“Pray have more dressing gowns made, have a dozen. I believe we can bear the expense.”
That was hardly the point. Some caprices men did not comprehend. With a merry tone to her voice, she said, “Whilst you were detained upon the Continent, your wife cared not to employ a seamstress. She was far too enormous for a bolt of patterned fabric to cover.”
“You were not,” he said mildly.
“I beg otherwise. There was a fine bolt of Madras, but we had to save it for the draperies. My amplitude was enough to tempt an eastern potentate. I am astonished one did not hear of me and arrive at the gates of Pemberley atop his elephant.”
“I am not at all certain potentates ride elephants,” he said dryly.
She ignored him, claiming, “Thereinafter, I was as large as a wash tub—or perchance yon dresser. I told Jane to throw a table scarf across me and be done with it.”
“I am sorry in all ways I was not here to witness that,” he replied.
“There would not be enough room in this bed for the both of us.”
“No?”
He had always been entertained by her wit. It was appreciated then more than before, for it was a far greater pleasure to think upon that perilous time with humour than the alternative. He spied a silver box in her hands.
“What have you there?”
“This contains my dearest treasures.”
When she opened it, he observed that it held several cuttings of hair. All three were different shades of brown and tied with different coloured ribbons. He held out his hand and she laid two locks of hair across his palm. Seeing the ribbons, one pink and one blue, he presumed them to be locks of their children’s hair. Another lock was still in the box. It had a dark blue ribbon attached.
“What is that one there?”
“That one is yours,” she smiled. “I had Goodwin collect your hair trimmings for me.”
His brow furrowed.
She held it up admiringly, “It is of uncommon length because it was gathered after your sojourn across the water. Your hair hung below your collar....”
He remarked, “I had no notion....”
“I assure you that you looked quite dashing,” she said.
Also in the box was a single ribbon. It was from the first gift he had given her. She had treasured it for one reason alone—the bow was so badly done that she had known that he had tied it himself. She did not show him that. He was gazing upon her and her box with adoration (albeit a trifle indulgently) and he might not be so pleased to be the object of a condescension himself.
When he finally inquired why she kept the box so near, she said simply, “I take comfort in it.”
He was happy to look upon her whimsies as just that and ignored her sudden penchant for sleeping with an old shirt of his clasped tightly in her fist. It was still a mystery as to why she clung to that particular shirt. It was spun of the softest gauze, to be sure. But it had been stained with sweat and dirt from a day he spent in the saddle. She was of fastidious habits; therefore the reason for the shirt was just as capricious as the robe. It was not for a husband to wonder what fancy pleases a woman when with child. If such small rebellions provided her comfort, he was happy of it.
———
Observing Mr. Darcy’s quizzical looks and mystified expression over his wife’s odd predilections, Hannah was not disposed to intercede. But when a specific opportunity bechanced, she decided to try to tell the master what her mistress could not.
It came about because Mr. Darcy happened to come into the bedchamber as Hannah was rescuing those very garments. She wanted to retrieve them before the chambermaids changed the bedclothes. Hannah heard Mr. Darcy’s boots and glanced behind her to make certain it was he who had entered before she spoke. Her manner was light and, at first, Mr. Darcy did not know that the maid spoke to him.
Then he did.
She said, “I fancy it’s an odd thing to those who were not here for my lady’s last confinement. For me, I was I here and I knew. From the very first, it was. She wore that dirty shirt every night. She found it kicked under the bed the day the master took his leave and put it on. Goodwin wanted it washed, but she wouldn’t have it. She wore it every night—for you see, she had only that.”
Humming a vaguely familiar tune, Hannah took the treasured shirt and robe to be put away. Mr. Darcy did not turn to observe Hannah take her leave, nor did she dare take measure of his reaction. She knew what she said was for the best and was content to have done it. Her thoughts had already turned to Goodwin, for he disliked Hannah having say over Mr. Darcy’s robe. She smiled knowing that until the end of Mrs. Darcy’s pregnancy she had the whip hand over Goodwin in at least one matter. That pleased her to no end.
Hannah was on her way to other chores and Darcy stood still as a statue.
He had come thither to the bedchamber looking for... he had forgotten why he had come. Hannah’s words hung in air, rung in the air, wrenching his heart.
“She had only that.”
Chapter 27
Love’s Labour
Jane and Bingley rarely disagreed. The greatest peturbment of Jane’s marriage was that her beloved Charles hid his looming financial disaster from her, thereby not allowing her to solace him properly in his many hours of distress.
She would never accuse him of mishandling his fortune, for she loved him far too much.
Happy once again, Georgiana, Jane, and Elizabeth were pleased to share companionship. They chirped of their children’s newest feats, knitted stockings, and ruched little bonnets whilst commiserating Elizabeth’s pregnancy. They were not dunces, however, and upon occasion they spoke of what went on beyond the parameters of their own contented households. No one actually recalled how it came into the conversation, but it was Elizabeth’s particular recollection that it was all Georgiana’s doing.
Bingley had gradually gathered himself from financial reverses, in part by retaining interest in a number of coal mines. During Georgiana’s time spent bringing remedies to the ill and foodstuffs to the poor, she saw a great deal more of the land and its inhabitants than most gentlewomen. She had travelled to Matlock and the coal and limestone mines beyond. With two small girls, she still no longer went thither regularly, but was kept apprised of the doings of those families who had enjoyed her assistance. She was alarmed by what she had learnt.
“The most distressing information has come to me,” Georgiana said. “In our very county of Derbyshire, heartless mine owners employ poor, pitiful ponies to haul the coal. They are kept in stables beneath the ground. They never see the light of day and often go blind.”
“How ghastly!” said Jane.
“Pray tell, are you not pleased that my brother has closed what mines existed upon Pemberley?” Georgiana asked Elizabeth.
The closures had occurred prior to their marriage. Therefore, Elizabeth had no comment. She knew, however, in all things he did as at his own character demanded.
Jane said, “Charles has maintained his mines. He says that in these hard times he must, for every mine supports a hundred families.”
Georgiana responded, “Herein lies the issue. The men are there by choice—not a handsome choice, I agree—but of their own volition. These pit-ponies have no say in their fate.”
“It could not be,” insisted Jane. “Certainly not at Stavely. Charles would not stand for such cruelty. He is far too kind.”
Indeed, Bingley was a kind man. However, against Darcy’s advice, he continued to lease his mines through partnerships of mineral agents. Bingley’s land was not family land and he was far happier seeing to his race horses than those poor animals labouring beyond his seeing. Jane promised to speak to Bingley of it, knowing he would see that misuse was stopped. When she did, Bingley patted her hand and said he would look into it when next he went to Stavely. As he had never been to Stavely, his pledge remained unfulfilled.
Although Fitzwilliam was aware of his wife’s abhorrence of the plight of the ponies, he owned no mines and
was therefore in no position to aid them. Georgiana had proven herself to be a young woman of considerable self-will (some accused wilful). Hence, she went to her brother with a proposal—one that left Darcy aghast. He flatly refused her request.
He blustered, “I shall not pledge your inheritance towards freeing these horses....”
“Ponies,” she interrupted.
“Be they ponies or horses, their ill-treatment would be as abominable. I shall do nothing that would endanger your daughter’s legacy.”
Unused to her brother denying her, Georgiana blinked several times. Darcy knew that was not a good sign. It was imperative that he step in lest she do something rash. Through the travails of war he had come to understand that she was not to be easily thwarted.
“I shall buy the ponies from the mines,” she announced.
“They shall only be replaced. If you shall allow me, I shall make inquiries as to what might be done to improve matters.”
His pledge was far more reliable than was Bingley’s.
Whilst having his solicitor look into the situation, Darcy saw to his wife and their coming child. Elizabeth’s ever-increasing girth was becoming unmanageable.
Indeed, with every passing month, Elizabeth was less and less certain her pregnancy would be single birth. (That concern she kept to herself.) Because she regaled him with jollities about her bulk, he knew that he must laugh with her. Her belly had been a goodly size with the child they lost; thus it was difficult for him to imagine how she could have possibly carried two. Their first child had been breech—and large as well. That still plagued his mind unremittingly.
He saw that as his fault alone. The sire was more important when it came to conformation. He was tall and broad shouldered. It was he who had the length of leg; Elizabeth was surprisingly small-boned. After the stillbirth, he had castigated himself relentlessly for impregnating her with a child too large for her to deliver safely. He did not see himself as he was—a finely-chiselled patrician, but a brute of a man whose wife suffered bearing his issue. Try as he might, he could not keep those thoughts from invading his mind again.
Or worse—what if she was to have three babes? He had heard of it. Good God in heaven, say not.
Elizabeth alone recognised the subtle signs announcing that his apprehensions ran amok. Rather than unrestrained, he became just a little more reserved, his features more composed, and his posture more in check. He smiled but little and every time he looked at her, a crease furrowed his brow. She did what she could to divert him by jesting again over her size.
“I could not see my feet and dared not take the stairs without a hand to guide me,” she laughed. “When I walked in the garden, I waddled so convincingly that a trail of ducklings followed behind.”
He smiled dutifully, but remained discomposed. She had expected that he would worry. She had been right to delay as long as possible informing him of the coming blessed event. Nonetheless, she was quite content for him to guide her down the stairs when she became unsteady and was beside herself with gratitude when he rubbed her feet.
“My toes are the size of sausages. How can you even want me again?” she moaned. “In your minds eye I shall forever be a snuffling pig....”
“On this, you must trust me, my love. I shall always want you.”
As they took their tea before the fire, Darcy’s attention was upon his paper. Elizabeth sighed. The sigh was such that he continued to read the same line again and again.
“This child is likely to be a bit of a rogue,” she said. “He is putting up quite a fuss.”
Glancing at her, he could not disguise his concern. Seeing that, she hastily altered the conversation.
“Of course it is entirely possible that I suffer doubly. Four feet may be vexing me, not two.”
He sniffed, “Do not imagine for a moment I find such talk amusing, Mrs. Darcy.”
“Imagine, sir, what acclaim you shall have. Two sets of twins—or perhaps a set of three! The king may give you a knighthood and the scholars shall insist you pen a book.”
“I do not have the pleasure of hearing a word you say,” he said placidly.
“Neither of us have any say in it now,” she reminded him. “The seed, so to speak, has been sown.”
Putting down his paper, he turned to offer a drollery when he saw that she had lost her colour. He was at her side ere she could assure him all was well.
“Just a twinge,” she insisted.
Chapter 28
The Politics of the Blind
When the invitation arrived announcing the ball at Pemberley, Henry Howgrave had been exceedingly delighted to accept. It would be the perfect opportunity to make a grand return to those hallowed halls (the scene of his most ignominious humiliation) as the conquering hero, sporting a knighthood, a considerable fortune, unrivalled fame, and an exquisitely handsome wife (the finest his money could buy him). Everyone in the county would envy him for it all.
The embarrassment he had suffered at Darcy’s hands so long ago had been nurtured into a certain kind of hate. Howgrave had partially revenged himself when Darcy came to him (came to him) in London for assistance with his friend Bingley’s financial reverses.
Of course Howgrave had acquiesced. He was happy to have Mr. Darcy indebted to him. Such a man would be a valuable associate (and source of funding) in his political pursuits.
Howgrave’s return to Pemberley had been as triumphant as it was short-lived. Ere the month was out, he was once again desperate for additional backers and their money. It was necessary for him to pad his corner. One could not stand on one’s honours. A man of vision had to hold to one’s guns, eagre for the next battle before the fires from the first one had yet been put out. With talk of insurgency, those in power were desperate to stay there. In his heart, Howgrave did not give a flea’s ass about mechanisation and job loss. The necessitous charity children were the worry of privately funded almshouses. His interest lay in the men who could ensure that he keep his dominance.
Certain smoke-filled dens were alive with political upheaval. The smallest wrong word and a gentleman would be labelled a revolutionary. That equalled political catastrophe. It should have been no surprise that to relieve the anxiety consequential to such havoc, he had no choice but to debase himself sexually with his wife.
Whilst enduring the whip, his dear wife continued to be an asset to his office. The ball at Pemberley had proved her worth in the hinterlands. He had befriended a dozen men that night, landed gentlemen who would be of good cheer when it came to financial support.
Sides were easily identified. Reactionaries bought good wine. Civil libertarians bought ale. Of the two, the radicals certainly sold more newsprint. Rabble-rousers inciting riots stirred blood on both sides. They were often of the Methodist persuasion. A courtesan of the highest order, Juliette was witting of the prevailing politics. She haughtily foretold that Utilitarianism would not become law—for it did not side against man’s vices.
Of late, his dear wife had begun to drag her tiny slippers when it came to accompanying him to his speeches. When Howgrave announced that he was to speak once again at The Marylebone Reading Society, she begged another engagement.
“Heaven forbid! They discuss political pamphlets!” she complained.
Once his office was secured, her distaste for politics had waned in direct proportion with the press’s interest in her. This displeased him. His hand circled her arm just above the elbow firmly enough to convince her that she was happy to join him. She might have objected further, but he had lured her felicity by promising Rowlandson would be there taking likenesses for his popular caricatures. They were particularly cutting to Howgrave, but one could not ignore publicity no matter how denigrating.
Once again, Juliette did her part (indeed, Rowlandson’s likeness of her was quite complimentary), but Howgrave was not above reminding his dear wife of what they both knew—her bargain was not compleat until she produced an heir.
When he acquired her, there had
been whispers that she was older than she had admitted. But Howgrave did not doubt his own eye. Her skin was dewy as the morn. He had no illusions in regards to his wife’s honour, she was a courtesan. Every man of station in London knew of her, she was possibly the most singular woman in England. That was her cachet. She was a woman of accommodating morals, but an excellent one.
If he found out that she had lied to him in relation to something of such great importance as her childbearing capacity, a carriage whip was not the only thing he would administer against her lovely, white flesh. (Just thinking of it, a small bit of spit accumulated in the corner of his mouth.) He did not need to remind her of her duty. She knew it inherently. Her unhappiness was disguised as indifference, which was exhibited repeatedly by a stifled yawn. When her husband orated, however, all demeaning gestures were kept hidden behind her heavily-decorated fan.
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