by J. L. Ashton
Darcy appeared perplexed. The colonel quickly drained his tea.
“Mr. Darcy’s fondest wish was that Fitzwilliam’s future wife and children would be portrayed in the Darcy family tradition. He desired to ensure that, no matter the bride, her likeness in the public galleries and private family rooms would be a perfect match with previous generations.
“As I am that fortunate bride, I applaud Mr. Darcy’s foresight and can only regret that I shall not know him.” Elizabeth gave her intended a fond look and picked up her teacup. “I believe Thomas Lawrence has the family commission.”
Richard guffawed and breathed a quiet, “Bravo.”
Darcy smiled and nodded at his betrothed’s clever prevarication.
Anne sighed. “Oh my, that is just like Uncle Darcy. He always was taking care of his duties and worrying for society’s expectations. Just like his son—until you, my dear.” She shrugged. “I will remain my husband’s artful captive. He is a master of miniatures as well. Our babe will be well documented as he or she traverses the early months and busy years.”
Peregrine nodded, looking at Elizabeth sadly but intently, as though committing her features to memory.
“Yes, Lawrence has, as always, been commissioned,” Darcy said in a firm voice. “Dumfries…” He waited until the man met his eyes. “Make no mistake; you have great talent with your brush. However, I do not wish to hear from your steward—who remains under my employ—or from anyone else that my wife has been ‘captured’ in the same manner as you have captured yours. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes,” Richard growled. “Do we?”
The colonel was no artist and had little familiarity with oils and powders and colours. But he did rather appreciate the peculiar shade of ashen grey that spread across the face of Peregrine Dumfries as he nodded his acquiescence.
***
As the day wore on, Rosings’s mistress, the once-thought-promised-and-then-thought-dead Anne, proved more interesting to the always-curious Elizabeth. Darcy and Richard spoke of her as she was before her marriage, but as Elizabeth could only judge her on the after, she was pleased by her soon-to-be cousin. Years ago, she had heard her mother’s friends mention a girl about to wed a ne’er-do-well; they had said she would be “the making of the man.” Over tea and then over dinner, she had gazed upon the merry couple, clearly besotted and clearly unconcerned with behaving in company according to society’s expectations or propriety, and she felt they had found a perfect match in each other. The Dumfries were not an easy pair to observe in any serious manner, but they were well suited.
Not everyone could take Elizabeth’s point of view. Her family arrived and were awed by Rosings but unprepared for its master and mistress. Darcy was chagrined. Mrs. Bennet was flustered. Mr. Bennet was amused. Jane remained pink-cheeked throughout the evening. Kitty was fascinated by the artist and his muse. Lydia appeared slightly stunned by the self-displacing beauty mark and, biting back laughter, was pulled away and escorted twice around the room by a quick-thinking colonel. Mr. Collins and Mary were occupied with their impending nuptials and seemed oddly uninterested in the behaviours of the newly wedded couple. Or so Darcy assumed until Mr. Bennet came to his side.
“Darcy,” he said quietly. “I wonder if you might take a minute to speak to your future brother.”
Brother? The younger man was confused. Bingley had journeyed to Reading to arrange for Miss Bingley’s removal there to reside with their aunt for a few months after the wedding. Mrs. Hurst’s temperament had taken a turn for the worse, and Bingley hoped that his youngest sister, afflicted of late with a deep melancholia, would rally when ensconced in a busy family home. As he had explained to Darcy, “She has always enjoyed small dogs and quiet children, and she is better there than with me and my new bride.”
“Sir?”
“Collins, it would seem, lacks the education necessary for his wedding night.” Mr. Bennet paled and his voice dropped. “His wedding night with my daughter.”
“Sir?” Darcy’s voice was strangled. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no.
“I am Mary’s father. I do not believe Collins deserves her, but she appears pleased with her lot. You are to be his brother, and as little as I believed of the rumours and slanders that stained your name, I assume you to be at least familiar with the mechanics of marital relations.”
“Sir…” I think I shall be sick. Now.
Mr. Bennet clapped a hand on Darcy’s shoulder and leaned towards him. “I have seen how you gaze at Elizabeth. I have seen a kiss or three. You owe me this.”
“Sir…I will do the best I can,” Darcy stuttered.
“Your worst would be Collins’s best, I believe.” Mr. Bennet shook his head. “Mary will thank you…um, Elizabeth…for it.”
Darcy morosely watched him saunter away, clearly chuckling at the horrible position in which he had just placed the man Elizabeth claimed would be his favourite. My uncle and now my father-in-law reduce me to a sputtering eight-year-old boy.
Taking a deep breath, Darcy looked around and spotted the wisest man he knew.
“Richard.”
***
It was Peregrine who raised the first toast to the newly wedded Mr. and Mrs. Collins. As his florid tribute wound on, Elizabeth leaned over to her betrothed. “Am I cruel to be pleased that your cousin and her husband will travel to Hertfordshire for our wedding?”
“You will not rue such attention to your person or such flowery well-wishes?”
“I believe I shall be merry watching Mr. Collins enhance his mind to become a lover of art,” she replied. “One can only admire closets and chimneys for so long.”
Darcy laughed.
“Your cousin is now my good friend, and we shall exchange letters and, I hope, visits when her child is born.”
Darcy blanched and tried to repress memories of the previous evening. He and Richard had accompanied Collins to the parsonage and had tried, calmly and in few words, to explain the small ways in which to gently consummate his marriage. Richard had helpfully suggested baths and forgoing mutton and fish. “Soft skin that smells and tastes of soap is preferable to reminders of last week’s supper.”
“Mine eyes should not be cast upon my wife’s unclothed skin, nor hers on mine,” Collins had said solemnly. “The marital bed has but one sole purpose: to beget children.”
Richard had drained his brandy and handed a brimming glass to Collins. “This. Now.”
He had watched the cleric gulp down the liquid and poured him another. “Damn it, Darcy,” he had groaned. “I feel as if I am Lady Catherine, caterwauling and tutoring the lovers behind the bed curtain.”
Darcy had poured himself another drink, and together, the cousins watched as the brandy’s effects spread through Collins. Suddenly, Peregrine had burst into the house, a sheaf of papers in hand, and every possible detail of the lush pleasures of married life had been elaborated upon before Collins had turned from an excited pinkish colour to an unusual shade of green.
Now, at the wedding breakfast, Darcy observed that the cleric’s skin was a shade somewhere between the two. At least the man had made it through the vows and now had only to survive this celebration, the farewells, and the long hours leading up to nightfall. Would he retain any of what he had been told? Would he remember to bathe? To refrain from quoting Scripture? Or would he simply faint when he recalled the intimate details shared about the female body and its sensibilities?
Oh lord, has Richard ever looked as startled as he did when Peregrine mentioned the joys of lush folds?
“Fitzwilliam?” Elizabeth said. “Are you well?”
He swallowed and stared at his plate. Had bacon always smelled so foul? He reached for a piece of bread and began shredding it. Think of her, of us.
“I am well. I simply look forward to our wedding. You and I pre
fer a simple ceremony with neither words nor sentiments that can be embellished or twisted.” He shook his head. “We should not fear finger pointing, screams, and fainting in Meryton when my dead betrothed appears at our ceremony, should we?”
Elizabeth paused. “We are all family now, or soon will be. Our children will play together; we will celebrate and mourn together.”
***
Elizabeth hoped she could include Jane in her picture of future family togetherness. They had sat up half the night, giggling and cringing in horror at Anne’s swooning confidences about the joys of married life and the secrets of the marital bed. She was sure the blush would not fade from Jane’s face before her own wedding.
Their evening sharing thoughts on Anne’s breathless revelations had been their happiest, most comfortable time together since the day before Darcy arrived at Longbourn.
Their argument—if Jane’s frustrated determination that her favourite sister should marry their cousin could so be termed—had shattered their closeness. Since then, they had built a fragile and polite friendship. Elizabeth felt that an olive twig rather than a solid branch of sisterly closeness was all she could extend. They remained occupied with their betrotheds, busy with counselling Mary or calming their mother, focused on planning weddings, packing their trunks, and enduring their neighbours’ joy and awe. They no longer shared time in their rooms, plaiting hair and discussing the men they loved; there was, for Elizabeth, no reclaiming that intimacy they had once shared.
The two sisters seemed now to inhabit different realms. Jane remained pleased yet shy with Bingley, making Elizabeth’s need and desire for Darcy seem overwhelming. It was so abundant she feared at times that she could not contain it within herself. It was not that way with Jane. Her hesitant admission that she and Bingley had shared a single kiss had stunned Anne and Elizabeth, whose eyes had drifted to each other in surprised dismay. Mary, however, had been truly shocked by her sister’s wanton behaviour.
But her next eldest sister earned Mary’s praise. “Elizabeth returns from her walks with Mr. Darcy and appears to have enjoyed nature to its fullest. There always are bits of leaves and small twigs in her hair and about her person. They use their time alone in a fruitful manner, enhancing their understanding of nature and clouds and such.”
Anne had coughed just as Elizabeth stifled one. Fruitful? Remember this, word for word. How Fitzwilliam will treasure it.
“Mr. Collins and I discuss Scripture and his plans for the parish. But you, Jane? Kissing before your wedding day?” Mary had squeezed her sister’s hand. “I shall not tell Mama.”
Anne had looked at the three Bennet sisters. “Well, then. Returning to our discussion. Where were we? Pinching? Oh, my Peregrine enjoys it. In fact…”
The mistress of Rosings was full of happy feeling and a need to advise others on how best to achieve it, physically and with emotion. Mary had looked ill and soon left for her own bed. Jane had perched primly, taking in the lessons quietly, gasping or giggling as warranted. Her eyes had often sought out Elizabeth’s, an expression of shock or amusement on her face.
Elizabeth had smiled in return and rolled her eyes. Anne’s tales were amusing and rather shocking, but she wished to learn about intimacy with the man with whom she would share a bed. She had felt herself too much apart from him, the one she wished to be with always. For these past weeks, the feelings she had not expressed to him had not been shared with another; her thoughts were far too private. Instead, she had written them in a small journal, and she smiled and spoke more coolly than was her wont. Kitty and Lydia had seen through her disguise and, while remaining Darcy’s greatest champions, shared the eye-rolling occupation of listening to Jane’s sighs about her happiness.
Elizabeth concluded that love sorted people into their best and worst selves. It made her and Darcy happy and compelled them to be better people. She saw it in the former Anne de Bourgh, and she saw it in Mr. Bingley. In fact, she now hoped that Netherfield would be sold at last to him and that her sister would be made happy by staying near Longbourn.
“Elizabeth?” Darcy’s soft voice broke through her wandering thoughts. “Are you well?”
She reached under the table and patted his knee. “I am so very well, my love. Quite simply, I am ready to be married.”
His eyes lit up. “As am I. We have had enough of rumour and misunderstandings and obstacles in our path. I want my ring on your finger.”
“Your happiness is mine.” She smirked. “After all, you are now the Gleeful Groom.”
***
And so it was that one week after Mary took the name Collins, her elder sisters were married from home. The new Mr. and Mrs. Collins had arrived shortly after the Dumfries, who brought along Peregrine’s older brother, Percival, to attend Anne as her confinement drew ever nearer.
Elizabeth noticed little to commit to memory that day. Her father’s face, sad and proud as he gave her away. Bingley’s exuberant bouncing. Jane’s nervous happiness. Mary’s soft smiles towards her husband, who had combed his clean hair in a new style. Charlotte’s melancholy, which lifted quickly upon her introduction to Doctor Dumfries. Miss Bingley’s tense countenance and elaborate bonnet. Mrs. Hurst’s green complexion and renewed devotion to the husband who hovered nearby and escorted her outside or near a window whenever she fluttered her handkerchief.
Most of all, Elizabeth noticed Darcy. The little light in his eyes when he silently gazed at her as their vows were read. The gentle strength of his hand when he took hers. The small thread of nervousness she sensed in his posture. And the chaste but sweet kiss he bestowed on her publicly when she signed her name, “Elizabeth Bennet,” one last time, put to rest any rumours of the past and fomenting speculation on their future.
“A babe conceived on the wedding day is pure as the bride’s dress and sweet as the cake,” Mrs. Goulding commented.
“Ah, but a babe conceived in the weeks before is ambitious and driven to prove itself,” Mrs. Long replied.
Mrs. Bennet interrupted her neighbours. “My girls will do their duty, and it does no one good to speak on what occurs behind closed doors or in the shrubbery.”
***
Fitzwilliam Darcy, new husband and besotted lover, thought he had learned all of Elizabeth’s expressions these past few weeks. He was proved mistaken within moments of closing the door to their rooms that evening at Darcy House. He simply stared at the vision before him, her dark hair spilling over shoulders sheathed in something he vaguely noted had ivory lace.
She gazed at him and smiled tenderly. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Darcy.” He wondered why she looked so calm when he felt his heart would soon leap from his chest. He hoped that was all that would leap out. He adjusted the belt on his robe and strove to think clearly about anything that would help slow the beating of his heart.
“We are alone,” he said, returning her smile. “Free of Fitzwilliams and Bennets and all those I choose not to name whilst in our chambers.”
Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Come gossiping dragons or preening peacocks, they will not part us.” She gazed at her husband in his robe, his neck and legs bare to her for the first time, and swallowed nervously. “No more dragons to be slain, no more family crises to solve?”
“Dark clouds will always loom behind the white ones, but there are no dragons here.” He was speaking nonsense but she was so beautiful and there was so much of her to look upon, did words truly matter? “We are home.”
“Yes. Home,” Elizabeth said softly. She was surprised by Darcy’s neck. She had kissed him below his chin and near his ear many times; she had seen drawings and sculptures of the Greek and Roman gods and other heroic legends; but she had never once allowed herself to imagine the temptation of this man’s neck. This led to his chest, which appeared to have a fine covering of hair on it…rather a ma
tch for the hair she was trying not to notice on his calves. She wanted to touch it all. She let out a shaky breath and looked towards the fireplace before forming a reply.
“We have wood for our fire, so the books of Darcy House are safe tonight.”
“I do not fear being cold,” Darcy responded as he drew nearer. His hand reached out, and with one trembling finger, he gently traced his wife’s collarbone.
“Elizabeth?’
“Yes?”
“You are so beautiful.” He leaned in and gave her lips a soft kiss. His finger lingered along its gentle path until it was joined by another to trace the shadowed hollow that led to her shoulder. As their lips parted and their tongues touched, Darcy pushed aside his wife’s robe, and the ivory silk puddled at their feet, leaving her in nothing but her sheer nightgown. He pulled his mouth away as he felt her shiver. He gazed into her eyes as his fingers drifted slowly along the side of her breast, down to her hip, and then reversed their path. It was but a moment later that he brushed her nipple and she let out a gasp.
Elizabeth leaned into her husband. His fingers, now his hand, continued their ministrations; she felt his thumb caress that place, her breast, once again. She moaned and reached up to capture his lips before gently, achingly slowly, scattering kisses along his jaw until she found his neck. Soft, yet rough. He sighed, and she kissed him until her lips came to just below his chin and she felt the tickle of the chest hair that so enthralled her. Her hands, which had been resting on his arms, drifted lower to pull open Darcy’s robe.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice faltering. His hand fell away from her soft, heated skin, and with a slight shrug of his shoulder, his robe joined hers on the rug. She felt his eyes shift ever so slightly. She followed his gaze and looked down at their feet, encased in a sea of silk and flannel.
“Lizzy,” Darcy said in a voice so tender, she felt her eyes well with tears.
Elizabeth looked up at the tall man who had won her heart. His hair was unkempt, his eyes wild with yearning and love. She smiled. My husband.