Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

by Linda Berdoll

  Indeed, it was with a bitter laugh that she realised she was returning to Kympton in the precise condition in which she had left.

  Unfortunately, few of her relations were about to appreciate the irony. She had hoped to find her sister, for she had married a farmer and had her own house. However, it had been five years since poor Fanny was taken by childbirth fever. (Truth be told, it was a minor comfort that none of her true family was about to see she had lost her struggle with a tendency to lowness.)

  Still yet in the county was Abigail’s impoverished ex-brother-in-law, but his present wife and their eight collective children did not look favourably upon taking in two penniless relatives. Abigail could not fault them, but still cursed her dearth of luck. Alas, fortune worked to her disadvantage at every turn.

  Had she not once been a fetching little hoyden? Yet she had the dismal luck to find a situation in one of the few illustrious houses where servicing the male members of the household was not considered a part of one’s duties. Indeed, she learnt that, although intrigues abounded, getting one’s mutton at Pemberley was a furtive business. This scrupulous adherence to morality had been set by old Mr. Darcy and was enforced with relish by that cursed Mrs. Reynolds—that woman could ferret out a dust-ball beneath a bed without once looking.

  That old hag chose to cast Abigail out with only three months wages and the admonition to be gone. Until then, Abigail’s scheme had appeared infallible. For however jealously he guarded his son’s virtue, Mr. Darcy was a kind man. A gentleman such as he would never have callously expelled a woman with child, particularly when he knew her to be coupling with his beloved son.

  Why, was the matter explored diligently enough, it might have been concluded that young Darcy had compromised her. He was young master of the household. Is not the girl always the victim of vile intentions? Regardless of the circumstances, if she and the indefatigable young Darcy engaged in voluptuous combat, a swelling belly should have put her to pecuniary advantage.

  The singular mystery of the entire flap had been just who had exposed her condition. Was it that vile Mrs. Reynolds? Or did Mr. Darcy uncover it himself? If any money were put down, Abigail’s wager would have been put upon Wickham as the cad.

  Damn that Wickham and his jaundiced nature. Upon her presumptuous dismissal, she had gone to that blackguard hoping that he would intercede on her behalf. It galled her yet that he had the considerable brass cheek to snort a laugh at her dilemma. He offered his assistance only if she would split the proceeds. At the time, she scoffed at his offer. A misjudgement, that. If she just could have bade her time at Pemberley, belly under her chin and pointing a finger at his son, surely old Mr. Darcy would have coughed up some sovereigns. Bloody luck.

  These disappointments much on her mind, she kept Mr. Darcy in her eye whilst he took care of his business. All the while, she scrubbed diligently, throwing sudsy water across the wooden plank tables, prodding the drunks awake. As he stood upon the threshold, she drew quiet and dared a glance his way. It did not escape her notice that he quite clearly took measure of his nuptial bedcloth hanging to the left of the door.

  There was little doubt he recognised it. Fervently, she prayed he would somehow come to know who had pilfered it. If he did, accident could only uncover it, for it would not come from her. Tom Reed was a bastardly snake, and although he did not deserve employment upon such a fine estate, she held her tongue, fearing his retaliation. Old scores would have to remain unsettled.

  It was just the night before when that muckheap of a man had appeared at the door of the Fox and Hogget clutching the silk sheet in his fist. Abigail had very nearly leapt at the spectre. She had been happy to believe she had left that miscreant in London.

  With adolescent bravado, young John had hastily dropped his swill bucket and rushed to his mother’s side, shooting menacing looks at Reed. Wearily, she shooed the boy away. She had dealt with Reed and his ilk before. She would again.

  Moreover, it was most likely that Reed was the blighter who knapped her. (A clear determination of the perpetrator of her condition took deep study and was compromised not only by immoderate consumption of drink, but by the sheer number of -possibilities.) Whilst still in London, it had been briefly under consideration to announce to him that he was the father of her unborn. The only reason for that proclamation was the unlikely hope he would give her a few shillings or take her in when her husband inevitably threw her out. That the first was a barmy notion, and the second not an improvement of circumstances, kept Abigail from breathing a word of it to him.

  She should not have had to say a thing.

  One of the multitudes of unwritten precepts amongst their society was that if one cohabits with an impregnated female and there is no one else to blame, that man is the father of record. Reed, however, was of the opinion that pintling a woman in kindle is gratis, as a slice or two off a cut loaf was unlikely to be missed. Therefore, the grounds of discord had been laid for some time before Reed showed up in Derbyshire.

  The word that free food and drink would be availed at the Kympton tavern in honour of the Darcys’ wedding had emptied the countryside. It was not surprising there had been nary room for another person in the inn when Reed, dragging an ever—reluctant Frank behind him, pushed into the place. Immediately he relinquished his hold upon his brother and scattered patrons by climbing atop one of the trestle tables. Issuing a curse decrying a serious a lack of creativity, he demanded the floor.

  “Shut the bloody ’ell up!”

  Gradually, the din abated. With a flourish worthy of a St. James courtier, he unfurled the silk and, pointing to the blood and stains, pronounced gleefully, “It seems the new Lady of Pemberley got herself busted! No hedge-docked wench she!”

  He, commencing to count the seminal splotches, added, “Looks like she got pricked more than was she peddlin’ ’er arse on Drury Lane!”

  Exacting a little burlesque, he enumerated them, and the crowd burst into raucous laughter. Then, as the tally mounted, more than a few cheers erupted. In a stage whisper, Abigail conjectured to the barmaid next to her that if there were fewer than ten splotches, at least Reed would not have to remove his boots to number them all. Fortunately for the patrons, they were not subjected to the abuse of the exposure of Reed’s stinking feet, because the bedcloth’s jubilant emancipation was exacted by the crowd, resulting in its travel about the room.

  When the sheet passed to Abigail for admiration, she held it up and winked knowingly, “You can bet the Lady wakes up smilin’. I’ve never seen a man nature hung better.”

  Dolly Turnpenny snorted, “What would ye know ’bout such things, Abbie? He wasn’t more than a pup when you worked in that house.”

  “Boy he may’ve been, but his pillicock weren’t.”

  She held her hands up and apart in demonstration of his approximate length, the generosity of which displayed a moderately inflationary memory. The women present, however, were in no mood to quibble preciseness in the face of such a possibility and nodded appreciatively. This allocution alerted Reed to Abigail’s presence for the first time. He walked over and slapped her possessively upon the buttocks before plopping down in a chair next to her.

  Thereupon, he turned back to his cohorts and guffawed, “Well, Abbie should know. That whore’s been laid on every flat rock from Derbyshire to Kent.”

  Exacting her own little revenge (and cautiously behind his back) Abigail pointed to Reed and held up her little finger, her thumb touching halfway up. A burst of bawdy laughter, however, caused Reed to catch her announcement of the limited length of his carnal stump. The invidious contortion that overspread his visage was not felicitous. Inwardly wincing, Abigail laughed it off but kept a close eye upon him the rest of the evening. Because so much drink passed over, under and through Reed, she began to hope he would disremember a little jest at his expense.

  That was not to be. Not only did a man of Reed’s brutality have an extensive memory for such affronts, he liked to let them fester.
It would not be vented in a fit of anger. Reprisal would be exacted with savage and lengthy precision. When Reed did seek her out, the inn had emptied and Abigail was face down upon her bed not much in her senses. Providence for her, for had she the means to try to fend him off, it would have only prolonged the abuse.

  Her boy made a feeble stand at her door, but Reed’s brachmard made an indention in his gullet deep enough to persuade him to take leave.

  “Abbie’s expectin’ me.”

  Whilst she snored loudly in the corner, Reed shoved the boy out of the room. Then, without bothering to remove his boots, let alone his pants, he heaved himself upon her. That was what awakened her: The scraping of his boots upon the bedstead. She did not query as to whom rutted upon her; the rancidity of his breath identified him.

  “Reed,” she croaked miserably.

  She might have struggled then, but in previous servicings, she knew that grappling only incited his lust. Moreover, time was her ally. He had a propensity for failing in the furrow. Regrettably, he did not that night. Vengeance came with malevolence and was paid for with considerable abasement. For a man of little imagination, Reed managed to spend the better part of an hour without duplicating a single degradation. Eventually, he tired of his play and left. Thenceforth, Abigail was sober. Sober she did not want to be.

  Her head had ached when she had arisen. She drew a wrapper about herself, but the bright light made her lurch about blindly. When she finally managed to peer out the door to see if Reed was about, she stirred only her son. He was sitting with his back to the door, his knees drawn up beneath his chin, but hopped to his feet when he felt it open. The odd mixture of anguish and anger upon his countenance did nothing to soothe her.

  By mid-afternoon her temples pounded ferociously. Any stale ale she found in the bottom of the mugs, she emptied down her throat. She drank steadily and much on the sly, for old Turnpenny would dock her if he knew how much of his brew she was consuming. But she cared little. Once Darcy had gone and the mugs were drained, she saw no particular reason to stay. She abandoned her tray and staggered to her room. It was empty—empty and grim. Rifling through their sparse belongings, she found a half bottle of gin. That was her drink of choice and she had been hoarding it. She plopped down two glasses automatically, smiled mirthlessly at the silent taunt, and then filled them both.

  On the heels of drink, she had been suffering from a loss of senses for some months. That should have been a misgiving for pouring another, but it was not. It was a cure for her ills. She sought that blessed blackness again, took a glass in each fist and upended them both with precision. Then she repeated her sacrament. Eventually, one dropped from her hand. Empty, it hit with a clunk, but did not break before it made a lengthy, uneven roll across the length of the floor.

  *

  The room was dark when John Christie returned from mucking out the tavern’s stable. His mother’s body had not stirred from her seat. Her cheek rested against the table, both hands dangled. He did not reach out to shake her. He did not even go over to her. He simply sat on the side of the bed until dawn, staring at her lifeless eyes.

  15

  It was a sad business for one’s mother to die. Abigail Christie’s son knew that, if for no other reason than that the little congregation standing about gawking as her body was taken away looked upon him with a great deal of pity. His countenance, however, harboured no emotion at all. It was not that he was undespairing of his mother’s death; he simply refused to put on a display of bereavement just because there was an audience before him expecting it.

  For all his mother’s bad judgement, limited initiative, and poor taste in men, he had still loved her. She had taught him there was no percentage in sentiment. That pragmatism kept any fright about his situation at bay just as certainly as grief. He knew weeping served no purpose whatsoever. That was a wisdom he would have liked to impart to Mrs. Turnpenny and various barmaids, for they all stood about shedding crocodile tears with considerable relish. It was Mrs. Turnpenny, however, who had hugged him to her substantial bosom (a difficult manoeuvre in that he was taller than she) and clucked about his newly acquired misfortune repeatedly.

  “Oh you poor, dear, motherless boy!”

  Her heartbroken lamentations upon the loss of his dear departed mother were mitigated, however, by the understanding that before his dear departed mother’s corpse had been carted from the room, Mrs. Turnpenny had already re-let it. The ale-wench intending to take the room did have the good taste to stand aside until the lodgings were vacated.

  Nonetheless, she stood with her belongings at the ready once the deed was done. Moreover, it was done with much haste and little civility.

  Knowing the burial was going to be on the parish and thus frippery-less, the undertaker went about his duties with a look of abused sufferance. He wrapped Abigail Christie’s remains in a tattered counterpane. Yet, still unable to outright abandon the niceties of his profession, he tied the corners in neat, if ragged, little bows.

  As he and Phinehas Turnpenny (who was just happy to rid the body from his establishment) hauled her out, one foot escaped the shroud and trailed along the floor. It was not a pretty foot. It was bunioned and callused and her big toe added insult by protruding from a tear in her stocking. The entire party was distressed to witness this indecorous strait, but only John stepped forward to rectify it. Indeed, for a young man who refused to cry, it was with considerable tenderness that he tucked his mother’s toe back into her stocking and foot beneath the counterpane.

  So it was that the passing bell still reverberated in John’s ears as he walked along the road leaving Kympton. Already his mother’s face had begun to fade for him. He suffered to reclaim it, for he truly did not want his only recollection of her to be that one bunioned toe.

  He had set out expeditiously in spite of the lip-serviced condolences. Mrs. Turnpenny had let out their room, announcing a realignment of help. Truly, he did not fault the Turnpennys. They were a bit miserly with the broad-beans, but they had turned a blind eye to his sharing lodgings with his mother when rent paid was for but one. Although he had done what he could to earn his keep in the Turnpenny barn, he knew business at the inn was selling ale, not putting up orphans. He had not expected otherwise. He had learned the true definition of sympathy in the mean streets of London. The kindest gift his mother gave him was to teach him to see to himself.

  She had once said, “Son, I can’t watch out for yer, yer’ve got to make yer own way. Nobody looks out for nobody else in this world.”

  Undeniably.

  Hence, self-reliance, not mother love, was her legacy. That is why he did not cry and that is why he would not allow himself to grieve. Moreover, convinced as he was of his own pragmatic nature, he did not allow himself the indulgence of thinking of his now motherless sisters in London. For a young man of such sense and practicality should have no affection for babies. Yet, he could in no way account for why he, a practising cynic, had carried Sally Frances about when she was far too big to be riding upon his hip. Or, why he had hummed to Baby Sue and hid them both whilst their mother plied her trade with sweaty men atop the creaking bed.

  Or, why he missed their sweet faces even then. London was a fair distance. The thought that he might never see them again nagged at the pit of his stomach.

  The economy of his situation had no room for such maudlin ruminations; hence, he shook it from his mind in order to ponder specifics. Where was he to go? At least his mother’s poor sense of timing had improved enough to have her die in the country instead of town. He knew he would be but a half-day from the workhouse in London. An orphan he was, but certainly too big a bundle for a foundling home.

  *

  John had been born in London, somewhere betwixt Whitechapel and Wapping. He did not know the street or the house. His mother did not tarry long anywhere, usually taking leave one step ahead of the collector. Initially, she was a barmaid. Quite quickly, that career evolved into another. London taverns had back rooms
. There, with a little initiative, a fresh-faced lass could earn a half-crown a night. Regrettably, the office of doxy had several disadvantages, the foremost of which was that one did not stay fresh-faced for long. Fees dwindled with the exact rapidity of one’s looks.

  Abigail was no exception. Eventually, she walked the streets.

  John spent his days with his own manner of scavenging. In the mean rookeries of London, scavenging, more often than not, overlapped into outright thievery. John held no pride in his cunning, nor was he ashamed. The only shame he felt was that he was reduced to thieving to eat. (Caught red-handed with a couple of rabbit skins, he was sent to the House of Correction for a fortnight. It was cruel place, but he was fed twice a day, that more often than he got upon his own.) His secondary employment was actually an extension of his first. For when his mother managed to snare a man to join her in illicit commerce, John was instructed to await. At the height of carnality he was to surreptitiously investigate the visitor’s divested purse and gaskins for any farthings left unspent upon beer or her. As the nicety of disrobing was not often observed and his mother was just as often as cupshotten as her intended paramour, it was a true find when money turned up.

  This was not a happy existence. However, not having known a better one, John thought not meanly of it. As to why his mother decided to make a home for that bandy-legged seaman was a compleat mystery to him. When John bewailed the more caitiff strains of that man’s nature (brutal, demented, and flatulent), Abigail had laughed that strange little mirthless laugh she had and embarked upon one of her lessons in survival.