His ability to contain such cares, however, suffered inversely to the degree of his family’s growth. As much as he admired the notion (indeed, to an unseemly degree) of fathering more children by his beloved Elizabeth, the thought of such a happy prospect occasionally unsettled him. It would be another soul to fear for, another heart to protect.
Highwaymen and disease were not the least of his worries, just the foremost. Although they paled in comparison to those ostensibly trivial ones of his intimate household, there were additional bothers that threatened—for all of the countryside was in general upheaval in the aftermath of the war. As Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam had witnessed at Bath, tens of thousands of former soldiers were returning to the labour market, which quite overwhelmed the Tory government. Most of these men were not officers and not looking for work as dancing masters. They were labourers.
As a major landowner, the Darcys were, by obligation to their class, of Tory persuasion. The exceedingly poor harvests over the past few seasons had largely escaped them as their income came from some mining, but primarily from rents for sheep and other grazing. But it created a severe economic downturn in most of England, and what with several decades of war, the interest payments on the national debt were so high that the government could do little to alleviate the suffering. The single decisive step Parliament took was to enact the Corn Laws designed to regulate the price of grain, thus profiting those whose land grew it. Regrettably, this decreased the price of everything but bread, the staple of the poor. And at this, the poor were unamused. Unamused and out of work, they rioted. They rioted most frequently and most vociferously in London and they did not wage their war against their own neighbours. They sallied forth into the West End and towards the homes of those who made their fortunes from their land.
No, Mr. Darcy was happy not to take his family to London for the season. The season, it is said, knows no season, but to him, the season was as good as dead. He had only suffered it as such in the past to see Georgiana find a suitable match and be married. Now he realised that he would have a nice long respite from society, and it was a felicitous thought. He would not have to weather it again until his children were of marriageable age.
Of the many weighty matters that were his to attend, one of particular repellence had remained unaddressed. Indeed, he had spent a great deal of time locating pressing matters to attend to for some months until he could put off the most repugnant one no longer.
He had been forced to the conclusion, since independently verified through Lady Millhouse, that the despicable Wickham was the—yes, he had to speak the word, to himself if to no one else. Wickham was the bastard son of his father. Wickham was, therefore, his half-brother. (Repeating it silently in his mind did nothing to remove the unmitigated repellence of that fact.) He had accepted it with his understanding, but not his heart. Never in his heart.
Returning to Elizabeth compensated that ignominy amply. To have returned to her as mother of his children made all other worries tolerable. He struggled to keep that perspective. Wickham was, if there was justice in this world, lying in an unmarked grave in Belgium, noble warrior to the world, murdering maggot to all that was holy. After disclosing the entire sordid affair to Elizabeth, together they had decided on a course. They would speak neither of Wickham’s dishonour in battle nor his humiliating connection to the Darcys to anyone. Ever.
It may have been thought that Darcy would perchance have had to reconsider his place and heritage in light of the revelation about Wickham being of his blood. And in doing so that would have been reflected in a lessening of his arrogance rather than the reverse. However, it did not. He now found himself obliged to make up for Wickham’s degeneracy by his own comportment. When once his consideration of his hallowed position has softened under Elizabeth’s influence, his hauteur was reinstated. At least it was reinstated insofar as his outward mien. He had the spectre of Wickham’s degenerate nature to overcome and two children to guide by example. He would begin the reconstruction of his family’s dignity forthwith.
56
Mrs. Darcy’s Duty
The Darcys returned to Pemberley before their children turned one. That approaching anniversary brought other, more sombre recollections. The remembrance of Elizabeth’s father’s passing was one of considerable sadness, but it meant that their official mourning period would end, giving them leave to open Pemberley once again to one and all just in time for their children’s first birthday.
***
Although he did not share them with her, Mrs. Darcy was not entirely unaware of her husband’s concerns. But she was much occupied at the moment in her office as hostess under whose watch visiting ladies were not in want of coffee and muffins. As the lady of the manor, it was her habit to make herself the proprietress of hospitality. But as there was a great deal of disorder within England, upon the right occasion she would have been happy to find an excuse to enjoy the talk of gentlemen. Pemberley received newspapers from London regularly, but in the far county of Derbyshire any news of Parliament was sorely behindhand. Although intelligence was sparse, additional details could often be gleaned within the discourse of the landed gentry surrounding her husband.
Her forehead crinkled slightly as she thought of what she might be missing. But as was her duty, she sat amongst the ladies, reminding herself that it was Sunday, so even the talk of men must be mundane. Albeit, this Sunday was one of particular note. It had been especially set aside to officially introduce their offspring to the neighbourhood. Elizabeth had planned for the event with extraordinary care. So keen was her desire to present her children to their greatest advantage, she secured an oversized wicker carriage from London in which to display them. Satin ruching covered the cowl and Austrian lace strewn with salmon ribands was so abundant about the edges, it was clear that Elizabeth found herself much more pleased with frippery when it promoted her precious ones. But despite the fuss and bother, like all best-laid expectations, things did not go according to plan.
Janie was, as usual, quite placid, but Geoff kept crawling about and spoiling the well-thought-out arrangement. This, of course, provoked no little tsk-tsking from the grey-haired fusspots long past embarrassment by their own children’s misbehaviour. It was not a matter of forgetting herself, Elizabeth simply could not stop herself from gifting a glower in the direction of the scolding noises. Thus chastened, the audible disapproval ceased. Satisfied, Elizabeth resettled her son and straightened the bow under Janie’s chin. Nothing so insignificant as small-minded matrons could dampen her pride in them, or her spirits.
As any parent could guess, however, on the one day when the most eyes were upon them, the Darcys’ usually amicable children were not inclined to suffer company. Geoff’s attempt at escape was but the half of it. For every chuck under their chins became an ever-escalating pique. More might have been made of their ill-temper had not by happy chance the Darcys been of such fine repute. Hence, this lack of friendly compliance by the tiny guests of honour did nothing to quash the admiration the twins garnered, save for those few who were determined to find fault on general principle. Having silenced that small group with her disapproving look, Elizabeth stood over the carriage and basked in the singular pleasure of hearing nothing but compliments for her children. She would have liked to know her husband took note of their success, but his mind seemed otherwise engaged. She could not catch his gaze once.
Even with nurse’s help, Elizabeth had her hands full keeping the twins’ costumes straight and their chins wiped. Eventually, she altogether gave up her attempt to keep them settled in the carriage. She plopped little Janie into the nearest friendly lap and looked about to see where young Geoff had crawled. She quickly spotted Margaret in an all-out pursuit of him across the lawn. He was in petticoats and occasionally tangled with the hem, but was making good time in that he had all four appendages in full use and Nurse had but two. With great dispatch her charge managed to reach, and thereby tresp
ass, into the gentlemen’s sanctuary. Much to nurse’s horror, she could not quite catch hold of the tail of his frock to haul him back—he was far too quick.
Indeed, quite without warning Mr. Darcy was assaulted from behind by way of a colossal yank upon his coat. It was a sizeable enough tug to cause him to take a step back just to offset it. Fortunately, Darcy was nimble enough to regain both his footing and his composure without trampling his son, but this insult caused a collective gasp of astonishment to erupt from the witnesses. Mr. Darcy, however, gave little notice of this violation of his person beyond resituating his lapels. Without comment or a downward glance, he then resumed his office of the recipient of generalized obsequiousness. To the delight of those few brave souls who dared venture to look, a peek revealed the culprit of this lèse majestè as a dark-haired babe standing tenaciously by clinging to his father’s coattail. Still in leg-swaying triumph, the baby grinned happily, wholly unaware of his colossal breach of decorum. He clung determinedly to the tail of his father’s frock-coat, seemingly disinclined to loose himself from the means by which he had struggled to his feet. As Darcy refused to acknowledge this new accessory to his costume, a few gentlemen found need to scratch their noses or cover a small cough, but not a soul dared to laugh.
By then Margaret was so wholly mortified that she stood in a hands-extended dither, uncertain just how to rectify the situation. Geoff remained attached to his father and his father continued to ignore that he was indeed there. It thereby fell to Mrs. Darcy, who had come lately upon the scene of this felonious behaviour to daintily extricate her husband’s frock-coat from their son’s clenched little grasp. Although he was the perpetrator, Geoff was most displeased to be rescued from this ignominy and began to bawl. As Elizabeth hustled him off, she explained to those still taken with interest of the incident, as only mothers are wont to do, that the child was much overdue for a nap.
“Shall I take him, m’lady?” said nurse.
She did not wait for a reply before taking him into her plump arms. And as his howls of outrage faded into the distance, those ladies not previously under Mrs. Darcy’s custody reshouldered their sagging parasols and with heads together formed a small pavilion where they could natter about unruly children without fearing for their complexions.
With Mr. Darcy’s imperiousness fully reemployed, the men resumed their talk. And again, without ever altering his expression, Mr. Darcy occasionally offered a contributing nod.
As for Mrs. Darcy, as Nurse swept her son away off to his nap, she returned to Janie, who was behaving herself in a manner befitting one who even at that tender age knew that she was a Darcy. Upon gazing at that tiny, decorous countenance, Elizabeth rewarded her with a quick but tender kiss. Janie’s expression was so solemnly familiar that she gave herself leave to steal a backward glance at her husband. There seemed to be no lasting havoc from her son’s little adventure. Once that had been determined, her gaze lingered. She admired the broad expanse of her husband’s back with some leisure. She had no fear she would be caught by him in this open veneration for his figure, knowing full well that he would not return her gaze. But that was of little consequence. He was in company. He did not expose his private inclinations to others.
That her pleasure at that moment was singular did not diminish it in the least.
It was long understood that when Mr. Darcy sent his cards out for an afternoon’s entertainment, unlike some more convivial hosts, the invitation did not extend beyond dusk. The shadows had by then lengthened ominously and the air grew chill. The looming night would drive even their most diligent friends to call for their carriages. Although she was far more sociable than her husband, Elizabeth was quite happy for their guests to depart. As she gave one last pert look over her shoulder, she betokened a generous, if subtle, sigh. But then she seldom looked upon her husband’s virile figure with other than unadulterated adoration.
As for her son’s modest insult upon his father’s sizable dignity, Nurse may have, but she fretted not. She knew that had her husband been truly displeased, he would have bowed with exaggerated courtesy rather than appear oblivious. Unlike his wife, who delighted in anything ridiculous, he was excruciatingly grave when confronted by indecorous behaviour, even when it involved his children. The thought of it all made her laugh—but only to herself.
On this occasion her laugh was accompanied by a regret. To behold her son’s first wobbly attempt to stand had been a treasured moment, and yet she only shared that instant with nurse. Although Darcy was the means by which it was exacted, the moment was forever lost to him. She lamented that loss on his behalf and then wondered if to do so was maudlin. Were fathers to take sentimental note of such milestones? Or more to the point, did Darcy? His moods were of late so unpredictable that it could be quite perplexing to endeavour to determine just what turn his inclinations might take.
As she gained the shade of the loggia, the increasing chill gave her a shiver. Elizabeth longed for the night with even greater anticipation. It would only be with the dark that the tender feelings Darcy spent his days endeavouring to deny would have any opportunity to be coaxed forth. Their history suggested that the more repressed his emotions, the more explosive their release. This day had required far more than even his accustomed reserve. That was a tantalizing prospect.
She would enjoy what time they had in quiet, for it would soon be a precious commodity. She had received a post from her mother saying that she would be arriving within the week. And Lydia would soon follow…
57
A Momentous Event at Rosings
Sitting quite erect, Lady Catherine occupied a well-used wing chair that rested in the precise centre of a long corridor. The chair was upholstered in crimson caffoy and amongst the other rather splendid furnishings, it alone looked a bit worn. Although it sagged, it did so with a kind of withered majesty—one of the same sort that graced the countenance of its distinguished occupant. But as the chair appeared quite comfortable, there the similarity ended. For so forbidding was the lady’s figure, the opulence of the room strewn with statuary and ormolu struggled to maintain its impact.
Her finger drummed with great determination. And if the drumming did not, the look of unamused apprehension Lady Catherine bore betrayed her usual hauteur. Clearly, her ladyship awaited an event of some import. But one of a particular nature. Hence, curious of the outcome though they may have been, every soul within the walls of Rosings was of the discipline to make no acknowledgement of the event. This was no small tenacity, for the portentous proceedings unfolded just beyond the enormous oak double doors directly in front of Lady Catherine’s chair. A tall clock stood in an alcove, chimes silenced. Even mice cowered in the crevices, none having the brass to dart across the edge of her carpet. It was as if the house itself was as transfixed as was her ladyship. Indeed, the shadowed niches of the cavernous hall revealed several servants practicing the art of unobtrusiveness with meticulous care.
Henry the parrot sat on his perch in the corner maliciously eyeing the gathering—but even he was silent. The single exception was an otherwise undistinguished footman who cleared his throat of an annoying tickle. When he did, Lady Catherine did not turn in his direction, but her drumming finger stopt. Then it recommenced, giving the footman leave to understand such insubordination would not be tolerated. His rasping throat, however, threatened to erupt into a cough; he subtly began pulling a pocket-square from his sleeve. With even greater delicacy, he stuffed the whole of it into his mouth.
All quiet once again, shadows slowly marched across the floor. So deeply did they intrude, a skulking figure broke rank. Yewdell drew his resin torch like a sword, pranced the length of the room as if a Lancer of the 17th addressing each candelabra as he went. Grand as Rosings was, its mistress bore a parsimonious streak. Hence, the renewing of light that was burdened by the candle tax was not a good sign to those servants who had begun to admire the thought of their beds. Returned to his stati
on, Yewdell stifled a yawn. There may have been an inward sigh from the others, but little more. Although the night looked to be long, nary a head dared droop as long as her ladyship was still at her post.
Lady Catherine had no company upon this watch, nor did she expect any. Irritably, she looked about and saw amongst the statuary another one of Beecher’s ornately framed (and altogether abysmal) water-colours.
“Anne’s doing, no doubt,” she sniffed (making a mental note to have it removed and burnt).
As Lord Beecher held little interest in what jewels of wisdom his mother-in-law had to offer, she saw little worth in Beecher. Other than a fourth at cards in those long evenings at home with Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson, she would have seen him as she did most every other man of her acquaintance—a compleat waste of manhood. He was, however, a fast worker. That conclusion came by way of Lady Anne not only sporting a fiancé, but a womb half-gone with child by the time they left Bath. In light of Lady Catherine’s attentiveness to all that was decorous, it might have been expected that she would have been most unhappy to learn that her daughter had leapt the nuptial broomstick prior to her wedding day.
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