by Kelly Miller
Simpering, she said, “Not at all. I merely meant that my nephew, who has noble connections, should have chosen a bride with similar relations.”
A merry shriek emanating from outside caught the gentleman’s attention and drew his gaze. “And yet it is obvious that Darcy is delighted with his choice of a wife.”
Seething, she gave no response. Her features coiled in a grimace as her eyes were inexorably drawn back to the window. Darcy and Elizabeth, in turn, ran across the grass after a jubilant Bennet.
Chapter 8: A Suspicion of Doom
During breakfast, Elizabeth related her plans to attend a meeting with the Kympton Vicar, Mr. Edwards. She and several other neighbourhood ladies met with the vicar each month to discuss local families in need of charitable assistance.
As she spread butter on her roll, she eyed the lady seated to her left. “Lady Catherine, would you like to accompany me to the meeting? You could meet several gentlewomen from the neighbourhood, and I think you would—”
“I think not. I prefer to rest in my room today.” Sparing nary a glance for Elizabeth, the lady returned her attention to her meal.
Quelling the inclination to sigh, Elizabeth set down her knife. It was no surprise that Lady Catherine turned down the offer, but she need not have been so rude. The woman was more disagreeable today than usual. Was any attempt to break through her hostility a futile endeavour?
Seated on the table’s far side, her dear husband viewed her. His eyes were rife with a searing zeal that warmed her from within, infusing her with vitality.
No amount of effort could be too much for such a man. For his sake, she would persist in her attempts to reach his disagreeable aunt. Hidden within the confines of Lady Catherine’s callous exterior must be an abiding affection for Fitzwilliam lest she would not have wished him for a son-in-law. That same fondness should extend to his young son and, in time, might induce her to tolerate his wife. She would bide her time with her husband’s aunt. The old lady was stubborn, but she could be too. With renewed cheerfulness, she addressed Fitzwilliam. “What are your plans for the day?”
“I am riding with Mr. Cross to the estate’s southern border to inspect the fences in the area.”
After he swallowed a large mouthful of food with the aid of a sip of ale, Graham paused in his consumption. “May I accompany you, Darcy?”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “Very well. We shall leave in an hour.”
Lady Catherine’s silence throughout the remainder of the meal was a glaring oddity, but seen in a certain light, it could be considered a blessing.
***
Elizabeth’s arrival at the vicarage coincided with that of Mrs. Down and Mrs. Jarvis, who travelled together in the Jarvis’s coach. When they were let into Mr. Edwards’s parlour, Mrs. Sarah Mead stood to greet them.
After everyone had paid their courtesies to one another, Elizabeth chose a seat next to her friend. While the other two ladies stood on the far side of the room absorbed in an animated discussion of local news with Mr. Edwards, Elizabeth and Sarah took the opportunity to have a discreet, frank conversation, keeping their voices low.
In response to Elizabeth’s attempt to elucidate her concern in a mode not apt to offend or mortify her, Sarah assured her she was content with the arrangement she had with Graham and harboured no expectations of any permanent situation coming from it. He had made it clear from the start that their alliance was temporary.
Sarah’s eyes were shiny with unshed tears. “I shall admit that I have feared that you would no longer wish to associate with me once you learned of us. I should have been devastated if that happened.”
She laid her hand on Sarah’s arm. “I assure you, I am pleased to consider you my friend.”
With the merest tremble of her lips, Sarah offered a smile, but it did not obscure the aura of wistfulness that surrounded her friend. Was this sadness attributable to her liaison with Graham? Did Sarah dread his return to Italy?
For the whole of Elizabeth’s acquaintance, Sarah had endured periods of melancholy from time to time. It was not unexpected for a young widow to suffer intervals of depression and sadness. After all, Sarah had lost her husband a mere two years before they met. By all accounts, Sarah and Nicholas Mead’s marriage had been a love match, so it had been a dreadful loss when her husband died.
Elizabeth took a shuddering breath. At the time, she had not allowed her mind to dwell on it, but a few days ago, Fitzwilliam had had a close call while out riding. She could have lost her husband! How would she have coped without him? The concept of never seeing Fitzwilliam again brought a searing ache into her heart. As tears gathered in her eyes, she brought her hand over her chest.
As she bent near to her, Sarah murmured, “Are you well?”
“Yes, I thank you.” Elizabeth removed her handkerchief and pressed it to the corners of her eyes. “I had an eyelash in my eye. That is all.” What was wrong with her? It was not in her nature to engage in histrionic conduct. Fitzwilliam had not even sustained a scratch, and as long as she had known him, he had enjoyed the best of health; he never suffered as much as a cold or fever. In contrast, her mother and father contracted illnesses every year, yet both were alive and well. She had every reason to expect her husband to live a long life.
Mr. Edwards took a seat next to her and announced the start of the meeting, which focused on several local families and their individual needs. The two friends shared a private smile. The opportunity for confidential conversation had passed.
***
Graham, Darcy, and Mr. Cross set out for the southern end of Pemberley. Graham had never travelled through the southern part of the estate before, so his attention was drawn to the many tenant dwellings they passed. Each building, though modest in design, was maintained with impeccable care. Nowhere in sight was a structure in disrepair or exhibiting the least sign of neglect. Was this the usual way of things on an estate of this size? No. It could not be; he had been an angel of death for too long not to be certain of the contrast. The care Darcy showed his tenants and their homes was exemplary.
As they passed, several tenants approached to give Darcy an amicable salutation. The uniform pride and contentment displayed in the tenants’ demeanours indicated their cognizance of the good fortune they enjoyed living at Pemberley.
At an area where Darcy and Mr. Cross stopped to inspect the fencing, Graham made a study of a shelter that had been constructed for a herd of cows. It was well made, sound, and solid and was even artistic in its design—unlike the eyesores one might expect to see providing such a service. The structure’s style would be lost on the cows, but they no doubt appreciated a reliable shelter from the elements.
A thorough perusal of the fencing in the area revealed it was in good condition; few places required any repairs. After taking note of the areas needing work, Mr. Cross voiced his intention of gathering a few men to complete the work and rode off.
***
Darcy and Graham rode side by side towards the house at a more sedate pace. Details for the next two days revolved in Darcy’s mind. Mrs. Reynolds had ensured the rooms were cleaned and ready for the guests while managing to keep Elizabeth in ignorance of the preparations. The two couples were expected around mid-morning tomorrow. An afternoon picnic and a special birthday dinner were planned for the day of their arrival. On the following day, a neighbourhood party would be held on Pemberley’s grounds; it was a social occasion that should prove pleasing to their guests. He had seen to all within his control, yet how might the presence of his aunt and Lady Rebecca hinder the proceedings? Not to mention—
“After spending several days with you, Darcy, I must compliment you on the way you manage your estate. You take an uncommon interest in your tenants, and you ensure that everything—even the simplest of structures—is well made and maintained with diligence.” Graham’s visage lacked its customar
y, almost constant, lightness and ease. He bore every appearance of solemnity and sincerity.
It seemed that Graham, who appeared to have no greater object than amusing himself, had been attentive to his environment. Despite the complimentary nature of the man’s speech, Darcy could derive no comfort from it. Rather, a sensation of prickles taunted the back of his neck. What was Graham’s true purpose here? “I thank you. Pemberley is my home and my legacy. It is important that every part of the estate is maintained as well as possible.”
“I take you for a fastidious, thoughtful, and responsible gentleman. Throughout the years, I have observed many instances in which men, even quite wealthy men, have died without warning, leaving their widows insufficient funds to live the rest of their lives in comfort. I understand that the application of English law does not protect a widow unless the woman’s husband has taken pains to ensure she will be left in comfort in the event of his death. I do not believe you are the sort of man to neglect such an important detail.”
Darcy stiffened as a chill invaded his core. He ran his hand over his mouth. With great effort, he kept his tone even. “You are correct in what you say regarding English law. It is incumbent upon a man to ensure his heirs have an adequate reserve of assets when he passes on by earning as much money as possible and investing it well during his lifetime. In addition, he must describe in his will and marital settlement the funds and property that shall go to them. It is unfortunate that not all men see fit to take such steps, to the detriment of their heirs.”
Graham nodded and smiled. His shoulders relaxed, and he made no further comment.
As his pulse raced, Darcy’s mind was inundated with a turmoil of troubled thoughts. The sinister implications of Graham’s speech were unmistakable. Graham sought affirmation that Elizabeth would be left in financial stability after his death. He had seemed satisfied, even relieved, at his statement. What else could he infer from their conversation but that Graham knew he did not have long to live? Why else would Graham—who as an angel of death had to know his fate—be concerned with this subject?
Darcy inhaled a sharp breath as a turn of phrase from his first meeting with Graham emerged from the depths of his memory. On that occasion, Graham had said he had saved his life, but he had also remarked that he could have delayed the death of another man.
A frightful sort of logic could be applied to the notion. If it had been his time to die when he fell from his horse, perhaps his death could be avoided for a set amount of time and no more. If that were the case, how long did he have? Several times during the ride home, Darcy almost asked it of Graham, but each time he stopped himself. It seemed Graham had lied by omission at their first meeting. If he did ask him, he could not be certain whether or not he would receive a truthful answer. Moreover, did he wish to know the answer?
Regal nickered and tossed his head. Darcy leaned forward, stroked the horse’s neck, and spoke in a low tone. “I thank you for your concern, my friend. I am well. There is nothing to fear.” His intelligent stallion possessed the disconcerting ability to sense when he was agitated. His words, spoken to calm his equine friend, aided in settling his own frayed nerves.
***
When they reached the house, Darcy expressed the need to go to his study to attend to urgent correspondence. Graham indicated his intention to visit the library and left him with a bow.
Upon closing the door behind himself in his study, Darcy pressed his hand against his chest, and took a deep breath. The next fifty minutes were spent writing two letters: one to Elizabeth and the other to Bennet. By the time he quit the room, each letter had been sanded, sealed, and stored in his desk. The letters would be found soon after his death, by either Elizabeth or Richard.
Despite the tumult of his emotions, he had to behave as if nothing was wrong. Tomorrow, Elizabeth’s surprise guests would arrive to celebrate her birthday. Nothing and no one would be allowed to spoil the festivities. Elizabeth would have the best birthday celebration ever; he would see to it. With a rigid, upright posture and a resolute set to his jaw, Darcy strode to his dressing room to change for dinner.
He was dressed before his wife, and although the faint sounds of Elizabeth speaking to her maid from the next room made it clear she was not yet ready, his desire to see her impelled him to knock upon the door. At her call of, “Come in,” he slipped into her dressing room to wait as Gibbs arranged the finishing touches to her mistress’s hair.
Elizabeth directed her smile at him via the mirror as he chose a chair behind her. “I shall be ready in a few minutes. Gibbs has become expert at working her magic on my unruly mane.”
His eyes drifted to the small curls in the back of her head that were too short to be put up—they never failed to entice him. “I do not doubt Gibbs’s skill, but I cannot think there is any way in which I should not enjoy seeing your hair displayed. Your lovely tresses are but one of your many distinguishing qualities that I appreciate.”
Gibbs tightened the muscles near her mouth as if holding back a smile. With a final pin placed in Elizabeth’s hair, Gibbs declared her mistress ready and left at her nod.
Rising from her seat at her vanity, Elizabeth walked towards him. She sat sideways on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and placed soft kisses on the side of his face. When she reached his ear, she whispered, “There you go again, exaggerating my good qualities. You, my love, are an excellent husband.”
Cognizant of the dinner guests who even now might be entering the drawing room, Darcy groaned. He managed to resist the desire to place his hands in her hair and unbutton her dress. He sucked in his breath as Elizabeth took his earlobe in between her lips. He captured her mouth in a fervent kiss. With difficulty, he pulled back. “I dearly wish we did not have guests.”
She released a theatrical sigh. “I echo your sentiments, but we must act as suitable hosts. I should not wish to arrive late for dinner…again.” She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head in that alluring way of hers. “Although, perhaps we can claim fatigue and retire early.”
He moved his thumb over her lips. “An excellent thought.” The earlier the better.
They arrived in time for dinner, yet Lady Catherine greeted them with an expression one would expect from someone sucking on a lemon. It was obvious she was in a poor humour, but he would not waste his time deliberating upon the mercurial moods of his perpetually disapproving aunt.
Keeping his ruminations away from the subject of his possible impending death proved a struggle that evening. He had done all he could to protect his wife and child—or such was his belief. Mayhap it was impossible to plan for every possibility. At times, he cursed Graham for forcing his presence on himself and his family, but it made little sense to do so. If not for Graham, he would already be dead.
During dinner, Graham remarked that he was fond of singing. Lady Catherine was stirred from her silent brooding to declare a wish to hear the man perform and applied to Elizabeth to accompany him on the pianoforte after dinner.
While seated on a comfortable chair in the music room with a clear view of his wife, the stirring arioso sounds she generated in accompaniment to Graham’s singing assuaged his troubled mind.
With a mischievous cast to her eyes, Lady Catherine stated that Graham’s voice would blend exceedingly well with Elizabeth’s. Expressing the wish of hearing the pair sing together, she suggested several songs for them to sing, to which they agreed.
As their voices filled the room with the lyrics to a love song, Darcy was cognizant of his aunt sneaking repeated glances at him. It was easy to discern that she hoped their display would incite jealousy in him, but she was doomed to be disappointed.
He sat in a comfortable pose, his muscles slack, his lips raised in an easy smile as his wife sang several songs with Graham. Had Lady Catherine paid more attention to Elizabeth, she would have seen that while enunciating the lyrics tha
t spoke of amour, her eyes lingered upon him in a compelling conveyance of passion.
***
Tuesday, September 19
Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam stopped at the nursery that morning to collect Bennet. They had decided that on this morning he would be presented with his birthday present—his new pony. Bennet showed his usual excitement for a visit to the horses: he fidgeted and spoke of the horses he was most eager to see while they waited for a footman to fetch a bag of carrot and apple slices from the kitchen.
Bennet ran alongside his parents to keep up with their walking pace, but he stopped and reached his arms up to his papa at the entrance to the stables. Fitzwilliam grinned as he picked up his son. While the toddler was occupied with another horse, Elizabeth entered the pony’s stall, slipped a halter on him, and led him out.
Fitzwilliam, with Bennet in his arms, turned as she walked towards them with the pony. The boy’s eyes grew wide as he saw the unfamiliar pony. Fitzwilliam said, “Bennet, this pony is for you; he is your birthday present. Does he please you?”
Swinging his head towards his father, Bennet nodded with great energy before turning his attention back to the pony. He patted his father’s shoulder, his signal to be let down, so Fitzwilliam set him upon the ground. Bennet toddled to the pony’s side and reached his hand out to pet the animal’s soft fur.
She and Fitzwilliam had agreed earlier upon the notion of Bennet taking his first riding lesson that morning if he was willing. Her husband had assured her that the groom assigned to care for and exercise the pony had reported he was gentle and obedient—the ideal first mount for a child. Elizabeth patted the Welsh pony’s neck as she smiled at her son. “Would you like to sit on his back?”
Bennet nodded, but his broad smile disappeared and his forehead creased. He took a step towards her and leaned against her.