by Jennifer Joy
What would Elizabeth think of Pemberley? Would she prefer it, as he did, to town? He hoped so. How he missed his little girl.
A brief parting in the clouds bathed the room in sunlight, and Elizabeth raised her shoulders as she closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth with a sigh. Contentment suited her.
Seeing his wife in the full light of day, Darcy appreciated how the wave of her hair was evident despite the obvious attempts to tame it. Tiny curls, as fine as Anne’s baby fine hair, defied the pins and braids around her forehead and at her temples. Light freckles spattered across her cheeks and nose, another proof of her societal rebellion. She smelled of lavender. His favorite.
Would she protect Anne as he did? Would she be a kind mother?
Shadows fell over them, bringing a chill, and Elizabeth opened her eyes before Darcy thought to look away.
“You do not fear the sun’s effect on your complexion?” he asked, wishing he could have spouted a cleverer comment rather than a stupid question. Of course she did not fear the sun. Most ladies of his acquaintance, however, did. They hid behind closed curtains inside their houses for fear of marring their porcelain skin. Like bats in their caves.
Her laugh was reply enough, and Darcy was glad for it. The glories of Pemberley lay in its carefully maintained grounds and the wild forests beyond. Impressive as the house was, it simply could not compare to the nature surrounding the structure. Mrs. Bamber was right to regret Anne’s inability to see it. She ought to be free to roam over the fields as he and Georgiana had.
“I have only to look out of doors to remember how fortunate I am to live and breathe and move freely,” Elizabeth said, her smile fading as their eyes met.
Did she think he would take away her freedom? Granted, she considered their marriage forced, but Darcy did not wish for Elizabeth to think him selfish or cruel. He was not Wickham. He would prove it to her.
Remembering Mrs. Reynolds’ letter, Darcy said, “It would be my pleasure to take you for a drive in Hyde Park. Then, perhaps, we will stop at the dressmaker to see about a new gown … if you wish.” He wanted to make certain she knew she had a choice.
“I would like that very much,” she said through a grin that shone in her eyes. Elizabeth reminded Darcy of a bottle of champagne — bubbling with energy and sparkle.
He found himself returning her smile, and for the first moment since he had departed from Pemberley, he was not quite in such a hurry to return.
Chapter 15
There was a bite to the wind only the most intrepid lovers of the open air braved to endure. Darcy was prepared to cut their drive through the park short before the heated bricks at their feet cooled, but Elizabeth surprised him when she patted the seat beside her and suggested they share their warmth.
At first, Darcy gloried in her pleasantness. She was the woman he had known her to be. His instincts had been correct. He had not chosen foolishly.
However, the more Elizabeth smiled and exerted herself to keep their conversation light, the heavier Darcy’s secrets became. Darcy’s sense of justice could not allow for Elizabeth’s effort to go unrewarded, nor could he ignore his unfairness in holding his silence. But neither would he punish her kindness by revealing the truth. He needed an heir. How cold that sounded! He did not want to keep secrets from her, but how could he tell her without being cruel?
Elizabeth looked up at him and smiled, her pupils dancing and the corners of her eyes crinkling. She looked happy.
It was the first time Darcy had seen her smile since the Meryton Assembly. He could not take the moment away from her.
His mind went blank, unable to settle on a light topic when graver matters loomed between them. Soon, Darcy appeased himself. He would tell her soon. Just not today. Not yet.
Darcy looked around, observing the riders in the park more intently.
One could always discern when the fashionable ladies of the ton (who preferred the entertainments in town over the quiet of their fathers’ and husbands’ country estates) had acquired a new gown. They paraded by in droves, immune to the chill, in favor of displaying their new designs for all to admire and envy. They were ridiculous — with towering feathers poking out of hats tilted at impossible angles and held together by Lord-knew-what. Darcy prayed Elizabeth had better taste.
He pointed one such example out to Elizabeth. “What do you think of her bonnet?” he asked.
“She will not be easily lost in a crowd,” Elizabeth commented as the lady rode past them with an ostrich feather billowing above her head.
Darcy mumbled, “She might fly away.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “The first known ostrich to take flight? No, I would not deny the birds their plumage for my own vanity. My taste is much simpler.”
More than a little relieved at her reaction — for many a country maiden had been known to adopt garish fashion to display their newfound wealth — Darcy said, “Grace and elegance are beautification enough.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I will not claim to possess either quality, but neither am I blind to my strengths. If you, for example, propose a debate, I will hold my ground against you. Unless, of course, we are in accord. Then, I would have to applaud your reasonableness. Relationships are far more agreeable when all parties are in union, are they not?”
Darcy laughed. “That is one point on which we seem to be in complete agreement, though I would argue on your behalf. I consider your own estimation of your grace and elegance rather stingy,” he said, proud that Elizabeth possessed a healthy, humorous wit and nervous to learn her turn of thought. His aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh was known for her strong opinions, but Darcy never agreed with her.
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled as she laughed. “If I am tempted to address you as ‘Fitzwilliam’ this fortnight, I shall remember that comment and forget why I was cross.”
“Only a fortnight?”
She shrugged. “Flattery does not last beyond a week, but a genuine compliment, so smoothly delivered, deserves twice the duration.”
Darcy chuckled. His breath puffed in icy bursts, but he was not cold.
Elizabeth tilted her chin upward, granting Darcy a perfect view of her eyes. “You know my favorite color, but I do not know yours,” she said.
“Chocolate,” he replied. He had never given the matter much thought before then, but he could say with absolute certainty that he favored the tone.
She raised her eyebrows. “For a pair of boots or breeches, maybe. But for a waistcoat?”
“You do not accept my reply?”
Elizabeth poked his arm. “You forget, sir, that I have an inquisitive mind and, until recently, not enough to stimulate it. My powers of perception are well trained through use. I may not be able to puzzle the complete truth, but I can almost always spot when something is off balance. You replied much too quickly for your answer to be the truth, and so I must suppose that while impulse (or hunger) moved you to respond as you did, chocolate is not your real favorite.”
Darcy’s stomach felt heavy. Was Elizabeth really so perceptive?
She blinked up at him, waiting for his real reply.
He had always favored blue, it being his mother and sister’s favorite color, but the image of Elizabeth standing in front of the windowpane in the parlor that morning was not one he would soon forget. “Blue, although I have developed a deeper appreciation for green of late.”
She settled against the cushion, her side pressed against his. “Blue is so calm and serene. Attributes I shall never possess, I fear. I hope you do not expect me to be complacent and peaceful all the time,” she teased.
“What if I did?” Darcy teased in turn.
“Then you should prepare yourself for the moment I lay my expectations of you bare, for I refuse to carry the burden of our union’s happiness alone.”
Darcy was uncertain how to reply to her challenge. He, too, wished to be happy. But he dared not hope it was possible. Too much could go wrong — had gone wrong — for him to believe it could happe
n twice in his lifetime.
Her smile returned. “And that is enough serious talk from me. I am determined to be pleasant, and I will not allow for anything to ruin this glorious day.”
An easterly wind whipped around the carriage, piercing through the warmth of the blanket covering their legs.
Darcy looked down the serpentine path, his heart sinking like a stone. He blinked heavily, wishing he would wake from a nightmare rather than face the ruiner of his family’s happiness. The man was still there. Darcy’s fists clenched and his heartbeat thrummed in his ears. Of all the people they should cross in the park, they had to see him.
The blackguard in the carriage opposite was not alone. Rogues seldom were.
He sat next to a woman donning a gray mourning gown cut low enough over her bust to suggest that any sadness she had felt for her loss was long gone. The jewels she draped over her exposed skin, large enough to see even at a distance, professed her status as a wealthy widow. Wickham would not bother for anything less.
He had removed the mourning bands from his hat and coat already … if he had worn them at all.
Georgiana deserved so much better.
There was no way to avoid passing them, but Darcy’s driver was trained well. He raced by them at a cheek-reddening clip without a word from Darcy. Precious few servants in his household knew about Anne, but they all knew his estimation of George Wickham.
They could not stay in Hyde Park. And now that Darcy knew Wickham was in town, they could not stay much longer in London either. Wickham would delight in filling Elizabeth’s mind with poison against him, and she was inquisitive enough to listen. Georgiana had. And now, she was gone. And Anne was without a protector at Pemberley.
Tapping against the driver’s box, Darcy said, “Carry on, please. To Madame Givenchy at Cavendish Square. Wigmore Street.” How badly he had wanted to direct the driver to Pemberley. To his little girl.
One maid and one gown. One week if he paid handsomely. Then, nothing would prevent him from returning to Anne.
Chapter 16
Elizabeth craned her neck around to catch one final glimpse of the man in the other carriage. Who was he? It was plain he and William had a history. She died to know what it was.
William had not spared a second glance at the saucy widow clinging to the gentleman — to Elizabeth’s immense relief. Though he had denied such vices, his earlier comment of not loving again haunted her. Whomever he had previously loved, Elizabeth was certain it was not the widow in the carriage. The lady was a study in contrasts with her gray gown and flashy jewels. If her intent was to call attention to herself, she had succeeded marvelously. Outside the fashion plates Lydia pored over, Elizabeth had never seen such a revealing bodice. The necklace the lady wore provided her only modicum of modesty, and Elizabeth had been hard put not to stare at the unusually cut diamonds — rounded squares shaped like pillows — nestled at the widow’s bosom.
William was quiet. Quieter than he had been coming from Longbourn — a feat Elizabeth would not have believed possible from anyone but him.
It was a pity. She had been enjoying his company.
The muscles at his jaw twitched, and his lips pressed together in such a way as to discourage conversation. But Elizabeth was not easily dissuaded … though she would proceed with greater care this time. She had learned from her mistake the night before.
Keeping her tone soft, she asked, “Who was that man?”
“George Wickham.”
She waited several minutes, but William said nothing more. George Wickham was an interesting name, but it did not signify anything to her.
“I suppose from your cut that he is not a friend?” she prodded.
William snapped, “He is the worst man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.”
Now, she was more curious than before.
After what felt like an eternity, whereupon William offered no further explanation, Elizabeth said, “You will have to expand on that unless you wish me to believe what my wild imagination can conjure.”
Nothing. The muscles in William’s jaw flinched, and his firmly set lips might as well have turned to stone for all the answers she would get.
Frustrated that the mere sight of Mr. Wickham had marred their cheerful morning, that her pleasantness had not loosened William’s tongue at all, Elizabeth tried to dissipate the murky cloud enveloping her husband in silence before irritation overwhelmed her determination to be agreeable. She was unwilling to repeat her performance of the night before, but neither would she accept more of William’s reticence.
Flippantly, she said, “Very well. I will believe him a murderer who selfishly gambles with the hopes of innocent maidens; a villain who leaves a trail of grief wherever he goes.”
William’s skin paled and he swallowed hard.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. She had been referring to Lady Gwendolyn’s evil stepbrother, a melodramatic character of fiction, not anyone real.
“You would not be far from the truth,” William said, the color slowly returning to his cheeks.
“Oh.” Elizabeth was afraid to say anything more. She supposed such wicked people existed, but she had never crossed paths with one. One thing was certain: The cost of satisfying her curiosity was too great. She would bide her time … and learn what she could from other sources. What would Evelyn have to say about Mr. Wickham?
Finding solace in her plan, Elizabeth said, “I dislike him more than anyone already. If I should cross paths with him again, I, too, shall give him the cut direct.”
William’s hazel eyes bore into hers; his nostrils flared. “You must not ever speak with him.”
Had she not said as much? Was William not listening? Elizabeth’s rebellion arose. Did he expect her blind obedience when he gave no reason for her to submit to it?
His stern demeanor did not crack. Turning and leaning closer to her so that he filled her vision, he said in a tone that brooked no argument, “Promise me you will stay away from him.”
Elizabeth raised her chin, all the better to return his glare. Was Mr. Wickham the reason William had insisted they leave for Pemberley so soon after their wedding? Had he wished to avoid London for fear of seeing him? What was William hiding from her that Mr. Wickham might expose?
More than ever, Elizabeth wanted to speak with the gentleman, but another chance encounter with him was unlikely. It was much too crowded in town. Drat it all.
Shaking his head and rubbing his hands over his face, William leaned back against the carriage squabs. “I apologize. I cannot make demands when I have given no explanation. I will explain. Only, not now. Please—” his voice cracked, and he went silent.
Elizabeth’s defiance melted away, yielding to sympathy.
Worry lined William’s face and pinched his features. Would she ever understand him? He claimed not be ruled by emotion, but his reaction to Mr. Wickham had been visceral, moved by deep agitation. Much as his offer of marriage to her had seemed. But she would not describe William as impulsive. How would she describe him?
For every answer Elizabeth sought, a dozen more questions arose.
She had married a walking conundrum.
Elizabeth’s pondering soon came to an end when they arrived at a fashionable shop with a large glass window bursting with bright colors and textures begging to be touched.
“Monsieur Darcy!” exclaimed an elegant Frenchwoman with silver hair piled high on her head. Her coiffure might have been from the last century, but the dainty lace overlay she wore over shimmering purple satin was unlike anything Elizabeth had seen before. The Vandyke points on her sleeves were awe-inspiring.
William took the woman’s hand, bowing over it while she basked in his attention. He introduced Elizabeth to Madame Givenchy, the proprietress of the establishment.
Elizabeth fell under the kind scrutiny of Madame Givenchy, who circled around her as her smile grew. Finally, when she had come full circle, she clapped her hands. Addressing William, the woman said, �
�She is a striking contrast to your mother and sister. I shall be able to adorn Mrs. Darcy with all the bold colors with which I dared not dress them. Oh, she is lovely!”
Elizabeth released her breath. She liked this woman.
At the snap of Madame’s fingers, a seamstress, who had been studying a drawing at the counter, scurried over to them.
“Do you not think a wide neckline would show Mrs. Darcy’s swanlike neck to better advantage? And her sleeves … she does not need the puff,” Madame Givenchy tsked thoughtfully.
Resisting the urge to touch her neck — nobody besides Jane had ever flattered her features before — Elizabeth hung onto Madame’s every word.
She, however, needed to make one point clear. “Not too wide … or too low,” Elizabeth said, recalling the woman in the park.
Madame smiled. “I reserve the — shall we call them … revealing — designs for the ladies who ask for them. They do not have faces like yours and so must draw attention to their other attributes.”
Elizabeth liked Madame Givenchy very much. She liked the pink tinge she saw in William’s cheeks every time Madame looked to him for his opinion. Their eyes met several times, and Elizabeth felt her own cheeks blush.
The older woman continued, “One of Mrs. Darcy’s gowns must fall like the petals of a tulip….” She spoke under her breath in French while her seamstress counted on her fingers all the details the proprietress expected her to remember.
So enraptured was Elizabeth, William’s voice was a jolting intrusion. “We have one obstacle which I pray you will help us surmount, Madame. My confidence would be lost on another, but I know you are capable of great things when you are decided.”
“Oui, you remember me well. I delighted in dressing your mother, and I will do no less for your wife, Mr. Darcy. What is this obstacle I must help you overcome?”
“We must return to Pemberley in no more than a week.”
Elizabeth’s eyes snapped to William at the same time Madame Givenchy exclaimed, “Impossible! That is not sufficient time for one gown, much less a wardrobe.”
