My Dearest Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  He closed the eye, smiling dreamily. “Jharna was the wife of my mentor, Dr. Kshitij Ullas, and daughter to a marvelous friend, Thakore Sahib Pandey. She and I were friends but nothing more until after Kshitij died, well after in fact. Jharna and Kshitij were a rare find in that they truly loved each other. He was far older and a widower for many years when he married Jharna. It was an arranged marriage, as most are there, Jharna given as partial payment when Kshitij saved Pandey's life. Of course, all this transpired long before I came to India. By the time I met them they were the parents of two young boys, happily married and in love. Jharna was supremely fortunate in that she had a wealthy, influential father who doted on her and a husband who arranged for her to be cared for after he died.”

  He sighed. “Hindu women have few rights, William, even worse than here, and their religion precludes them from enjoying life after being widowed. If not for a supportive family, Jharna would have been banished. Should have been, according to many, or encouraged to commit sati, suicide that is, when he died. Instead she retreated to a secluded house Kshitij prepared for her and lived as a recluse raising their sons. Our relationship evolved gradually. My love for Kshitij and grief upon his death brought us together as friends comforting each other. Two years passed before either of us realized our friendship had progressed into love. What we felt for each other, the relationship we lived was wrong on many counts from both our cultural beliefs, but nothing has ever felt so right at the same time. I begged her to marry me and come to England, but she refused. Jharna was a Hindu and her place was there. I understood this, respected her bravery and viewpoint, but the immorality of our situation distressed me. Not for what other people thought, but for my personal principles. Maybe it was weakness on our part or perhaps superior strength of conviction. I do not know. It never bothered Jharna so much. She was one of those rare souls who accept the whimsies of life as freely as the trees accept the wind and rain.”

  “I wish I could have met her. She sounds remarkable.”

  “That she was.”

  “Tell me more.”

  George looked at Darcy's trusting face, eyes full of affection, and he smiled. And he did tell him more, then and in numerous conversations that would span the future time they shared.

  While the friendship and familial bond between Darcy and George flourished rapidly, aided by these solitary intervals, Lizzy's attachment was delayed. She liked him instantly at the first words out of his mouth when entering Darcy House and his compassionate care for Darcy's shoulder. Her delight in his humor was instantaneous. However, true affinity and devotion was longer in coming due to the plain fact that they passed little time alone together while in London or at Pemberley during the summer. This began to change as the fall months progressed with fewer people to entertain and divert attention. Gradually their conversations deepened, the two upon rare occasions alone for a pointed engagement.

  One such incident occurred one morning as Lizzy lumbered with mildly waddling gait down the peacefully quiet second-floor hallway toward the coolness of her parlor. Breakfast was over and Darcy was already gone on a jaunt about the estate while Georgiana was with her tutor. The persistent heat combined with an ever-increasing physical burden sapped her strength, necessitating afternoons at rest and any household chores requiring her concentration be done early in the day before weariness consumed her. Thus she was heading for her parlor where a stack of papers and ledgers waited on her small desk.

  Her attention was captured as she passed the yawning expanse at the top of the grand staircase. George stood in the foyer focused on one of the three gigantic tapestries that lined the southern wall below the window embrasures. With a smile she diverted from her pathway, carefully navigating the marble stairs with hand tight on the banister, and silently joined him in contemplation.

  “I cannot recall how many times I lost myself in staring at these, attempting to trace the interwoven lines and memorize all the names. Do you know we actually were tested on our family tree?” He turned to Lizzy with a grin and she shook her head. “Oh yes! You would think our tutors part of the family as vigorously as they enforced our ability to readily trace our ancestry. I was always gifted in rote memorization, but Alex was pathetically inept, poor soul. The first time, I think we were maybe eight or so, I told him to just toss in a ream of Alexanders and Jameses and Henrys and Roberts and he would fool the tutor.” He laughed. “I was wrong, of course, and we both received lashes across our knuckles.”

  “The first time I visited Pemberley, with my uncle and aunt, we breezed through the foyer and I confess I was struck more by the ceiling and sculptures. It was the following day that William, Mr. Darcy as he was to me then, brought us here for a closer inspection at my request. I think he was a bit embarrassed, not wishing me to think him unduly proud of his home. He was trying so hard to impress me with his humility, you see, not realizing that I was already in love with him. He steered me to the opposite side, away from the tapestries, but I noticed them anyway.”

  The tapestries under discussion were enormous, masterpieces of weft-faced wool hung from four-inch-thick rods of polished oak. The first, woven in shades of forest green and gold, was ancient, tracing the Darcy family from Baron John D'Arcy in 1335 to the late 1500s. The second tapestry, maroon and silver, resumed the lineage, noting the elevation of Conyers Darcy to Earldom in 1682, a peerage that became extinct when Robert Darcy died childless in 1778. The Pemberley line of Darcys had long since diverged from the noble line when a second son, Frederick Darcy, had taken his inheritance and settled in Derbyshire to raise sheep in the mid-1400s. While the noble antecedents dwindled, the Darcys of modest wealth and prestige multiplied and financially prospered. The majority of subsequent lines were left unrecorded as the family proliferated and disseminated, but the uninterrupted chain from the current Master of Pemberley to that distant baron was explicit.

  The final tapestry, navy blue and copper, was half filled with spidery lines and stitched names with dates. They stood gazing at the recent decades' entries with soft smiles elicited by the memories evoked.

  “What were your thoughts?”

  Lizzy laughed. “That I was woefully inadequate to ever imagine my name woven next to his. That the Bennets would be hard-pressed to trace their ancestry five or six generations, let alone nearly five hundred years! That Mr. Darcy must be thinking the same exact thing and wondering what insanity possessed him to propose to me in the first place. So many false and unimportant thoughts.”

  “And here your name is,” he pointed to the embroidered Elizabeth Bennet now linked with gold filigree thread to Fitzwilliam Darcy, “and soon your child will be added. Families are all the same, Elizabeth. Filled with scoundrels, lovers, saints, sinners, noblemen, and paupers.”

  “Do you not experience a sense of overwhelming pride to belong to such an auspicious heritage?”

  “Indeed I do, but then it does not take much for me to be overwhelmed with arrogance.” He grinned rakishly, Lizzy shaking her head and chuckling. “Seriously, I recognize the eminence of belonging to an ancient legacy, but it is the living people who thrill me more profoundly.” He encircled her slender shoulders, hugging to his side. “Without William, Georgie, and you, none of this,” he swept a hand toward the woven genealogy, “would have any meaning. I love you, Elizabeth.”

  He kissed the top of her head. Lizzy blushed, ducking her face to hide the stinging tears but patted the hand resting on her shoulder. “I love you too, George.”

  Lizzy was incredibly moved by George's spontaneously offered declaration. Her affection for the older man had steadily grown in the months of his sojourn, but the frequent interruptions due to the individual travels undertaken along with the press of visitors had kept her from spending extended periods alone with him in serious conversation. Darcy managed to closet himself with his uncle dozens of times, equally for the express purpose of getting to know the older man and to avoid the unrelenting social fervor that had invaded their lives. L
izzy generally enjoyed his lively company in the presence of numerous others, rarely glimpsing the mature intelligence and earnest nature that her husband spoke of in their private moments.

  This would change as the weeks of October and November unfolded. With the manor practically empty and Darcy often gone, George stringently applied himself to the dual role of manly protector and companionable entertainer. He took it upon his broad, if bony, Darcy shoulders to ensure the womenfolk were well cared for and entertained. Thus Lizzy discovered his lanky shadow looming every time she turned around. Thankfully she did not mind in the least, her affection growing until she felt as close to the good doctor as if he were truly flesh and blood.

  DARCY WAS QUITE OCCUPIED during these weeks, busily catching up on the endless affairs that only he could properly and legally handle. He relished the work, though, in truth, missing his wife during the long hours either in his study or on his horse; nevertheless, the Master of Pemberley thrilled in the occupation as a necessary part of life.

  For Darcy, this time of the year was his absolute favorite. The weather cooled, although such minor annoyances as excessive heat or driving rain never bothered him all that much. Rather it was the constant activity as the estate prepared for the stasis of winter that thrilled him. He could quite easily spend the hours from sunrise to well after sunset engaged in some sort of outdoor pursuit and frequently did.

  Upon occasion George or Richard would join him when he left the house on his horse. Neither knew much about the business affairs of Pemberley, so when they did travel along it was for the exercise and fun. Richard relished the action as much as his cousin, but he came and went, often staying at Rivallain with his parents or visiting with Gerald Vernor and the other gentlemen of the county whom he, like Darcy, had known all his life. George tended to prefer quiet solitude in the library, so unless his nephew was planning a casual ride to one of the tenant farms, he stayed home with the ladies.

  Mr. Keith was forced to accompany Darcy for certain jobs that required his legal or clerical input, but the steward was not as comfortable on a horse. It was a fact that may have precluded his acceptance as a steward to many large estates, but in the case of Pemberley it was a perfect arrangement as Darcy preferred to oversee the workings of the estate. Therefore, whenever Darcy was in residence, Mr. Keith could sigh in relief, settle into his office, and immerse himself in documents, ledgers, and mathematical figures.

  But even Darcy knew his limitations. The management and mechanics of the fishery and wool mill were outside his full comprehension. He understood the basics but had long ago learned to trust the overseers and workers to handle the day-to-day. His knowledge of the harvesting facilities and crop maintenance was inclusive, and he made the ultimate decisions regarding what to grow and how to distribute, but it was the economic side of the equation that was his true purview. Therefore, he again trusted to the wise farmers, who in most cases were descended from generations of tenant farmers, who uncannily grasped the mysteries of agriculture as if the intelligence was written in their blood. Darcy's trips to these parts of his vast estate were generally brief, involving spoken conferences only with rare physical contribution. He kept his Master of Pemberley pose; the workers pleased to know their Master cared but relieved when he departed.

  Of course, the stables were an entirely different matter! Mr. Thurber and all the grooms and stableboys were accustomed to seeing their Master walking among them, working alongside, and conversing with superior expertise. Obviously they treated him with the utmost respect, but it wasn't a shock to see him performing the same tasks as they, and he was readily approachable.

  With his eventual elevation to the exalted rank of Master of Pemberley, he had easily assumed the pose of commander. In truth, the mantle of leadership, although arriving unexpectedly, had fallen upon his shoulders naturally. His inborn reserve, dominant competence, and estimable intellect had already given him an air of distinction long before his father's death. It greatly set him apart even when he performed mundane tasks like brushing Parsifal or breaking a horse.

  Yet, for Darcy, it was necessary and intrinsic to undertake any physical, outdoor activity as often as possible. For this reason he was delighted when Mr. Keith interrupted his studied reading of a new contract from his shipping partners with the conveyed request to meet Mr. Burr at the dovecote. He mounted his horse with a barely concealed grin, spurred Parsifal into an immediate brisk run toward the gamekeeper's cottage two miles south.

  The spread that consisted of Mr. Burr's modest home, the huts where his assistants lived, the falconry, numerous barns and pens for the animals, and the dog sheds spanned a wide-open area at the roots of the eastern forest. The entire complex was encased by a stone fence. Built into one wall near the iron-gated northern entrance to the compound and constructed out of the same gray and brown river rock was the dovecote.

  The circular tower was over twenty feet high, the steepled roof deeply pitched with one narrow opening under the gable and the round hole at the point protected by an elaborate lighted cupola. This particular pigeon loft was very old, the origins unknown, but Darcy had always marveled at the beauty of the structure in comparison to most dovecotes he had seen. The roof was covered with interlocking tiles of slate, the colors different and forming a pattern extremely pleasing to the eye. The two-foot-thick bricks constructing the walls were also artistically selected to create a design of alternating colors with two wide supporting buttresses of aged oak. A ledge ran along the top, just under the roof's eaves, the pigeon roost also of hardened wood, although the intricate etching had long ago succumbed to claw markings and the scrubbing removal of bird droppings.

  Mr. Burr sat on a low bench positioned against the stone wall, his legs stretched before him with two gigantic mastiffs lying on either side of his booted feet. He was smoking a pipe, his eyes half lidded as he watched his employer approach. He did not rise, instead silently observing as the smoke rings rose into the air. The dogs seemed equally bored although their ears twitched, Darcy not doubting for a second that the well-trained killers would launch into an attack at the merest word from their master. Fortunately he had nothing to fear, the massive animals finally rising with tails wagging to greet the familiar man once he dismounted.

  “Vella, Raven,” Darcy greeted, scratching behind their drooping ears. “Treats for you as always. Must keep those muscles strong.” The raw chunks of meat, hastily confiscated from the kitchen and shoved into the saddlebag, were devoured in seconds, Darcy not even sure if the two-hundred-pound animals even tasted them. He ignored the saliva on his palms and the wet noses pressed against his body in hopes of finding additional food, continuing to pet the blocky heads as he turned to address the reclining gamekeeper.

  “Mr. Burr. How fare you?”

  “Well enough, Mr. Darcy. Still up before the sun and shooting straight.”

  Darcy nodded seriously, the standard greeting all he would ever get from the reticent man, so replied, “Can't ask for anything more. Problems?”

  Darcy nodded toward the dovecote, noting nothing amiss, but well aware that Mr. Burr would not have called for him otherwise.

  Darcy frequently visited the gamekeeper's complex, but for his own pleasure. Rarely was it to deal with problems or overtly question the master huntsman and breeder. Instead he came to interact with the dogs, picking ones to be stationed at the Manor; to hunt with the raptors, one of which he had trained as his own; or to enlist the company of a hunter when the mood struck him to hunt in the traditional shotgun manner. Occasionally he and Mr. Burr would hunt together, the gamekeeper an astounding marksman who had taught Darcy how to handle every firearm known to exist from the time he was old enough to pick up a shotgun. The two men were friendly but far from intimate.

  Before Mr. Burr could answer Darcy's query, Mrs. Burr stalked through the gate, her gravelly voice lifted in anger.

  “Damned scoundrel escaped! The tracks were lost in the river. Mole couldn't smell him after that.” A
string of expletives erupted as Mrs. Burr stalked directly toward the two men, Mr. Burr yet in casual repose; a lumbering mastiff easily fifty pounds heavier than the others walked at her side. She removed her tattered hat with an angry yank and threw it against the wall, cursing all the while. “Just you wait! I'll get my hands on the filthy rat and wring his scrawny neck! Mole will catch the bugger eventually and then we can fight over who gets to have him. Mr. Darcy,” she finally acknowledged with an abrupt nod, not waiting for a reply as she turned to her husband. “You tell him?” She jerked her chin toward Darcy while tossing the leather sack draped over one shoulder to the ground with a thud, the Brown Bess musket more cautiously unslung and sat to lean against the wall.

  Darcy stood unfazed, his years of acquaintance with the Burrs no longer causing surprise at anything they said or did. Mrs. Burr was six feet tall, as was her husband, almost as wide in the shoulders, and her husky frame was dressed as it always was in a loose men's shirt and trousers. Darcy had never seen her in a dress. Her iron gray hair was a wild mass of coiled curls cut short with no attempt ever made to style or control. Oddly, she was a very handsome woman in the face, her features angular and refined under the tanned skin with startling eyes of sea-foam green. Her hands were broad, fingers long and elegant—not the type of hands one would picture gripping a firearm with ready competence or slaughtering a pig with cool efficiency. Yet she could, and did, do all that and more. Mr. Burr was the head gamekeeper and prodigiously skilled, but everyone knew that his wife was every bit as formidable.

  “I was about to,” Mr. Burr replied. He finally stood up, stretching his limbs before continuing. “We have a poacher,” he said matter-of-factly, his wife releasing another curse, “or most probably a duo or more. They have been plaguing us for a month or so now. Mostly small thefts. It took us awhile to figure out we were missing a number of deer and that the grouse and pheasant coveys were smaller than expected for this time of year considering the egg laying numbers and calculated growth-loss ratios. I got Lew and Sean tracking down numbers on the hare, turkey, and other game populations. We have had the dogs on it, but he, or they, are very clever. Last night the dovecote was robbed.”