“I can see perfectly well,” she insisted, only to be blessed by the God of the Willful with a stumble.
He, however, had the good sense not to speak the words “I told you so,” when he caught her before she fell, but the expression upon his countenance said it quite well. Her dignity slightly bruised, she altered their discourse from her haste to the reason for it.
“How does she fare?” she asked. “Is there any way to know how long it shall be?”
“Not a method yet known to mankind,” he assured her.
The entire of their employment at that hour was due to the impending foaling of Elizabeth’s mare, Boots. Although some would have considered it indecorous for a gentlewoman to attend a birth such as this, to allow Elizabeth to witness it had been the Darcys’ design since they first learnt of Boots’s condition. But fortune saw when the time was nigh that it was nightfall and there would be few people about to be offended by their unseemliness.
It was the event around which they had set their plans to decamp for Brighton. Elizabeth had wanted to await Boots’s foaling. As time grew near, Darcy had twice-daily appraisals of the mare’s progress. Until this particular event, he only came to a foaling when it was convenient and never in the middle of the night. But on the advice of Hardin that Boots appeared more restless than usual, he had come to the stables late that afternoon directly to see for himself. Although not as practised as Hardin, he recognised the signs in Boots immediately and gave Hardin leave to awaken him if it became necessary.
The horse barn was a huge fieldstone edifice with a gabled roof. With the lantern before them, Darcy escorted Elizabeth down the passage, picking their way carefully along as if it had not been swept clean of any trace of droppings. She was happy to take her husband’s arm, but it would have been truly no great feat to have found her way on her own, for the place was well lit by lanterns hanging from various posts around the stall. Moreover, Edward Hardin sat upon a stool outside the stall door, carving knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. A large pile of thin yellow coils lay between his feet, attesting to the length of the wait. He stood up directly upon seeing the Darcys approach and took a deferential step back. Then he seemed disconcerted, clearly uncertain of the exact protocol; he had never encountered a lady under these particular circumstances. He bowed, figuring if that be decorum when met in daylight hours it would suffice quite nicely for night.
Elizabeth returned Hardin’s shy bob with a smile, asking, “How does she fare, Mr. Hardin?”
“All’s well, ma’am.”
She stepped up on the first rung of the stall door and peered in. Boots was then standing, but was clearly distressed, nickering and throwing her head about. Elizabeth frowned as the mare turned several revolutions before dropping first to her knees, then gingerly rolling onto her side.
“Pray,” Elizabeth whispered, “is it imminent?”
“She has been doing this for some time,” Darcy said, “but may well proceed as you see her for some time more.”
She looked upon him with true trepidation, “Do you truly think so? She is lying down; I understood you to say that was done only at the last.”
Darcy put his arm around her shoulders and gave a small squeeze, saying, “Fear not; she will take what time is needed and we cannot hurry her.”
“Coffee, Mr. Darcy?” said Mr. Hardin, holding out a cup of steaming brew.
“Ah, yes,” Darcy took it from his hand, and then held it out to Elizabeth. “Lizzy?”
She shook her head and neither made any note that he had called her his pet name in front of Edward Hardin. In the night air, with the smell of hay and muck about them and wearing little to cover their déshabillé, it seemed altogether fitting. Darcy and Hardin leisurely sipped from their cups and warmed their hands simultaneously. After a few moments Darcy upended a wooden bucket.
“Your throne, madame,” he quipped. “Truly, you may as well sit, Elizabeth, for you know what they say of a watched pot.”
As if to prove that point, no sooner did she sit than Boots sat up, dragged herself to her feet, and again commenced to circle restlessly, nickering and occasionally attempting to bite her stomach. When at last she went down once more, she lay back upon her side straining.
Hardin and Darcy stood, but did not move nearer.
“Is the time nigh?” she asked anxiously.
“Perhaps,” Darcy said cautiously.
Elizabeth leapt to her feet, but feared to go nearer if the men did not. Darcy put his hand out as if anticipating her moving too fast and startling Boots. They watched for a small time before Hardin nodded once to Darcy and moved towards the stall door, then swung it open just far enough to allow them to enter one by one. Elizabeth sidled in last and hung back against the wall, holding her breath.
Boots did not try to stand again. But she did alternate lying out full and sitting upright several times in succession. Then she lay upon her side once again and began shivering and giving low, shuddering moans. Hardin had inched his way to her haunches in a half-crouch, shushing her all the while. Elizabeth dropped to her knees, watching closely as he slid his hand across the horse’s rump, soothing her in both word and movement. Boots began to strain even more fiercely and liquid began to drain from her hindquarters.
“See there,” whispered Hardin. “Do you see?”
“Yes,” gasped Elizabeth, not noticing that this inquiry was not of her. “I see. Is it the foal?”
“Yea,” said Hardin. “’Tis.”
“I can see something,” she said, still whispering. “Is that the nose?”
He shook his head, “Nay. ’Tis the feet.”
She inched her way forward upon her knees until she was almost even with Hardin and touched his shoulder. He looked at her and nodded his approval.
“Is all well?” she asked.
He nodded, “’Tis.”
In a moment, she could see two small feet protruding. Nothing further happened for a full half-minute and Elizabeth felt herself becoming alarmed, recollecting all that she had heard that could go wrong with the foaling of a highly bred animal. She knew that her own breath was hasty, but could not hear it for Boots’s. Thereupon Boots again sat up. Hardin reached out and grasped the foal’s protruding feet. In one swift movement Boots stood—simultaneously delivering the foal compleatly. It came slithering out in one gush and Elizabeth leapt to her feet, backing hastily away. Hardin stepped back as well, but not half so hastily. He picked up a handful of hay and wiped the birthing residue from his hands, again shushing Boots who stood unsteadily. Directly, Boots turned about to the mass of mucus, blood, and wet hair and began meticulously to pick at the surrounding sac. At the same time a head joined the feet as discernible body parts and the foal in its entirety began to struggle free of its translucent jacket.
With the collaboration of Boots’s licking and the foal’s kicking, ere long the newborn got unsteadily to its feet and stood in all its knobby-kneed glory. With the encouragement of Boots’s licking, the foal was propelled forward and it began to hop about with all the finesse of a drunken lord, lifting up each foot high as if trying out its new hooves. Forthwith, it nosed around upon Boots, first behind the front legs and then in front of the back legs until at last it found the proper spigot and began to nurse hungrily.
At this, Elizabeth clasped her hand to her mouth in awe, exclaiming, “Darcy, have you ever witnessed anything so remarkable?”
She turned about to see if Darcy exposed any of his tightly held emotions upon this momentous occasion, but she saw him not. The stall door was ominously agape and she went through it into the pathway separating the stalls on either side of the barn. She quickly looked both ways and saw his lone figure against, but not leaning on, the frame of the open barn door. He stood quite erect, his forearm resting against the door frame, the back of his hand seemingly pressed against his lips. She could see him momentarily drop his head
and then throw back his shoulders as if ridding himself of some burden. Something about his attitude made her uneasy.
“Darcy,” she said quietly, walking the short length of the pathway. “Are you well?”
He turned, the moonlight backlighting him with a mysterious aura. She could not see what his countenance beheld, but she sensed it. She could tell that he was struggling to maintain his emotional equilibrium, but she could not fathom why under such celebratory circumstances. She walked briskly to his side in order to ascertain just what it was.
Before she could speak, he cleared his voice and admonished, “Lizzy, come. It is far too cold here.”
He reached out and protectively drew her cloak closer around her. However lovingly meant, that did not thwart her.
“She has foaled,” she said.
“Good,” he said, then twice more. “Good. Good.”
It was even more clear to her that something was amiss. “Pray, why did you take leave?”
He did not look at her, but still fussed with her cloak, saying, “I felt of a sudden…constriction. I desired fresh air.”
“I see,” she said, but truly she did not, saying dryly, “I thought you invulnerable to the stench of animal husbandry.”
Upon the rare occasions that she found him out of sorts, it was seldom that he confided in her of its origin. Hence, she did not expect him to then in so unlikely a place as they were—amidst shuffling hooves and the odour of wet hay. She took his hand, however, to lead him back to admire their newest foal. He stopt abruptly, thereupon she did in turn.
“Abide with me,” he said softly.
She turned to face him and he nestled his hand on the side of her neck beneath the collar of her cloak. Thoughtfully, he stroked her chin with his thumb, and first rested his chin then laid his cheek against the top of her head. Drawing her ever nearer, he gently began to sway them both. She was truly puzzled by this tenderness, but spoke not a word. She felt that if she made a sudden move that he might bolt from their intimacy like some frightened animal.
“I know why,” he said finally, “the female of the species gives birth.”
“Do you?” she answered.
“Yes. We men have not the mettle.”
She did not for a moment think he spoke of her mare.
“It is our lot, I fear,” she agreed. “Yet you must agree that as a rule, all goes well.”
“As a rule,” he repeated ruefully.
Increasingly between them came small patches of conversation where words were not spoken, phrases omitted, entire subjects avoided—but all was deduced. This was such a time. Hence he was not called upon to repeat those fears that he had endured—that he endured still. She understood it all. In suggesting that, she took his hand and brought it to her lips. That was a rare gesture for her, for if hands were to be kissed they most often were hers.
“Come,” she said, turning, “We must learn the gender of the foal and I am not so happy to ask the favour of determining that of Mr. Hardin.”
“As you wish,” he said. “As you wish.”
45
The Pleasure of His Company
The antics of the gangly new foal entertained them for some time, but soon the lateness of the hour made Elizabeth yawn. Therefore, it did not take much coaxing from her husband to persuade her to return to their bed. She took his arm, and they strolled languorously back up the path to the house. It was her design that their languidness be celebrated through connubial congress, for though she was tired in body, her heart was quite inspirited. Regrettably, he only escorted her to the base of staircase. There, he kissed her hand.
Said he, “You will forgive me, for there are arrangements that must be made for the foal.”
She did not want to be sent up to bed without him, but she inadvertently yawned once again—which was not the message she meant to deliver.
“Cannot Mr. Hardin see to them?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“You shall not be long?” she said wistfully.
Her disappointment was apparent, hence he said reassuringly, “I will return directly.”
Elizabeth dutifully ascended the stairs. After a quick look in at the children, she situated herself upon the bed to await Darcy’s return. As time went by and he did not reappear, “directly” began to feel more like an eternity to her. Still, she was determined to wait for him. Restlessly, she took up a book that she had meant to read. But once she realised that she was reading the same sentence again and again without comprehending a word of the text, she tossed it aside. When she did, her attention was arrested by the light shining in through the doors leading to the balcony. The moonlight had illuminated the stone of the balustrade as if it were day. It was an eerily lovely sight. She sat up, put out the candle next to the bed, and wrapped her arms about her knees. From the darkness of the room, the spectral show lured her from beneath the bed-clothes and out through the doors.
It was chilly and she scampered to the railing. Looking up to the glittering stars and waning moon that seemed to hang like a lantern from the heavens, she stood first upon one foot, then the other, endeavouring to keep her toes from freezing. It was far too cold to stay for more than a few minutes, but she took a longing look towards the stables, straining to see if there was any sign of her husband coming up the path. Regretfully, all was dark. But just looking in that direction and picturing her husband as she supposed he was just then—talking to Mr. Hardin of the foal and Boots—filled her heart with adoration.
Dreamily, she rested her arms across the rail and allowed herself to bethink his attire—for to her it had been quite noteworthy. Indeed, it was a rare occasion upon which she saw Darcy thusly—eschewing his waistcoat and neck-cloth and wearing only his shirt and breeches beneath his great-coat. He rarely left their apartments without being fully attired. Her mind had been too preoccupied, first with Boots and then with her husband’s unexpected melancholy, to have given it much thought. It was only in the sparkling chill of the night that she allowed his figure the full attention it deserved. Unfortunately, she had to enjoy the sight only in her thoughts.
She recalled most particularly how a bit of chest hair had peeked above the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. His great-coat had been tossed on without his usual meticulousness and had remained unbuttoned, so she had an advantageous view of his breeches as well. He had mis-buttoned them. Odd how that came to her then; she had barely noticed it at the time. Neither had she paid proper due to his boots.
Yes, his boots.
They had been turned down at the knee. She had never quite conquered the libidinal interest she had taken over Darcy’s boots—or rather, Darcy in his boots. It was fortuitous that her mare bore knee-high stockings on her feet, or it might have been surmised by everyone that the mare had not been named for her own markings. Rather, she had been named on behalf of the ridiculous fixation her mistress had over her master in his riding boots.
It was peculiar that she only just then thought of that singular lust. It brought back the fond memory of the night he presented Boots to her. He and Fitzwilliam had purchased her in another county and told her that her name was Dulcinea. That was a lovely name, but her husband stood next to the mare, his long legs next to hers, her white-stockinged feet next to his tall black boots—the name was as impetuous as it was inescapable. Elizabeth had repaid her husband that night for her wonderful birthday gift—several times, in fact. She remembered most particularly because when he had undressed that night, she had asked him to wear his boots when they made love.
Not surprisingly, he had looked at her most peculiarly. She could not recall the event without thinking of his confused expression when he had asked, “Only my boots?” as if he had not heard her correctly. After she had nodded emphatically, he had made no further query. He retired to his dressing-room and returned as she had asked. The sight of him—toned limbs and, of cours
e, turgid member—had never quite left her thoughts.
Just then, she was startled back to the present by a sudden gust of wind that whirled through the pillars and came up beneath the tail of her night-dress. At the incursion of cold air against her legs, she gave a tiny squeal. She did not, however, retreat to the warmth of her bed. Since her husband’s away to the continent the year before, she abhorred sleeping without him—even when he was within the sound of her voice.
“Lizzy.”
His voice had been quiet. It drifted to her as if upon the wind.
She turned.
He stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. He had not removed his great-coat.
“Come, dearest Lizzy,” he said softly. “You will catch your death.”
She had taken a step in his direction, her arms outstretched. She stopt. Her arms, however, did not fall to her sides, but remained extended, beckoning.
He took the expanse of the balcony in three long strides and took her in his arms with such ferocity that she gasped. He covered her mouth with his and kissed her hungrily. Briefly, she puzzled over how he managed to read her mind so remarkably.
With a sharp intake of breath, he drew his lips away, whispering, “When I saw you here…as you are…in this attitude…the wind…”
His voice trailed off, leaving her absolutely no idea what he meant—that he had seen her then as the embodiment of his earlier dream. Little did she care what inspired his kisses, for they had recommenced. She pressed herself against him, lost in his love. So lost was she that she hardly noticed when he put his hands beneath her armpits and abruptly lifted her upon the wide stone railing. (However, the cold stone against her nether-end was a bit of a jolt.) She certainly did not fear falling, for he held her firmly, but the chill of stone caused her to burrow beneath his coat, her arms and legs wrapping about his body. When he cupped his hands beneath her rump, she thought he only meant to cushion her against the surface of the rail. But he did not.
He lifted her up and against him and turned about, carrying her thusly through the doorway, then set her down upon the end of the bed nearest the fireplace. Warmth from the remains of the fire still emanated from the hearth, rendering the rumpled bed warm and inviting. Still, he did not hasten her beneath the bed-clothes. He stood before her with his arms to his sides. It was a tall bed, but he was taller still and she drew herself to her knees. They remained in that attitude for a moment. As they faced each other, all that could be heard was the rustling of the wind and their laboured breathing. He ridded himself of his coat and impatiently kicked it aside.
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