When the sisters were announced, the pocket-square that Elizabeth had used to dry the tears she shed for the loss of Jane’s company was still damp. The thought of their fawning countenances did not improve her spirits. In the brief time she had to prepare for their entrance, she then reminded herself of the single virtue of their visit—it would not ruin an otherwise perfectly enjoyable day. As she rose to greet them, Darcy made fast for the farthest reaches of the house, claiming some urgent business to which he must attend. Although she gave his retreating figure a glare, she truly could not blame him—had she means of escape, she would have taken leave as well.
She had little more time than to pat her hair and wrap a drooping ear-lock or two round her dampened finger. Briefly, she deliberated on which posture would serve her aspect best—to draw in her mid-section or restrain her bosom. So prominent were they, attempting to do both seemed an impossibility. Hence, she abandoned the notion altogether and merely straightened her back—letting her form fall where it may.
Caroline swept into the room with Louisa Hurst fast in her wake.
“Eliza, dearest,” cooed Caroline.
She made a beeline for Elizabeth with extended arms and an expression that threatened a kiss. It was all Elizabeth could do to accept the inevitable and use greeting Louisa to wrest herself from Caroline’s grasp. But Caroline was not yet ready to release her.
She placed the back of two fingers first to Elizabeth’s forehead and then to her cheek, clucking, “My poor, poor, dear Eliza.”
This solicitousness was offered in a manner that was absent of both congratulations and commiseration.
“What you have endured! It is no wonder you look so ill, I do hope you keep mostly to your bed.” Then grasping Elizabeth by both upper arms, she sought Louisa’s attention. “See Louisa, it is so true. Childbirth steals one’s bloom.”
As Louisa was once a mother herself, it might have been expected that she should not particularly care for Caroline’s last jibe, but she defended neither Elizabeth nor motherhood in general. As for Caroline, she was oblivious to anything but her own objective—which was, and always had been, to demean Elizabeth. (Having been disappointed in her pursuit of Darcy, Caroline had resented Elizabeth’s success. It was a dislike that was mutual and one that had not worn out with time.)
At last Elizabeth wrenched away, but Louisa insisted upon the same affection. When they were finally satisfied to let her go, it was all Elizabeth could do not to draw the back of her hand across her cheek to erase the remnants of their spittle. She motioned them each to take a seat, and settled back in her own chair making one last attempt to resituate her fichu across the bodice of her morning dress.
As always, both ladies were dressed in the latest fashions. Caroline sat in her usual grand attitude, one that she had no doubt practiced to better display her ensemble. Elizabeth could not fault her taste, for the gown was an exquisite shade of poppy and, although the enormous girandoles that hung from her earlobes were a bit extravagant for an afternoon call, the coral stones set off her gown to perfection. Louisa had never quite owned Caroline’s discerning style, but if her costume was not as splendid as Caroline’s, it was not for the want of trying. She too was festooned with ruching, tags, and lappets, and perched upon one shoulder was a brooch featuring the cobalt pinfeathers of a peacock. (Clearly, they were of a mind that six weeks was all the time their wardrobes could spare to mourning the passing of their sister-in-law’s father.)
They continued to commiserate her state and Elizabeth made herself to reply only, “I thank you for your kindness, but as you can see, I am quite well.”
“And how does Darcy enjoy his return? I understand he enjoyed Brussels and its habitués most exceedingly. I cannot believe that he will be happy once again in such simple company as we can provide here at Pemberley,” Caroline said with a sly smile turning up one corner of her mouth.
“Yes.”
“And poor Wickham—dead as mutton, I’m told?”
Louisa gave a small but audible intake of air at her sister’s last inquiry.
“Oh dear, Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet…” Louisa corrected the priority of Caroline’s enquiries. “We were deeply saddened for both you and Jane to hear of his loss.”
Remembering herself, Caroline nodded emphatically, signalling at least a temporary retreat, “Sad times these.”
Elizabeth could not be certain if it was her sister’s nonchalance or audacity that bid Mrs. Hurst’s involuntary reproof. Regardless, Louisa was thereupon elevated in Elizabeth’s estimation from the devil’s sister to merely an annoying piece of work. An uneasy truce prevailed with Caroline and her sister conversing like two chirping blue tits, oblivious to Elizabeth’s inattention.
Elizabeth had thought that she no longer needed her afternoon nap, but the heaviness of her eyelids announced differently. She was uncertain, however, whether it was the day’s stress or her guests’ inanity that demanded slumber then. Regardless, she felt herself being lulled into a partial wakefulness—able to nod, but not truly cognizant of the conversation.
She was brought to her senses, however, when she heard “Are the babies at hand?” She started, eyes wide, much like a feral creature catching sight of an approaching predator. She also knew that without an impenetrable excuse, it would be unpardonable not to allow her children to be on display. In her present state of inertia, however, she was unable to offer anything reasonable. At Elizabeth’s reluctant request, a servant withdrew to have the babies wheeled into the room. Caroline and Louisa sat with hands folded on knees, at the ready to enjoy their office of Examiners of Infant Beauty.
In fortune, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst only stayed the night. Having obtained the intelligence they came to uncover, they were happy to depart the next morning and had thirty miles to belittle and mock her. Elizabeth believed they would as truly as the sun rose each morning. So convinced was she that dispersion was then in progress, as she stomped up the staircase after bidding them good-bye that she mimicked Caroline’s sing-song locution, “Eliza looked very ill indeed. Her figure suffers dearly. She is certain never to regain it. And the babies! Have you ever seen such unsightly children? How does poor Darcy fare under such disappointment?”
Approximately halfway up the stairs, Elizabeth realised that she might be overheard and ceased. That did not keep her from wishing that she had the brazenness to inquire, “Any chance of a match yet, Caroline dear? No? A pity. We do weep for the disappointment that you must suffer.” However provoked, she knew that she could not bring herself to be that uncivil. The thought was amusing though, and for the rest of that day, she pacified her mind with thoughts of sow’s ears and silk purses.
Her respite was short-lived.
Initially, few were bold enough to decide which event etiquette demanded to be observed—Elizabeth’s father’s death or the babies’ birth. It was a temptation for many to observe that event which was most felicitous. But after some thought upon the matter, it was concluded that it was not at all untoward to combine a condolence call with a quick look at the infant anomaly. If that also happened to sate the rabid curiosity of those who happened to call, it was all the better for politesse.
It was a convention that Elizabeth came to despise—however good the inspector’s intentions. She knew that Caroline and Louisa’s visit was just the beginning of what would be a stream of tittering female well-wishers. All would come to extend their condolences, examine the twins, and winnow out what they could of the suspected scandals that had come to pass within and without the Darcy household. The Bingley sisters’ company had been a trial, but also beneficial, for it had allowed her to exercise her discipline and rehearse her noncommittal responses. It had fallen apparent with undue haste that such practice would be quite useful.
***
Elizabeth was by nature’s design gregarious and had, as a rule, enjoyed the company of all her neighbours. But the
rigours of childbirth and those difficult months preceding it had tried not only her health, but her patience. Her husband bid her stay to her bed—that so soon after the loss of her father she need not suffer the company of anyone beyond her own choosing. But those scandalous events that surrounded the Darcy name (both past and upcoming) conspired against privacy. However distracted she was, and whatever lack of comeliness she felt, it was imperative to see and be seen. Indeed, as Mistress of Pemberley, it was her duty to set aside any inconvenience upon her vigour or disposition and receive those who called with compleat cordiality.
She steeled herself for this daunting obligation by tightening her corset and squeezing her form into what she deemed the less unattractive of her two frocks. She gazed into her looking-glass with no small abhorrence of what she saw, but she had no time for a sulk. When the bell heralded each caller, she heaved a sigh, pinched her cheeks, and patted her hair. It would have to do.
There was a time when there was no need of coaxing colour into her cheeks—she arose each morning in that fine state of blush. That reminder did little to lift her spirits for what would, without fail, be a trying, two-pronged ordeal. She would have to suffer the inspection of her person and her children by parties determined to find them wanting, and then endure the recitation of their remedy.
This was no small aggravation. As a first-time mother, she was all but offered as a sacrificial lamb to the altar of Childrearing Admonishments. With her mother still in deep mourning in Hertfordshire, she hoped that she would be spared outrageous cautions and insipid counsel upon the fostering of children. Regrettably, she was not. Even her friend Charlotte Collins came all the way from Hunsford to stand as another holder of the Office of Knower of All Motherly Wisdom. Whilst she schooled Elizabeth, young Chauncey Charlemagne Collins (still cock-eyed and largely bald) sat by his mother’s side screaming for another sweet. (Charlotte’s remedy for Chauncey’s skewwiff gaze was a special large-billed bonnet. Hanging from mid-most of the brim was a ribbon upon which a small silver spoon was fastened—much like a plumb. It was an imaginative device, but largely unsuccessful.) The sight of so unsightly a child so badly behaved incited within Elizabeth both abhorrence and pity in equal measure.
At one time, she and Charlotte had been the best of friends. Although Elizabeth clung to that fallacy for several years after the actual demise of their bond, she eventually began to admire the distance that separated their homes. If blame were to be laid for the loss of that friendship, it would have to fall to the fostering of pity one for the other. It might have been expected that a woman whose Christian name was as often as not preceded by the modifier “poor” (and whose child was referred to as the “unfortunate son”) was who was pitied. It was not. Indeed, Charlotte saw herself the owner of all good things—a secure living, a modest home, no husband to bother her, and a son to whom she could dedicate her life. It was Lizzy who was to be pitied. It was Lizzy who was barren.
Once Elizabeth was blessed with children, Charlotte’s heart closed as surely as if money had been lent. Elizabeth had long laboured under the axiom that love is blind and friendship closes its eyes. But when Elizabeth committed the ultimate affront by obtaining one gift that Charlotte had owned above her, Charlotte felt the bond between them fissure irreparably.
Elizabeth perceived that a coolness had settled between them. Despite that, she endeavoured to be as polite to Charlotte as to all others who came to call. She reserved exposing her true feeling upon this one issue to the sympathetic ear of her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, who was wont to remind her, “What is it the poet said? ‘In the misfortunes of our friends we always find something that does not displease us.’”
It was a sadness upon which she had little chance to dwell. For much to her exasperation, another axiom was proven again and again. That was the Rule of the Second-Guesser—wherein the more disputable the advice and the greater the fervour with which it was delivered, the higher the likelihood that she who rendered it was childless. Increasingly, it was all Elizabeth could do to listen to such twaddle with civility. Indeed, her ear heard very little from feminine discourse other than unsolicited advice and indecorous inquiries. It was these conversations that influenced her that she just might favour the conversation of gentlemen, for now that Mr. Collins was long dead, she had yet to hear a gentleman inquire after the colour of a baby’s stool. On the worst of these days, had it not been for Lady Millhouse’s continued good sense, Elizabeth feared a compleat loss of respect for her sex.
On the other hand, the relative curiosity of twins was reason enough to incite exceptional interest in two such handsome babes. In a harrowing era for women to give birth, carrying twins to term was altogether extraordinary. If the story that was told far and wide was any approximation of the truth—that this particular confinement had come to parturition in a chaise and four on the road between Wigston and Fleckney—it was all the better for the telling and certainly did not diminish the popularity of their inspection. Darcy suffered the occasional nudging allusions to his own potency with expected ill-humour. As for Elizabeth, she rather enjoyed her repute. She all but beamed with pride over her accomplishment. Mr. Darcy believed that the only vanity he had ever known of his wife. And because he attributed it to her earlier procreative failures, he looked upon that single immodesty with considerable forbearance.
They were handsome babies and the Darcys were prouder than either admitted to have them seen to advantage by all and sundry. There were, however, precautions.
All such visitations were not left to chance. By predetermination, the babies were carried in only long enough to allow adequate admiration before they were whisked away. This absenting was enforced lest overly enthusiastic admirers take the notion of picking one up—both their parents were most attentive to the possibility of airborne indisposition. Most of their guests were respectful of the quarter-hour limit good society observed. Some, however, did not scruple to overstay their welcome. Regrettably, such was the eminence of the Darcys’ position; some who called were mere acquaintances.
Was sickness and sycophancy not trial enough, Elizabeth was exceedingly mindful that amongst those mere acquaintances were a portion of gentlewomen who came less to admire Mrs. Darcy’s newborns than to find satisfaction in seeing Mr. Darcy’s wife looking out of bloom in an unbecoming gown.
Although Elizabeth had believed herself long past suffering vexation by fawning females lusting after her husband, her post-pregnancy throes contributed to a marked intolerance of such activity. Although she was most attentive to such a possibility, she saw no lady daring outright seduction. This, Elizabeth was certain, fell less to the lack of trying than to Mr. Darcy simply absenting himself as a target. With enough notice, he made certain to be away during such calls. If visitors were absolutely unavoidable, he accepted their compliments politely and bid them good-bye. When escape failed, Mr. Darcy employed his time-honoured remedy for fawning persons—a well-placed glare. However, that ploy was most effective with the male of the obsequious species. When her husband levelled his annoyed glower upon a lady, occasionally she mistook it for a gaze of another sort. As nothing incites feminine passion more than a gentleman simmering with desire, this particular misapprehension at times elevated simple coquetry into outright advances. Thus a small matter fast became unpropitious. Mr. Darcy, known as a man of understanding and judgement in all other things, refused to suffer such impropriety with any part of amiability. Indeed, the more obvious the flirt, the greater was his vexation.
If anyone should have been the injured party, Elizabeth thought it should be the wife—yet invariably it fell to her to marshal a rescue. Upon occasions past, she proffered the mischief-maker a kind countenance, a gentle word, and unambiguous redirection. Her good humour in such circumstances, she supposed, had sprung from the fact that she understood full well the allure of a reticent man, particularly one of burnished complexion, dark curls, and ample italege. Such a man (who was not only hands
ome, but rich as Croesus) sent feminine hearts aflutter and their nether-regions aquiver, too. Her own gaze alighting upon him across the room still sent a little frisson through her own heart and parts beyond after over half a decade of marriage.
Darcy’s recent design for superintending unmanageable females by absenting himself did not aid hers, however. When once their talk with her was strained, but benign, of late there was an alteration in their discourse. They were soon given to alluding not to only Mr. Darcy’s specific whereabouts whilst away, but the identity of his companions and house he abided. Maddeningly, these were only intimations. No one was quite bold enough to ask directly. She was powerfully unhappy to have to weather such insinuations alone.
The general crankiness attendant on hormonally inflamed emotions left her ill-tempered even without good reason.
As she sat in company praying that her chemisette did not betray the stains from her leaking breasts, she looked far too meanly upon the elegantly coifed and gowned ladies before her, certain each and every one was a rival for her husband’s esteem. Whilst bearing a smile of such determination that it made her cheek twitch, she self-consciously rearranged her shawl to cover her protruding abdomen. Compared to her company, she was certain that her linen cap and the cut of her gown were dowdy and sad. It occurred to her for the first time the power of knowing oneself perfectly turned out—it could beget a feeling of inward tranquillity that even religion was powerless to bestow.
It was not her present situation that incited these disharmonious emotions. They had begun to grow a half-year before when she sat in the same attitude upon a bench in a park in London. The company she kept that day was far better gowned and far more beautiful than any lady of Derbyshire. Indeed, she was absolutely exotic—and French. Elizabeth would never forget the lilt of her voice nor the litheness of her form. Nor would she forget that lady’s intimate connection with her husband.
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