Loving Mr. Darcy: Journeys Beyond Pemberley tds-2

by Sharon Lathan

  His reverie was interrupted by Jane and Bingley taking their seats. Bingley continued to grin. Jane was her usual poised, serene self, although her color was definitely pinker than normal. With a small smile, Darcy spoke purposefully, “Mrs. Bingley, you slept well also, I trust? Refreshed and prepared to meet the day's activities?”

  His peripheral vision noted Elizabeth biting her lip, a gesture he well distinguished as one employed to prevent laughing. Bingley coughed, blushed scarlet, and hid behind his napkin. Jane, surprisingly, engaged Darcy's eyes with a calm, albeit mildly teasing smile, replying, “Why, yes indeed, Mr. Darcy. I believe I slept better than I have in months. Thank you for inquiring.”

  Georgiana noted the strange semblances on all the adult faces at the table, perceived the undercurrent of jesting, but could not divine the cause. Mary decreed them all mad and categorically dismissed them. Breakfast proceeded from there in a predictable and customary fashion. The gentlemen ate heartily, discussing with enthusiasm the planned billiard tournament to commence at mid-morning. The women planned an excursion into Meryton for shopping and lunch at the Raven Inn, Mrs. Bennet and Kitty to accompany them.

  They parted shortly thereafter, Darcy sequestering Elizabeth in the library for a private farewell. “Are you over your nausea, dearest?” Lizzy had eaten halfway through her breakfast and then been unexpectedly hit with a severe aversion to eggs, inducing her to hastily rise and exit the room for the nearest chamber pot. Fortunately, she had not been ill, but it had teetered on the edge for a spell. Now, she felt almost completely restored, as long as she did not envision eggs.

  “Yes, love, I am fine. If my oddly wavering stomach contortions were not so incredibly bothersome I suppose I would find it comical!”

  He laughed and kissed her. “Do not tax yourself, Elizabeth. I will not be here to paddle you if you overdo, so I trust you to care for yourself and our baby.”

  “I promise to behave. Now,” she said, straightening his flawlessly arranged cravat, “you enjoy yourself. I want to hear all the details of how my handsome husband prevailed at billiards, leaving a collection of crushed egos in his wake.”

  The gentlemen of Meryton and the surrounding areas, when not gathering for smaller private socializations in their homes, met informally at the two pubs or the lone coffeehouse for gaming and to discuss politics and business. A large, red brick building located on the main street and annexed to the Ox Horn pub was humorously and pretentiously called the Reading Room, due to the cozy parlor in the rear dedicated to gentlemen's intellectual concourse while smoking imported cigars and drinking fine liquors. However, it was the billiard room that drew the largest crowds most days.

  The large space housed several billiards tables, along with a few chess and backgammon tables. Darcy and Bingley had visited a few times during Darcy's previous sojourns; however, Darcy, unsurprisingly, had preferred the quiet solitude of Netherfield. Bingley adored socializing and frequently passed afternoons and occasional evenings with the young men of the community.

  Last evening, during the dinner party at Lucas Lodge, Darcy had been invited to partake in the billiard tournament scheduled for today. Apparently, his reputation as a skilled player had preceded him; several of the local citizens were familiar with the name Darcy being whispered with reverence through the billiard halls of Town. Mr. Darcy was by no means the preeminent player in all of London, but he ranked among the top twenty. As a guest in the area, it certainly was neither expected nor necessary to include him, so he was honored by the inclusion. If it were any other contest, Darcy may have felt obliged to decline the offer or to curb his mastery. Not with billiards, though. After horseback riding, and of course his private activities with his adorable wife, there was no pastime Darcy loved more than billiards.

  Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley were greeted primarily with enthusiasm. Sir Lucas, Mr. Bennet, and Mr. Phillips were already present as the designated officials for the tournament, busily organizing the equipment and records required for the matches.

  “Mr. Darcy! Mr. Bingley!” Sir Lucas exclaimed, beaming at them. “What a delight it is to have you both join us in our meager entertainment.”

  Bingley bowed. “Thank you, Sir Lucas. However, my occupation shall be that of a spectator. My billiard skills are minimal. For cert not a match for Darcy here, so it would be futile for me to attempt besting him.”

  Darcy bowed deprecatingly, nonetheless noting several perturbed expressions amongst the gathered men. Apparently, not all the competitors were delighted to have an expert challenger. Those gents who chose to participate in the contest signed the ledger and their names were placed into a hat. The simple expedience of having Sir Lucas, as the highest ranking man in the region, draw the individual names for the first round hailed the commencement of the tournament.

  The hall was packed. Chairs and stools were placed along the walls and the game tables removed for extra space. A long side bar was erected with a steady supply of finger foods provided, while beverages of all varieties, alcoholic as well as tea, coffee, cocoa, and juices, were kept flowing in a steady supply from the pub. The atmosphere was jovial and casual, remarkably dissimilar to such events at the billiards rooms in London. Darcy might have been distressed by this, but as a frequent rival of his cousin Richard, who took nothing except his military career seriously, Darcy was immune to constant chatter and distractions.

  Darcy was paired with a Mr. Denbigh, a man of some fifty years whom Darcy had met previously. Denbigh, an adequate player offering Darcy a few challenges, was affable and talkative, clearly enjoying himself immensely regardless of the outcome. In the end, Darcy attained the required points with a wide margin, effectively eliminating Denbigh from the match. After a brief respite, Darcy paired with a Mr. Heigt. Heigt was in his early twenties, ruddy faced with flaming red hair, and nearly as tall as Darcy. In appearance, he resembled Bingley, but in temperament was comparable to Darcy. He also left no doubt that he took the match seriously and was not at all pleased to have Darcy partake. With an icy smile, Darcy attacked. No quarter asked and none given, the two men played with careful regulation and intensity. Darcy won with ease, despite Heigt's pose of expertise, and the loser's anger was obvious. Thankfully, he retained his composure and did not make a scene, although he departed shortly thereafter.

  His third opponent, Mr. Ravencraw, was a distinguished man in his fifties. Darcy ascertained instantly that here was a first-rate player. In his first true challenge of the match, Darcy called on every skill he possessed. The game was twice as long as the previous two, and Darcy won by a slim margin, thus allowing Ravencraw to remain in the tournament.

  Ravencraw bowed. “Excellent game, Mr. Darcy. Your reputation is well reported. I rarely travel to Town; however, even I have heard the name Darcy. I do believe I was fortunate to best your father once or twice at Whites. He was a supreme player as well, although I daresay you surpass him in skill.”

  Darcy bowed in return, “Thank you, Mr. Ravencraw. My father was a superb player; however, I would merely be reiterating what he himself proclaimed in that my expertise transcended his. Of course, he trounced me substantially in both chess and fencing, so I was forever humbled.”

  “Perhaps I shall be redeemed in the subsequent games and we shall meet again at the play-off. Just a dream on my part, sadly, as I cannot win over Mr. Dashwell and no one can beat Mr. Simpson.”

  Darcy smiled. “There are few certainties in this life, Mr. Ravencraw. Chin up!” The name Simpson had been bandied about as the preeminent billiard champion of the county, but Darcy had yet to deduce which man was he. Thus far, Darcy had been too busy with his own games to observe any of the others. As a guest, this was a handicap, as he had no ready knowledge of the strengths, weaknesses, or strategies of anyone. By the same token, they knew none of his, so it balanced out he supposed.

  Luncheon was served then, so all the gentlemen repaired to the dining room for a delicious meal served with the finest red wine from France. Darcy was histor
ically not a heavy imbiber, except for a memorable handful of times in his life, and never consumed spirits during a match, so he passed on the wine. The atmosphere remained animated, many of the spectators already partially in their cups. Darcy shared a table with Bingley, Mr. Bennet, Lizzy's uncle Mr. Phillips, and three younger men, friends of Bingley, whom he had met at the Lucas's dinner.

  “Mr. Bennet,” Darcy inquired, “which man is Mr. Simpson?”

  Lizzy's father nodded toward a table by the window. “The fellow to the right of Sir Lucas.” Darcy identified the indicated man with staggered surprise.

  “Are you certain?” he blurted, setting Mr. Bennet laughing.

  “Quite. I have known him all my life. His eldest son was my closest companion, until he passed on some five years ago.”

  Elliot Simpson was five and eighty if he was a day. He was a stooped, frail man closely resembling a sparrow in his fragility and delicacy. Darcy had noted him earlier in the day but had promptly dismissed the tremulous elderly gent. Frankly, he could not imagine how the same hands which currently experienced difficulty lifting his wine goblet could manage a billiard cue! He was honestly entertaining the notion that a jest was being played on him when Mr. Bennet spoke.

  “I fancy the picture before you renders the erroneous conclusion that you have been misinformed. Let me assure you, my boy, place a cue in Simpson's hands and a new creature emerges. In all my days, I have never seen anyone with his mastery. He is a true wizard at billiards.” He glanced at Darcy's frowning mien, chuckling softly and smiling inscrutably. “Of course, there are few certainties in life,” he said, repeating Darcy's own words to Ravencraw, “so chin up!”

  Darcy snorted but smiled faintly, privately anticipating the challenge, as hard as it remained for him to credit. Thankfully, after luncheon Darcy earned a respite for one round so was able to witness Simpson in action. He had sincerely never witnessed the like. The old man shuffled to the table assigned him, wheezing mildly, and took hold of his cue. Instantaneously, twenty years fell from his bearing. He straightened considerably, although still bowed, quivering hands settling around the thin wood steady and confident. He wielded the cue as if it were an attached appendage, his hand-to-eye coordination magical in its accuracy. His opponent, the aforementioned Mr. Dashwell, put up a good fight but lost by a fair margin.

  Suddenly, the friendly match took on a note of true challenge for Darcy. In all the years of playing the finest players in London, Darcy had encountered only four men who could honestly be considered supreme masters of the sport. Even Darcy, as excellent as he was, did not fit into that magical realm of the gifted artisan, the virtuoso. That Mr. Simpson was such a man was without dispute. Therefore, it was doubtful that Darcy could defeat him, and he knew it. Nonetheless, like any legitimate lover of billiards or contests of any kind, he intended to try. Win or lose, the test of one's abilities was the paramount trial, not to mention what made it fun!

  Now that the tournament was in its final stages—with the poorer players eliminated, leaving only the chief competitors—the excitement level had risen. With each round, as the total number decreased from eight then to six then to four, the atmosphere was feverish. Darcy attacked his next three bouts with all his might. The first two he won handily by wide point spreads. The third, the determinate playoff before the final game, was against Mr. Dashwell. It was Darcy's toughest challenge thus far, Dashwell being on an equal par with Darcy. It was a close game, each scoring readily after the other; however, Darcy won eventually by a mere twenty points.

  Enraptured by the charged climate in the room as Sir Lucas solemnly announced the Championship Game between Mr. Elliot Simpson and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Darcy could not resist smiling inwardly. He experienced the same electricity as all the spectators whenever involved in these sorts of events; nonetheless, it amused him how men became transported by a simple game as if the world's continuance depended on the outcome.

  Simpson and Darcy bowed to each other, exchanging pleasantries as the officials prepared the table, cues, balls, and scoreboard. The spectators gathered around, clamoring for the best viewing locations after procuring their preferred beverages.

  Darcy won the string, choosing the white ball and earning the first strike, scoring a point easily. Thus, the game began. It ended up, not surprisingly, being the longest game of the entire tournament. Darcy had the time of his life and Simpson did not disappoint. He was one of the finest players Darcy had ever opposed. All his skills were put to the test as the two men fought ferociously for each point. Simpson, to Darcy's amazement, never once fouled, an accomplishment in itself. The scoring was close for a time, but eventually Simpson's mastery ruled and he pulled ahead. Darcy followed on his heels, yet never managed to supplant. Simpson triumphed, as they all expected, the elderly man maintaining his reign as Hertfordshire's billiard champion for practically all of the past fifty years. The end point spread was a slim twelve points, the smallest in recent memory. This exploit alone garnered Mr. Darcy of Pemberley a place in tournament history.

  The crowd erupted in jubilant congratulations. Simpson was gracious and Darcy effusive in his praise. The drinks flowed freely, Darcy now happily sharing in a couple of glasses. For another hour or so, he and Bingley conversed and made merry before finally breaking for home.

  Chapter Three

  Parties and Memories

  While the gentlemen socialized, drank, and frolicked, the ladies strolled through Meryton. Elizabeth's queasiness had finally abated and they all had a marvelous afternoon. Mrs. Bennet delighted in reintroducing Elizabeth to every person they encountered—all of whom Lizzy had known since infancy—as Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley.

  Meryton is a small village, roughly the same size as Lambton. Fine cuisine or fashionable merchandise was difficult to attain, but Lizzy, despite her newfound status and comfort with opulence, was not too far removed from the country girl of her youth. She had worn her simplest gown, a lightweight muslin frock of forest green, and no jewels other than her wedding rings and dainty diamond drop earrings. As inconspicuous as she deemed herself, the truth was that she stood out in the crowd. However, she remained oblivious to this for the most part, simply enjoying traversing through her old haunts.

  Memories assaulted her senses every step of the way. Naturally, the majority concerned exploits of her youth. Although she had only been away for half a year, she discovered bizarrely evocative reminiscences invading her consciousness every step of the way. All the thousands of sites that she had no longer heeded in her day-to-day jaunts suddenly emerged in stunning clarity with vivid images attached. What surprised her further was how many of the visions involved her husband! She could distinctly recall walking with her then fiancé through these dusty streets, pointing to places as she disclosed childhood memories, glancing upward into his stoic face with the glittering eyes that revealed his pleasure in her silly stories. She smiled happily now, filing additional absurd tales to share with him later, knowing he would highly delight in them.

  In need of nothing, she purchased little for herself. Her ample purse was put to better use by purchasing various odds and ends for her mother and sisters. By the end of the afternoon, they had each received several new ribbons and clothing items; Mary had also received new sheet music and four books, and Kitty embroidery essentials and perfume. Her mother was lavish in her thanks while expressing equal exuberance to all regarding her daughter's wealth. Lizzy was embarrassed and profoundly grateful that her husband was not present. Fortunately, the shopkeepers and unlucky patrons were rather accustomed to Mrs. Bennet's vocal recitations regarding the matrimonial victories of her eldest daughters.

  At the butcher's shop, Lizzy bought a turkey and haunch of beef for that night's dinner to be hosted at Longbourn. The butcher, Mr. Trask, was a jovial man who was a friend to Mr. Bennet and thus well known to Lizzy.

  “Miss Elizabeth, how wonderful to see you! Yes, yes, I know it is Mrs. Darcy now,” he boomed with a stout laugh, “but you shall f
orever be little Miss Lizzy to me.”

  Elizabeth smiled warmly. “For you I will allow it, Mr. Trask. How is your wife, sir? Still putting up with you, or has she finally come to her senses and run away?”

  Trask laughed, slapping his knee. “I see married life has not tamed that wit of yours, Miss Elizabeth! Well done! Your poor husband, to be saddled with such a wench!”

  Lizzy assumed a mournful face. “Yes, it is a tragic affair. It is merely a matter of time ere a cell at Bedlam will be his home.”

  The bantering went on for a bit more, interrupted by the entrance of Trask's son, Reynaud, the recipient of eighteen-year-old Lizzy's crush. She smiled inwardly, blushingly remembering her and Darcy's confessions of first loves and the pleasant aftermath in his study. She laughed at the past now, tremendously thankful that Reynaud had ignored her then. He glanced at her briefly and then returned for an open-mouthed stare.

  “Son, you remembered Miss Elizabeth Bennet surely. Quit gaping and say hello, only be sure to address her as Mrs. Darcy or she may bite off your head!”

  “Mrs. Darcy. It is nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Trask. Are you well?”

  “Quite well, thank you. How do you find… Derbyshire, was it not?”