The single occasion on which she had dared breach his reserve, she had been rebuffed.
It had been upon the occasion of Mrs. Darcy’s stillbirth. He had stood upon the landing, clearly as wretched as was she. She had looked to him for sympathy, but he had turned away. She ran instead into the arms of old Mrs. Reynolds and never erred in that fashion again. Nor did she once betray him to anyone when she learnt that he had repeatedly engaged in an unpardonable offence against his position.
There were others on the staff who would have delighted in disclosing his crime to his employer. But his employer had not been there to learn of it. Indeed, knowing that Mr. Darcy was abroad in peril without the services of his loyal manservant was what had initiated Goodwin’s transgression. He hid it well, but it had not escaped Hannah’s notice. Mr. Darcy’s dressing-room and Mrs. Darcy’s dressing-room were only steps apart. The paths of their respective servants crossed any number of times a day—even in Mr. Darcy’s absence. When Mr. Darcy took his leave to the Continent, all notice was given to Mrs. Darcy’s distress. Goodwin kept busy, but his doings were all but ignored—his chief office was that of keeping himself out of Mrs. Darcy’s eye. He knew instinctively that for her to see him would only remind her that her husband was in the very bosom of danger and quite alone.
Because Mrs. Darcy kept closely to her room during that time, Hannah was often at her leisure to see the surreptitious activity that Goodwin had undertaken. Hannah saw the flask that he thought was well-hidden beneath his waistcoat. Had he not been quite so thin or quite so meticulous with his person, a bulge of that size might have been overlooked. Because Hannah’s gaze often caressed Goodwin’s figure when he passed her, she had noticed that discrepancy in his form first. It was only later that she happened to uncover what it was. She had seen the object before. It was a handsome silver flask that had once belonged to Mr. Darcy’s father. It was not an item that Mr. Darcy found useful, but Goodwin polished it with no less regularity than if he had. It did not occur to Hannah that Goodwin had done anything other than borrow it. She knew, however, a less forgiving eye might think it looked uncommonly like theft.
Hannah was uncertain just what liquid the flask contained—gin was her best guess. Regardless of its specificity, she knew the signs, for her father had been fond of the drink. Goodwin was quite adept at keeping his imbibing unnoticed. She rarely saw the flask come to his lips. Even less frequently did she see him tottering unsteadily down the passageway. Everyone in the household was so out of sorts, what with Miss Georgiana’s disappearance, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s regiment in battle, Mr. Darcy scouring the battle-ravaged countryside in pursuit of his sister, and Mrs. Darcy, after all this time, finally with child, it was of no great surprise that the stalwart Harold Goodwin’s need for liquid fortification went largely undiscovered.
When Lady Catherine de Bourgh came to Pemberley prophesying that Mr. Darcy would not survive his trip across the waters, Goodwin and Hannah shamelessly eavesdropped. Hannah had expressed her outrage by slinging silent curses behind that lady’s back. Goodwin, however, guzzled the entire contents of a brandy decanter; thereby missing the exhilarating spectacle of Mrs. Darcy’s having threatened her ladyship with gunfire. Thereafter, a drunken stupor was all that stood between him and unfettered terror—first for Mr. Darcy and next for Mrs. Darcy and her unborn child when she accompanied her father’s corpse to Hertfordshire for burial. People were falling dead right and left, he knew not which way to turn; hence, first he tippled, and then he swilled. It had been Hannah who saw to it that he was put to bed, a kindness he was in no condition to recall.
“It is all too much to bear,” he whimpered.
“Shush. All will be well,” she intoned—not compleatly certain of that herself, but had it been her place, those were the words of comfort she would have liked to hear.
When Mr. Darcy did return upon the very heels of his wife’s successful confinement, Hannah was so elated that she did not initially take notice that Goodwin stood upon the periphery of the activity. In his extended hands was a silver tray bearing a dusting brush, a clean linen cloth draped over one forearm. He was pale and a little wobbly, but he was absolutely sober. The flask was returned to the drawer from which it had been taken. After his return, Mr. Darcy appeared altogether unsuspecting that his own jeopardy had provoked poor Goodwin’s falling afoul of the bottle.
Within a fortnight, save for the newborns, one would have thought nothing extraordinary had befallen the denizens of Pemberley. Soon, Goodwin had reclaimed himself sufficiently to begin to cavil over her every step. Rather than being annoyed, she rejoiced. That was proof positive that their lives had regained a sense of normalcy. Moreover, once the blessed event became evident, the disagreeable country gossip that had abounded was effectively squelched.
It had been long in coming. The foundations of country life—church, tavern, and mansion house (up to and including, regrettably, a number of rooms in Pemberley House itself)—had been abuzz for months with talk both high and low of what had and would come to pass within the walls of Pemberley. Hannah was not so far removed from her roots not to have learnt of the gossip. But the bewildering range of case and canard that had been bandied about was astonishing even to her tolerant disposition. People gossiped—Hannah knew that was the way of the world. But some of what she had heard was outright calumny and to her, lies were lies. Knowing that prattle was ignited by ignorance and fuelled by fear did not make it any less objectionable. Forthwith of Mr. Darcy’s return and Mrs. Darcy’s lying-in, the grumbling and sniggering citizens were finally and irrevocably hushed. The injurious accusation, which had been growing disturbingly urgent amongst its tenants and tradespeople suggesting that the House of Pemberley had fallen fallow, was finally put to rest. The little matter of primogeniture was at last settled. With the simple act of giving birth to a male child, Mrs. Darcy terminated the winds which had shaken the georgic grapevine into a malicious frenzy. To one and all, mistress and maid, it was a time of contentment. All was as it should be. And because it was as it should be, that it was a long time in coming was hardly mentioned.
Still, there wasn’t a rich man, poor man, beggar man, or thief in Derbyshire County who didn’t know the particulars.
9
Mr. Darcy Loves Miss Bennet
As were many of the largest estates at the time, Pemberley was entailed to the male line.
Therefore, the burden of producing an heir did not encumber the willowy figure of Georgiana Darcy—it fell squarely onto the exceedingly broad shoulders of her older brother and only sibling, Fitzwilliam Darcy. (To those whose leanings embraced the tenets of good breeding, Mr. Darcy’s exceedingly virile figure was seen as a great advantage.) Indeed, as Miss Darcy was for all intents and purposes exempt, successionally speaking. Her single duty was to marry well. Her brother alone bore the responsibility of begetting an heir apparent. Of course, to do this properly, his foremost objective would have been to obtain a suitable wife. Providentially, the amplitude of Mr. Darcy’s fortune was exceeded only by the liberality with which nature had blessed his propagational apparatus. Whatever capital happened to incite their interest most keenly—that in his breeches or that with his banker—it was of no great astonishment that there had been no dearth of applicants for the office of Mr. Darcy’s wife. Of the allurement of his wealth and position, he was well aware.
In spite of the spate of ladies throwing themselves in his path, finding a potential wife who was not only of similar station, but met all the others of Mr. Darcy’s notoriously stringent standards, had been no easy quest. By the time he had reached the age of eight and twenty, he had come to understand that what reason demanded his matrimonial ideal to be was quite out of harmony with that of his heart.
When he beheld Elizabeth Bennet, his struggle was substantial. For her countenance may have been lovely, but her less than illustrious connections were not easily dismissed by a man whose filial pride, it coul
d be said, was felt a little too keenly.
The road to a happy engagement had not been without its occasional rut. Indeed, for a man of Darcy’s standing to disregard the inferiority of Miss Bennet’s station and marry her for love and love alone not only flaunted convention, it very nearly kicked it in the knee. Mr. Darcy’s arrogance and Elizabeth’s prejudice against him were gradually overcome. Their regard was very nearly put to ruin before a match could be formed when Elizabeth’s barely sixteen-year-old sister Lydia impetuously ran off to live in unmarried condition with Darcy’s arch-nemesis, George Wickham. A scandalous act such as that would have disgraced the entire Bennet family. Unforgiving society would have condemned her sisters to partake in her ruin.
The only good that came out of the entire debacle was Elizabeth’s discovery that it had been through Darcy’s auspices that Wickham and Lydia were eventually wed.
When at last Darcy and Elizabeth’s marriage bed was initiated, it was with equal parts tender desire and unrestrained lust. Thus, it was proven unequivocally that Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s union would be one of passionate heat, not cold indifference. And as befitting a pair so well matched in ardour but at odds in disposition and temperament, once the marriage was in place, Elizabeth and Darcy set about fulfilling their connubial obligations with considerable zeal.
Their dedication to begetting certainly could not be faulted, indeed, it was extraordinarily thorough. Yea, no couple could have executed their duty with greater frequency or more passion. Their happy existence, however, was trespassed by procreative failures. Not only was it their plight to battle nature’s impetuosity, but they were confronted with a more pitiless evil as well—their own singular torment for bringing to naught the Darcy ancestral duty. Although neither spoke a word of their own disquiet, guilt festered within the breast of each unreasonably.
Because she had been impregnated but unable to deliver a baby successfully, Elizabeth had considered herself the culpable party. That his own virility was proven was of no particular comfort to Darcy, for he weathered guilt in equal measure. The very prominence of his own frame imbedded within him the fear that his attributes alone were accountable for the suffering she endured. That fear weighed so heavily on his heart that endowing Elizabeth with such a grave encumbrance as the Darcy family legacy became the lesser evil. Yet it was still a significant one.
Understandably, it was with a joy bordering on the rapturous that upon his return from abroad Darcy was met with the happy news that he had finally (if unknowingly) saved the family name from oblivion. Granted, it had been somewhat confounding for him not to be privy to this extreme turn of events prior to the newborn infants being thrust before him. But it was exceedingly agreeable in all other regards. Elizabeth had not disclosed to him she was with child before he left for the Continent because she did not want to further burden him. He was conflicted quite enough over taking leave of hearth and home in dangerous pursuit of his errant sister.
When he had gazed upon his firstborn son and second-born daughter, it was with unadulterated admiration and no small astonishment. His relief had been so sweeping and profound for the health and well-being of all concerned that he had not even thought to inquire of their gender. It was not until someone offered up the small detail that one was a son did the realisation descend upon him that he had, at long last, paid his patriarchal dues in full. (Indeed, as he looked down from one babe to the other, he thought from those dues, he may well have been owed some change.)
He was truly grateful that he had finally made his contribution to further generations carrying the Darcy name—but of far greater importance was that his beloved Elizabeth no longer bore that burden with him. Indeed, the gods were appeased, the populace elated, and Elizabeth excused from further service to that onus to which she had obligated herself.
***
In the days and weeks that followed, Darcy allowed himself to imagine what their union might have eventually become had not the joyful event come about. He held no small fear that, in time, Elizabeth might have taken umbrage at being plagued by a debt not of her own making. If, indeed, she had been thusly disposed, there was little likelihood he could have faulted her for such a leaning—he was not so certain he would have behaved with such charity had their positions been reversed. He thought he would not like to have had the albatross of a family dynasty hanging solely upon the fruitfulness of his internal organs. Hence, beyond the boundless love and undying devotion he felt for her, he was exceedingly grateful that she bore him no lingering ill will.
Nonetheless, finding himself suddenly a father to not one, but two children was only the first of many stupefactions with which he had to contend upon his return. As was his nature, he confronted each odd twist life had presented him in his usual exacting fashion, one by one, as they arose.
And arise they did, certain as the sun.
10
Lady Catherine’s Pique
When a post bearing the Darcy seal wended its way to the county Kent, it was taken on the doorstep of the manor-house by the hand of a man wearing the distinctly handsome livery of Rosings Park. It was a magnificent dwelling, and while less admirable than Pemberley, the abundance of ornamentation upon its façade persuaded all who visited of the importance of its inhabitant.
As this post was directed to the lady of this impressive house, it was with great delicacy that it was placed upon a linen-draped silver tray and carried thusly upon the gloved fingertips of a footman through the vestibule. With elaborate ceremony the letter was surrendered unto the similarly gloved hand of the butler, Yewdell, who awaited a few steps down the foyer. From thence, the letter was carried down the corridor through the gallery and into the grand salon, gathering ever more portent as it did.
Once inside the room, the dainty footfalls of the butler ceased. He turned, and with eyes trained dispassionately ahead, extended the tray, wordlessly presenting the missive. Directly in Yewdell’s eye-line sat an ancient red macaw (a notorious imperilment to visitors) incongruously mute save for an occasional resituating of his feathers. Hence there ensued a fierce eyeing standoff, one Yewdell refused to surrender to a cantankerous bird. This little confrontation took place in silence—a quiet absolute save for the insistent drumming of a forefinger of his mistress. So insistent was it, it stole Yewdell’s attention from the parrot. The butler did not look towards her, but remained still as a stone (excepting a barely perceptible sneer at the bird) waiting to be beckoned. Yewdell did not presume to wonder why his lady dallied. He only knew that the new velvet slippers that had arrived a size too small hurt his feet. Yet, her finger drummed on.
Customarily, it would be a considerable folly to attempt to sketch a person’s nature merely by observing the doings of a single digit. On this occasion, however, it was not. The owner of this particular be-ringed finger was aristocratic, autocratic, and overweening. Indeed, that her finger drummed incessantly on the carved ivory scroll adorning the top of a bleached-teak walking stick seemed quite beside the point.
In any other circumstance such a benignly annoying activity, even by a so ornately decorated finger, might not be noteworthy. But both the stick and the finger belonged to the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh and Mistress of Rosings Park. Of the importance of rank (hers above all others), Lady Catherine was most sensible. Indeed, pride of circumstance draped itself across her countenance like a veil, snaked down her arm, and initiated the impatient rap on her stick. With all due pomp, she sat pondering the letter and its seal, which lay upon the silver tray before her.
All about her, but beyond her notice, Rosings had come to life. It was as if by magic that the news that a post had arrived from Pemberley had spread through the great house. Those like Yewdell who were privy to her ladyship’s ongoing and one-sided feud with her nephew’s wife held their collective breaths. Lady Catherine was not of a conciliatory disposition. Nor was she used to having her judgement contro
verted. Every person in her service was aware of Mr. Darcy’s visit the previous week. Indeed, everyone in her service, in the service of Pemberley, and a goodly portion of the countryside between the two estates knew the exact nature of his call. It was difficult to decide which was the greater astonishment—what Mr. Darcy said to his aunt or that his aunt made no retort. The poor woman had sat for the whole of an hour in stuttering stupefaction. (Her servants fled behind the baize door, sniggering merrily at their dictatorial mistress’s comeuppance.)
Customarily Lady Catherine was happy to have the opportunity to interfere in the smallest concerns of her family and neighbours. Indeed, no detail was too small to escape her attention. However, upon the occasion of the letter lately come to her house, she had procrastinated. Her servants’ desire to know just what the letter held had reached the level of near hysteria. Lady Catherine’s curiosity, however, was not so keen. It occurred to her that it might contain further threats upon her dignity and she needed a moment to compose herself to address them. When finally she did take the letter in hand, however, she wasted little time in ripping open the seal.
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