“Fitzwilliam Darcy! What must he think? You have humiliated me beyond measure!”
“Humiliated you in what manner, madam? You are in my bath, I am not in yours.”
“That is what I mean, I am in your bath,” the colour in her cheeks was not disappearing.
“Yes,” replied Darcy.
“He knows that I am in your bath,” she repeated.
Perhaps taking pity upon her he ceased his tease, “Yes. ’Tis my bath and my wife and he will think nothing of it.”
Elizabeth frowned hesitantly, uncertain this was true. But as it was unlikely that Darcy would have someone injudicious in such close employ she rethought the matter. Reluctantly accepting that her mortification was mostly of her own doing, she reclaimed the sponge and began to relather his body, a pursuit, unquestionably, he did not disfavour. Thereupon, they embarked upon an ever-increasing exploration of the possibilities of aqueous achievement. This investigation was vehement, hence, water sloshed, then spilt onto the floor. A misfortune, for when those possibilities were discovered to be limited, he endeavoured to pick her up and carry her dripping to their bed.
It was then that near-disaster struck.
For the decision to move from the cramped quarters of the tub was made post insertion of his virile member. Indisputably, stepping out of a bath is not in and of itself a particularly tricky manoeuvre. However, if one’s wife has her limbs wrapped about one’s waist and one is determined to continue carnal union, the additional obstacle of a slick floor presents a high probability of mishap.
Which occurred.
He landed upon his backside, but it was not his chief concern. He feared that the explicit nature of their embrace might have subjected Elizabeth to impalement and thus violent injury to her…self. The laughter she attempted to stifle persuaded him not. Thus, this particular amorous infusion was compleated upon the floor, the slipperiness of which rendered the act as one of exceedingly ambulatory passion. This trip was of considerable length and ceased only upon the occasion of Mr. Darcy effecting seminous emission whilst Mrs. Darcy’s head was wedged in a corner.
As they lay there in a puddle of bath water, Elizabeth was grateful Goodwin had the sense to stay out (she truly did want to limit herself to one mortification per day). Eventually, the combination of their nakedness, the water, and the chill of the floor influenced them that their position of repose was untenable. Untangling their limbs, they heard activity downstairs responding to the gentle tinkle of the dressing bell. In reluctant haste, they left each other’s company then to dress, reclaiming decorum for the benefit of society’s evening.
Born in the servant quarters at Pemberley, Harold Goodwin could not remember when he was not in the Darcys’ service. His mother was a sister to the house-keeper, his uncle, manservant to Mr. Darcy, the elder. As a child, he carried laundry and learnt the art of polishing a gentleman’s boots. He was but fifteen when young Master Darcy was born. Even at so innocent an age, Goodwin understood the magnitude of joy the family held at the birth of their son and heir.
And a strapping, healthy baby he was. That was apparent to Goodwin as he looked over his mother’s shoulder whilst she tended the baby in her new duties as his nurse. Mrs. Goodwin had a great deal of practise with babies, Harold being her seventh, and not her last, child. But the number of surviving offspring was not what was paramount to the Darcys in selecting who to care for their son. Practise was mandatory and easily identified. Loyalty and discretion were needed even more prodigiously, but not so easily found.
It was accepted that Pemberley was as fine a house as one could want as a place of employment. It would require a number of years and introduction to other houses, other families, before Goodwin would understand that the Darcys’ good regard was as generous a compliment as could be paid.
Even before young Master Darcy was born, Goodwin had abandoned the laundry and shadowed his uncle’s footsteps to learn the precise art of being a gentleman’s gentleman. A more gracious master was unlikely to be found. Indeed, Mr. Darcy had been a bit of an anomaly for an aristocrat. Kind and circumspect, he was affable and accessible.
Howbeit Master Darcy had inherited his father’s height and dark good looks, he was most certainly his mother’s son in outlook and demeanour, being reserved and reticent. Mrs. Darcy was the better part of a decade older than her husband. A handsome woman, she was exceedingly wealthy in her own right. Bookish and quiet, she stood counterpoint to him in every way but wealth. Together their match had almost tripled the land that belonged to the house of Pemberley.
Mr. Darcy had been a dutiful husband, Mrs. Darcy a dutiful wife. They were both exceedingly dutiful and proud parents. Clearly, duty ruled their lives.
When Mrs. Darcy was taken by childbirth fever after Miss Georgiana’s birth, young Darcy had stayed in his room for days, refusing to attend the funeral or admire his new sister. Subsequent of that tragedy, the elder Mr. Darcy committed the single error in judgement Goodwin ever recalled of him. He bid Goodwin’s mother to be nurse to the new baby. Another woman wholly unknown to him took her place with the young master. Goodwin understood Mr. Darcy’s utmost concern for his motherless daughter. Undoubtedly the man did not understand it a double loss for his son, losing both his mother and mother figure in one fell swoop.
Hence, Goodwin was probably more forgiving and less judgemental when upon occasion young Darcy fought him figuratively and literally. For by the time of Master Darcy’s twelfth birthday, he had been complaining with uncommon vehemence that he was far too old to have a nurse. He demanded that the matter be rectified forthwith. And if it were not, he would suffer humiliation so debilitating he would be wounded cruelly from it for the rest of his life. In that he had commenced to locking the poor nurse out of his bath, Mr. Darcy the elder was persuaded to acquiesce that his towering son was to have a manservant of his own. It was Goodwin who was bid to tend the young master.
In their pride, Goodwin thought his own parents could not have been more pleased had he been raised to the deity. Indeed, Goodwin became perilously close to designating himself such by the distinction. It was not, however, always easy to see to the young master. As sartorial faultlessness was foremost amongst Goodwin’s duties to his charge, Master Darcy’s disinclination to bathe became an outright war. Not only did he resist his bath, he showed a decided lack of interest in all matters of grooming to which general rowdiness lent more disrepute. Regrettably, this lackadaisical dispassion for matters of hygiene was accompanied by a revulsion for good manners as well. When observing the exceedingly fastidious and courtly adult Darcy, it never failed to amuse Goodwin to recollect the young man who once had to be wrestled into a bathtub.
There were only a few years during which Master Darcy exhibited unrestrained behaviour. All fell midmost of his second decade of life. Goodwin had never been certain if his mother’s death had lent him such brashness or if it was merely the jubilance of new-found pubescent virility. For as diligent as Goodwin was about all aspects of Master Darcy’s personal habits, it did not escape his notice when the young master was introduced into carnal necessities by that titian-haired jezebel, Abigail Christie.
Where Goodwin’s loyalty lay was never in question. Therefore, he never entertained the possibility of reporting Master Darcy’s doings to his father. This, regardless of how disapproving Goodwin had been. And disapprove he did. For, however necessary it would be for Master Darcy to procreate on behalf of his family, Goodwin despised the notion that the young man practise with vulgar women. Conjugal acts of generation were one thing, getting one’s ashes hauled by a maid was quite another. It would not do.
The single time that arch rogue Wickham’s means suited Goodwin’s ends was when he went to Mr. Darcy and prattled about the young master’s indiscretions. A miraculous alteration overtook him literally overnight. Darcy had ceased his rebellion. Indeed, it appeared his disposition altered irrevocably. No longer was he the rambunctious boy. In his place stood a young man who was a lankier,
if reserved, version of his father. The same kindness and generosity was exhibited with his servitors, but conversely he was just as staid, rigid, and unyielding as his father was amenable.
In his thirty-three years upon the earth, Goodwin had not ventured beyond Derbyshire, but he accompanied young Darcy to Cambridge. George Wickham went with them, as Mr. Darcy was committed to that young man’s education. However unhappy Goodwin was over the matter was of no importance. For young Wickham had been living at Pemberley for several years under Mr. Darcy’s condescension by reason of his affection for his steward, Wickham’s father. In Goodwin’s opinion (had he been asked), Geoffrey Fitzwilliam was a far more admirable companion than that truckling lickspittle and incorrigible Lothario, Wickham. For in addition to his faults of character, he was exceedingly jealous of his benefactor’s son.
Betimes, this envy took perverse turns. More than once Goodwin had, unbeknownst to Wickham (and Darcy too), thwarted him. Covertness was an absolute, for Wickham was a young man who held grudges that were deep and mean. Whilst at Cambridge, it had been a little entertaining to watch the perfidious Wickham turn in circles, uncertain with which rich classmate he should next curry favour.
Rarely was he successful; his reputation as a tuft-hunter usually preceded him. And when it did not, Wickham could usually be counted upon to sink his own boat.
When Wickham was caught, not only with a young woman in his room, but with the answers to his tripos exam, Master Darcy had come to the end of his much abused tolerance of his roommate. Inclined to let him be “hoist by his own petard,” young Darcy was overruled by his father. Had not Mr. Darcy interceded, Wickham would have been cast out of Cambridge a fortnight before his finals with a first in nothing but whore-mongering. Though rescued, even Wickham knew when one was disgraced and made himself scarce when they returned to Pemberley. Master Darcy wisely chose to take the grand tour with Fitzwilliam.
It was soon after their return that Mr. Darcy took ill. Upon his death, however, George Wickham was front and centre, hand extended, awaiting what he believed was his due.
Goodwin knew he was hardly the only person who thought ill of George Wickham. His misadventures had become legend amongst the Pemberley help. As highly as he held Mr. Darcy’s memory, Goodwin could not fully understand why that very astute man had allowed Wickham latitude others found begging. A deep affection and regard for Wickham’s father, coupled with that man’s premature death was the only reason that Goodwin could fathom. But, of course, Goodwin did not pretend to know of that which he should not.
When the young master became the Master of Pemberley in actuality, little changed within the house. Mr. Darcy had been so ill for so long, his son had taken over his duties with little more than a ripple in the water. Sorrow over their dead master on the part of the house staff was gradually usurped by dedication to the younger. Indeed, young Darcy had earned their respect long before he asked for it. As Master Darcy had matured, his social obligations increased exponentially. Hence, Goodwin’s enlarged commensurably. His world broadened to include any number of illustrious homes, up to and including the royal palace. If he found himself impressed by his master’s station, Goodwin reminded himself, it was, indeed, his master’s station, not his own.
As a man in service, Goodwin never questioned. But much to his relief, if Mr. Darcy did not choose a life of celibate introspection, he was at least discreet in his pursuits and utterly circumspect in his liaisons. (Other gentleman’s gentlemen told tales of debauchery and excess.) That he had not to deal with inebriation and dissolution was a blessing. Unlike some gentlemen, Mr. Darcy expected Goodwin to be neither his shill nor pimp. He was never asked to carry messages nor deflect injudiciously flirtatious ladies.
As an unmarried man who would expect to remain unmarried, Goodwin was, however, not unlearnt in matters romantic in nature. That his master was inclined to be cautious of his own reputation regardless of the provocation, bid Goodwin understand the position he must himself undertake. Relating to Mr. Darcy, no female enquiry was answered, no invitation acknowledged. What Mr. Darcy chose to honour fell to his own discrimination and volition. No one else would be involved. Mr. Darcy’s subtle requests eventually taught Goodwin of his predilections. When to be available and when not was followed precisely. Mr. Darcy was a private man. His wishes were law. All things were stable and predictable.
That is, until the tumultuous year of Mr. Darcy’s introduction to Miss Bennet.
Aremedy oft proffered to relieve undue anxiety is that of physical exertion. Hence one should have expected Elizabeth Darcy to be post-coitally languid. She was not. Howbeit her body was well-spent, her mind refused to be soothed. For despite Hannah’s incessant fussing, Elizabeth was most unhappy with the flowers adorning her coiffure.
Impatiently, she yanked them out, then reconsidered. Without the flowers, she feared she looked plain. With them, she was certain she resembled an overgrown wisteria bush. Even her yellow dress no longer pleased her eye. It not only looked unstudied, it appeared absolutely artless. She gazed unhappily in the mirror and made a half circle. At every turn, it appeared fate destined her for ignominious habiliment.
First impressions were immutable. She wanted Darcy to be proud to present her as his wife to Derbyshire. Yet her circumstance and station would be appraised by her appearance, and not with particular generosity. She longed to look more urbane.
“Do you suppose,” she queried Hannah, “I should consider wearing a turban?”
Before Hannah could determine whether that was a jest or not, there came a rap upon the door, the firmness of which announced it was Mr. Darcy. The merest flick of his head sent Hannah upon a curtsying fizzle out of the room. Across the length of the room stood his wife, and thither his gaze rested.
From beneath the veil of her lashes, she turned her eyes to him, and then hastily cast them away. It might have appeared to him a modesty, but it was not. She simply could not bear to see disappointment reflected in his eyes. Hence, she failed to witness his appreciative flush.
“How ravishingly beautiful you look, Lizzy.”
Surprised and disconcerted, a grand rubescence graced her cheeks. Her mind groped about for some comment, but she could only think to inquire of how well his posterior weathered their recent indecorous undertakings.
“Pray, did you bruise yourself when we fell?”
“Actually,” he said, “I did not think to look.”
With that recollection, they stared at each other a long moment. Her flush not only deepened, but also crept down her neck and nestled into her bosom.
“Husband,” she said, “you are a devastatingly handsome man.”
The only rejoinder he offered was an embarrassed cough. Thereupon, in apparent relief, he remembered why he had come and thrust forward the box he had been concealing behind his back.
“I should like for you to wear this tonight.”
She looked up at him and then to the green velvet box, which was tied with an azure satin ribbon. So pretty were the colours, she gave an admiring coo when she looked upon it. That sound continued long after she noticed that the azure satin ribbon was tied in a crude bow, almost disreputable. It was, as it happened, quite odd looking, such a fine box with a ribbon so badly tied.
It came to her then that her husband had tied the ribbon himself. He, a man who always had ribbons tied for his use, tied a bow upon the box for her. She thought that sad little bow was as lovely a gift as she might ever receive. She would prize it always. Her fingertips touched it affectionately, thus it took her a moment to realise he was patiently waiting for her to untie it. She truly hated to disturb it and her reluctant fingers fumbled when she endeavoured to undo the knotted bow.
Retrieving it, he easily opened that which he had himself wrapped and, with a bit of a flourish, held it out to her again.
Lifting the lid, she peered into the box. An elabourate diamond-cascade of a choker glittered within, more exquisite than any necklace she could have ever imagi
ned about anyone’s throat (and that included Lady Catherine and probably the Queen). Momentarily speechless, she looked at it, then back to him.
A bit stupidly, she bid, “This is for me?”
“Yes, it is for you,” he smiled. “May I have the pleasure of putting it upon you? …You do wish to wear it?”
That he might actually have thought she would not was enormously ingenuous, and she stifled a laugh at such a notion by turning about for him to fasten it. It was heavy and cold against her skin, but the sensation was rather pleasant and the diamonds sparkled brilliantly in the candlelight. He stood behind her as she looked at herself in the looking-glass. Thereupon a possibility occurred to her.
“Was this your mother’s?” she asked.
“No,” he said, then leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It is yours alone.”
In timid appreciation, a flabbergasted smile crept across her face. In light of his reserve, such generosity was overwhelming. She understood forthwith, however, that it was only ostentation that he abhorred. For Mr. Darcy, extravagance was an impossibility.
Touched by the gesture, not the gift, she knew not how to say that without sounding coy. Turning to kiss him, she said as lightly as she could manage, “I am now free to commit any indecorum. My countenance, my gown, all will be forgot. No one will recall anything of me but this necklace.”
He looked then upon her with such silent intensity, she began to believe her response was not emphatically grateful enough. She considered additional plaudits. Her consideration was not only interrupted, it was severed irreparably when he abruptly grasped her beneath the armpits and plopped her atop her dressing table.
“However impolitic it is to contradict one’s wife, I must disagree, Lizzy.”
Jarred by this unceremonious act, she was fleetingly stunned. It fell apparent immediately, however, that the reason he had perpetrated such a manoeuvre was to overcome her height disadvantage whilst he ran his hands up the back of her legs and kissed her neck. She was uncertain if it was the stroking of her thighs or the kissing, but for whatever reason her neck refused to hold up her head. Thus, it dropped uselessly to his chest. Had her voice not been strangled within the flaccidity of throat, she would have spoken. In the silence, he did instead.
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