearing Mrs. Bennet boast of her daughters’ well-fixed marriages were disposed to remark a bit spitefully of her sudden regard for her old home. They said it had less to do with the size of the homes than the size of their ponds—and the fish in them.

  Mrs. Bennet concluded, “If it was not for Mrs. Phillips, there would be no good society in Meryton at all.”

  An hour with Mrs. Bennet’s incessant chatter, Mary’s posturing, and Kitty’s boasts, Mr. Finch’s company alone was not enough to keep Mr. Darcy’s sensibilities soothed. Soon, he turned his back and walked to a window. There, he gazed out upon the grounds. What he observed was of such interest to him that he stood looking at it for some time. (It must have been quite an oddity of some sort that kept the great man’s attention, for if it was not, he might have been accused of regret in having come.)

  An hour more, he was quite ready to make his away to London. His announcement of his imminent leave-taking did not please Mrs. Bennet.

  She beseeched him, “No, no, Mr. Darcy, we cannot have it! You must stay and begin anew in the morning!”

  His decision was not to be overturned.

  “The sooner I make my away, the sooner I shall return,” he said with finality.

  Before he bid her adieu, Elizabeth had already begun to regret the visit as well. She walked with him to the coach, but did not sh
are her qualms.

  “What is your hurry, sir? I miss you and you have not yet taken your leave.”

  Her attempt to speak light-heartedly was all for naught.

  “I would not go if it was not necessary,” said he.

  Forthwith, he kissed her full on the mouth. She was both pleased and astonished. In the broad day’s light, on her father’s doorstep, her breath was stolen.

  He whispered to her, “It is my fervent hope that you find what you seek here.”

  In a trice he was in the coach and on his way. His scent was all that was left.

  He was a loving husband, but a perplexing man. Their parting words were not a comfort.