The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  For five years all was well, until her tranquil existence and position of respect was abruptly destroyed with the horrible inclusion of Elizabeth Bennet, now Darcy, over three years ago.

  Mrs. Smyth shuddered anew, shifting restlessly on the hard stool, hand gripping the keys so hard that red ridges formed on her palm. The memory of her first introduction to the uncultured Miss Bennet, and her later humiliation in front of her entire staff at the hands of the inferior parvenu, were fresh and painful. She had not forgiven and never would. At times she considered searching for another position elsewhere, but then they would depart for Pemberley and serenity would fall, giving her the strength she needed to persevere. The urge had overwhelmed her the previous Seasons with the inclusion of an unruly child who was not cloistered in a distant chamber as he should have been. A child dining with the family, included when visitors called, and who dashed through the halls frequently being chased by a laughing Mr. Darcy! It was unbelievable and cemented her judgment that declining propriety and vulgarity had entered Darcy House along with Mrs. Darcy. How she would survive the addition of a second child to the household was nearly more than she could take. Add to that the brash Dr. Darcy with his outrageous mannerisms and attire, and her nervous condition nearly overwhelmed her reason.

  Geoffrey will soon return to comfort me, she thought with a sensuous sigh, closing her eyes and melting further into the stacks of fine linen as her body began to relax.

  Vividly she remembered the day they met eight months ago while she was at the market.

  The Darcys were expected any day, their journey to Europe and Kent completed, and the fact that they planned to tarry for merely a week or two before returning to Derbyshire before the birth of the second Darcy brat was the only optimistic detail she could cling to. Envisioning the noise created by an undisciplined toddler was enough to exaggerate her eye tic and cause her hands to quaver. So much so that she clumsily dropped the squash she was examining, the hard shell cracking on the stones by her feet and bursting the warm, pulpy meat into a squishy mess over her shoe and soiling two other ladies standing nearby. The ensuing clamor, with merchant demanding she pay for the ruined vegetable and the ladies loudly bemoaning their state while casting angry glares toward Mrs. Smyth, caused her ire to rise. The trembling and tic ceased, her frustration suddenly finding an immediate outlet in the bellicose retailer.

  As she puffed up for a full-blown confrontation, a smooth, cultured voice intervened. “Here, my good man, accept these coins for your trouble. This should more than pay for your loss and the time to clean the mess. Ladies, I am to understand that bicarbonate of soda removes such stains leaving not a hint of the damage. Perhaps this information shall benefit when you next accidentally spill.”

  Mrs. Smyth’s deliverer, after tossing enough coins to pay for three squashes and gifting the stunned women with engaging smiles, turned to her. “Madam,” he began, bowing and speaking in a lush undertone, “allow me.” And he knelt, producing his handkerchief with a flourish, lifted her foot, and proceeded to wipe the sticky seeds and pulp off her shoe. His fingers rested on her ankle, searing through her stocking, and he stared upwards into her captivated eyes.

  “There, all better now.” He rose, holding her gaze. “Madam, if I may be so bold, you appear to be shaken. This dratted London heat.” He smiled, deep dimples appearing, and winked as if sharing an intimate jest. “My name is Geoffrey Wiseman and it would be an honor to provide a cool refreshment, if you will allow? Rumor has it that Westin’s Café serves the finest lemonade in Covent Gardens, but as a new resident I have yet to sample the beverage to discern if this is fact or fancy. Will you accompany me in discovering the truth?” His bluish-green eyes bore into Mrs. Smyth, rendering her breathless and entranced, hardly aware that she took his offered arm.

  From that moment forward she was lost. In times of clarity, usually when Mr. Wiseman was away from Town for a period of time, her native skepticism would rise, wondering how Mr. Wiseman could genuinely be so perfect. Vague mistrust would rear up as she almost grasped a cunning manipulation in his precise phrases, thoughts, and actions that complimented hers and compelled her to speak frankly of matters she did to no other.

  Then one glance into his mesmerizing eyes, one word uttered in his sweet voice, one brush of his full lips over her fingers, and one dimpled grin was all it took to catapult her from mature woman to swooning maiden. She could not sincerely say it was love; Mrs. Smyth was far too pragmatic to believe in such a capricious emotion. But it was unquestionably lust. After nine years without male companionship she had buried her urges deep inside, yet all it had taken was one incredibly sensual, captivating man to bring them rushing to the surface.

  As a broker for a porcelain manufacturer in Manchester, Mr. Geoffrey Wiseman was required to travel, thus often away for weeks at a time. For the first three months after their meeting in Covent Gardens they saw each other sporadically, not precisely courting as neither expressed such a wish, but merely becoming acquainted. He was absent more than present initially, but as the months passed he stayed for longer periods of time in London, always sending a message to Mrs. Smyth when he arrived.

  After another two months they became lovers.

  Again, there were no declarations. Mrs. Smyth simply wanted the pleasure of a physical relationship without losing any of her status. The idea of giving up her post to be the wife of a tradesman, living in far away Manchester or even in London was unappealing. What could she possibly do while her husband was gone for extended periods? Live in some waterfront apartment and raise a pack of weeping, snotty children? The notion brought shivers of disgust. No, the arrangement of clandestine assignations at the modest set of rooms he rented on the fringes of Bloomsbury was adequate.

  At least at first.

  Despite her practical, icy disposition, she was a woman. Geoffrey’s sweetly whispered admissions of affection and subtle pleadings for her company touched a hidden region of her heart. His skill in the bedroom far surpassed the unlamented Mr. Smyth and the sensations experienced burned through her body to an addictive degree. Equally enthralling was his interest in her views, Geoffrey caring for her opinions and welcoming her conversation as no one ever had. Gradually she began to imagine more from their relationship, even if her dreams were nebulous and not pondered in the light of day.

  Geoffrey pushed to visit her at Darcy House so they would have the entire night together rather than brief minutes of rapid lovemaking. Emotion overruled discretion and she allowed him in to her private apartments, aware that the act was an unforgivable breach of Mr. Darcy’s rules. In the aftermath of inexhaustible passion, he asked personal questions about the family, and she enlightened him. As winter waned into spring with the looming onslaught of the family on the horizon, Mrs. Smyth lost all scruples in her craving for the special brand of comfort that Geoffrey Wiseman so capably gave her.

  It had been three weeks since she last saw him and she anticipated his return any day, as he had promised. Every prudent bone in her body screamed against permitting him entry with Mr. Darcy in residence, but she knew that she would the moment he sent word of his arrival. A mere day of excessive racket was already wearing on her and she shamelessly needed consoling from her lover. A shiver of anticipatory pleasure raced through her core, settling in her belly. Yes, indeed I shall let him in, she thought, and no one will be the wiser.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Easter at Darcy House

  The subsequent days passed in the usual manner for this time of year as the official London Season was soon to commence and Easter approached.

  Traffic—foot, horse, and carriage—noticeably amplified as the elite members of Society relocated from their pastoral country abodes to their plush townhouses. Vendors of every type hopped into action as purchasing drastically increased with the steady influx of orders for everything from flowers and fabrics to fresh produce and meats. Covent Garden, Piccadilly, Cheapside, Adelphi, and even the smaller shopping districts m
et the demand with ease after decades of practice. Church ceremonies to honor Christ’s death and resurrection were held daily during Lent and Holy Week. Costers took advantage with booths selling hot cross buns, dyed hard boiled eggs, simnel cakes, flower-adorned crosses, white lilies, and palm branches lining the walkways nearby.

  Couriers added to the press of bodies, busily delivering the invitations to afternoon teas, salons, and soirees. Musicians, actors, singers, and a dozen other entertainers exhausted themselves in perfecting their art while theatre owners and crewman frenetically primed for constant performances. Museums, art galleries, clubs, gardens, public rooms—every business catering to the entertainments of the ton gleefully threw open their doors, knowing a vast amount of money was to be made and prestige gained. Modistes, tailors, milliners, cobblers, and anyone else associated with providing fine garments and accoutrements worked long hours and employed additional helpers to meet the demand.

  The residents of Darcy House passed the days in the usual pursuits as well.

  Despite his claim to applaud all forms of laziness, George wasted only two days before reconnecting with his medical colleagues. He scheduled a series of lectures for new students, his reputation as an excellent teacher and expert practitioner well known, and volunteered at the local hospitals where he was welcomed gladly. His never-waning hunger to learn improved or unique methods of diagnosing and treatments prompted him to enroll in several lectures of interest. Of course, his serious, scholarly side did not totally rule with a fair number of frivolous entertainments embraced in between.

  Georgiana submerged her impatience to see Mr. Butler. It was not easy, but the delight of shopping and gossiping with the plethora of friends she had not seen in months did soothe and distract. Her prior enthusiasm for balls at Almack’s and flirtatious strolls through Hyde Park was greatly diminished, an oddity Darcy noticed but did not comment upon.

  Lizzy discovered the same degree of happiness in distraction. The strange vision of Lord Orman and any residual disquiet over Mr. Wickham disappeared with a full schedule of socializing and preparing for the holiday. After three previous Seasons in Town, Mrs. Darcy was acquainted with everyone, close friends with some, and esteemed as worthy company by all, her ability to easily socialize one Darcy remained in awe of.

  Darcy spent the first days with his solicitors in their maple-paneled offices. Mr. Andrew Daniels and his sons brilliantly handled Darcy’s numerous business ventures while Mr. Darcy dwelt at Pemberley during the winter months with frequent messages passing over the miles. Nevertheless, the pile of documents requiring signatures or careful perusal grew and would take some time to deal with. He relished the work, even as he strived to consolidate and streamline his affairs so as to require less personal attention in the future. Mr. Daniels’s service to the Darcy family for decades, and Mr. Darcy specifically, meant he knew his client’s wishes and was ready with a dozen propositions to discuss, contracts written, bank drafts awaiting signatures, and so on.

  Mr. Daniels quietly pursued his search for information on the Marquis of Orman while Colonel Fitzwilliam’s “spies” were unreachable and doing heaven-knew-what in their intelligence hunt. There was nothing for Darcy to do other than maintain his extreme diligence. Lizzy was cautioned daily, a reminder she comprehended and obeyed to the best of her ability. Yet, as the days turned into a week since leaving Hertfordshire, even Darcy began to relax and pushed the worries aside.

  Maundy Thursday dawned bright and sunny. The Holy Day set aside to commemorate the Last Supper of Christ with his apostles began the Easter events Darcy most enjoyed, his delight compounded now that Alexander was old enough to attend. Church bells resounded from a multitude of steeples as they rode to St. Marylebone Parish Church for the service. Alexander sat mesmerized throughout the foot-washing ceremony and adaptive Passover Seder, finally falling asleep in his father’s lap during the choral worship. He missed the ritualized stripping of the altar sacraments in symbolic preparation for the Good Friday mourning services, but Darcy was content to observe the solemn proceedings with his family close.

  The weather for Good Friday reverted to cold and blustery with rain threatening. Lizzy opted to stay indoors with Michael rather than subjecting the infant to illness, but the ominous skies did not deter Darcy from taking a thickly coated Alexander to watch St. Sepulchre Church’s reenactment of the medieval Easter Sepulchre liturgy.

  Carved sepulchres of stone and wood created for Easter commemorations were once a common fixture in ancient churches. Some were simple works of art depicting the burial place of Christ with sleeping soldiers or visiting women carved as a niche in the wall of the church. Other sepulchres, such as this one, were large, elaborate sculptures with the entire story of Christ’s burial and resurrection conveyed in detailed etchings surrounding and on the tombs. Steeped in history and a fair amount of mystery due to lost documents and the ritual being banned during the Reformation, this ceremony was a highlight whenever Darcy managed to be in London for Easter.

  Darcy, Alexander, Georgiana, and George joined a large gathering observing the formal rite. Sacred hymns recounting the Passion were sung by the choir as four dark-robed, barefooted monks walked soberly down the aisle carrying a red velvet-draped cushion upon which rested a plain wooden cross with an exquisite effigy of Christ in gold. Reverently, the cross was placed beside the candle-encircled sepulchre, the monks falling to their knees and bowing before the image with foreheads touching the floor. Lifting mere inches to bestow a kiss to the sculpted feet, they then crept backwards as the waiting monks lowered to their knees and in the same humble pose approached the cross to kiss.

  The assembled clergy completed that part of the ceremony, forming a ring of kneeling worshippers around the cross. It was then that the priest rose from his seat, and slowly descended the steps of the chancel and front of the nave until standing with his brothers directly before the cross. With calm deliberation he removed his traditional vestures to reveal an unadorned black cassock, his eyes never leaving the graven face of suffering as he handed the garments to a waiting monk, removed his shoes, and bent to his knees. Crawling forward, he too respectfully kissed the nailed feet of his Savior before rising and lifting the laden cross high above his head for all in the audience to see.

  The heavy lid of the wooden tomb was opened and the crucifix placed inside with due pomp. Responsories were sung by the choir, sweet incense burned both inside and around the tomb, the lid closed and sealed with wax, and lastly covered with gold trimmed damask. The priest chose the first two sextons to be given the honor of guarding the sepulchre, a responsibility taken seriously and shared with other clergy in shifts until Easter morning.

  “Papa, will Jesus be lonely inside the box?” Alexander asked as they left the church. It was the first words he had uttered since entering St. Sepulchre nearly an hour earlier, the boy studiously attentive to the ceremony throughout. The innocent query, asked with grave concern and a deep frown, brought instant laughter. The lighthearted response of the adults only increased Alexander’s worry and tears welled in his eyes.

  “Not at all, sweetling. First off, this Jesus is pretend. It is a statue only, as the real Jesus is in Heaven, right?” Alexander nodded, although not totally convinced. Darcy hugged him tighter, kissing the crease between the toddler’s knitted brows.

  Darcy tried to explain the concept of ceremony and symbolism with limited success, but Alexander’s fears were not fully allayed until George said, “Jesus is taking a nap in the box, Alexander. He is tired after being carried about. The nice men will keep him company and open the box in two days once He is rested.”

  Darcy opened his mouth to refute that nonsensical explanation, but the cheery expression on Alexander’s face halted him. In the end, he realized there would be plenty of time in the future to give theological lectures!

  Saturday saw Darcy House besieged, much to Mrs. Smyth’s horror. For some reason she never comprehended, the pristine dining room was converted
into the official egg dyeing and painting chamber. The table was carefully draped with old linens and the fine furnishings removed to avoid damage or staining, but naturally there were a few mishaps that required harsh cleaning. Yet it was not the mess that peeved her as much as the ruckus caused by so many festive persons.

  The boiling of eggs had occupied a portion of the kitchen staff’s time on Friday, those cooled eggs now added to the dozens brought by Jane Bingley, Lady Simone Fitzwilliam, Mary Daniels, Marilyn Hughes, Harriet Vernor, Julia Sitwell, Amelia Lathrop, Chloe Drury, and Alison Fitzherbert. The babies were taken to the nursery for age-appropriate play while the other children eagerly flocked the cluttered long table. Baskets of eggs sat among the bowls of paints, dye, and adhesive to decorate with the glass pieces, feathers, beads, seeds, ribbons, lace, and more. Adult supervision was essential, especially for the littler children. Artistry was encouraged, some eggs a masterpiece of precision adornment and painting while others were sadly lacking any finesse, but each an expression of individuality and definitely colorful. The fathers aided the procedure for a time, managing to decorate one or two eggs themselves, before retiring to Darcy’s billiard room and leaving the chaos to the women.