And here, as in everything, she overturned all his expectations. Each night they retired as soon as decently possible. Sometimes the servants had barely cleared the dinner table before they were slipping away upstairs. They would fall on each other still dressed and wake a few hours later in shift and shirt. And he would be hard again, and she was always willing. She never claimed to be tired or out of sorts, never seemed to be accommodating him from a sense of duty—all the states of connubial discontent that married men complained of. Indeed, it was he who demurred when her monthly bleeding arrived. “Surely you will be uncomfortable.”
“If you do not object to the mess,” Elizabeth said, “I have heard that it eases the cramps.” Afterward she claimed the remedy worked very well.
It was because she was so clever, he thought, and so beautiful. She had not learned the shame or false modesty that stupid, plain females adopted to disguise their want of suitors. She reveled in her physical nature at night, but was as eager during the day to explore Fitz’s library and to be guided by his tastes in poetry and history. In fact, they had come close to combining the two pleasures several times, reading the same text while occupying the same chair, hands busy creeping into her bosom or working between his legs. She had developed Fitz’s knack for unbuttoning breeches…They had nearly ruined a volume of Horace’s odes, the good translation by Dryden, crushing it between their bodies and creasing the pages. Fortunately the spine had not broken, although two of the pages were stuck together.
The entire household recognized her superiority. They would accept whomever he brought home, of course, would consider it a point of pride to give the master’s choice their respect and cheerful, instant obedience. But there was an easy grace to her manner of command, a sweetness tempering her authority, and without the officiousness or pettiness of those new to wealth, that proved, whatever station she had been born into, it was here she belonged by right. Reynolds, the housekeeper, had taken Fitz aside one morning to say how pleased she was with the new mistress. “All of us, sir, we wanted to say that we’re thankful you found the right lady for you, not one of those jumped-up hussies that marries for what she can get. Not that you would be taken in by one of those.” Then, even more flustered, twisting her apron in her hands like a young girl in her first position in service, she had finished the speech she had been deputized to deliver as the senior member of the staff. “You go on and enjoy your honeymoon, sir, and don’t you worry about us. We know when to make ourselves scarce.” Fitz could only shake her hand, express his gratitude, and assure her he intended to follow their advice.
These last weeks he had never been so satisfied, yet never more in thrall to his desires. Fulfillment seemed merely to increase the appetite. He had become accustomed to his pleasure, the three and four times each night and the stolen, laughing moments in secluded walks in the park or by the stream, the winter weather making everything rushed, amusingly imperfect, yet all the more exciting. And that time in the barn with old Rowley looking on in feline curiosity to see his master with a puss instead of a tom. The same old fellow who, little more than a kitten, had observed Fitz’s frenzied encounters with Wickham. How was Fitz to return to his life in the world, a leader in the community, to entertain visitors and behave like a civilized gentleman? And, oh my God, what would he do when she began breeding?
Fitz longed more than anything for their child. Boy or girl, from such a pairing it would be a worthy heir to Pemberley and the Fitzwilliam name. He would not give way to the dark terror, the knowledge that women died in this ordeal. No, that was imponderable; he would lose his reason by contemplating that abyss. He allowed himself instead the diversion of worrying over a lesser, selfish fear. How would he bear those last months when she was big and ungainly? And after, when she must be left alone to heal? How did good husbands, with the best will in the world…
He laughed aloud, startling his mount, Galahad, who tossed his head and broke from the controlled trot into a gallop. He would be faithful because there was no one else he desired. If he could not have her, he would prefer nobody, alone with his thoughts or—Charles, perhaps, would understand. Strange to think how the future had been foreshadowed; how, a year ago, he and Charles had lain in each other’s arms, each thinking of a lady—and now they were married to those ladies. And just when that friendship would be most valuable, there was constraint between them. Fitz sighed, regretting his own indifference on the brink of marriage, in the face of Charles’s wish to maintain the connection. Elizabeth had anticipated it, of course…
Now he understood what she had tried so tactfully to tell him about her friend Charlotte. My God! To think of her, of them…Fitz shook his head at himself, smiling. Surely he was being absurd. It was the sort of thing written in obscene doggerel, like Lord Rochester’s scandalous verses. What had she said? All he remembered was her quoting her mother, scolding her daughter for her “green gown.” Elizabeth was accustomed to hearing coarse country speech and had grown up amid the crude, forthright attitudes of the older generation, even as her own character remained unbesmirched. There was but one interpretation to put on her words. She had hinted as directly as any lady could.
He laughed again, but this time Galahad took no heed, glad of his master’s light hands on the reins and enjoying the freedom to run to the top of the next rise. Ultimately, it was chaste. Two young ladies, not a cock between them. There was no harm in it, nothing to condemn, no danger of illegitimacy or loss of maidenhead. It was but the natural consequence of a passionate nature combined with delicacy of mind. She would need an object for her desires, and there was affection and understanding between members of the female sex that men did not possess—should not—unless effeminate themselves. It explained the paradox of the wedding night, Elizabeth’s self-assurance combined with her physical purity.
Fitz wished he could remember what Charlotte looked like. He had not the faintest mental picture, so little impression had she made on him, especially as he had seen her only in Elizabeth’s company. Who would notice a sparrow when a phoenix had just sprung, aglow with inner fire, from the ashes? He thought of Elizabeth and this Charlotte, no matter her appearance, kissing, fondling, touching…The images made him so hard he felt bruised in the saddle, and he cantered back to the house far more slowly than his impatient thoughts drove him. He left Galahad for the stable hands to rub down and ran up the stairs, not pausing to change out of his riding clothes.
ELIZABETH LAY DOZING after Fitz crept silently from the chamber before the sun was over the horizon. An active man needed air and exercise, while she was content with walks, or riding in the little phaeton Fitz had given her, with its pair of ponies. For a short time it was a treat to be alone in the bed for a change. To roll over and over again and hit nothing but the edge of the mattress instead of the usual solid bulk of flesh. To be able to lie in place without falling into the trough made by that heavy body. To stretch one’s limbs wide and feel only the coolness of silk and linen, not the heat of tumescent manhood and taut muscles.
Oh, what would she do when she began breeding? Elizabeth let out a soft moan at the thought. Of course she wanted his child, and she hoped it was a son for his sake. But she did not like to examine the business too closely, the distended, swollen body, all slenderness and attraction gone, perhaps forever. Some women never regained their figures, and some lost far more than their looks—their health, even their lives. She would not think of that. What good could it do? Think of Mama, five children and none the worse for it, despite her claims of “nerves.” And her aunt Gardiner, four children and doubtless more to come, still pretty and fashionable. Lady Lucas, with that enormous brood. Ugh! Surely she could manage better than becoming a breeding sow with a litter of piglets. Or was it simply the fate of the female sex?
No, she would think of lesser ills, something she could poke fun at. How would she manage at the end of this honeymoon period, how give up this licentious freedom? How was she to become Mrs. Darcy in earnest, instead of t
he eager bride with the importunate groom, each the prize for the other’s improvement in character? It was a transformation the harder to accomplish as the reward fell equally to both, giver and recipient in turn.
She remembered her sorry state, less than a year ago, in thrall to Wickham’s graceful beauty with its hints of virile force beneath the red coat and charming manner. How she had wrestled with the desire she could not safely acknowledge, was not even permitted to feel, much less gratify. And now she was married to the epitome of honorable manliness, someone who combined elegance of form and keenness of wit with the solid virtues of prudence, fairness, and benevolence—and everything was allowed! She could touch him, play with him, enjoy his full favors whenever she wished, wherever and however the mood struck. She still did not quite believe it. Men did not like forward ladies; she had heard that all her life. They were the masters, and in this most intimate part of life they must have dominion. Yet Fitz seemed only to welcome her every immodest advance.
She certainly had to laugh at herself for doubting Fitz’s skill. Just because he loved his friend Charles, and had been caught in a young man’s desire for the seductive, shallow Wickham, why should that mean he did not know how to please a woman? A vigorous man like Fitz would be more likely to seek out congenial partners of both sexes, rather than confine himself to one.
She had been prepared on their wedding night to help him if he seemed clumsy or ignorant, but he had proved from the beginning that his pride was as justified in this private arena as in the more public spheres of wealth and education. Each time they made love it was as if he found a new way to please her and a different configuration for their bodies to come together. He delighted in surprising her, all the more that she was quick to learn and matched him in stamina. Every night he played the game anew, and try how she might to gain the advantage, he always won, carrying her pell-mell to the edge of ecstasy and holding her there above the perilous drop until she said the words she had vowed never to repeat: “I love you.” She must have said them more in these last three weeks than any other words in the English language, and he seemed unlikely to tire of hearing it for the next fifty years. Truth be told, what she could hardly bear to admit even to herself, she would say it with or without his enjoyable coercion. But best not to let him know that.
And all those daylight trysts, in the library and outdoors. The park was so full of hidden groves and shaded nooks it was as if it had been designed for impetuous, breathless lovers who could not walk ten paces without tumbling into an embrace. The cold and the snow denied them leisure and comfort, but it was a revelation how much could be accomplished while wearing cloak and greatcoat, and standing against a tree…She ought to feel shame, but with him the owner of it all, it seemed perfectly natural. Certainly the staff treated her with all the deference due to Mrs. Darcy. If anything, they appeared pleased that their reserved young master had found a wife who could free him from his straitlaced, gentlemanly propriety on occasion. Servants withdrew wordlessly from whatever room the master and mistress occupied, and when she and Fitz ventured outside, people always seemed to have duties in another part of the estate, far away in the opposite direction. Nobody ever so much as hinted that there was anything the least bit odd about their returning from “walks” with her gown and his coat all rumpled, roughened from tree bark, or stained with moss, her bonnets shredded and hair tousled. And after that time in the barn there had been bits of straw in everything.
Only there had she felt ill at ease, seeing Fitz stroking that mangy old tomcat, holding it in his arms like a lover and murmuring silly endearments in a voice almost indistinguishable from the loud purring. The creature was so jealous it had bared its yellowed teeth and hissed at her when she approached. “He remembers Wick—Wickham, you see,” Fitz had said by way of apology. As if that explained everything. Old Rowley, he called it, the legendary despoiler of maidenheads, feline or human. It had watched them as they coupled, its one good eye drooping half closed, kneading the straw with its front paws and twitching its tail.
She wondered if carrying a child made one’s desire decrease, if, once there was no practical value in the coupling, the body no longer sought it out. But she doubted very much that nature arranged anything for people’s petty convenience. Look what happened with teeth and wrinkles and gray hair, people who looked old and worn out by the age of forty. Why would so great a thing as desire be made easier for people when teeth caused such suffering for no apparent reason other than to try one’s faith in a benevolent creator?
There were ways to prevent conception, she had heard, but she suspected they were ineffective or risky, else everyone would use them and no one would have eight or ten children. Those poor women one saw holding a swaddled infant over a swollen belly, while a child barely old enough to work minded a toddler and an even smaller one crawled on the floor. Who would choose that? But Elizabeth dared not think of it. How hurt Fitz would be if he found out! Power was good, just enough to maintain equality, but not so much that she crushed his spirit or lost his admiration. It was a measure of his love that he had chosen her to be the mother of his children. And she wanted it too, to give him that supreme gift that only a woman can give to a man.
She wished she knew how Jane and Charles were faring. Jane’s letters had been unusually short, the happiness spilling out through her vague words like blots from too much ink, but sparse on details. It was not the sort of thing one could write in a letter, even to one’s sister. If only Jane could forgive Fitz, perhaps they could all be friends again. Surely, after a month of marriage—
Charles, of course! She saw it again, the two naked men, their flesh reddened in the glow of firelight, Fitz’s rod pointing straight out toward his friend, and the way he licked Charles’s neck. He licked her neck that way too, sometimes. She shuddered, overtaken by another bout of desire, like a fever but not so sweat-drenched, like a toothache without the pain, only that sense of coming uncentered, like a maypole unwinding…That was the answer. She would write to Jane again, invite them to Pemberley, see what Jane answered. When she heard the booted footsteps taking the stairs two at a time, she knew he had felt her longing.
ELIZABETH WAS AWAKE when Fitz entered the bedchamber.
“I am glad you are back,” she said. “Where have you been all this time?”
“Riding the farms,” Fitz answered. “But the sweetest images appeared to me, of you and your friend Charlotte, and the loveliest sensation came over me, and I had the strongest urge to return.”
She peeped up at him from under her cap, the tendrils of hair that always escaped forming a flirtatious fringe. He could have sworn she read his thoughts. “How strange! I was just thinking of you and Charles.”
“Indeed?” Fitz sat on the side of the bed and slid his fingers over a curl, tucking it under the edge of the cap. “Why should it be, I wonder, that the thought of you with your friend, or of me with mine, creates such heat?”
“Does it?” Elizabeth smiled. “It certainly took you long enough to figure it out.”
“And you gave me as clear an indication of your meaning as a lady could. Can you forgive my slowness?”
“You are never slow,” Elizabeth said. “Merely purposeful. You reach your destination at your own steady pace.” She sat up, allowing the bedclothes to fall away from her rosy nakedness. “And you know, Fitz, there are times when deliberation can be far preferable to a disorderly rush.” Her small breasts with the pointy nipples were so close to his face he couldn’t help drawing one into his mouth, rasping it with his tongue until she purred with pleasure.
Fitz took his mouth from her and sat on the side of the bed, fumbling with the buttons of his riding breeches. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I think I cut it very close this time.”
“Perhaps. But you made it safe home.” Elizabeth kicked the covers to the end of the bed and exposed her entire body, the narrow waist and hips, the shapely legs spread wide to show the opening to that nether paradise where he had be
en granted entrance, despite his sins. Fitz extended his booted legs in a helpless gesture, his whole body shaking.
“Come here,” she said, tugging on his arm. “Don’t waste time with all that now. Come and make love to me.”
“I’m sorry, my love,” he said. “I’m not able to—”
“Oh, for love’s sake, Fitz, just be careful with the spurs is all I ask.”
Which is how a new feather ticking had to be sewn, and a set of the best linen sheets, made expressly for the master’s nuptials, were turned into dust cloths after only three weeks.
Twenty-Seven
ELIZABETH SAW HER husband reading a book at breakfast instead of his usual newspaper. “Tired of those ‘vapid sheets the rattling hawker vends through gaping streets’?”
Fitz stood briefly to acknowledge his wife’s entrance before returning to his seat. “I am delighted to hear the words of my old friend George Crabbe again, and issuing from such sweet lips. The truth is, I am so enjoying your gift to me that I cannot put it aside, even with the temptation of a new day’s worth of maggots dropped on this trifler’s brain.”
“You are reading Cecilia?” Elizabeth asked.
Fitz held the book up to show the title. “I am once again humbled, my love. It was easy for me to despise what I called ‘ladies’ novels,’ never having read any. But now I am forced to concede the merits of the form. A perfect combination of sharp satire and gentle comedy, yet also an appreciation of the finer human qualities, so as not to fall into the trap of despising all mankind. And written by a woman—a lady.”
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