by Gail McEwen
Elizabeth smiled. A sense of deep satisfaction settled over her. Everything was falling into place and she would prevail. Everything was going to be better than fine. “I like being married,” she thought to herself and leaned back. “I like being married to Mr Darcy and I like being Mrs Darcy!”
Since it was unusual for her to feel such pride in her new life outside of her rambling walks around the park or in her private moments with her husband, Mrs Darcy took the moment to revel in it, sitting in front of her desk and watching the sun stream in through the windows on her ledgers, silently telling her cousin to be prepared to be amazed when next they sat down together again. So when she was told three men from Lambton requested to see her, her mood was generous, exuberant and ready for more triumphs.
“Oh, Mr Morris!” she greeted the innkeeper, who led the delegation hat firmly in hand and watched the men striving to adjust their heavy steps and dirty boots to be as unobtrusive as possible on the fine floors. “What an age it has been! And you are come all the way from Lambton, I see, to talk to me. I think I can guess why.”
Mr Morris looked surprised and freely showed it. He sent a glance to his companions as if they somehow were better equipped for meeting such enthusiastic reception. A change of spokesman and strategy was apparently needed, for his friend right behind him introduced himself as Mr Harris, the village clerk, and then quickly added that the third man, Mr Derek, being the shopkeeper as he was, could perhaps best explain their errand.
“Well, if you please Mr Derek,” Mrs Darcy said and graciously gestured to them to take a seat, which they accepted, still appearing rather puzzled. “But I maintain I know why you are here. Candlemas will be a great and joyful event for all of us and so I am glad to see you.”
“Tis very kind of you, ma’am, I’m sure,” Mr Derek said, daring to smile at her since he alone could claim to have a personal relationship with Mrs Darcy, albeit over such mundane things as ribbons, buttons and assorted sundries. “Na’then I am afraid we are being so bold as to approach you on the delicate matter of . . . ”
There was a pause and somehow Elizabeth got the feeling she more specifically should have known what was the topic at hand.
“Yes?” she said and tried to smile as gently as possible to encourage the delegation to candour.
“You must excuse me, you know, as this is my first Candlemas.”
“Quite,” said Mr Derek, but apparently he still did not mean to complete his sentence.
Mr Harris, being a young man and, apparently, a more impatient one as well, cleared his throat, gave his two fellows a meaningful eye and then directed his gaze steadily at Mrs Darcy’s hem.
“We are here on account of the mummers’ play.”
“Oh! A play!”
Mr Harris, apparently encouraged by her surprised and delighted tone, lifted his gaze a little higher and then decided it was safest after all to fix his eyes on Mrs Darcy’s chin.
“Yes, ma’am. That is, what we do every year. I play the Hero. Mr Derek is the Doctor.”
“The Doctor?”
“Yes. The Doctor.”
Mr Derek found it necessary to bow and add, “There is always a Doctor, ma’am.”
“Oh. Well, good.” Mrs Darcy suddenly found this sincere display of unknown local northern customs moving in its awkwardness. “You must excuse me, I am from the south, you know.”
The three men performed to her expectations by nodding and displaying obvious sympathy with such an affliction and since she proceeded to ask them who else was in the play, they told her about Little Devil Doubt, Fat Jack and the masks.
“So this play,” Mrs Darcy continued, now intrigued. “You perform every Candlemas, do you?”
“We do, ma’am,” Mr Harris said. “On the green by the smithy . . . ”
“Oh, no!” Mrs Darcy said and directed her bright smile towards poor Mr Morris, who had quite been left out of the conversation since his first bold move. “Oh no, that won’t do at all, you know.”
To Mrs Darcy’s eyes, the stoic and dispassionate nature of her northern dependents and the good people of Lambton was sometimes disconcerting. Sometimes, she felt they just were not very quick—bless them—and so since they now seemed quite stunned and disheartened by her little joking introduction to the idea that had just struck her, she abandoned her mischievous tone and told them in a gentle voice they should put on the play at the south lawn just outside the house.
The stares that met her were comical and she smiled broadly to hide her desire to laugh.
“Oh yes, you must!” she insisted and drew out a slip of paper for jotting down a few notes. “We will have a bonfire, you see, and that would be nice and warm for the spectators. I am sure you cannot have bonfires near the smithy. And I think it would be perfect since all of you cannot fit into the great hall anyway. Especially if the weather is nice,” she added, “which of course I dare not hope for, lest we have snow until May!”
Mr Harris visibly swallowed his surprise and opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“On the Pemberley lawn?” Mr Derek instead asked.
“Absolutely! It will be such great fun! And I do so want this to be fun!” said Mrs Darcy with flourish. “Now, is there anything else you need?”
AS FOR LORD BAUGHAM, HE had had his fill of inspecting Pemberley fences which were, invariably, in excellent repair. To further his frustration, on the one occasion where a small gap had appeared, instead of dismounting and setting right to work with repairs, Darcy simply made a note of its location in order to report it to the groundskeeper.
“You go on,” he said as the tour reached its end and Darcy turned toward the stables, “I’m going to trot about the fields a bit. If I don’t give this beast a little vigorous exercise now and again, he begins to sulk.”
He stayed out another several hours, riding through the snow covered fields and pastures until his horse had spent much of its pent up energy. As he brushed and cared for the beast in the stable afterwards, he wished that he had been able to do the same himself. Tired he surely was, but he could feel building within him a different kind of energy. A hum of edginess to be on their way at last. He was enjoying himself on this respite in Derbyshire, and yet he itched for more activity. Oddly enough, he found himself looking to Cumbermere as the relief to his restive spirits. He sighed and shook his head—perhaps he was coming down with a cold instead. That was much more likely than that he should entertain any feelings regarding Cumbermere that even approached anticipation. Smiling at his foolishness, he slapped the horse’s rump and set off to change for dinner.
HOLLY’S LUCK WAS NOT WITH her. After wandering up and down the halls in search of her husband, she soon concluded he had not returned with Mr Darcy after all. Elizabeth was kept busy all afternoon: answering questions, making decisions, addressing tradesmen with deliveries and townsfolk with inquiries, and while Holly was pleased to see her cousin coming into her own as Mistress of Pemberley, she could not help but feel slightly out of place and no longer needed.
Returning to her room after borrowing a volume from Pemberley’s magnificent, and somewhat overwhelming, library, she intended to pass the afternoon quietly reading. Instead, she stood for a long moment at the windows, staring over the cold, white landscape and thinking. A pensive sigh escaped her, though she hardly knew where it came from.
“Is something troubling you, darling?” The question came from behind, quietly.
“Yes. Marriage,” she answered without turning around or startling.
“Oh dear.” Heavy booted footsteps sounded, but they stopped before they reached her side. “May I ask what about marriage troubles you?”
“Nothing. Everything.”
Another step. “Holly?”
Turning to face him, she smiled and held her hands out for him to take. Accepting them with relief, he closed the gap between them, but still questioned her with his eyes.
“Don’t be alarmed, love,” she said, “I adore being your wife
. I am very comfortable being your wife. Very comfortable,” she added when she saw the look he gave her at that. “It’s just this being married business that has me confused.”
“I’m afraid you have me confused as well. How is it you are comfortable with being a wife, but not comfortable being married?”
“Because, although I feel like a wife, I do not at all feel like a married woman. Elizabeth has—” she suddenly noticed that he had come in flushed and perspiring from his ride. “You need to change,” she said, running her hands up and down his shirt front.
“And you, my dear, are changing the subject.”
“I know, but . . . ” she smiled and stepped even closer. Yes, he did need to change before dinner but, burying her face in his chest, she realised that she loved him just as he was—smelling of the outdoors, of sweat, of the ride he had just taken. It was a uniquely masculine, earthy, elemental scent and it touched something deep within her. He felt it too, the change in her posture and breathing and he slid his hands down her waist to rest on her hips and bring her even closer still. Touching his forehead to hers, he gazed at her with those impossibly blue eyes.
“I think,” he whispered hoarsely, “that you needn’t worry about a thing when it comes to being married. But if you think you need more practice in the wifely arts, there’s something you can do for me.”
“And what might that be?” she giggled.
“Why,” he grinned, pulling back slightly, “you can help me change!”
“You have a man to do that for you,” she said, sliding his coat off his arms nevertheless, “but I think . . . ” she started to work on his breeches buttons, “that there is something else. Something only I can do for you—and I am more than willing to practice at that . . . ” she pushed the breeches down, but before he could surrender to the delicious anticipation of her promised practice, they were interrupted by a scratch at the door.
“My lady,” the maid Annie’s voice sounded from the other side, “shall I help you dress for dinner?”
At the same time, over his lordship’s groans, preparatory noises were also heard in the adjoining chamber.
“Riemann,” he sighed then he gave her a sly look. “Let’s be late for dinner.”
“Mmm . . . ” she sighed, “that sounds just perfect.”
“My lady!” The scratching grew louder, “Dinner is in thirty minutes. Mr Darcy is quite insistent that—”
“Shall I tell her to go away?” he asked, but he cast a glance at his own door. No words came from the other chamber, but Baugham recognised the sounds of growing impatience in the setting out of items and the opening and closing of doors and drawers.
“If we’re late, will they wait?”
“Most likely,” he sighed, “unless we send word we’re not coming down at all.”
“But Elizabeth is expecting us. She said she had some news . . . and besides, I’m hungry. I don’t want to miss dinner completely.”
His lordship pulled away and reluctantly refastened his buttons. “Very well,” he grumbled, “but the meal had better be worth it.”
IT COULD NEVER IN GOOD conscience be said that dinner at Pemberley was ever a casual affair. Every day, it was planned, prepared and laid out, if not in the grand dining room then in the smaller blue salon next to the library, with meticulous care and precision. It did not matter to the staff who else sat down at the table; their main concern was that Mr and Mrs Darcy had once again been served a meal that was up to the standards set by Monsieur downstairs in the kitchen, Mr and Mrs Reynolds upstairs and Mr and Mrs Darcy in the sitting room. Still, Lord and Lady Baugham’s presence made the dinners a more festive occasion and this night in particular it seemed to Mr Darcy that his wife was in an appropriately splendid mood, his friend in an appropriately sober mood and Lady Baugham was in an appropriately mirthful mood. Subsequently, Mr Darcy felt appropriately happy and proud as he took Lady Baugham in to dinner and freely showed it.
With the wine and the soup and the vol au vent, the mackerel and the pie, the chutney and the sorbet, tongues loosened and manners became freer. Mr Darcy laughed at his friend’s wit, sent his wife adoring looks and engaged Lady Baugham in such a long conversation on the London Theatre that his wife started sending sidelong glances to him while lightly touching her glass with her knife.
“Mr Darcy,” she hissed while her bright eyes twinkled with mirth in the generous candlelight. “I am trying to gain your attention!”
“Well, in that case you must have it!” he said and gave Holly a wink.
“Indeed I must and I don’t think my cousin will mind one bit for this concerns her, too. You are my two favourite people to boast of myself to and so I shall leave his lordship to decide whether he can stand to be included as well.”
“I’m all ears!” Lord Baugham said and attacked the partridge breast on his plate.
“I had such a wonderful delegation come to see me today,” Elizabeth said, laying down her knife and clearly concentrating on her story. “One was fat, one was thin and one didn’t say anything for the whole time he was there—he was the elected spokesman, I was told—and all together they inspired me to a wonderful thing.”
Mr Darcy gave his wife an indulgent look. “I’m sure you don’t need delegations to think up wonderful things.”
“Well, I would never like to claim my husband is ever wrong in anything so I’ll have you—and especially Holly—know I did several wonderful things to the accounts today as well, but in this second case, I could not have done without them,” Mrs Darcy said triumphantly, “and you must all thank them profusely when I am showered in glory and gratitude from every corner of the neighbourhood.”
“Well, what do we have to thank them for then?” Holly said. “You are such a tease, Elizabeth!”
Her cousin laughed. “I am! Very well, I’ll tell you. On Candlemas we are going to have mummers on our lawn.”
Mr Darcy stopped his scooping up of plum sauce and the juicy partridge piece never made it to Lord Baugham’s mouth.
“Mummers?” Mr Darcy said.
“Yes! I think it will be just right for the occasion.”
“Right?”
“Yes.” Out of the corner of her eye Elizabeth saw Holly stare at her and that made her lose her confidence. “What?” she asked her cousin.
“Elizabeth . . . The mummers . . . ”
But Mr Darcy interrupted her by putting down his cutlery with a distinct bang. “Have you ever seen what the mummers do, Mrs Darcy?”
“Do?” Elizabeth creased her brow and her pretty eyes now had an annoyed look to them. “They dance and have a little play with a few verses and songs and then a hero saves the day at some point. And they wear masks. I have seen them several times in Meryton around Christmas when the sides come around the house to earn a few pennies . . . ”
“Meryton!” Mr Darcy said.
Elizabeth abandoned her husband’s unintelligent comments and looked at her guests. Lord Baugham was still staring at his fowl but something strange . . . something like a smile . . . no, a grin . . . ! Elizabeth moved over to her cousin and Holly looked worried.
“What?” Elizabeth repeated, this time not without a clear bit of annoyance herself. “What are you all so strange about? They’re a group of harmless, local respectable people and I—”
“Oh but that’s just it!” Holly gave her host a quick look and then leaned over the table as if that could give her words protection. “In the north, Elizabeth, unfortunately, the plays are sometimes . . . not so respectable.”
A fist came down on the table. “That is an understatement!” Darcy cried, “I cannot allow this! Not at this time! Not when you—!”
“But of course they are respectable,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I’ve met these men before! They are perfectly sober and decent people.”
“If they would only remain sober,” Lord Baugham choked out, earning him a glare from his wife before she turned back to her cousin.
“Of course they’r
e decent people, Elizabeth, but . . . ” Holly hesitated and seemed unable to continue.
“What,” Mrs Darcy, bewildered and exasperated to the point of anger, asked, looking at each person around the table in turn, “is wrong with the mummers of Lambton? “
“Madam.” Mr Darcy’s voice was tightly controlled. “The mummers of Lambton wear masks.”
“I am aware of that, Mr Darcy.” Mrs Darcy’s voice was equally measured.
“Only masks.”
“What?” Elizabeth’s eyes bulged. “Why that’s—no!” Then she leaned back in her chair and moved her piece of pie around her plate. “Well, I’ll ask them to . . . put on some clothes or something.”
“Madam. The mummers of Lambton are known far and wide for their performance of indecent verses on marriage—and the Doctor’s part is restorative not solely through his medicinal powers.”
“You mean Mr Derek . . . ?”
At this there was a strangled noise and the sudden and strange commotion where his lordship was still concentrating very intently on the food on his plate and that said plate was shoved around violently and a glass of wine toppled. The moment after that, his wife directed a warning look towards him followed by a jerking motion and he bowed over his displaced plate, hitting his shoulder on the table, causing it to rock as he put his hand under the table to rub his shin and loudly protest, “Ooww!”
“What?” asked Mrs Darcy.
“Elizabeth,” her cousin said, “perhaps you should . . . well, you could . . . maybe if someone talked to them . . . ”
But Elizabeth Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley, pulled up her handkerchief from her lap, pressed it over her mouth for a very long time and would not meet anyone’s eyes.
“You could have asked me,” her husband said.
At that, Mrs Darcy stood up and walked out of the room. Her husband watched her go, sent his friend a dangerous look and excused himself as well. Holly looked after them worriedly and then moved to her husband. He was sitting on his chair, shaking with unreleased laughter and pressing his fist against his mouth to contain himself.