by J. L. Ashton
“No more problems to fix or messes for you to think on, Fitzwilliam. The maids will do it tomorrow.” Daringly, she leaned forward, kissed his chest, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “There is other, far more important work to be done.”
“And I am a most dutiful husband.” Darcy scooped her up in a tight embrace and carried her to their bed.
They fell into the billowing sheets, which enveloped and swirled about them as their soft moans, whispers, and gentle sighs filled the night air.
Chapter Twenty-Three (…and the Very Important, All-Encompassing Epilogue)
“Husband, I believe I must bow to family tradition,” Elizabeth said when her breathing had returned to normal.
“Which tradition is that?” Darcy enquired, his voice rough. “Do you refer to a Darcy tradition or some custom of the Bennet family?” He moved closer. His hand disappeared and began tracing lazy patterns on her smooth, naked hip.
“Ahh,” his wife purred, shifting and sighing. She sank her head more deeply into her pillow. “Are there no Fitzwilliam family traditions?”
“None suitable for my wife,” he whispered, resting his chin on the lovely shoulder peeking out of the sheets. “She is too exquisite, charming, soft, and warm to consider adhering to such practices.”
“The wife of the master of Pemberley has no cause to repine over treasured family customs, but she is a lady new to ancient tradition and eager to learn about those old and venerated.” Her hand caught hold of his and brought it to her lips. “Stop distracting me with your clever touches and whispers.”
“I am attempting to create new customs and practices for us and our marriage bed.” He fell back to the pillows, pouting.
“We have left this room but thrice since our arrival on Saturday,” Elizabeth said, laughing. “That is a scandalous and certainly unusual practice.”
“It is rainy and cold outside,” Darcy replied in as haughty a voice as he could muster, unclothed, unravelled, and sprawled on twisted sheets at one o’clock in the afternoon. “We are where we belong.”
“We must rouse ourselves eventually.” She stretched her arms above her head, disregarding his growl. “I must tour the rest of the house. And we shall see your sister and cousin tonight.”
“Our sister and cousin.” He gazed at her fondly. “They are your family as well.”
Elizabeth smiled then curled up beside him and touched her new husband’s morning…uh, afternoon whiskers. “So many,” she whispered. Her finger lingered on his upper lip. “I wish you to make me a promise.”
Darcy turned his head and met her eyes. “I promise you everything, Elizabeth Darcy. I shall always love you. I shall adore you and protect you and ensure Cook never serves liver or mutton for dinner and always serves chocolate and tea when you breakfast.”
“There, you see!” She laughed in delight. “A new Darcy family tradition.”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied, ridiculously pleased with himself and all the ways he had learned to please his wife of three days.
“But your promise?” Her fingers trailed through the soft hair on his chest.
“Yes?”
“I am quite fond of your lips, Fitzwilliam. They must always be visible and accessible to me. Your cousin’s moustache is imposing, and I would not like the men in our family to make a tradition of wearing whiskers.”
“May the women, then?”
Elizabeth quelled the urge to leap on her husband and tickle him. No, he would enjoy that too much. She pulled her hands away and fell on her back. “I am serious. As for the next tradition, I must follow your cousin Anne and be sure to refer to you as ‘my Darcy’ whenever your name arises in conversation. Just as she must assert her dominion over ‘her Peregrine,’ so must I assert mine over my husband.”
He turned and propped himself up on his elbow. He stared at her, mortified. “Dominion?”
“Oh yes. I am quite possessive.”
He swallowed. She would never not surprise him. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes?”
“Please stop mentioning my relations by name in our bed.”
“Yes, my Darcy. How simple this is!” she cried in delight. “Another tradition has been created. Chocolate for breakfast, no moustaches, no naming of relations, endearing assertions of possession…”
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes, my Darcy?”
“Never, ever call me ‘my Darcy.’” He leaned over until they were nose to nose.
“No?” She stared up at him, all innocence.
“No.”
Laughter bubbled up. “Yes, my love.”
Darcy bent his head and kissed her lips. “Now,” he whispered, “may I assert my dominion?”
He kissed her throat. “My possession?”
She sighed.
Her breast. “My obsession?”
She moaned.
Her hip. “My love?”
She trembled, curled her hands into his hair, and whispered, “And you, mine.”
***
Arm in arm, the ladies disappeared from the dining room. Their lively chatter about the “magnificent Mr. Bach” floated behind them as Georgiana led Elizabeth to the music room.
Richard stared at Darcy. “You have taken your wife to see the library but not the music room?”
Darcy smiled sheepishly.
“Otherwise occupied?”
“Oh yes. The cards have piled up as it is known we are not receiving callers.”
“None in three days?”
“No.”
“And it appears there has been no grand tour of the house.”
“Elizabeth is familiar with her new home,” Darcy asserted. “She has yet to go below stairs, but she has met the servants and planned our meals.”
“I see.” Richard smirked.
“Do you?” Darcy narrowed his eyes. “What do you see?”
“Your perfect woman in your perfect home. At one time, you could not find words to describe her, and now you have exhausted yourself—”
“Richard…” Darcy’s voice cut in sharply.
“—of superlatives and adjectives with which to describe your perfect wife. She is simply glowing with happiness.”
Darcy leaned forward, beaming. “She is wonderful, Richard. All and everything I could wish for.”
“Good lord, you are bedazzled.” Richard raised his hands. Marital felicity surrounded him; his teeth ached from its sweetness. How do they stand this honeyed fog? He sighed in bemused resignation. “I shall make no further comment and share no more observations. I shall think my thoughts only on the purity of your happiness.”
“You should try it, Cousin.” Darcy rose and strolled around the room. “There is nothing else.”
“I believe that is true for you.” Richard smoothed his moustache and watched a morsel of dried plum tart fall to the carpet. Words he had said months ago when both men thought Anne was dead and Darcy felt overwhelmed by guilt returned to mind. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.
“You are the master of Pemberley. You rule lands and lives, and you make me miserable with your endlessly happy smiling and chattering.” Richard sighed. “And this poor, put-upon cousin must listen and nod, for he is dependent upon you for good brandy, a hot meal, and a decent fencing match.”
Darcy laughed. “Ah yes. Put that way, mine is not too sorry a fate.”
The men drifted into a comfortable silence, broken only by the bright, melodious sound of Elizabeth’s voice joining her new sister’s in song.
Darcy’s face lit up. “Not sorry at all. Let us join our family.”
***
The three Darcys had been settled at Pemberley but four months when the express came announcing the birth of the young master of Rosings: Roll
o Lewis Dumfries. Months later, within a moment of his presentation, he would be dubbed Lardo by his ever-prescient cousin Richard. It was a nickname the boy would happily endure for the rest of his elder cousin’s long life.
A fortnight after Rollo’s arrival, the post brought two letters of note. Charlotte wrote to congratulate Elizabeth on the weeks-old news that she soon would be an aunt. Both Jane and Mary expected arrivals come autumn. “Ah, Peregrine’s diagrams were indeed effective,” Darcy said wryly upon hearing the Collinses’ happy news. “My lord, that man knows his anatomy.”
Baby news abounded. Already they had rejoiced in the birth of a little sister for Henry, Thomas, and Lily Gardiner to dote on.
Charlotte, however, had further news to unveil: she would be joining Elizabeth in the happy state of matrimony and soon would call her “cousin.” She was betrothed to Doctor Dumfries, and she would make her home in Surrey.
Elizabeth paused and gave her husband the news. He smiled, took her hand, and leaned close to respond quietly so as not to disturb Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley, who were busy making plans for their return to London to host a visit from Kitty and Lydia.
“May we pledge that, from the cradle, no child of our relations will be promised to another, and in fact, all will be discouraged from such an inclination?” He moved away, eyebrows raised, as he awaited her answer.
My husband does so enjoy sealing pledges and agreements when we are alone in our bed. Perhaps I shall tease him to distraction and find cause to disagree. Now there is a lovely idea.
“Such promises do lead to awful entanglements and create unpleasant situations for dutiful nephews,” Elizabeth agreed, using a solemn tone of voice while attempting not to smile. “Yet while we might protect our own children, how do we thwart the hopes, dreams, and machinations of others?”
Darcy grimaced.
“Fitzwilliam, what is it?”
He handed her the letter he had just read. Elizabeth glanced at the familiar handwriting and frowned. It was from Scotland. This was no time for teasing.
Nephew—
Pay heed. My head lumps have receded. My temper has moderated. There is a de Bourgh child who requires my guidance and whose mother needs my maternal wisdom. I demand a carriage for my return to my family estate.
Lady Catherine went on to proclaim her determination that living in the Rosings dower house—replete with servants, edible meat, and access to her grandson—was preferable to the cold north of Scotland.
Elizabeth bit her lip so as not to laugh, and she nodded her farewells to Georgiana and her companion as they headed to the music room. Within a moment, one of their lately arrived visitors, Richard, strolled into the room, noted the letter, and chuckled. He said his parents had received similar dispatches prior to their journey to Pemberley for a final few days with their son before he returned to France with his regiment.
“My aunt worried you would refuse her letters?” The colonel, who had barely stopped joking about Baby Dumfries’s early arrival or the imagined weight of Anne’s milk-heavy breasts, roared with laughter. “Lady Catherine is well? Offering her wisdom to a daughter who has disregarded every bitter word of it? Is she preparing to hire tutors for the plump, screaming heir to Rosings to help guide his crying, spitting, and soiling himself?”
He stood straight and saluted Darcy. “It is our duty to protect Baby Dumpling.”
Darcy sighed and stared balefully at his cousin. “Yes, but we are men who know little of maternal needs and feeling. I am husband to the wisest woman of my acquaintance. I shall defer to my wife for her advice. She has some distance from the family drama, after all.”
Richard supplied Elizabeth with the packet of letters written to his parents; it took but a quick perusal of the tersely worded missives for her to form an opinion, which she shared when the earl and his wife entered the drawing room.
“At least Lady Catherine no longer refers to Rollo as a mongrel. That is progress,” Elizabeth offered. She looked around the room and counted three of four heads nodding in agreement. “It is a simple thing: doctors must examine her, and Anne must be consulted. Despite the lingering problem of potential madness, Lady Catherine is her mother and the grandmother to Rollo.”
“Yes, yes, but the father?” Lord Matlock sputtered. “How will Dumfries stand for her presence? She oversaw the dosing of her daughter into passivity.”
Lady Matlock weighed in. “Can Peregrine not stand up and defend his family? Rosings is theirs, and the servants are loyal to him and Anne.”
Richard laughed. “Peregrine likes everyone, especially himself. What was it the old Sun King said? ‘There is little that can withstand a man who can conquer himself.’”
Darcy stared at him. “My cousin has been reading?” At Richard’s indignant snort, Darcy continued, “The king also said, ‘I could sooner reconcile all Europe than two women.’ Yet neither sentiment is pertinent in this situation.”
The colonel raised a finger to debate the point, but his father summoned all the attention by slamming down his empty glass. “Why are you two quoting Louis the Fourteenth? We are at war with the frogs. Shut it, boys.”
Elizabeth held back a laugh when she saw the twinkle in her uncle’s eye as both Darcy and Richard glanced warily from his glass to the fireplace.
“Measuring the distance?” the earl asked drolly.
“Not again, Peter. Do behave,” his wife snapped. He gave her a crooked smile and shrugged. “That’s better, dear.”
Their son disregarded his parents’ odd flirtation, and their nephew chose to be dutiful. “We must write to Anne and Peregrine,” said Darcy. “They are doing well at Rosings. The steward reports that he meets with them together on all matters.”
“Aha, together! A lack of trust on one side, I wager,” Lord Matlock cried.
“Or the inability to part ways for more than one hour,” Lady Matlock replied, her eyebrows raised. “All of you observed the remarkable joy they take in each other’s presence.” The earl’s countenance took on a light shade of green. “Catherine took pleasure in running an estate; perhaps, her daughter enjoys it as well.”
“True,” Darcy agreed. “It is likely that Anne takes an interest in having duties. Her mother certainly never allowed her to have responsibilities or even a voice.”
“I learnt to care for our family estate from my father, who had no sons,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Although preserving proper ditch depths held little interest for me, meeting with tenants, ensuring crop yields, and maintaining sturdy fences were quite rewarding.” Elizabeth felt her husband’s eyes beaming at her; neither noticed the Matlocks’ smiles of approval.
Clearing his throat, Richard forged on to the business at hand. “Hmm. How will Lady Catherine, lumps or no, reconcile herself to losing her power and her voice?”
“Guards. Under my command,” growled the earl.
Darcy looked at Elizabeth, and she nodded, reluctantly. “Very well. We leave the details to you, Uncle.”
***
The assemblage visibly relaxed as one difficult decision had been made—and not solely by Darcy but as a united family. As ever since childhood, Richard broke the silence.
“Speaking of war, I have word on our old playmate.”
Darcy turned and gave him a curious look.
“Wickham is in gaol.” Richard turned towards Elizabeth when she gasped. “He is a fool, my dear cousin. He slept with the niece of the Prince Regent’s mistress then cheated a viscount at cards.”
Darcy, shocked and horrified, nearly laughed in disbelief. “That is a roundabout tale, Cousin. Are you certain his fate truly wends in such a way, or is this another game of whisper down the lane?”
“Viscount Lydon, was it?” the earl asked. At his son’s nod, he clicked his tongue. “Wrong man to wrong. John has a mean streak.”
“Still…” Elizabeth said. “Gaol? Does he await his sentence?”
“I do not wish to make the effort to know more.” Richard shook his finger and assumed a mocking air. “Any man who earned the sobriquet ‘Peaches’ before failing in his studies at Cambridge deserves whatever fate is handed him. Has your husband not told you the tales of those years? Wickham was always a bad one.”
“A liar and an opportunist,” Darcy said, his cheeks pinked. “And look where such actions have put him.”
“The nickname alone boded badly,” Lady Matlock said.
“I have always despised peaches,” her husband commented. “I like a good juicy plum. Peaches go bad with such haste. They are too rotten a fruit to hang from the Fitzwilliam family tree. Apples and plums are the finest of fruits.”
“Yes,” Darcy agreed, his eyes searching out those of his bride. As always, her dark orbs sparkled, and now they followed his gaze as it drifted lower to their secret, the not yet detectable bulge that would round into a perfect shape. Our perfect child.
“The seed that plants the tree is essential to the creation of a good fruit,” Elizabeth said in a bright, cheerful voice.
“Indeed,” her husband agreed, bowing to her slyness. “The best fruit, the happiest families, all begin the same way.
“Or so goes a rumour I once heard.”
Richard rolled his eyes. No, he was not dim. Something was afoot. It always was in this family.
***
As the years wore on, life bumped along, with all of its happy highs and its base lows.
Baby Dumpling was but the first of the next generation of lovers and fighters, cloud watchers and beekeepers, totty-heads and geniuses, artists and bumblers who graced the families in this story.
The Darcys would spend their decades together watching clouds and pointing out stars, settling family quarrels, and quietly teasing and blaming each other for begetting their brood of seven children. All seven—as well as assorted puppies and kittens—slept in a nursery under a cerulean blue ceiling dotted with clouds, designed and painted by their Uncle Dumfries. Some little Darcys were dutiful; some were witty. One sang especially well, another loved ships, and the tallest one wrote poetry. One haunted ballroom walls and another screamed in terror at spiders. But all were clever, handsome, and well loved by their parents. All were most decidedly—as often declared by their father—a wonderful mix of Bennet and Darcy.