B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  “Indeed, it is your neck. It is particularly strong and muscular,” she insisted. “See, I cannot get my two hands about it....”

  “You have uncommonly small hands. Besides, are not thick-necked men believed to be stupid?”

  Now a bit impatient that he did not see himself as did she, she argued, “That is thick-witted, thick-witted.”

  It was then that she realised he was repaying her tease.

  She then said, “Who would know the nature of your neck better than your wife?”

  He had no answer. Had he chosen to argue, he might have suggested that Goodwin (who saw to his shave every morn) knew his neck, but he did not care to further the discussion. Elizabeth, however, did want to further the point. Slipping into his lap, she pulled the end of his tie, loosening it. Turning back the collar a bit, she kissed him there.

  “The painting caught your image perfectly. Your strong chin, fine nose, beguiling eyes, and yes, your exceedingly handsome neck. It is remarkable for its strength.”

  Convinced of her sincerity, if not her facts, he whispered against her hair, “As you are disposed to vex your husband, I shall not deny you that pleasure.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You deny me nothing....”

  Their discourse that day had served several purposes. William’s miniature gave permanence to their lost son. Moreover, they spoke of their tragedy openly. The abyss of melancholy was avoided. Those obstacles, once so heavy with regret and pain, had been leapt passed within the confines of a few brief moments—and went unremarked upon.

  The outcome to this conversation followed the path of many before them. Verbal banter often led to more amorous inclinations. He did not, however, take her there in her dressing room. He took her in his arms and carried her to their bed. Pressing her back against the mattress, he interlaced his fingers in hers.

  It was not he, but his wife who bid, “Let us make a child tonight.”

  ———

  The afterglow of passion did not wane.

  Their steady attachment, of late a bit tremulous, was once again as it should be—solidified by love and consecrated with passion. However, he did not allow smugness to overcome good sense. His Elizabeth had returned to him, but he knew well that there was no armour against fate.

  Indeed, Death lays his icy hand on kings.

  Chapter 70

  Whot?

  Darcy’s response to Juliette’s importunacy that night in London was said as a question, but was offered more in the exclamatory.

  “Whot?” he repeated.

  Juliette had never seen him quite so ruffled. As expected, his immediate response had been to retreat into conspicuous decorum. It was imperative that she keep him engaged.

  “My design is impeccable,” she said hurriedly. “I have thought of nothing else.”

  Thrust and parry was essential in a seduction. Desperate straits demanded desperate moves. After so bold a move, she knew she must reveal acute vulnerability. Placing the back of her hand to her lips, she stifled what was nothing less than a mortified cry.

  He seemed unmoved, “Your suggestion is impossible. It is also, I might add, an insult to me as a gentleman.”

  Placing a restraining hand upon his forearm, she pointed out, “There are few true gentlemen in England.”

  “Be that as it may....” he replied.

  She hurried to coax him lest he withdraw from her compleatly.

  “Any number of noblisse would be déliriant to come to my bed. I ask you for this favour, for you have sired sons. If you open your heart to me in my hour of need, it would be without ensuing connection or regret.”

  His very masculine presence brought certain reminiscences to mind. Foremost amongst them was the pleasure by lying with a well-timbered man who knows how to wield his sword. It had been far too long....

  However, he did not appear to waver. His quaint notion of honour had always intrigued her.

  He sniffed, “Such a suggestion is not only impertinent; I question your sanity in asking it.”

  Launching her final volley, she said, “I am swept away by confuse and alarm! What am I to do? I must have a child, yet I cannot bear another stranger’s hands upon me. I would rather die!”

  Whilst she engaged in her entreaty, he leaned towards her. Was it compassion in his eyes? Or, pray, desire? She leaned towards him, her lips but inches from his.

  In one last gasp, she whispered, “I implore you. It would mean nothing to you, but everything to me.”

  Before her lips quite brushed his, he snaked one long arm around her and captured his hat.

  “I bid you adieu,” he said, opening the door.

  She grasped his sleeve, not to restrain, but to say, “Do not say farewell, but au revoir—until we meet again.”

  Then, he was gone.

  The brisk night infused with that of her carriage, but did not overwhelm the aroma he had left behind. She waited a moment. When he did not reappear, she told her driver to walk on.

  As the carriage lurched forward, she bethought her intrigue’s success. She refused to believe that her bid was a failure. To her mind, Darcy’s indignation was no higher than that of a virgin whose corset strings were fiddled with. He was in no way an impetuous man. (Was he, she had little doubt they would have consecrated the affair in her carriage.) She knew that he would brood upon the matter before deciding his course of action. She prayed that he would not contemplate the matter for long.

  Her great hope had been that she would secure him that very night. Her womb was ripe. It had been her certitude that once alone (truly alone), their prior connection could be reignited. However, were repeated couplings necessary, she would not object.

  Although she did not believe all was lost, to come so close to her quarry only have him elude her was a great disappointment. In truth, her pride had been sorely wounded that he had not leapt upon her at the first opportunity. She had been forced to prey upon his honour, their past intimacy, his pride, and promised no future inconvenience. Short of climbing into his bed, she had no notion of what more she could do.

  She knew one thing. It was not over.

  Chapter 71

  Closet Canoodle

  It was not life as it once was (for that could never be), but it was far better than it had been.

  Her husband’s gift was far beyond William’s remembrance. In its way, it bound them more firmly as a family. Once Elizabeth had made arrangements for Kimble to take likenesses of the twins, she placed William’s miniature lovingly away in the drawer next to Darcy’s. It was her design that neither be observed or damaged by other parties within their house—for Pemberley was often full of company.

  Worst of the lot was Lydia.

  Having not compleatly enjoyed Elizabeth’s company (nor squeezed a penny from her purse) at Longbourne, Lydia and her brood made a precipitous call on her at Pemberley. Elizabeth refused to be put in a pother, although Lydia did what she could to test her. Indeed, she arrived at the Darcys’ door complaining about her children and begging poverty. Even before they sat down to dinner, she began inveigling Mr. Darcy. She was determined to cajole him into loosening his grip on the monies he had set aside for her sons. When he refused her, she turned to Elizabeth. Both Darcys remained amiable, but steadfast, in their contention that the funds would not be touched until each of the boys had attained their majority.

  “But I need it now!” she whined.

  Elizabeth reminded her, “It is not yours, Lydia.”

  No matter how much money Elizabeth gave Lydia, it never quite found its way into serving her family’s wants and needs. Instead, it was laid out in payment to various dressmakers and corsetieres. Because of that, what Elizabeth did give Lydia was transferred directly to Major Kneebone. Knowing only of her fifty a year from her father, he had been appalled to learn that his wife applied to her more affluent sisters for more money. They could subsist quite handily upon his income. Regrettably, Kneebone seemed altogether lost as to how to please Lydia or bring her
to heel. Boyishly earnest in all things, Elizabeth could not help but pity the man. Her own husband was less sympathetic. Seeing a full grown man, an army officer, compleatly emasculated by his wife rendered Mr. Darcy quite without comment.

  There had been an unspoken agreement between Elizabeth and Jane to share the joy (and the burden) of family visits. When Jane had the questionable pleasure of a visit from Bingley’s sisters and their spouses, they were all invited to stay for a time at Pemberley as well. Lydia was also parcelled out in the same manner. Upon occasion, these visits overlapped. When they did, chaos reigned.

  Inevitably, Lydia’s sons ran wild. This kept Elizabeth on constant guard over not just the twins, but all of the other children. Lydia’s oldest boy, Georgie, had grown taller and meaner. He had been off at school, and his time out from under his mother’s ineffectual control merely coarsened his language and taught him crueller tricks. Elizabeth chose not to relate every trespass the boy committed to Darcy, lest her husband’s already poor opinion of Lydia’s family be forever compromised.

  To curtail Georgie’s mischief, Elizabeth installed her wiliest footmen in each of the children’s rooms. The boy did not hesitate to deliver a severe kick to the odd-man’s shin, thereupon running away from him and cackling like the devil’s spawn. Through a combination of threats and bribery (and once taking a good hold of the boy’s earlobe), Elizabeth managed to contain Georgie and his rampages to Pemberley’s top floor and the garden. When she learnt that he pulled up an entire bed of spring bulbs and flung them one by one at the dogs, she went looking for him.

  During this rigorous search, Elizabeth chanced upon some strange noises coming from a linen closet. Under the belief that she had found her culprit, she put her ear to the door. The voices within were not those of children. Indeed, it sounded as if something more amorous was at play. There were strict rules forbidding romantic associations between servants. The ash-boy and a young chambermaid had been exchanging glances for a fortnight. It was quite likely they were now exchanging kisses on the sly.

  Mrs. Darcy took a moment to decide whether to report the infraction to Mr. Howard. It was he who took care of such matters. Quite probably, the osculating couple would be dismissed. Hence, she decided to intervene instead. Young lovers should not to be immoderately censured. However, any young woman in Pemberley’s employ had to be protected. She would remind the two of that.

  Rapping lightly upon the door, she hoped not to startle, simply constrain, whatever was under way. Just as she placed her hand upon the doorknob, she recognized a very annoying laugh. In her disgust, Elizabeth flung open the door so soundly that the noise reverberated down the corridor. Astonishment flooded her senses, leaving her in speechless indignation.

  Half-dressed and giggling, Lydia and Sir Winton Beecher were in a most compromising position. More specifically, Lydia had a leg around Beecher’s bulging corset and his nose had been buried in her bosom. When startled, he looked up, exposing Lydia’s breasts (which looked then like two collops of rolled bread ready for the oven). Elizabeth instantly concluded both would do well to leave off desserts for the foreseeable future. When Lydia saw her sister’s horrified expression, she was not chastened. Rather, she began to guffaw. Making no attempt to curb her laughter, every peal grew louder and louder.

  “Hush yourself, Lydia!” demanded Elizabeth, “You sound like a village Neddy!”

  To quiet the duo lest every one in the house learnt of their misconduct, Elizabeth closed the door. Rightfully, she harboured the belief that they would clothe themselves. After all, spouses and children were all about. Indeed, Elizabeth heard rustling of clothing and then, she was quite certain, another round of lurid moans. Affronted, she listened again and heard more kissing. With her ear pressed against the door, an enormous clamour erupted from within. Aghast, she flung open the door only to discover, not only had they not repaired themselves, they had broken a shelf.

  Huffy as the second cook at Tuesday lunch, Elizabeth found herself wagging her finger at them.

  “I am shocked, Lydia! How dare you defile my home with such indecency?”

  A long-held apprehension had suddenly came to Elizabeth. The night of the Pemberley ball—it must have been Lydia! It was Lydia who scurried across the lawn to Beecher’s coach that night. Had they been conducting themselves adulterously since then? She dared not imagine. Mrs. Darcy had never been troubled by a tendency to swoon. However, light-headedness overtook her, sending her stumbling backward.

  Lydia snorted another laugh, but this time her sister’s expression seemed to curb her. She pressed her fist against her lips to stop herself. Regrettably, she did not silence herself before Major Kneebone heard the commotion. He arrived thither, just in time to catch the lovers still engaged within the closet. Seeing his wife in a state of undress, the full brunt of the situation hit Kneebone and he made a grab for where his sword might have hung had he been in full uniform.

  Beecher (taking the premise that the best defence was a good offensive strike) roared, “What is this disturbance! Leave us be! I demand it!”

  “Unhand her man, lest I run you through,” Kneebone demanded impotently.

  “Ha!” laughed Beecher.

  Lydia sniggered, “Oh, boo, Hughie, you haven’t your sword. How shall you run anyone through with your watch?”

  Propitiously, Elizabeth had regained her head, for the commotion caused all the children to come running to see what the matter was. With Beecher and Lydia in an undressed state, she knew the older children might deduce the indecorous doings. Moreover, none of the children needed to hear the threats to life and limb.

  With Lydia unrepentant, Kneebone saw no course to regain his honour but to call Beecher out.

  He said, “I shall see you at dawn. Name your weapon!”

  “Hush up, you two,” hissed Elizabeth.

  Both disgusted beyond measure and determined to keep the children out of it, she put out her hands to corral them and called for help. In consequence, nurses, footmen, and the limping odd-man were right on the children’s heels. That was, of course, a double-edged sword. If the children were unmindful of the lascivious juxtaposing of the half-naked bodies within the closet, the servants were not. Elizabeth did her best to curb the madness, nonetheless.

  Once maids and offspring were soothed and back up the hallway, Elizabeth turned her wrath upon the adults.

  “I am sickened and astonished at you all. Major Kneebone, I understand your outrage, but I cannot condone talk of violent retribution in this house.”

  Pushing him off down the hall, she turned to Lydia who seemed not quite so amused as she had been.

  “Lydia, I wish I could say I am shocked, but indeed, I am hardly so.”

  Turning to Beecher who was hastily struggling into his breeches, she advised, “You sir, are no gentleman and my husband shall speak to you of it. However, it is my considered opinion that you not engage in another duel. For, if we are to predict the outcome of this one by your last, you have more to lose than your standing.”

  With stately precision, Elizabeth left them to their folly.

  Marching down the hallway, she repaired to her dressing room to collect herself. Directly, Mr. Darcy learnt of the unseemly doings and came to find his wife. She appeared pale. Indeed, she was still trembling with anger.

  “Pray, are you unwell?”

  She smiled weakly and shook her head. He encouraged her to move aside so he could perch next to her on the chaise. First pressing the back of his fingers to her forehead, he then clasped her hand. Tenderly, he reached out and brushed her hair from her forehead.

  She insisted, “I am merely vexed at the unseemliness to which our family has been subjected. No doubt my hair is quite out of curl because of it....”

  It was well and good that Mr. Darcy came to his wife’s side before addressing those person’s responsible for her distress. Had he not, his wrath would have been fully employed (and more than mere recriminations might have been committed by the mas
ter of the house). He could barely contain his anger as it was. It was reprehensible to him that his wife was forced to not only witness such a lewd activity, but she also had to intervene. Upon this occasion, his mask of impassiveness forsook him entirely. Although he spoke softly, his ire was quite obvious. She patted his hand.

  “I am certain at any moment my sister shall be here to beg my forgiveness,” she said—only half in jest.

  “Shall you give it?”

  “Not until she makes a better show at Sunday services.”

  If he hoped to ascertain whether her upset had passed by surreptitiously feeling her pulse, she was not fooled.

  Said she, “I am quite well. You should know that I am of hardier stock than that.”