Longbourn to London

by Beutler Linda

  After setting the solicitors to their task, he stopped to refresh himself at Darcy House and spent a pleasant hour in conference with the housekeeper, Mrs. Chawton, on making changes to his new bedroom. Darcy planned to move, at last, into the master’s suite. Somehow, at Pemberley, it had felt right to change to the corresponding rooms immediately following his father’s death, but in London, where he came and went in a random manner and lived a bachelor’s life, the change had not seemed necessary. Now it was time for fresh draperies, better bathtubs, and new mattresses for both bedchambers. His first night in those rooms would be Elizabeth’s as well. He smiled at the thought of selecting in which room to sleep— mistress or master, or both?

  He entered the library, hoping to find any book on marital relations secreted there. Mrs. Chawton looked in to ask if he would remain at home for dinner, making him jump even though the book he was consulting at the moment was a recently arrived volume on the birds and flowers of Derbyshire. He thought he might send it to Elizabeth as a gift.

  “I’m sorry to have alarmed you, Mr. Darcy. I ought to have knocked.”

  “Nonsense, the door was open. I was merely lost in my thoughts. Once I have written a note to Miss Elizabeth, I would like this book wrapped and sent to her. I shall ring when the note is ready. And yes, I shall dine in this evening.”

  Mrs. Chawton smiled. “Very good, sir. And may I say, sir, how delighted we are by the news of your wedding. If I may beg your pardon, we have just had word from Mrs. Reynolds at Pemberley, and she sends her unqualified approval of your choice of wife. Not that the approval of servants matters, sir, but we do want you to know we are pleased.”

  Darcy started to laugh. “You mean relieved, do you not?” Darcy had no illusions about how both Caroline Bingley and his cousin Anne de Bourgh—and her mother— plagued his servants when they were entertained at either of his residences.

  It was not an easy thing to make Mrs. Chawton blush should one wish to do so, but she did. “Yes, sir. I shall not say more.” She smiled and left him to his writing.

  15 November 1812

  Darcy House, London

  For my dearest Elizabeth,

  It is my fond wish for this volume to answer those questions about the natural surroundings of your future home that are beyond my knowledge. I can claim to know the best place to watch the Black Kites soar over the Peaks, which I know you will enjoy. I look forward to seeing Pemberley anew through your beautiful eyes.

  With deepest love,

  F. Darcy

  Darcy folded the note and slipped it inside the front cover, then went to find Mrs. Chawton. He returned to the library until dinner was served, having been unsuccessful in his search for secret information in hidden books.

  After dinner, in a moment of sudden inspiration, Darcy betook himself to the master bedroom’s bookcases, where his careful father would have been more likely to have a cache of books he would not have wanted his son to find. On a bottom shelf, after moving the bed to reach it, he found a stack of books on their sides. He suspected the first one he opened might be identical to the volume of naughty French cartoons that Elizabeth had found in her father’s desk. As he turned the pages, the pictures became exceptionally detailed and amusing, but not exactly informative.

  Darcy picked up the second book, containing hand-tinted drawings of naked women of many body styles—flat chested, plump, buxom but long-legged, long-limbed but too skinny, perfect derrieres, and some less than perfect—some scantily draped with fabric, and although beautifully rendered, the images were not instructional. He wondered which image he would find his Elizabeth to most resemble. I shall know soon enough.

  In the very back of the book was a surprising page tipped into the binding from some other source and on different paper, containing a pen and ink drawing of the surface structures between a woman’s legs, quite medical in its thoroughness. He had not realised the maidenhead was so close to the threshold. This book he set aside for further review. The tinted pictures were lovely and he was inclined to learn the Latin names of Elizabeth’s parts, but how such knowledge would help him comfort her on their wedding night, he knew not.

  The last book was indeed a marriage manual, verbose on the topics of abetting conception and managing intimate congress with a woman already with child. In Darcy’s opinion, it was far-fetched in how to stimulate an elderly husband, and gave no suggestions for the wedding night. The book seemed to take into account a lady’s emotions and sensations not at all. It was published in 1782, the year his parents married. This cannot have been much help even then, he decided.

  With a disappointed sigh, Darcy returned to his old bedroom with the picture book of female nudes. After pouring himself a half tumbler of brandy, he was ready for bed. It had been a long day; he had tossed and turned the night before, with Elizabeth’s parting words echoing in his ears. No, she did not think him a rake for touching her intimately, but rather she was annoyed with him for not trying further, and for attempting anything at all just before departing. What a miraculous and confounding thing was the female mind, or at least Elizabeth Bennet’s.

  It was with these weighty but gratifying issues that he occupied his mind before falling to sleep.

  ***

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet stepped into the billiard room at Netherfield Park. Darcy straightened from aligning a shot, and bowed slightly. He had taken off his frock coat, and he was in his waistcoat with his shirt sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows. She appeared confused about what room she was in and met Darcy’s gaze with a slight tilt of her head. She was wearing the elegant gown from the Netherfield ball, half of her creamy bosom exposed above pale yellow polished muslin. In the autumnal afternoon light, she looked ethereal, a shaft of sunshine in a dark masculine room.

  “Miss Bennet!”

  She started to back out of the room, stopped when he said her name, and bobbed a brief curtsy. “Mr. Darcy.”

  “Do you play?”

  She eyed him warily. “If I say yes, I am too modern in my habits and not feminine, and if I say no, then I am a country miss with no experience of the world. Surely, sir, you know there is no billiard room at Longbourn, nor is it considered a woman’s game.”

  “It seems I have earned your distrust. But be assured, I agree few women take the opportunity of playing. It is a relaxing pastime and, like archery, improves hand-to-eye coordination. Would you care to try?”

  His tone seemed to challenge her and she took a step or two into the room, chewing the corner of her lower lip in the most beguiling manner.

  “Perhaps if you cared to demonstrate, Mr. Darcy,” she finally suggested, “I could answer you properly.”

  “I shall most happily oblige.” He met her gaze with a slight smile that deepened his dimples. She coloured slightly, and he wondered why. He stood at the centre of the table end nearest him, and surveyed the balls on the felt surface. “The object is to use the cue stick to hit the plain ball, the cue ball, into the coloured and striped balls, knocking them into the pockets. After each successful shot, one reassesses the remaining combinations on the table, and selects the next shot based on how easily one thinks another ball can be hit into another pocket.” He pointed to the red ball.

  “I have been amusing myself hitting in the solid colour balls first. The red ball is close to the pocket, and I should be able to tap it in with just a touch of the cue ball. However, one does need to think ahead to where the cue ball will roll after the shot, and perhaps if I hit the ball harder, the cue ball will come to rest in a way that will produce another easy shot.”

  “Like chess, then,” she responded, “one thinks a few moves ahead?”

  He was bent over the table, aiming, but looked up, reappraising her. “You play chess, Miss Bennet?”

  “Oh, yes, I play with my father.” She smiled a little.

  “Somehow I find I am not surprised. Let me continue: in billiards, one always assumes one will make the next shot, and one’s opponent will not.” He l
eaned in, and with precise efficiency, pulled the cue stick back and took his shot with the desired result.

  She was standing at the corner of the table where the red ball dropped smartly into the pocket. She widened her eyes. “Oh!”

  He had been aiming at her.

  The cue ball rolled to the centre of the table, and presented a fairly simple angled shot to put a purple ball into a side pocket. “Come, Miss Bennet, grab a stick.”

  She went to the rack of cue sticks affixed to the wall between two windows. As she stood, the afternoon sun revealed the outline of her legs under her gown, and Darcy quietly held his breath at the sight. He shook his head to clear his mind.

  She selected a cue stick and turned. “What next?”

  “Come stand by me.” She did so. “Watch my stance, and mimic my grip on the stick. You are right-handed?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Let your left hand guide the cue stick. Your right hand provides the power of the stroke. I have leaned over to sight the angle. When I see where I want to hit the cue ball, I pull back a few inches, and hit with as much force as I think is needed.”

  “What about the next shot?” she asked, leaning slightly over him, as if to see what he was seeing. The movement caused her breasts to swell towards the neckline of her gown. She stood again without seeming aware of her effect on him. How he longed to cup those breasts in his hands.

  He exhaled deeply. “Let us walk before we run, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “I do have the unfortunate tendency to get ahead of myself.” She smiled.

  Darcy backed up. “Now you.”

  She leaned over, left hand resting in front of her on the green felt, right hand behind. She twisted her shoulders away from him, and it was then he realised that her hair was styled as it had been for the Netherfield ball— swept up and intricately woven with satin roses and ribbon—but three tempting ringlets hung down the back of her neck, dark…shiny…soft. She closed one eye to sight, and shot with rather too much force. The purple ball dropped percussively into the pocket, but the cue ball careened around the table so she and Darcy straightened quickly to avoid it.

  “You do not know your own strength,” he said, barely above a murmur.

  But she appeared delighted to have made her first attempt count. She watched the cue ball roll to a stop. No further shots were obvious. She turned to him, questioning with her eyes.

  “You have the additional options of bouncing the cue ball off of the bank, as the edges of the table are called, or you may ricochet the cue ball into another solid colour ball to make a second one drop.”

  “Ah,” she mused. “That does not sound easy.”

  Darcy breathed in her scent of lavender, which was starting to fill the air. She moved down the table from him and leaned far over, looking for a new opportunity. As she did so, one foot came off the ground, the other leg bending at the knee to balance as she leaned on the table. She wore handsome little slippers with a slight heel, and pale pink stockings. Her ankles were slender and well turned.

  This is why men do not play with women—they are too distracting! Do I watch her lovely ankles, or walk around the table to leer at her bosom? I wish I could be in two places at once!

  “If we were competing,” Darcy explained, “and playing the simplest version of billiards, I would be pocketing the solid balls, and you would be hitting the striped ones. The player finishing first wins. As long as one keeps hitting the pockets, one keeps trying. Once one fails to hit the pocket, the turn proceeds to the opponent. Did I mention one must declare one’s intentions before each shot? In your turn, you would have said, ‘purple ball in the side pocket.’”

  “Declaring one’s intentions? Fancy that: a game wherein gentlemen must constantly declare their intentions. Come then, Mr. Darcy, help me decide on my next move since I am helping you rather than competing.”

  He moved to her side. “Singular for us, is it not?”

  She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes merry. “So it is!”

  She stitched her lower lip with her upper teeth.

  “It looks to me, pray correct me if I misread what I am seeing, but the only shot is awkwardly situated. Is it allowed to partly sit on the table? I fear I must stretch over it.”

  Darcy inhaled forcibly. He cleared his throat. “It is allowed. You may even lean on your elbow to steady yourself. Indeed, I do not see any other possibility. Short of climbing upon the table on all fours, one may do whatever one thinks necessary to reach the shot and sight it. The only thing not allowed is to move the balls that are at rest.”

  He had moved behind her again. Infernal curls! She hitched a hip onto the table, stretching to keep the toes of her other foot solidly on the ground, her gown sliding up her lower leg. Her torso, leaning low over the flat surface, twisted to reveal a trim waist. The gown pulled tight, and he could detect no evidence of a corset.

  Instinctively, and completely without heed, Darcy leaned over, put his hand on her waist, and crushed the three impertinent curls against the nape of her neck with his lips.

  “Mr. Darcy!” She froze.

  “Hang it, Elizabeth, you know your curls were meant to torture me!” He murmured with a caressing breath, not stopping his actions. “Did you not want every man in the room to be tempted when you were here for the ball?”

  “No, sir, I had no such idea! Did I tempt even you?” She spoke in such low tones he was not sure he heard her correctly. She did not turn or move, but her breath quickened.

  “By the end of our dance, I was angry with you, angry with Bingley, and angriest with myself. I wanted you then, and I want you now. I still love you.” He moved his hand around her waist and pulled her to him. She did not resist. He was kissing her neck, then her shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked down the front of her gown. Her breasts were just shy of exposing their nipples at the neckline. He moaned, and realised she had also.

  One hand supported his weight on the table while the other slid over the swell of her hip. Her derriere was round and firm. Her thigh felt warm through the gown. He bunched her skirt in his fingers, raising it until the hem was in his hand. “Do you love me even a little, Elizabeth? Did my letter at Hunsford, or our meeting at Pemberley, change anything?”

  Her naked derriere was before him, and he rubbed his growing erection against her, undone by desire. His forehead leaned against her shoulder, waiting to hear her answer or a shriek of disapproval.

  He instead heard the thud of the heavy end of the cue stick dropping onto the felt. Her hand sought his, and held it. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy, everything has changed.”

  “Elizabeth…” He said it like a prayer. “Please say you will be my wife.”

  “Indeed I must, sir. We must sanctify that which I hope and believe is about to take place.”

  He chuckled, almost giddy, into her hair but stopped as her hand stroked his where it rested on her bare hip. To his utter astonishment, she gently raised his hand to her lips then placed it on her breast. She sighed with a shudder.

  “Fitzwilliam, I fear I am more bold than a maiden should be.”

  “I can find no fault with you.” He was enraptured by her use of his given name. He kissed her shoulder and followed each kiss of her tender skin with another until he reached the nape of her neck behind her ear. She was moaning softly.

  She rolled her hips slightly, repeatedly touching his covered manhood with her bare skin.

  “Oh, yes! Fitzwilliam!” she murmured.

  ***

  Darcy awoke on his side, panting and slightly sweating. His did not wish to assuage himself. It took several minutes and more deep breathing to lessen the intensity of his tumescence. This was by far his most realistic dream of her; yet, when he could regulate himself, he chortled. Imagine proposing to Elizabeth while grappling on a billiard table! He wondered at the juxtaposition of details, and her wearing her ball gown. He knew a long ago, fleeting encounter at Netherfield summoned the dream. But her hair? The ball gown?


  Darcy considered. He had only danced with Elizabeth one time, and by the end of the half-hour set, they were barely able to remain civil. Yet she was a brilliant dancer and so refined. Darcy arose from his bed and went to the small desk in the room. He made two notes on a sheet of paper: “Ball gown—Jane?” followed by “Jewellers.” He walked to the hallway door where his night robe hung from a hook. His eyes easily led him through the dark to his study where he lit a candle, then went to his larger desk and, from a deep bottom drawer, drew out a wooden casket. He opened it with a key hidden in another drawer.

  Much of his mother’s jewellery went to Georgiana, but there were a few pieces he imagined giving his future wife. He took the inner box covered in oxblood velvet and opened it. The first pouch contained a single strand of medium-sized, pale rose pearls. He smiled and set them aside, thinking wedding night. The next, smaller pouch contained a solitary emerald set in a gold band of figured leaves. He stared at it in wonder. It could have been made for her. I wish I had remembered this weeks ago. When I return, I shall give it to her immediately. He set it aside and opened another pouch, full of loose pearls. This he put into the pocket of the robe, just the thing… Another pouch held a much grander ring— a large diamond surrounded by smaller ones—his mother’s betrothal ring. This he returned to the box with a note, change small diamonds for emeralds, give at Pemberley, July 21. The day he and Elizabeth stumbled upon each other as if by magic loomed large in his memory, and would always mean more to him than even his wedding day. The last pouch contained a pair of gold hair combs, each with a row of bright emeralds along the spine. There were earrings to match. This first Christmas.