Although her mother looked with an equally evil eye upon ladies’ magazines, Lady Anne occasionally purloined a copy of Bon Ton from Mrs. Jenkinson’s knitting basket (Anne was happy to know she was not the only morally compromised soul in the household). Had Lady Catherine actually taken up the magazine, however, she would have been mollified to know that the writers of Bon Ton warned their readers that if “women of little experience” read romantic nonsense they would be evermore disposed to “mistake the urgency of bodily wants with the violence of delicate passion.” Once Anne read that denouncement, no reasoning could have withstood her determination to read more.
Anne kept these vessels of romanticism deep in the corner of her garderobe and sat in eye-batting, slack-jawed innocence (her skirt-folds not betraying what they hid) whenever Mrs. Jenkinson happened to gain her room unexpectedly. Had she understood that many well-bred young women read such novels without compunction she would have been most disappointed.
Although this sentimental inclination was only gratified in her most recent memory, it had lain inert for some time, only needing a face on which to hang such longings. The face that came to personify romantic love to Anne was one that she had known the entirety of her life.
***
Although she was in his company at least twice a year, Fitzwilliam Darcy was wholly unaware of the esteem that Anne had come to hold for him. Women far more handsome and accomplished than she vied for his attention with indecorous tenacity. He was not only the most eligible, he was the most handsome man she had ever beheld. Beyond this admiration of his person, Anne felt a kinship of sorts. For much like herself, he was not a person in whom happiness overflowed in mirth. Indeed, all the stars were in position for a positive engagement to be formed: He had understanding and uprightness in figure and form, and his station was equal to her own. In her deepest ruminations, Anne may have questioned just why she should be so very fortunate to win the love of such an admirable man. But having been born into untold luxury, she could only believe it fell to God’s infinite wisdom—reciprocity for poor health and suffering from an underabundance of mother-love. Proof, perchance, that she was not so insignificant in His eyes as her mother declared. It did not occur to her that marital love would not be part of the bargain that would be struck.
Anne was well aware of her personal limitations, but so long and so relentlessly had her mother enforced the notion of the unification of the houses of Darcy and de Bourgh through marriage, she eventually accepted it as less a probability than a certainty. Other than general cowardice, the only reason she had never once disagreed with her mother’s dictatorial declarations was that her mother had arranged for him to be hers. If her mother willed it, it would come to pass. This, above all else, Anne knew to be true. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was never opposed. Time would come when she and Mr. Darcy would be together, forever. Happily ever after—just as in her favourite novels.
Until that time, however, she worshipped him well, but from afar.
Despite the fact of their presumed engagement, she had sat across the room in a mortified stupor upon each occasion she was in his company. She had dared not to speak lest she be sent into some indecorous fit by her respiratory system. Such had been her fate upon the very first time she gathered the fortitude to issue a comment to him. It was a simple inquiry—she had practised it for days waiting for just the right occasion to approach him.
Voice tremulous, but resolute, she inquired with what she supposed was a note of coquetry, “Do you find the cooler weather to your liking?”
It was not a particularly weighty query, but it was the best she could manage. He gave every intention of answering in the affirmative, but as he began to form a reply he stopt and looked at her with an expression of what could only be described as puzzled revulsion. For she had no more than looked up at him whilst awaiting his response, than an intemperate tickle began in her left nostril. She did her best to alleviate it by what she hoped was an inconspicuous twitch of her nose, but that only enkindled the itch. By that time he had quite forgotten what was under discussion and was staring quite openly at her spasmodic nose. In the absence of a comment from Mr. Darcy upon her astute observation upon the temperateness of the day, she endeavoured to renew the direction of the conversation.
“Is it not…not…naahchooo!”
It had not been a sweet little kittenish sniff—rather, it was the trumpustuous snark of a bewhiskered old man, so forceful that it nearly blew the ends of Mr. Darcy’s neck-cloth over his shoulders.
He had issued only a mild “Pray, bless you,” but took out his pocket-square and brushed the resultant droplets of her nasal lubricant from his frockcoat with considerable deliberation before extending it, with all due politeness, to her. She fled in mortification and never ventured a word with him again.
Her yearning, however, could not be stilled. In each novel she read, she saw herself as the heroine, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the hero. And never once as the heroine did she sneeze in his face.
When it came to pass that Mr. Darcy chose another, Anne spoke of it not. Deep within her tattered heart, she had feared that it had been indeed a notion far too fanciful actually to come to pass. Her mother, however, was inconsolable. Unused as her mother was to interference in the consummation of any of her directives, this was not unexpected. But this time her rage was more severe and unrelenting. As her mother railed and fumed, Anne had little time to find pity for herself. So aggrieved was Lady Catherine, Anne became uneasy. It was as if she, not Anne, were the injured party. During the many of her interminable rampages, Anne had fair time to ponder it all.
Her rumination incited further disquiet as she recalled how her mother had always been most attentive to Mr. Darcy. Very attentive. Almost coquettish. Anne then recalled numerous instances when she had caught sight of her mother’s gaze sweeping the length of his figure that, in retrospect, was most unseemly in manner. Instinctively, she wondered just who had been meant for whom.
Anne had ridden in the coach the day her mother confronted Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She was not unaware of the reason for their trip. Initially, she had been hopeful that it was all a misunderstanding—that there was no engagement in place between Miss Bennet and Mr. Darcy. There was not, but that there was nothing official was inconsequential.
Anne had sunk back in the corner of the seat, hoping against hope that her countenance was shielded from the spectacle her mother had become. For, as it happened, Lady Anne was of a pragmatic nature. Although she had known her mother to trample all obstacles by sheer determination, Anne recognised when a cause was lost. She had seen it in Miss Bennet’s eyes then, and she saw it in Mr. Darcy’s eyes when her mother repeated the particulars of their visit to Longbourn. For Anne, it was time then to move on, broken-hearted or not. It took several years for her mother to come to that conclusion.
Of the grand scheme set forth by Lady Catherine to hie to Bath upon an urgent search for a betrothal for her daughter, Lady Anne herself was unwitting. She knew only that, once again, her health demanded repair.
26
The Pangs of Love Run Deep
When the dressing bell awoke Darcy that evening subsequent of his engagement in physical congress with his wife, he was perplexed. Had he just enjoyed a particularly convincing dream or had his wife, indeed, afforded him her favours?
So deep was his sleep and disordered his recollections, he did not immediately arise. He lay unmoving for a moment to gather his bearings, gazing at the tiny motes of dust suspended in the evening sunlight. He was certain that he recollected a conversation between them regarding a letter—and a misunderstanding over it. If that occurred, so must have the resolution. Surely he could not have slept that soundly—it was far too distinct.
He then sat upright, looking about the room for confirmation that he had not been alone. He went so far as to examine the coverlet beneath him for the tell-tale evidence that it had been only a dr
eam, but there was nothing but the faint remains of Elizabeth’s scent. Whilst he quit the room and made for his dressing-chamber, he remained in that disorder. Mechanically, he lifted his wrists allowing Goodwin to ready him for dinner. He still felt as if he were in some state of fugue, a sleep-walker through his own life.
His head was only beginning to clear when he passed Elizabeth’s dressing-chamber. He stopt to determine if she was still within. He heard nothing and made his way directly to the dining-parlour. There he saw himself to be tardy of their guests. Elizabeth sat in her place at one end, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were on either side of the table. Although Elizabeth gave him a slight nod, he was unable to look directly upon her, for he had to apologize for his tardiness, insist that Mr. Gardiner keep his seat, and bow to Mrs. Gardiner before taking his place opposite Elizabeth. The Gardiners were newly come to visit and their observations and stories were still new enough to keep the conversation happy without much response from him. Although he was never at ease making small talk, this evening found him even less conversationally inclined. As per usual, Elizabeth filled the lull in the discourse by engaging the Gardiners with inquiries of their children and stories of her own.
Whilst Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner grew increasingly animated, Mr. Gardiner gave himself leave to remark upon them to Darcy, “Do look at them, Mr. Darcy—thick as two inkle-weavers. What schemes do you think they are concocting for us even as I speak?”
It did appear to Darcy that Elizabeth and her aunt were deep in collusion of some kind or another, and he smiled benignly at Mr. Gardiner. That gentleman continued to talk affectionately of the ladies, when from his pocket came an odd sound. It sounded much like the yowling of an imperilled cat. Startled, Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner ceased conversing and all turned to Mr. Gardiner in alarm. Darcy went so far as to half-stand, prepared to protect in whatever manner he must. Initially, Mr. Gardiner’s countenance mirrored their trepidation, but directly he dug into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced the offender.
Sitting in the palm of his hand was a watch, no bigger than a half-crown, which had clearly gone ill. Its initial screech quickly deteriorated into a buzz, then clanked twice and fell silent.
“Mr. Gardiner!” declared his wife. “I begged you to not waste your money on such nonsense. It has not lasted a month!”
Mr. Gardiner guffawed at his own folly and held the watch up by its fob, allowing it to dangle a moment ere the entire contents exploded with a dull plonk, springs and tiny gears scattering upon the tablecloth.
“It looks to have been a repeater,” Darcy said politely.
“Every quarter hour,” replied Mr. Gardiner sadly.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “for the entirety of a four-week.”
She shook her head ruefully, but could not keep her countenance and began to laugh.
“I should have been more cautious,” said Mr. Gardiner. “It was but an English ticker. I thought better of our own countrymen’s craftsmanship.”
“You, dear husband, thought better of nothing but your pocket!” said Mrs. Gardiner, then to Elizabeth, “I have long despaired of him for his economy. A watch deserves more consideration than you give to that man you call your tailor.”
Mr. Gardiner endeavoured to explain, “She abuses me unmercifully for the failings of my frock-coats.”
“If I would allow it,” interjected Mrs. Gardiner, “he would, no doubt, buy them from a rag-man. How can so generous a man to his family be so parsimonious to himself?”
Mr. Gardiner said, “I will answer that, Elizabeth. I do so for the single purpose of caution. I dress to discourage highwaymen—for a threadbare coat is better than chain-mail in protecting against robbery. Am I wrong, Mr. Darcy?”
All laughed and Darcy raised his glass and tipped his head in recognition of that wisdom. Mrs. Gardiner put a doting hand upon her husband’s forearm and shook her head with affectionate acceptance of her husband’s idiosyncrasies. He took her hand and gave it a squeeze and they in turn gazed upon each other with all the regard that only a marriage of settled affection could provide. Afore Mrs. Gardiner loosed his forearm, she did the most unexpected thing. She reached out and gave Mr. Gardiner a pinch in the side. Mr. Gardiner’s face was turned away from him, so he could not gauge that man’s reaction. It appeared not to have been an offence.
Darcy quickly looked down at his plate, knowing that he was not to have seen what she had done. His face had crimsoned so that he had no idea whether Mr. Gardiner’s had done the same. When he heard the Gardiners once again teasing each other, he thought it safe to look again across his table and to his wife. With almost eerie synchronism, Elizabeth also looked up. Although they had exchanged words with each other and the Gardiners, he had not truly gazed upon his wife since his late arrival. Nor had he given more thought to what had come to pass just that afternoon. In that instant her eyes exposed to him that nothing had been a dream. It had all been as he had hoped.
It was a meal more interminable than any he had endured. So anxious was he to have a private moment with Elizabeth, it was all he could do not to bolt his food and demand the next course.
When at last dinner was at an end, thankfully the Gardiners expressed the desire to take an early evening. Elizabeth had a merry smile upon her face when she kissed Mrs. Gardiner’s cheek. She and Darcy stood at the bottom of the staircase as they bid them goodnight. Elizabeth turned to go to the drawing-room, but Darcy, instituting that inexplicable flick of the head (one she had never mastered) bidding his servants withdraw, caught her hand and drew her into a narrow doorway that led to the stillroom. It was narrow enough that a portly scullery maid would have had to turn sideways to make her way through it; hence, as they stood facing each other, there was little room between them.
“Lizzy,” he whispered, “shall we too take an early evening? We have no one to entertain but ourselves.”
“As you wish,” she replied.
Neither, however, made a move from their intimate niche.
“As I wish?” said he. “To be sure.”
She dropped her head back and her hands to her sides, surrendering to any and all pleasures he was of a mind to bestow. She was entirely prepared to ascertain if their afternoon’s amorous combat had diminished his want of her in any capacity. She waited, however, in vain. For, rather than kiss her, he stepped away. When he did, he took hold of her hand, bringing her with him from beneath the shadow of the doorway. He did not notice that frown lines had appeared between her brows, for he thereupon reached behind and under her, lifting her into his arms. She gasped. Darcy, however, had to shuffle her a bit to determine he had a good hand-hold, she kicking a bit in reluctance to allow him his way without her knowledge of his course.
“Pray, be still, Lizzy,” he cautioned. “I shall drop you.”
The single thing that she did not want to do at this very romantic juncture was to giggle. But she did.
“Lizzy,” he threatened.
“Forgive me,” said she, letting out another giggle, and then with that another, “forgive me.”
He took her then up the stairs to their bedchamber, he shushing and she giggling until they reached the door. He lodged his knee against the doorpost, rested her upon his leg, and fumbled for the knob.
“Allow me,” she said, reaching for it herself.
“I can do it,” he insisted, as his leg began to lose its wedge.
Finally the door relented, but even with so wide a doorway, Darcy managed to bump her head as he brought her through it.
“I am cruelly used!” she mocked great offence.
“I would beg leave to apologise,” he answered, “but I am much occupied with taming this wench to whom I am married.”
With that he tossed her in the middle of the bed. She drew herself to her knees and used them to manoeuvre her way to its edge where he stood waiting. With great dispatch he began to undo his nec
kcloth, but when she took over that duty, his hands moved to the narrowing of her waist. He allowed them to rest there, his thumbs strumming just below her ribs. It tickled slightly, but she did not permit that to deter her from her present employment—her reward would be far too pleasurable. She longed to slide her hand through the placket of his shirt and run her fingers through the small thatch of hair that covered his breastbone. Still conscious of his hands at her waist, she could not help remind him, “There was a time when your two hands spanned my waist.”
“Did they? I do not have that recollection.”
“Your memory does you service,” she did smile then.
“Lizzy…” he began. He had intended to say more, but his words were smothered when she took his face in her hands and kissed him quiet. A small whimper interrupted them, both looking at the other in question from whence it came. Immediately came the clicking and scratching of a large dog’s paws as she clamoured from beneath the bed.
Elizabeth said, “She must have had a bad dream.”
Cressida sat down next to the bed, her big tail whapping on the floor. Darcy said nothing, but did not reach to give the dog a reassuring pet. Rather, he walked to the door and opened it wide in silent directive. Cressida slowly heaved herself to her feet and even more slowly, but surely, swayed her way out of the room. The old dog did not so much as give a start when the big door slammed just as she cleared it. She just kept walking peacefully down the corridor.
27
The Road to Restoration
That afternoon Elizabeth had left Darcy in much the same attitude as she had found him. So similar was his repose that to a casual observer, it might not have seemed she had been there at all. For her, however, the hours succeeding that brief encounter were a bit indistinct. She undertook her motherly obligations dutifully, but her mind was not fully employed. In that her motherly undertakings at that time could be placed no higher than serving as a spigot, she felt no undue guilt for such a lapse. In body, she cuddled and cooed at the robust child in her arms as he nursed, yet her thoughts still dwelt with her husband. Those were more than dry musings.
Darcy & Elizabeth Page 17