Darcy, of course, was horrified. (He recognised that she meant to injure decorum, but he was uncertain if she was witting of it.) He did not believe that she understood the full nature of his discomposure. True, if they were to quarrel, he wanted to do so in private and not a common alehouse. His very being was repulsed at the thought of entering such a place. The smell, the sounds, indeed, the very bowels of such a place not only insulted his dignity, they fostered another, higher abhorrence. It was a recollection that would haunt him all of his days—one that had not yet come to her.
The other public house had been a far more disreputable place, stinking of vomit and urine. Its habitués turned a blind eye to the indecencies that took place within its walls. He had left its floor stained with the blood of three men. Infuriated beyond any imagining, he had smite them with gun and sword. If any man dared do Elizabeth harm, he would not hesitate to murder again.
His breath grew heavy just recalling that long-past night and he did his best to calm himself. Elizabeth, oblivious to his temper, gaily made her way to a table. As the establishment was empty save for the publican and a lone confrere, she claimed a table in the corner near the fireplace. The earlier rain had brought a brisk, clear night and a draft seeped into the room making the warmth of the fire evermore desirable.
The place was clean, but obviously unused to anyone of higher station that a local squire. Whilst it in no way favoured the other festering canker of a hellhole, Darcy endeavoured to curb his growing pique. By the time they sat, he believed that his dear wife had begun to have a few misgivings about her sudden want of a pint. Neither of them was the sort to concede. The innkeeper hastily came to them, asking Mr. Darcy if they cared for a cut of meat. Darcy shook his head. He motioned for two pints of ale instead.
They waited silently as the publican returned and set their drinks on the table. He stood with a rag over his arm awaiting further instructions. Darcy took a sip, found it satisfactory, and thus waved him away.
Whilst they waited, Darcy had watched Elizabeth carefully. She twitched like a jumpy cat, causing him to conclude her state of mind had been too delicate to weather Mrs. Bennet. Her mother’s nerves, fits, and endless prattle had driven his poor wife from the brink of madness into the abyss.
Elizabeth sipped daintily from her mug.
He asked her, “Have you partaken of ale ere this night?”
“Certainly.”
She then made a grand display of taking several gulps of the brew. Just as grandly, she set the cup back upon the table. However, when she opened her mouth to speak, not a word came out.
Rather, she belched.
Placing a hand daintily across her lips, she said, “Dear me.”
Darcy did his best not to laugh, but was unsuccessful. He suspected is wife’s insistence that she had drank ale before to be a small prevarication. Her alteration in colour was obvious as the warmth of the liquor took hold. At it did, she also became talkative—often repeating herself.
“I think you are in your cups, Lizzy,” he told her.
“How many alehouses have you visited?” she asked merrily.
He shook his head, not trusting where the conversation might take them. He downed his own drink. The publican hastily replaced it.
She teased, “Is Mr. Darcy above such establishments?”
“As it happens, I have been in the public houses at Lambton and Kympton. I believe that one is called ‘The Fox and Hogget, Phineus Turnpenny, proprietor.”
(Due to certain improprieties exhibited there during the festivities surrounding their marriage, Darcy was quite displeased with the “Fox and Hogget” and it owner.)
His disclosure was meant to conclude that path of inquiry. Her discourse reminded him of another, similar interrogation years past. In that one she also asked him to put a number to certain acts (those not of drinks he had taken, but of women he had... occupied). If memory served, she was specific, “Less than five, more than ten?” He did not care to pursue unhelpful investigations. His alarm was well-timed.
“Oh, certainly sir you have a more checkered past than that,” she urged. “Pray share your wayward conduct.”
It was not in his nature to talk openly when he might be overheard, but her question troubled him. Time was for them to be frank. He bit his lower lip once before he spoke. Both were lulled by the warmth and the liquor, but he did not want to vex her unnecessarily. As he formed the words in his mind to answer, her eyes suddenly opened wide and she gasped.
“Oh, my darling! How thoughtless! Can you forgive me?”
He reached across the broad table and pressed a finger against her lips. She shook him off.
“I am a wretch! I am a worthless wife and a senseless mother....”
He hushed her again, fearing that her agitation might cause her to discharge other than an eructation.
Reaching for her hand, he urged, “Let us take our leave.”
Of like minds, she hastily agreed. Although Mrs. Darcy had to take careful steps as she held tightly to Mr. Darcy’s arm, they managed the stairs without incident. For this she was quite relieved. The misdirection of her ire had finally struck her and she was highly contrite. To bestow even more grief upon his already sullied dignity would have been indefensible.
It was not late when they returned upstairs, but all seemed to be asleep. That was a further relief.
“We must speak,” she urged.
He ignored her appeal, “You must sleep. Shall I call Hannah?’
“I am not so befuddled as all that. We must speak. I beg to apologise for my behaviour.”
“You have been with your mother long enough to try anyone’s sanity, the blame is not yours.”
“I would be most happy to fault my mother. But it is not hers. It is mine alone.”
Her words were sober. He gazed into her eyes to determine if she was impaired. Her eyes were clear—and a sea of pain.
He reassured her, “Time, so often a friend, is also a fleeting thief. Every hour we spend weltering at the very nadir of despair is a day lost to us forever.”
She blinked and then nodded.
“I shall not have it,” he said. Then softening his voice, he repeated, “We must not have it.”
By engaging his will (his most admired and feared trait), he managed to put those long past remembrances so abhorrent to him and his inward tranquillity aside. Addressing very present maelstroms was troubling enough. It would serve no good purpose to revisit old ones. He called for Hannah. Elizabeth did not demur.
Whilst Hannah brushed out Mrs. Darcy’s hair, Mr. Darcy seated himself on a small wooden chair outside the door. Given that her condition might make her uncertain on her feet, he did not choose to leave her to the servants. The corridor was narrow and dark. Its intimacy gave him leave to loosen his tie. As he sat, he also unbuttoned his waistcoat, placed his face in his hands, and (as he often did when collecting himself) rubbed it several times.
He could hear murmuring from behind the door. He recognised his wife’s voice. That soothed him. Tipping his chair onto the back two legs until the back of it touched the wall; he rested his head against the wallboard and closed his eyes.
Whatever he had done to engage his wife’s wrath would have to be sorted out in the morning. She was not of splenetic nature. Whatever her injury, it had been deeply felt. Whilst the children slept, they must speak of the more pressing issue (Mr. Darcy compleatly unwitting that the two disconcertions were one and the same). Her recklessness that night recalled to him her heedless ride upon the Pemberley down. His apprehension over her despondency had been assuaged. Upon their visit to the Chiltern Inn, it was reinstated. Although he no longer believed that she had run mad, his concern was keen. Her behaviour remained... changeable.
Whether or not they would regain all that they had once shared tormented him. Her words had been plain enough. She believed herself bullied into bearing another child. If she truly abhorred the prospect, he would acquiesce to her wishes. He would sacrifice
intimacy if it would salvage her heart. His only hope was that time might not be feckless in its consolation. Perhaps it would heal those feelings so keenly injured in them both.
When Hannah withdrew, he sat up straight in the chair. Once she cleared the hallway, he stood. Placing his hand on the doorknob, he resolved that sequestered in this plain little inn, he would tell her that the love they shared was far too precious to fritter away through petty quarrels. Her getting pissed as a newt notwithstanding, he would try to reason with her once more.
If reason failed, perhaps passion would prevail. Would she but agree, he would solace them both by sacrificing his love upon her womanly altar and converse about the relinquishment of that gratification in the glow of sated desire. He opened the door and closed it behind him.
His chosen path was fraught with disturbances.
First amongst them was that the room was dark—too dark. All the candles had been doused (dare he hope by her design?). In the dimness, her outline was barely discernible. Making his way was particularly vexing in an unusually small room stuffed with unfamiliar furniture. His legs encountered several unexpected objects and he was tempted to beshrew his displeasure each time he bumped his shin.
When finally he made it to her bedside, he spoke not. Rather, he slid from his clothing with great dispatch. She had been laying upon her side with her back to him when he slipped beneath the bedclothes. Naked and highly aroused, he whispered her name.
“Lizzy. Lizzy....”
She turned to him—and, he thought, into his arms. However, when she rolled onto her back, her jaw fell open. From the back of her throat came a most unladylike snore.
There are times when a gentleman’s mettle is tested. Upon this occasion, Mr. Darcy was conflicted. With a great deal of self-cajolement, his resolve remained—if not firm, at least, strong.
All was for the best. In the morning light, they would converse without his arousal disturbing the outcome.
Chapter 62
Pitiful Ponies
With Sally Frances Arbuthnot’s helpful inquiries, Lady Millhouse embarked on what she would call her great scheme. (Her schemes were becoming so many; Lord Millhouse was tempted to number them.) This one came about by reason of Mr. Darcy’s promise to his sister.
The pit ponies were less a nuisance than a scandal, and by speaking to Lady Millhouse of them, Darcy knew it would be addressed with due diligence. It was well known that no one (even he) had a greater love of horses than did she. He surmised correctly. Indeed, she was appalled over the plight of the ponies as any upstanding horsewoman would be.
She boomed, “Pray tell, how this outrage could occur beneath our very noses, Darcy? Georgiana is quite right; we must save these ponies from the mines!”
He hoped her ladyship’s interest in the business was not too eagre, as he did not mean to protect his sister only to jeopardise his good friend in her stead. Although he did not hesitate to caution Lady Millhouse, unsurprisingly, she did not take heed.
She said, “Pish, Darcy, I shall be quite wary.”
That was not a reassurance.
———
In fortune, Lady Millhouse had seen young Sally Frances as not only a consort, but a cohort too. Whilst Lord Millhouse stood in his usual posture (looking lovingly upon her doings), his wife had inveigled the young girl to join her upon her next adventure.
“Dear girl, do you ride?” she demanded.
Sally had seen all manner of horses in town, none finer than those of the West End, and none so humble as the carthorses plodding up the narrow streets of the Dials. Those were wretched creatures, with coarse coats and sad eyes. Before Sally and her family had been consigned to the workhouse, they had lodged across the street from a shop where an ancient white horse, laden with wares, was often seen. Whilst the driver stopped to tend to business, Sally combed the old horse’s mane with her fingers and scratched it between the ears. That horse was the nearest she had come to having a pet.
In response to Sally’s admittance that she did not ride, could not ride, and cared not to ride, Lady Millhouse was undeterred. Indeed, she was enervated.
“I have an undertaking for which I ask your aide,” she announced. “As you do not ride, we shall take the gig.”
More than happy to have the opportunity to repay Lady Millhouse’s generosity, Sally nodded her head. She did so with more than a little apprehension. After all, she was but a hapless girl of the notorious slums of London. What could a country lady want of her? No doubt, she was wanted to engage in some malfeasance on the Millhouse’s behalf. London bred or not, Sally was no thief.
“You don’t want me to filch anything for ye, do ye?”
Lady Millhouse guffawed, “No, no, dear one, I do not. Ours is a far nobler pursuit.”
Sally’s expression was one of profound relief.
Lady Millhouse went on, “It has come to my attention that ponies labour in the mines just beyond Chesterfield. They are dear, pitiable ponies and they work in compleat darkness. So seldom do they see the light of day, they often become blind!”
Puzzled, Sally nodded as if she understood what had irked Lady Millhouse about that.
“I have been charged with engaging in whatever tomfoolery I care to in regards to the ponies, so long as we cause no delays in securing the coal. We dare not chance any more of this silly rioting now do we?”
As Lady Millhouse spoke, Sally could not help but interrupt, asking, “Why ponies?”
“How do mean, ‘why ponies?’” Lady Millhouse asked.
Sally explained, “I mean ‘why ponies’ and why do oxen not pull these coal waggons? They’re big, strong animals. Why don’t these folks use oxen in the mines?”
Here Lord Millhouse interjected, “The mine shaft is overly narrow for oxen. Soon the mines shall be overtaken by mechanisation, but Lady Millhouse favours improving the lot of the ponies now in use.”
Bombastic she may have been, however her ladyship was not foolish. She understood that in order to save any ponies, they must begin their rescue with one mine and a single pony.
“It shall be a great relief to have all animals out of the mines. Poor, poor ponies,” Lady Millhouse said.
Sally was not especially like-minded.
“I guess them folks workin’ those mines want to keep earnin’ a wage too.”
Lord and Lady Millhouse each stood looking at Sally with an air of confused condescension.
A thought struck Lord Millhouse, “Indeed, we should not favour falling victim to a revolutionary outrage as did France,”
This was a point they all agreed upon. And upon that agreement, Sally at last understood what Lady Millhouse wanted of her. Sally was to be her emissary.
“A diplomat, if you will, dear girl. As has been proven here today, you can speak more plainly than can I. We must assure the workmen that we do not care to cause bother to their business. We only wish to have those ponies now kept below ground to be stabled above and allowed to graze.”
It was her plan to see to, and fund, the building of stables and obtaining ample pasture.
“To implement the plan properly, I am aware that it shall be necessary for me to purchase additional stock so they can be alternated—one day at work, the next to graze,” she explained. “It is not an ideal, but an improvement. The ponies would be engaged—and not abused to blindness—not so long as this lady has a breath left in her body!”
Practical-minded Sally saw the sense in the plan. The plight of little blind ponies labouring in the mines indeed plucked her heartstrings. However, she could not help but think of those common folk in England; they who were in want of a piece of bread and a place to sleep. When babes starved and eight-year-olds worked twelve hours a day, it was difficult for her to cough up an over-abundance of sympathy for a pack of horses.
“You know how to speak to these men far better than I,” Lady Millhouse said. “I should like you to make these arrangements....”
Sally was not so sure all would go swi
mmingly. Indeed, she anticipated being beaten from the mine’s premises. Hence, Sally protested.
Lady Millhouse put up her hand, “Tut, tut, my dear. You have your brother’s blood in you. He was a true cavalier. Fear not, for I shall accompany you.”
“Yes’m,” said Sally reluctantly.
That day, and the day after, did not improve Sally’s enthusiasm for the scheme. Invading another’s place and accusing them of having it all wrong might be an idea born of good intentions, but such as that was rarely rewarded. Indeed, the more she thought of it, the more she dug her heels in against it. Lady Millhouse did what she could to influence her opinion otherwise. Sally ate, even relished, all the many cakes and candies with which she was plied, but remained steadfast. In time, Sally not only refused to go, she advised Lady Millhouse not to go either. Unsurprisingly, the lady could not be swayed.
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