During their dialog, the boy stood nervously wringing the hat he had pulled from atop a mop of dark curls. He watched the two men talk from beneath wary, hooded eyes.
Hereupon, Elizabeth’s pity was provoked, but to her chagrin, she heard Darcy curtly declare that there was no need of another groom.
In his most stentorian voice, he said, “I think this knave is not fully the sixteen years he claims.”
Rhymes knew Mr. Darcy well enough to understand this as a warning to the boy not to lie, and waited patiently to be told what was to be done with him. Doubtlessly, he would be set to mucking out stalls, just as did all who came up looking for honest work. However, before such instructions could be issued, Elizabeth interrupted.
“But Darcy, how is it you quibble about how old he claims to be? Should it not matter only that he is able enough to do the work? His mother has just died…”
She silenced herself mid-sentence, for Mr. Rhymes turned to her with an expression that could only be described as aghast. Darcy’s face betrayed no emotion at all. That absence announced a displeasure of some magnitude. So emphatic was it that, as Elizabeth opened her mouth to make another entreaty upon the boy’s behalf, she shut it. She shut it so decidedly it was almost audible. It was possible Darcy spoke further with Rhymes, but if he did, Elizabeth did not hear it. The roaring in her ears was far too deafening. Mr. Darcy took Mrs. Darcy’s elbow and walked her silently back to the house. Upon the portico, his icy silence was supplanted by a voice cold enough to exact a chill down her back.
“Do not ever reprove me in front of one of my people again, Elizabeth.”
Thereupon, he turned and took his leave of her. She stood upon the threshold for a moment in foot-shuffling mortification before repairing to her dressing room.
Darcy reappeared at dinner, but only at the farthest end of the great table. Conversation was stilted and sparse. Elizabeth was anxious to affix herself in the privacy of their boudoir to hash out the matter, but when it was time to retire, Darcy abruptly excused himself and called for his horse.
If there was anything upon Pemberley that needed his attention more than she did at that time of night, Elizabeth could not think of it.
Understanding she had transgressed a very distinct line, she still believed semi-public emendation was hardly a capital offence. Had she not abused him miserably in company before? Until that day, he had found that charming of her. She realised, however, that within the flirtatious bantering of courtship, she had forgotten that his position and his consideration of his position were implacable. So deeply had she been entrenched in her role as his lover, she had confused it with that of wife. Repeatedly, and with vehemence, she lectured herself that the Mistress of Pemberley must never redress the Master of Pemberley in front of the help.
She would have announced her contrition had he been there to hear it.
She took the stairs alone and with no small measure of self-pity. It was thus that she lay abed, fighting back tears, uncertain whether they were born more of anger or hurt. For he had not chastised her, he had not even spoken to her of her heinous misdeed beyond the one statement. Upon the veritable inauguration of their marriage, he had simply dismissed her. Dismissal was an indignity far more egregious than any quarrel.
Her wifely umbrage notwithstanding, their bed without him was dismal comfort. And as the advancing hours were announced by innumerable rings of the chimes, it occurred to her that he might have returned and taken a separate bedroom.
Her parents did not share a bed. Many couples did not. There was an ominously austere bedchamber just beyond the wall. It was ideal for martyrdom. Was her own husband announcing to her that did she displease him, he would take to his own room as if a petulant child? Not a happy thought. So unpleasant was that thought, Elizabeth decided she would seek this room in which he sought refuge from her and smite him with her pillow (a candlestick was handy, but might well have been lethal; she did not want to bludgeon him, simply to obtain his attention).
Fortuitously, before she had opportunity to enact this reckoning, their door opened. She heard her husband’s footsteps as they crossed the room and his weight upon the mattress. Though he had not forsaken their marriage bed, she was not compleatly mollified. Yet of a mind to whop him with the pillow, she reasoned: One should not allow ills to fester.
From the darkness, she heard him say, “The boy will be second groom to your horse.”
Who was to groom her horse was not of the utmost importance to her at that moment.
“Pray, where have you been?” she asked. “I have been tormented some cruel accident had befallen you.” (Now that he had returned, it was far easier to admit she had been truly distraught. Moreover, plaguing his conscience ever so slightly was only fair.)
“It took some time to find that boy.”
“I apologise if I abused you in company,” she announced. “In the future I will keep my own counsel upon matters so wholly unconnected to me.”
“The boy will be second groom to your horse,” he repeated, and offered no further comment about the incident. Elizabeth recognized that was a manner of apology as well.
Understanding his concessions were infrequent, Elizabeth still believed his had more merit than did hers. For she thought, perchance, the boy’s circumstances may have reminded Darcy of the loss of his own mother. That poignancy, however, lay uninvestigated. She did offer that the lad’s tall, dark, and solemn countenance bade her envision just how Darcy himself might have looked at that age.
“Pish-tosh,” was his disdainful comment, “I looked nothing of the kind.”
She did not further the subject, but that resemblance was reason enough for her to give the boy consequence despite her husband’s scoff. And because there is no better reason to have a quarrel than to reconcile with an abundance of vigour and enthusiasm, they did. Midmost of this reconciliation Elizabeth received edification upon the infinitive “to rump.”
However, first person singular had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
Enlightenments upon life at Pemberley in general and being a wife specifically came with all due regularity. These wisdoms rained down upon Elizabeth with such dispatch, she occasionally had to stop and take a breath to be able to function at all. In all this befuddlement, the descent of her monthly terms was not remotely a comfort.
Whilst at Longbourn she was governed by a dictum set down by Mrs. Bennet. To wit, all menstrually enfeebled females would be consigned to bed for the duration, whether they felt ill or not. The only time Elizabeth ever fibbed to her mother was upon the occasion of her menses, for she knew herself to be quite hardy. This deceit (and Jane did worry for Elizabeth’s health) began in adolescence and extended until her marriage. For with so many, it was difficult for the easily flummoxed Mrs. Bennet to keep up with each daughter’s monthly cycle. Elizabeth only veered from this pattern upon the instances of her sister Mary’s reproach. Not because Elizabeth took Mary’s counsel, but if she did not stay abed at least a little, the punctilious Mary would tattle to Mrs. Bennet.
Now that she was a woman and a wife, Elizabeth refused subterfuge. If she were not unwell, she would not stay in bed and say she was.
Inevitably, ten days after her wedding, her courses descended and that avowal was put to the test.
It was another instance whereupon she missed Jane most deeply. Their entire life had been lived with a common bedroom wall. They had confided every secret, exchanged every dream. When Jane found Darcy in Elizabeth’s bedroom that night at Netherfield, Elizabeth worried for what Jane thought, but never for what she might tell. Their bond was that compleat. And Elizabeth would have dearly loved to have her counsel that morning, for she had no idea how to tell her husband of her womanly woes. Or if she should tell him. Or even if he knew of such things.
Instinctively, she dismissed the idea that he might not know of a woman’s reproductive cycle, for it seemed her husband was much more knowledgeable about her body than she was herself. At least, minima
lly, the female form collectively. She could only pray it was erudite in origin. For his countenance had betrayed not the least bit of astonishment upon beholding her in nature’s garb (although she believed she had detected lust). But then again, she had no timbered appendage that he was to receive betwixt his legs. For even having had the privilege of viewing several Greek statues, beholding Darcy as God made him (and burdened as he was with the evidence of God’s admonition to go forth and multiply), her own astonishment had well-nigh caused her to gasp.
Indeed, he had the appendage and she had the menses. Elizabeth sighed. She would have to tell him.
Hence, when her husband took her in his arms that night, indubitably in anticipation of connubial union, the woman, his wife, Elizabeth Bennet Darcy said, “I am afraid I am…indisposed.”
This, of course, was an outright dodge. Although she had not stooped to the detestable term “unwell,” it was certainly not the forthright announcement she would have preferred to make. (However, in her defence, “Sorry my dear, we cannot make the beast with two backs for I am riding the red stallion,” was not a part of her vernacular.)
But exposition was unnecessary. For when she spoke of her indisposition from deep beneath the covers, he immediately put a concerned back of his hand to her forehead. Looking into the bright eyes of one in the pink of health, he made an all-purpose comment.
“I see.”
Embarrassed, she could not look at him.
“Perhaps I should take my sleep elsewhere,” he said.
He then kissed her upon her unfevered brow and quietly left their bed, putting out the candles upon his way out of the room.
Well. There it was.
It was quite evident the only interest he had in her bed was the kindness she obliged him there. Was there no possibility of conjugal embrace, he chose to sleep alone. Moreover, wifely poorliness clearly demanded not only abstinence, but distance as well. She, however, did not want to sleep without him. If she could not at least stroke his ankle with her toes or hear that sound that came from his throat when he slept upon his back, she thought their bed would be too cold to bear. Forthwith and quite miserably, she realised that she would have ample opportunity to acquaint herself with the deprivation.
Tossing restlessly whilst fretting about the one-fourth of her life that she would have to sleep without her husband, she heard a soft scratching at the door. To her feet in an instant, she padded to the door, but opened it only a crack, not entirely certain she had heard a noise. True, she had, for there, candle in hand, stood Darcy.
“Lizzy,” he said, uncommonly hesitant, “Would you mind…I wonder if I might just lie next to you for a time…”
With more unbridled enthusiasm than she thought a demure lady should expose, she flung back the door and wrapped her arms about his waist. This, of course, did influence him she was agreeable to his company. Either in affection or rescue, she knew not which, he lifted her chin and stroked it with his thumb.
Then, whispering against her hair, he admitted, “I fear I am no longer able to find sleep without you.”
She stifled her jubilation until entrenched again beneath the covers. There, she nestled happily in his arms.
“I thought you did not want to lie with me because…you could not…I could not…”
“Yield favours?” he compleated her halting sentence.
Having embarrassed herself further, she nodded her head then looked away. He would not have that, and drew her close.
“When you advised me you were indisposed, I believed you wanted to be alone.”
“No. Never. No. I was simply mortified to speak of such a thing.” She turned away, “I am still mortified.”
“Pray, be not. ’Tis a part of you. The womanly part of you.”
He kissed her upon the lips rather tenderly, which almost diverted her from other enquiry.
“How is it you know of such things?”
Somewhat defensively, he said, “I am an educated man.”
“Cambridge offers a class in ‘Female Affliction’?”
Parrying, he quoted, “‘As leaky as an unstanched wench.’”
Indignant, she rose upon one elbow, “As leaky as an unstaunched what!”
“Shakespeare, The Tempest.”
“That I know!”
She, of course, did not, but she did not want him to think her benighted, “I was simply outraged at the reference.”
“Are you truly outraged? For you are a wanton wench, Lizzy.”
His lips took a little nibbling path up her neck, then kissed her beneath the ear. She allowed that he was an excellent debater.
Thereupon, she sighed, “I fear I shall not have opportunity to be any type of wench for the better part of a se’nnight.”
“That long?”
She nodded ruefully.
“Well, there is more than one way to ‘crack your whip.’”
She blinked at him, then bade, “Shakespeare?”
“No,” he said, “Me.”
The gentle art of pleasure was explored that night, Mrs. Darcy quite confounded that she was capable of tending Mr. Darcy’s natural vigours so…unconditionally. It was only with the morn that their bloods were truly mingled. Then, he took hers upon his fingertips, held them aloft and announced, “When this ceases to come we will have begat a baby.”
That, of course, was not a revelation to either of them. But with his words, he took their entwined bodies a full revolution across the bed. Elizabeth was uncertain did her head swim from the twirl, or the prospect of their shared child.
Hannah Moorhouse was more than surprised, she was astonished, when her mistress at the Lambton Inn handed her a letter bidding her to come to Pemberley Hall. As it happened, one of her brothers worked there as an under-gardener and she knew the estate well. She had even been as near as the postern, but could in no way account for having received a formally addressed letter from that place. It was but a single piece of vellum affixed with a red wax seal, but it was delivered by a liveried courier. Howbeit she looked upon her letter and touched it lovingly, she took an interminably long time before she mustered the courage to open it.
Moreover, she wanted to bask in the pride of literacy. Her instruction had come by way of the vicar’s wife, and because that lady’s own education was spotty, Hannah’s was very weak in sums above single digits. None of her multitude of brothers could so much as read. Having been rusticated from their schooling for an ugly incident involving a toad, they all had repaired to the fields to earn their keep. Because they teased her unmercifully, Hannah would have much appreciated the opportunity to read her letter from Pemberley aloud for her siblings.
After looking upon it for nearly a half-hour, she carefully opened it. It was an invitation (it was in language an invitation, but no one would have received it as less than a summons), which had arrived early in the forenoon requesting her presence by four. That gave her a mere seven hours to prepare for whatever the visit would mean.
Hannah’s plump face reflected her figure and she was given to be an accepting, obliging sort of girl. She knew obesity required its inhabitant to be jolly, but she was a bit shy to be all that droll. Humble, but very capable and not inordinately ambitious, Hannah had lived her entire life in Derbyshire and had been exceedingly happy with her position at the Lambton Inn.
Accepting, obliging Hannah was perfectly content to wait until she arrived at Pemberley to uncover the mystery of her summons. She left at half-past two, hitching a ride with a peddler, and sat in patient wait at the scullery door until precisely four o’clock.
When she entered the back parlour, she espied Miss Elizabeth Bennet sitting at an elabourately stencilled escritoire waiting for her. Mrs. Reynolds introduced her as Mrs. Darcy. Hannah had no idea the new Mrs. Darcy was the same Miss Elizabeth Bennet who had visited with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner at the Lambton Inn the summer before. She remembered them as kind people, but they had left abruptly under peculiar circumstances.
How
beit that was odd, Hannah was not a busybody. Another might have held a great deal of curiosity, but Hannah did not. Miss Bennet had married Mr. Darcy. Period.
The elevation of her station to Mrs. Darcy did not appear to inflate Miss Bennet’s ego unduly. Her manner was still quite kind. However, Hannah did hold some apprehension toward the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds. Having heard from her brother that she held the whip-hand above the staff, Hannah eyed the old woman warily. She endeavoured to restrain her considerable skittishness of the old woman, for it kept her full attention from Mrs. Darcy.
After Hannah had assured Mrs. Darcy that the weather, the roads, and her health were splendid, Mrs. Darcy came directly to the reason she had bid her come to Pemberley. Would Hannah be agreeable to undertaking a situation of lady-maid?
Lady-maid to Mrs. Darcy! At that thought, two bright red splotches coloured high upon Hannah’s cheeks. She flushed with pride and pleasure. She had no notion of why Mrs. Darcy would ask a person such as herself to hold such an important position. Even Hannah knew that most great ladies insisted upon a French lady-maid. She had seen one from Whitemore following the Earl’s wife with more disdain upon her face than the great lady wore herself.
An agreement was met. Hannah understood there would be a period of trial for them both. With an ingenuousness not usually found amongst ladies of station, Mrs. Darcy suggested that Hannah might not favour the position. Hannah could not imagine such a thing. She would gladly have scoured the scullery and emptied the chamber pots in such a great house.
Even if Mrs. Reynolds was the harridan she evidently was.
Curtly, the housekeeper bid her bring her things to the house the next day, giving notice at the inn obviously not an issue. Having worked there, Hannah knew a great deal about caring for the needs of others, but none so privileged as those at Pemberley. She thought perchance that was why Mrs. Reynolds was so brusque to her, for her duties would be complicated and ignorance a disadvantage. But eager to please, Hannah wrapped up what few personal items she could call her own and vowed to remember all she must. In a small wooden box containing other keepsakes (a lock of her mother’s hair and some buttons), she placed the letter written to her from Pemberley and set off for her new life.
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