“Hold up there, Major General. I did not think you drank all that much last night. The rest of us should be the unsteady ones. Personally, I wish someone would take pity and darken the sun.”
Randall noted Darcy’s pained grimace, collecting himself with a shake that Darcy again concluded was the by-product of excessive carousing.
The day passed in sedate activities. Most of the men were recuperating from varying degrees of indisposition as a result of their public house revelry so did not leave the drapery drawn rooms. The ladies embarked upon one long walk with the children scampering alongside, but also spent a fair portion of the afternoon chatting as they lounged in the spacious parlor. Disappearances in the latter hours of the afternoon were mostly for rejuvenating naps, Kitty especially needing to regain her strength for what she hoped was a second long night of passion.
She and Randall finagled a few minutes of alone time, both of them suffering acutely with the need to touch and kiss. By that evening, when the wedding party gathered in the Netherfield parlor awaiting the announcement for dinner, he could barely stand straight due to the churning sea of ardor wrecking havoc on his insides. But having his fiancée clutching his left arm and agreeably plastered against his side was wonderful in its own way. Plus, he was momentarily content to be surrounded by her family.
He was familiar with enormous family gatherings and delighted in the pleasing atmosphere of community and love prevailing even in this mixed group. This assembly, although reminiscent of the boisterous Artois collectives with all seventeen of his nieces and nephews loudly playing and dashing underfoot while the adults engaged in vibrant conversation, was far more refined.
There were children, but only five of them. Ethan Bingley, Alexander Darcy, and Hugh Pomeroy sat in the corner rolling a ball back and forth. They were under the watchful eye of Mrs. Geer, who held fourteen-month-old Deborah Daniels on her lap while the toddler avidly observed the boys at play. Harry Pomeroy, the eldest son of Lady Simone Fitzwilliam, was content as retriever for the frequent wayward ball, smiling and only slightly bossy in his instructions for proper ball aiming. The babies, Michael Darcy and Claudia Daniels, remained in the nursery with Mrs. Hanford.
The adults were scattered about the room, standing and sitting, but in a rough circle that focused on the centrally located sofas and chairs. Talk was animated and filled with laughter, but with an air of restraint and formality that was lacking with the Artois crowd. The event which brought them all to this place at this time may be the upcoming wedding of Major General Randall Artois and Miss Kitty Bennet, but for the present, the prime topic of conversation was the adventures of the Continental travelers.
“I know I could not definitively appoint a particular event or place as number one on a list of favorites,” Georgiana spoke in her cultured tones. “The list of museums, fabulous gardens, beautiful castles and chateaus, picturesque rivers and lakes would be unending, I am certain, with a dozen fighting to inhabit the top five and none prevailing!”
“It becomes rather muddled after a time, does it not, Georgiana?” Lady Simone asked with a laugh.
“Indeed it does,” Lady Matlock agreed, “and I have toured the various towns of Europe several times in my life. Perhaps that is why I now delight in visiting relatives and friends while on holiday abroad, as another garden or opera house is likely to overwhelm the cluttered section of my brain that stores such information.”
“Personally I was content to stay in France, especially Paris,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected. “It was wondrous to walk the streets so radically altered since I last walked them in the immediate aftermath of the war. There is yet a great deal of unrest and disquiet, but Louis XVIII and his Bourbon restorationists are establishing order and a functional constitution. Decazes is managing capably with a moderate approach that appears to please the populace, for the most part.”
“Frankly I grew tired of the discussions. French politics are messy and boring since none can agree, and most revel in the argument with no true desire to conclude,” Lord Matlock rumbled from his chair. “But then, that is the definition of all politics, post-Revolution France or England.”
Laughter and nodding met that statement, Lady Matlock patting her spouse’s hand as she spoke. “Precisely why we should let the topic drop for the present. I can debate politics when in the mood as ably as you, my lord husband, but would rather not do so now.”
“As you wisely wish, Mother.” Richard inclined his head in respect to his parents before turning a mischievous eye back toward Georgiana. “So, fair cousin, claiming a favorite may be impossible, but surely Paris itself stole your heart more than the other great cities?”
“Indeed it did,” she replied levelly, only a hint of rosiness touching her cheeks. “The Conservatoire alone was adequate to cement love of Paris within my heart. However, Rome, Milan, and Florence equally intrigued. And not only for their beauty in landscape and music, as I discovered a surprising interest in the history.” She smiled toward her brother, teasing as she continued. “You may be shocked, dear brother, that your lengthy discourses on ruins did penetrate my stubborn skull. Imagine my own amazement when the commentaries of the tour guides resonated and piqued my attention! There I was climbing over crumbled medieval remains searching for clues to the past.”
Darcy laughed, bowing in mock approbation. Bingley visibly shuddered and groaned, speaking with exaggerated relief. “Thank goodness for miracles! Now you can haul your wife and sister on your excursions over dusty, moldy ruins and never pester me.”
“It is a promise, Bingley. You are safe from here on.”
“Well, I cannot claim that to be my favorite part, but it was not as painful as imagined, unless you count poor Uncle’s sore feet.”
“Not to worry, Georgiana dear. It was nothing days of languishing by the fire with a brandy in hand did not cure,” Lord Matlock assured. “Personally, I would rather traverse over cultured lawns and well-tended pathways, such as the Borghese gardens. Hours in the serene atmosphere of the vivarium healed every ache.”
“William, the Galleria Borghese was everything you declared it to be. I spent countless hours wandering the rooms, gazing in awe. We visited often, and it is not that large a museum compared to the Louvre especially, yet I failed in assimilating the full wealth of art and beauty. It touched me so.” Georgiana shook her head, clasping Lizzy’s hand. “Oh, Lizzy! You would have loved it! I thought of you so often. The gardens would have overwhelmed you.”
“Indeed,” Darcy offered, “the gardens are astounding and I daresay put Mr. Clark to shame. However, it is the marbles that I would most adore sharing with my wife. Bernini’s works alone are worth the trip. My grandfather acquired one of his pieces, but I was not so fortunate when I traveled to Rome.”
“I refuse to lament what I was unable to view,” Lizzy said with a laugh. “I struggled with absorbing all the wonders I was gifted to canvass, much of the journey yet dreamlike, so am relieved to stage it gradually over my life.”
“If you two can manage to space out the task of creating inhabitants for every empty bedchamber in Pemberley, you may be able to arrange another trip before the sculptures erode into dust, or whatever happens to marble.”
“I believe, my dearest, that marble is nearly indestructible,” Simone chastised her husband, Colonel Fitzwilliam winking at a blushing Lizzy before smirking at his expressionless cousin.
Lady Matlock smoothly intervened. “I delighted most in the gardens, I must confess. It was a popular locale for artists. The landscape and architecture offered an endless opportunity for sketching.”
“Quite true. An additional trunk was required to haul the creations home.”
“As if you were not delighted by Aunt’s drawings, Uncle. Raved on and on, rightfully so.”
“You do have an astounding talent, Lady Matlock, and I have not forgotten that you promised the Rotunda to me.”
“Nor have I, Simone. As soon as it is framed, it is yours.”
“The little ponds, rivers, and impressive lakes were arguably everywhere. I always thought of you, dear sister.” Georgiana again squeezed Lizzy’s hand. “I know how you adore the water.”
“Adore?” Mrs. Bennet interjected with a nervous flutter. “One would think you half fish the way you immersed yourself in the pond every chance you got. Clumsy, Mr. Bennet would insist to help you avoid the thrashing you deserved, but I never believed that!”
“Indeed I was awkward and clumsy, Mama, as Papa declared. Never as graceful as other Bennet sisters I could name.” Lizzy glanced to Jane, who blushed. “However, when it came to the pond it was simple rationality. It was hot and the water cools. Plus, it is fun to float and swim.”
“We have a large pond near our family home in Berkshire,” Major General Artois offered. “Two of my sisters were ‘fish’ same as you, Mrs. Darcy. They are both married with children now, but I am certain if possible would yet be daily swimming.”
“And why should they not?” George Darcy asked. “Ridiculous notion. Sea bathing is acceptable, why not jumping naked into a lake as men do?”
“Gracious!” Mrs. Bennet murmured with a vigorous wave of her fan.
But Lizzy laughed aloud. “Oh, do not fear, Uncle! Not all ladies are as prim as you imagine. Let us merely say that Rowan Lake has been utilized from time to time, although I shall not elaborate on the bathing attire.” Laughter rang out all around, even Darcy smiling at his wife’s jest.
“Aunt Giana?” Alexander appeared at Georgiana’s knees, arms extended. She gathered him into her embrace, nestling him onto her lap with a soft kiss on his crown.
Darcy’s smile widened, voice tender as he spoke. “Did you practice your painting as well, Georgiana?”
“Sporadically. You know I am not so proficient or enamored with painting. Aunt taught me some and I did improve, but music was what drew me most.” Her eyes grew dreamy. “The wealth of styles and compositions, arrays of instruments and grand orchestras, all unlike anything I have ever heard.” She sighed, “It was wonderful.”
“Georgiana paints beautifully,” Lady Simone said. “But I believe her greatest advancement was in playing and in composing. You will be impressed, Mr. Darcy, at the music she has written.”
“Indeed I know I shall. You must share your new compositions with us, Georgiana.”
Georgiana hid her rosy cheeks in Alexander’s curls. “I wrote nothing spectacular. Where some are inspired by nature to draw or paint, I was inspired to compose. But my skill is infantile compared to most.”
“Georgiana is modest. Mr. Butler found your compositions impressive, and that is high praise indeed,” Lady Matlock noted, turning the conversation smoothly away at that point, no one but Lizzy noting the increased color to her new sister’s cheeks at the mention of the young grandson of Lady Warrow.
The effect of Georgiana’s eight months abroad with culture and Society at its finest surrounding her at every turn was evident, even to Major General Artois who previously had limited exposure to Miss Darcy. He glanced about the room, studying the occupants with a keen eye. He found the differing characters and stations intriguing, familiar, and amusing.
His immediate family was much like the Bennets. Comprised of gentleman stock with a long history of prestige through military achievements with a historical host of field marshals and generals heading the ancestral corps of lesser ranks, they possessed modest familial estates scattered throughout the southern regions of England and were all blessed with incomes and inheritances above sufficient if not grand. The casual upbringing, middling finances, and gritty occupation made for a family that was broad-minded and somewhat boisterous.
Nevertheless, he also belonged to an extended family of extreme wealth and high social class. A number of titled gentry graced the secondary and tertiary branches of the Artois tree, capping it all with a great-uncle who was a duke. This, coupled with the strict discipline of the Royal British Army, meant that even the humble members could blend into any social situation capably.
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were precisely akin to a couple of his retired military uncles and their wives. Now dwelling at and managing the family estates, they were simple folk who loved the land they had given so much to protect. Mr. and Mrs. Daniels were like a few cousins, and also his youngest brother, Reginald, who were content to be clerks or serve in other noncommissioned capacities.
Mr. Darcy, although far younger, reminded him greatly of his father. General Artois was tall, brawny, and unbending. Unlike all but one of his sons, Randall’s eldest brother, Roderick, General Artois seemed physically unable to relax his ingrained military demeanor. Yet he was wry and witty, his humor and empathy emerging through the regulated discipline so that even his numerous grandchildren knew he was lovable.
The other six Artois offspring were universally ebullient with emotions worn on their sleeves. This fact was primarily why his brother Roland had gravitated toward Richard Fitzwilliam during Academy, the two developing a tight friendship that more often than not lead to rabble-rousing and activities best left omitted from polite conversation! It was also why Randall meshed with the natural gaiety that ruled his fiancée’s relatives. Lord and Lady Matlock, and the widowed wife of the famous Lord Fotherby, were warm in their formality, teasing and laughing frequently. It was an altogether pleasing assembly, and he accepted the situation with his inborn peaceful assurance that it was meant to be. He looked down at Kitty, meeting her eyes and squeezing the hands resting so lovingly on his arm, contentment wrapping his soul.
Later, he would wonder if it was a divine warning of events to come, but at the time Randall merely thought it odd that in the midst of his happiness he reacted so strongly to the interruption. Yet, the instant he heard the raised voice in the outer corridor, before the words consciously registered, his instincts prevailed.
“I tell you we are expected! We are family and do not need to be announced!”
The indignant exclamation rang through the open door, the Major General stiffening before the first words were released. Impulsively, he nudged Kitty away from his side, turning his body toward the door and in front of her while his left arm shot out as a barrier before her to shield. Simultaneously, his right hand swung about in a flash to grasp the hilt of the sword that normally would be hanging on his hip. He squelched the curse that threatened to pass his lips at the realization that, in this setting of familial felicity, he was not armed. He had no time to experience embarrassment at his reflexive response due to the palpable tension that invaded the room when the visitors revealed themselves.
The owner of the brash voice was a young woman dressed in a revealing gown of a fashionable style. She wore a feathered hat cocked to one side, with her brown hair curled becomingly and framing a pretty face. Rouged cheeks and painted lips lent an air of maturity to what was obviously a young face devoid of intelligence or wisdom. All of this the trained military man concluded in less than a second—observing, categorizing, deducing, and dismissing her as not the cause of his hackles being raised.
Rather, that came from the man who trailed behind her. He traveled in her wake but strode into the room as if he owned it. Of medium height, slender-framed with a small paunch, dark blonde hair stylishly cut and curled, and dressed in a fine suit of beige wool, he swaggered in and swept the room with dark blue eyes inundated with condescension. His face was handsome but arrogant, and with a lewd sensuality inherent in the set of his full lips and half-lidded eyes. His gaze rested on Randall, noting the mass of medals and ribbons on the officer’s chest and the rank insignia on his collar before lifting to meet the older man’s return inspection. Steely black eyes pierced the blue ones that momentarily lost their haughtiness to flickers of fear. Randall noted the unease and foolishness behind the bluster in the younger man’s gaze before the haughty survey moved on to inventory each occupant of the room.
“Mama! Papa! Oh! You are all here!” The woman clapped her hands, rushing toward Mrs. Bennet, who had already r
ose.
“My Lydia! My baby!!” Mrs. Bennet sobbed, embracing her youngest daughter. “We did not know when to expect you! Oh, Mr. Bennet! Is it not marvelous?”
“I could wait no longer, Mama. I told my Wickham we needed to make haste. We only tarried at Longbourn, briefly, so I could freshen up. I wanted you to see me looking my best! Is not this dress divine? And my hat? I told this servant here that we were expected and welcome. Such impertinence treating us so! Oh, Kitty! Look at you all grown up and getting married! An officer too. Well done, Sister, ranked higher than my dear Wickham, but I shall not be jealous! Papa! Have you missed me? I have missed you so. Devon is such a dreadfully long way away. Such a horrid journey it was, and you would not believe what we had to pay to have the coach take us out to Longbourn! As if it is so far away from the Meryton Station! Nonsense! And then we had to wait until Mr. Hill hitched the phaeton, I hope you do not mind, Papa, but I could not walk all this way! We were afraid we would miss dinner. But we clearly did not!”
Lydia Wickham’s voice pierced the abrupt quiet that had fallen. She appeared utterly unaware of the taut atmosphere as she chattered in an endless stream. Mr. Bennet joined his wife and daughter, embracing and attempting to insert normalcy into the situation. Richard’s sunny expression settled into the rarely seen commanding mien of a colonel. Darcy’s neutral face held except for a fleeting clench of his jaw and frigid iciness infusing his eyes. Dr. Darcy’s countenance assumed an identical pose as his nephew’s, Randall momentarily interrupting his appraisal of the overall scene to register how strange it was to see anything other than gay animation on the physician’s face.
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