Darcy's Match

by Kate Bedlow

  “Mr. Darcy very kindly invited me to shoot with his party today. I daresay many hungry Lambton families will be grateful for his generosity.”

  “There. Never mind me now. I am quite set to rights.” Mama frowned at the overturned sledge. “I believe Mrs. Darcy and Miss Darcy could use your assistance.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Elizabeth raised herself up on her elbows to watch. Mr. Midwinter’s brow wrinkled at Georgiana in hesitation, and it was unclear whether he thought of her as a delicate flower or something like a wasps’ nest. When Georgie attempted to scramble to her feet, as if determined to avoid the man’s help, he leapt into action.

  “Miss Darcy, do let me assist you.”

  But she was already standing.

  Would nothing work in Mr. Midwinter’s favor? And now, apparently, there was the added complication of a new rival. Well, enough of that! Elizabeth swung her foot around, “accidentally” tripping her sister-in-law.

  “Oh!”

  Georgiana fell backward, arms flailing, and Mr. Midwinter reached for her but she was already going down. She grasped at his arms and they tumbled to the snow, entangled together, and rolled until they came to rest in a very compromising position.

  Elizabeth turned away to hide her smile. Catching Mama’s eye, she shook her head and put a gloved finger to her lips. If Georgiana and the vicar could not find their way to each other on their own, then a little encouragement could not be amiss.

  Chapter 4

  “Shall I remove this bird then, madam?”

  The disapproving frown on her maid’s face in the dressing table glass was nearly as comical as the overlarge bicorne hat on Elizabeth’s head. The thing listed precariously from the weight of a stuffed Imperial eagle sewn onto one side.

  “Not a bit of it, Morton!” She carefully turned her head this way and that, admiring the effect of the bobbing monstrosity in the glass. “I strive to appear ridiculous. The point is to make fun of old Boney, after all.”

  Once again Elizabeth had dressed as a clown from the commedia dell’arte. Pemberley would keep to its traditions! Every year on Twelfth Night, Fitzwilliam dressed as a highwayman, Georgiana was the faerie queen, and Elizabeth was… Harlequin.

  “Little did I know that having been a clown at my first Twelfth Night ball, I had doomed myself to being a clown in perpetuity.”

  “There is no law against your wearing a different costume.” Morton spoke matter-of-factly, but there was a glint of humor laced through her no-nonsense tone. Elizabeth and her lady’s maid rubbed along very well together.

  “Ah, but there is, and it is the most intransigent law of all—that of Pemberley tradition. It has taken me three years to convince the servants I am no barbarian. But there is an object to my compliance: I am a slave to tradition where I can be, so that I may ignore it where I must.”

  Tradition and duty were everything to her husband, and so they must be something to Elizabeth. Pemberley’s traditions regarding Twelfth Night were ingrained in its very identity. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy always entered the ball with Miss Georgiana Darcy on his arm, and Elizabeth had purposely chosen not to interfere with that. The household adored the orphaned brother and sister who comprised “their” family. Elizabeth might be mistress of Pemberley, but she was still a newcomer. She felt it wise to praise the established order, not to bury it.

  To love all and usurp no one, that was her motto.

  Easy to do when she entered an established household run like clockwork by Mrs. Reynolds upstairs and Mrs. White below and a lady’s maid so genial as Morton. The loyalty and support of the servants in such a vast estate could not be overvalued. When there was true respect and care between the classes, life could be pleasant indeed for all. The Twelfth Night ball was a celebration of Pemberley’s harmony.

  Perhaps next year Elizabeth would make the leap to a different fancy dress costume—and perhaps then Georgiana would enter on the arm of Mr. Midwinter. It could happen!

  She had had the same thought before, but tonight it took on new urgency. Mama’s gossip had made her anxious. Best if Georgiana and the vicar came to an understanding before she returned to London and the special attentions of that Lord Somersea.

  “I do enjoy some variation in costume through my headgear.” She returned to the matter at hand. “It is easier to mock Napoleon now that he has been finally vanquished at Waterloo.” The stuffed eagle represented a prize taken from a French battlefield standard.

  “Yes, madam. And securely imprisoned on that island.”

  “Let us hope St. Helena will keep him. Elba could not, after all.”

  The maid shuddered. “I am sure your hat will be a success.”

  “Everybody loves to hate Bonaparte. Now, Morton, let me help with your headdress.”

  “Oh, madam, no. I couldn’t.”

  “I will hear no refusal. I can’t make a bumblebroth of simply pinning up your hair. There were never enough lady’s maids at Longbourn, you know, not with all my sisters out. Jane and I used to do each other’s coiffures. At all events, your wig will cover my sins. Come, sit here on my…”

  The room began to spin. Elizabeth grabbed on to her dressing table for support and sat down again.

  “Madam, you are unwell!” Morton poured a glass of water from the pitcher on a side table and brought it to her.

  “I am quite well, I assure you. It was but a momentary dizziness.”

  “You stood too quickly.” The maid had been with Elizabeth when Mr. Gowan confirmed the happy news about the new baby. “Have you told the master?”

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “I can’t abide being fussed over with all these people in the house. Do not misunderstand me. I adore being fussed over as a general principle, but in small doses. If I tell Mr. Darcy now, he will fuss, and then all my family will follow his lead, and there will be no end of being told to do this and not to do that. You cluck over me quite enough as it is.”

  “I suppose Mr. Darcy would have looked unfavorably on your outing this morning.” Morton had been against her going out at all.

  “And he would have been right to do so—as you were.” Elizabeth sighed and stood up again—this time with no ill effects. “As you well knew, it was a mistake. Mama was a wild woman with the reins. But you will not divert me from my present purpose by rubbing it in! Now do sit and let me cluck over you. It is Twelfth Night, after all. We must keep to tradition.”

  At Pemberley, Twelfth Night was a festival of topsy-turvy, beginning with the tenants’ poaching holiday. At the ball, Mr. Rook and Mrs. Reynolds presided over the festivities as Lord and Lady Misrule. The upper servants attended as guests as well, though after the first few dances, they would always slip down to the servants’ hall below stairs.

  Tonight Morton was dressed as Queen Cleopatra of Egypt. With her flaxen hair pinned up, Elizabeth fit a tight net cap over her head, then the distinctive black wig laden with faux jewels and coins. The style framed her pretty face to great advantage.

  Elizabeth caught her breath. It was a shock to behold her maid in this different, exotic light, removed from her station as a servant.

  “I am dismayed to own it, Morton, but you are quite lovely! Some ardent fellow is apt to take you away from me one day to be his wife.”

  Elizabeth liked her maid very much and she endeavored to be a good mistress, but there were some things even Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley could never provide. A home of her own, a husband, children. Lady’s maids never married unless they gave up their position to do it. She had been joking, but the idea was not so outlandish. Sally Morton was young, only a few years older than herself. Elizabeth was suddenly, selfishly, afraid.

  “I think you will leave me one day. Indeed, you must. For you are lovely, truly, and so clever. Any man with eyes would scoop you up on the instant if he could.”

  “Leave my position! Not likely, is it, madam?” Morton blushed and looked away, but Elizabeth knew of just the man to capture Sally Morton’s
heart. Perhaps he already had.

  Just then, Fitzwilliam entered her chamber and Morton jumped to her feet and curtsied. She might agree to a degree of informality between herself and her mistress, but she could not abide such impropriety in the presence of the master.

  “How do you progress, my dear?” The fond twinkle in Fitzwilliam’s eyes warmed Elizabeth. “I am about to collect Georgiana, but I wanted to see you first.”

  “Thoughtful man.” She went to her husband and gave him a quick kiss. Perhaps she would tell him about the baby now after all. It would make him so happy.

  “Pemberley is quite full tonight,” he said. “I could barely hear the musicians tuning their instruments over the din spilling into the entry hall.”

  The reminder of the crush downstairs brought her to her senses. She would reveal her news sometime in the next week, after the majority of their guests had gone away. But at the moment, she spotted a more pressing matter: something must be done about Fitzwilliam’s costume.

  “How did this ugly thing happen?” She untied the knot in his cape and replaced it with a simpler, less ugly, bow. “My highwayman is a dashing fellow who dresses impeccably, don’t you know. What scandal should it get about that Mr. Darcy of Pemberley appeared unkempt at his own ball! Where was Garrett when all this was going on?” She stole a glance at Morton to observe her reaction to the name.

  “Attending to his own costume. He begged off this morning’s shoot to allow your sister to make last-minute alterations.”

  “Lydia was in much demand today. She could not go to Lambton with us, for all the last-minute alterations she was asked to make. She was in heaven.”

  Fitzwilliam too glanced at Morton, then said in a mock whisper, “Garrett found out that a certain lady’s maid is to be Cleopatra, and he has gone to a great deal of trouble to make himself into a passable Mark Antony.”

  Fitzwilliam’s man was no mere valet. Romulus Garrett had been Pemberley’s steward in all but name ever since old Mr. Wickham died years ago. Several times, Fitzwilliam had offered him the position formally, and each time Garrett had refused it, saying he was too young to take on something so serious—despite performing the duties of the position with such competence there was no need to hire another.

  “What an enterprising fellow Garrett is,” Elizabeth said. “He ought to be Lord Misrule.” According to custom, the steward should have that right.

  “That would break Mr. Rook’s heart.” In the absence of a proper steward, Pemberley’s butler always opened the Twelfth Night ball dressed as Lord Misrule, with Mrs. Reynolds as Lady Misrule. “I sometimes think Garrett refuses to be named steward merely to preserve harmony among the servants on this one day of the year.”

  “And so we will have a Mark Antony to complement our Queen Cleopatra.”

  “His helmet is ridiculous.” Morton had every right to comment after Elizabeth had coupled her name with the man, if only by proxy. “He will have a headache within ten minutes.”

  “Good point, Morton.” Fitzwilliam eyed Elizabeth’s bicorne warily and bent to steal another kiss, this one from her lips. “I predict Mrs. Darcy and Garrett will both be hatless before the second dance.”

  “Headdresses are always the first casualties of Twelfth Night. Next year I shall choose something as easy to wear as your wig, Morton.”

  “Yes, madam.” Butter would not melt in the maid’s mouth. Cool as you like, she stood stoically, her expression placid, as if all this talk of Garrett meant nothing to her. Which of course piqued Elizabeth’s sense of fun.

  “Would you fetch my sapphire necklace?”

  The maid seemed happy to escape on the errand. She quickly disappeared into the closet.

  Elizabeth looked at Fitzwilliam. “Antony and Cleopatra?” They had often joked about an attachment forming between his man and her maid, but Elizabeth had never taken the idea seriously until now.

  Fitzwilliam seemed amused by the idea of his gruff, stolid, and imperturbable valet conquered by something so ethereal as love. But was it a kindness to encourage a nascent romance between the two? Or cruel to quash one already blossomed?

  Love had certainly improved her own life beyond measure. It would be wicked to deny such happiness to any other person. And she was so very happy! Suddenly she wished the world would disappear, and it was just her and Fitzwilliam together.

  “If only we could throw the evening over.” She wrapped her arms around Fitzwilliam and laid her head against his chest. The bicorne hat fell to the floor. “We could close the bed curtains for the night, I with my novel and you with your latest journal of expeditions to Egypt or Terra Australis.”

  “Let us do it.” With a finger beneath her chin, he lifted her head and kissed her forehead. “I would tell you about my day, and you would describe Janie’s latest fantastical accomplishment, and then we would discuss the best means of securing Georgiana’s happiness—what? Why that glint in your eye?”

  “I am recalling your outlandish method of asking for my hand in marriage.”

  “Do not remind me of how I insulted you! I will never live down the embarrassment.”

  “No, silly man. I mean your second, more successful proposal. The day you crawled to me on your hands and knees, shirtless, before all our friends and relations, and offered me a lei of flowers and leaves like a pagan prince.”

  Fitzwilliam’s eyes smoldered. “I was rather irrepressible that day, was I not?”

  “Quite, Mr. Darcy. I do not think Mama has got over it yet.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Darcy? Have you got over it?”

  “I never will. I never wish to.”

  Fitzwilliam captured her mouth with his then, and they did not break apart from each other until Elizabeth became aware of another person in the room. Morton had returned and was standing near the wall, silent as a statue.

  “Ah, do you have the necklace, Morton? Good. Do put it on yourself. I daresay the sapphires will bring out the blue in your eyes.”

  “Madam, I couldn’t!”

  “Of course you can. It is Twelfth Night. We are meant to poke at the natural order.”

  The word of her mistress should be enough, but Morton had been raised on the mystique of Pemberley and simply could not bring herself to wear Mrs. Darcy’s jewels. The maid looked to Mr. Darcy for help. Elizabeth’s smart died in her throat when Fitzwilliam held out his hand for the necklace, obliging Morton.

  The traitor!

  Elizabeth was ready to stamp her foot and call him insufferable—but then her partner in Cupid’s crime stepped behind Morton, opened the clasp, and arranged the sapphires himself.

  “A proper Cleopatra must be adorned by gems, I say.” With a wink to Elizabeth, he fastened the clasp.

  “Well done.” Elizabeth clapped her hands. “Cheer up, Morton. After Garrett has taken such trouble to impress you, we must endeavor to outdo him as a matter of principle.”

  All would be well. Nothing bad would come of a little harmless flirtation and a dance or two. The thought obviously did not disturb Fitzwilliam. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself, plotting this bit of romance. Perhaps he should be enlisted to help bring Georgiana and Mr. Midwinter together.

  Mrs. Reynolds appeared in the doorway in full Lady Misrule regalia, a Georgian gown with panniers covered with swatches of silk, satin, and brocade in bright, colliding colors. Her old-style powdered wig was taller than anything Marie Antoinette might have attempted, decorated with birds, butterflies, paste jewels, and black and white pearls. She should look ridiculous, but the formidable woman carried it off to perfection.

  “Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Bingley asked me to tell you she is sorry, but she feels unable to attend the ball this evening.”

  Worry, pregnancy’s ever-present hobgoblin, snapped at Elizabeth. “Is my sister unwell?”

  “She said you were not to concern yourself, that she is merely tired. She wishes to keep to her room and rest.”

  “I will ask the physician to look in on Mrs. Bingley n
onetheless.” Dear Fitzwilliam! “Gowan will be among the guests.”

  “And I will too before I go down,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  The housekeeper hesitated in the doorway. She wore that blank expression which Elizabeth had learned could mask anything from minor irritation to a roiling cauldron of disapproval.

  “Was there something else?”

  “Sir, a gentleman has arrived who is not on the guest list.”

  “It happens every year.” Fitzwilliam shrugged. “You mustn’t be surprised.”

  “He has arrived with his valet and several trunks, and he begs accommodations for himself and his man.”

  “Heavens, that is rather bold. Do we know him?”

  “We do. He says you will remember an old schoolfellow of yours, Mr. Kettering Corby.”

  “Kett!” Fitzwilliam broke out in a broad smile. “That is a surprise.”

  “He declares he has a standing invitation to the Twelfth Night ball.” Words delivered with a vein of icy disapproval to which Elizabeth’s husband appeared oblivious.

  “And so he does.” Fitzwilliam clapped his hands together. “Why, this is marvelous!”

  “Interesting, at all events.” Elizabeth looked at Mrs. Reynolds, who pointedly refused to meet her eye. “I daresay, Fitzwilliam, I have never seen you so delighted to receive an uninvited guest.”

  “Kett and I were indeed at school together. He visited Pemberley once when my parents were both still living—surely you remember him, Mrs. Reynolds.” An amused look came over Fitzwilliam, as if he were captured by a fond memory. “It is true. I did tell him once he would always be welcome. But that was years ago. We lost touch after Cambridge. Well, well. Kettering Corby at Pemberley again. Imagine that. Do show Mr. Corby to a room, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  The housekeeper grimaced as if she had tasted a lemon. “He is Mr. Corby no more. The gentleman informed me that he is now Lord Somersea.”

  “Lord… Somersea?” A sinking feeling gripped Elizabeth.