Evidently, whilst rounding the corner of what was presumed to be an unoccupied floor, she espied Mr. Darcy himself jiggling the doorknob of a small closet.
“Aye asked the gentleman if Aye could be of assistance and held out me keys,” she explained. “He claimed no. He shook his head, he did. Said he had no need of no key but when Aye walked on, he kept a jigglin’ the doorknob!”
Then she lowered her voice and advised that when she came back, “He was not there, so Aye guessed him gone. Found what he needed and gone. But, no. When Aye come upon that door, it bust open, it did!”
The woman took a generous gulp of air before continuing, thus allowing Hannah’s eyes to widen in anticipation.
“And who comes out? Mrs. Darcy, she does! Aye turned, surprised ye know? She bumped right into me. Bounced back she did. Right back into Mr. Darcy who was comin’ fast right behind her!”
“No…” Hannah said, unsuccessfully containing her amazement.
“In a fright Aye was…Mrs. Darcy bumpin’ into me, Mr. Darcy right there. Aye was in a fright!”
Another chambermaid stopped to listen (in the utmost confidence). The charwoman stopped to update the newest member of her audience upon the events leading up to this diversion before continuing.
“They looked at me, then back at each other an’ almos’ laughed, they did. Then they ’scused themselves and hurry on,” she lowered her voice and raised an eyebrow as two more servants joined the assemblage. “Mr. Darcy, Aye never seen him no way but proper. Never even his jacket crook’t. Not in all my days here. But he was then, he was. As they’s walkin’ down the hall, he fixes his jacket like this,” she pulled at invisible lapels. “But he took no notice that his shirt was hangin’ down in back. Down to his knees it was! Ye could see it each time he tookin’ a step!”
“Ohhh…” announced that all privy to this dissertation were suitably impressed with the significance of the disclosure.
Likewise, house prattle was how Hannah learnt of the staff’s belief that every bed in every vacant bedroom under the roof of Pemberley was being methodically -christened in some manner by Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s passion. Granted, it took a great deal of snooping to learn this, but the Pemberley staff was nothing if not diligent.
Then there was the matter of the dogs.
Every servant, too, knew what was commencing in the Darcy bedroom whilst the dogs lay whining outside the door. Yet, everyone passing by stepped over Troilus and Cressida without a glance. Neither did they raise an eyebrow at the soundly shut bedroom door.
Hannah was a maiden, but she had brothers. She was not unwitting of what went on betwixt men and women, married or not. However, there were noises that came from the Darcys’ bedchamber in the daytime that ordinarily would not have been heard even at night. Some detonations unexpected to be heard at all. In light of the unseemly noises, rustled beds, and whining dogs, the servants of Pemberley allowed that, clearly, there was a great deal of affection betwixt Mr. Darcy and his wife.
Ribald noises notwithstanding, there was that queer matter of the missing pier glass. A rather large, gilded mirror had hung upon the wall in Mrs. Darcy’s bedchamber. One morning, it was not there. In foot-tapping annoyance, Mrs. Reynolds asked Hannah if she knew what betide it. She asked it a little pointedly for Hannah’s taste. Did she think Hannah had somehow pilfered it? A huge mirror like that? What would she have done, Hannah thought defensively, packed it out upon her back?
Every spare moment was spent in search of that pier glass and the mystery was in no way solved when Hannah bechanced it under the bed whilst gathering Mrs. Darcy’s night-dress one morning (Mrs. Darcy’s night-dress was often in odd places). Hannah immediately called Mrs. Reynolds to inform her just where the wayward mirror had been located and anticipated an explanation or at least a retrieval of the mirror. However, Mrs. Reynolds merely thanked Hannah politely and said nothing more.
Hannah bade, “D’ye want someone to hang it back?”
Mrs. Reynolds shook her head. Hannah’s lips formed the beginning of a query but Mrs. Reynolds pursed her lips and waved her aside.
That was peculiar. The old woman had been so concerned about the missing mirror, then when it was found, she wanted it left under the bed. Hannah could see no sense in it.
But there was sense in it. Those less innocent of sensual pleasure would have understood. If the Darcys wanted the mirror underneath the bed, there it would remain.
The old housekeeper kept a careful ear for the transferral of lascivious gossip by scullery maids in the kitchen, a watchful eye upon the chambermaids upstairs, but had no notion at all what to do about the whining dogs.
18
In the country, any illustrious occasion was scheduled by the moon. When it was to be full could be determined by the calendar. A clear night sky to guide the guests’ coaches to the Pemberley ball, however, fell to serendipity. Everything else was being done by the staff, just as ably as it had in the past. Preparations being so well taken care of and out of her hands, Elizabeth knew she had no more influence over the success or failure of the evening than she did the condition of the sky. And that left her both relieved and anxious. Polishing the silver would at least have bestowed her something to do besides fretting, for worry she did. Her presentation to Derbyshire society was quite the event and curiosity would be rampant.
However, Jane and Bingley had arrived that forenoon and their presence was a substantial comfort. That inviting the Bingleys necessitated invitation to his sisters as well was not.
Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst were in obvious raptures upon being houseguests of Pemberley. But having perfected it upon Jane, they continued to hide their obvious dislike of the lesser-born Bennet sisters behind a demeanour of fawning insincerity. Elizabeth would have much preferred outright animosity, but Jane’s love for her husband, and those he loved in return, was unconditional. Jane’s wishes ruled in this matter, for the sisters were, after all, her in-laws. Elizabeth could, however, find some pity for them, for she and Jane, quite unknowingly, had foiled them twice. Once, when Georgiana Darcy did not marry their brother, and secondly, when Caroline Bingley did not snare Darcy for herself.
Aunt and Uncle Gardiner were to travel to Pemberley from London for the festivities, but Mr. and Mrs. Bennet did not come immediately. They were away to Newcastle for Lydia’s first laying-in (Mary Bennet refused to visit the morally bankrupt Wickhams). And unless Lydia’s newborn was more punctual than was its mother, they would miss the ball. Of this, Elizabeth was prodigiously (if somewhat sheepishly) relieved. Her first foray into Derbyshire society would be less agonising without the fear of humiliation by her mother. Kitty and Maria Lucas, who favoured a grand ball at Pemberley more than visiting a whining Lydia in grimy Newcastle, were taking on Mrs. Bennet’s role as resident mortifiers quite nicely.
Elizabeth knew she would have to take ultimate responsibility for that embarrassment. For it was she who suggested Kitty invite Maria Lucas to accompany her when Mary (who found even less pleasure in a ball than in visiting wicked relations) had not wanted to come. For every dance, frock, fan, and feather that Mary Bennet saw as decadent, Maria Lucas found equally agreeable. She and Kitty were of the same age and both loved society. All would have prospered quite happily had it not been a matter of ill-timing. For Kitty and Maria came thither from Hertfordshire upon the immediate heels of sharing a particularly histrionic novel.
This work of fiction (a distinction lost upon the two girls) portrayed a heroine who had the misfortune of constitution that bade her fall into a dramatic faint at the least provocation, and, of course, at the greatest romantic moment. At the grand estate of Pemberley and in preparation for a particularly impressive ball, Kitty and Maria saw the necessity of perfecting this act of swooning in the unlikely prospect that a romantic moment might fall at their awaiting feet. Such behaviour had been overlooked with patient indulgence when they merely fell in the privacy and unobtrusiveness of Kitty’s bedroom. But the girls harboured t
he notion that one must refine one’s techniques for greater benefit of an audience (for there was no other reason to swoon) in the -drawing rooms at Pemberley. Moreover, neither was of a mind to be outdone, one’s swoon inviting the other, the synchronousness of which was lost upon no one.
It had been her family’s hope that out from under Lydia’s influence, Kitty’s disposition might flower more judiciously. Evidently, Lydia’s relocation to Newcastle only vacated the office of silliest girl in England and Kitty was determined to capture it. (If she did, Elizabeth preferred her reputation be earned in Hertfordshire.)
Upon Kitty’s falling faint into Mr. Bingley’s hands (which he had hastily emptied of teacup and saucer), even Jane reached the limit of her considerable good nature. She and Elizabeth each commandeered a breathless soubrette and escorted them upstairs. Thereupon, Elizabeth issued an ultimatum: Either they cease this swooning nonsense or they would be locked in the cock-loft.
Jane, quite seriously, worried for their health.
“Maria, Kitty, you must cease this at once. Mrs. Hurst knows a young woman brought to galloping consumption through just such imprudent conduct who died within days!”
Upon that pronouncement, Elizabeth looked at Jane as if she was non compos mentis, yet said not a word. She was of the opinion that questionable medical truths betimes dampened incautious conduct.
“One fatal swoon cost her life,” Jane admonished. “Beware of fainting fits, young ladies, they can prove destructive to your constitutions.”
Quite caught up in the moment, Elizabeth intoned, “Run mad if you must, Kitty, but do not swoon.”
Much impressed by their brush with death, their romantic swoons were abandoned for solemn (with an occasional hand to the back of the forehead for emphasis) introspection. However, lugubrious expression did not last long upon such young countenances and by the day of the ball, Maria and Kitty were again in high spirits. The only remaining terror was the one they inflicted upon their trunks in search of the perfect ball-gowns.
Elizabeth had no such dilemma. Hannah had taken the frock she was to wear that evening for a last minute pressing. The mantua-maker said the colour was bisque. It was not. It was yellow, lemon yellow.
Creating a dress of simplicity and elegance was no small undertaking. Indeed, its birth precipitated the exhausting of more resources than a military campaign against a foreign state. Two waggons ladened with bolts of fabric, three seamstresses, a cobbler, and the mantua-maker all beset her in a single afternoon. The bother was substantial, but of the results, Elizabeth was exultant.
Now the evening that bid her endure such torture was upon her. And as she waited in her dressing-gown, she was conspicuously idle. Loose ends invited fretting and she began to worry that Darcy might not approve of her gown. In a turn of unadulterated coquetry, she had not allowed him to see it, hoping a dramatic unveiling would somehow render him in awe. As the time approached, that likelihood seemed to wane precipitously. Perchance her dress was not merely simple, but blatantly unsophisticated. It would have been more far more prudent to gather his favourable opinion prior to the ball. If he were even a little less than happy with it there would be scant time to rummage up a replacement. Whilst stewing and second-guessing, Elizabeth heard the unmistakable sound of her husband’s boots upon the stairs, undoubtedly returning from taking care of some last-minute details.
It had been he who insisted she languish about whilst everyone else in the house toiled. She promised herself that in the future she would insist on some busy-work, even if it were polishing the silver. Idle and fidgety, she put her ear to the door and heard Goodwin filling his master’s copper bathtub.
Forthwith of Goodwin’s leave-taking was a splash as Darcy got into the tub. All of which begged a prank.
Elizabeth, of course, had heard that idleness was the devil’s workshop. But without pedantic Mary to remind her of it, such a notion did not come to mind. Hence, the ruse she impetuously hatched to exact upon her husband was deemed particularly amusing. With great care, she peeked inside his dressing-chamber. There in his tub he sat. Humming tunelessly, he had lathered his face. Blinded by soap and wholly unwitting of her presence, she endeavoured to steal in upon him, but the door creaked.
He leaned his head forward and said, “Water.”
Barely stifling a laugh at his mistaking her for Goodwin, she bravely lifted the heavy brass pitcher over his head. Unaware of how very near he was to being conked senseless by her unsteady grasp of the urn, he sat placidly waiting. Whilst hiding behind his back, she managed to pour without mishap. Thereupon, she wantonly foraged his bath water for the soap.
Regrettably, it was located before her exploration became overtly lascivious and with all due vigour and no little relish, she rubbed it against a sponge to create a good lather. Then she set to work scrubbing the length of his spine. Up and down, back and forth she scrubbed, eventually advancing her ministrations over his shoulders and halfway down his stomach. Unmistakably startled, he grabbed the hand that held the invading sponge. She let out a giggle.
Seeing it was her hand he clutched, he looked relieved.
“I thought Goodwin had taken leave of his wits.”
As her ploy was unconditionally successful, she was inclined to verify that he was not out of humour at her hands by bestowing an uncommonly passionate kiss. That would have been a most uneventful climax to an innocent lark but for his reprisal. For from her perch upon the lip of the tub, she was quite caught up in the fervour of their kiss and at the mercy of gravity. With the merest flick of his wrist, she half-toppled into the water. This unexpected dunking induced a small shriek in surprise.
That was but a momentary reaction, for the slathering warmth of the water and his nakedness persuaded her to join him. Hence, he drew her legs over the side, both wriggling in accommodation of all four limbs. This situating was still in progress when Goodwin flung back the door from the hallway with obvious alarm.
“Is all well, sir?”
Upon seeing Mrs. Darcy in drenched, if splayed, splendour atop her husband, he stopped short. She dropped her head, shut her eyes and, in petrified mortification, prayed vainly that she would somehow be unnoticed. Folly.
“A slight accident,” Mr. Darcy said mildly. “Could you put out more toweling? It appears Mrs. Darcy will be needing it as well.”
She clenched her eyes shut in defence of what she did so not want to hear. Goodwin did as he was told and hastily left.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy! What must he think? You have humiliated me beyond measure!”
“Humiliated you in what manner, madam? You are in my bath, I am not in yours.”
“That is what I mean, I am in your bath,” the colour in her cheeks was not disappearing.
“Yes,” replied Darcy.
“He knows that I am in your bath,” she repeated.
Perhaps taking pity upon her he ceased his tease, “Yes. ’Tis my bath and my wife and he will think nothing of it.”
Elizabeth frowned hesitantly, uncertain this was true. But as it was unlikely that Darcy would have someone injudicious in such close employ she rethought the matter. Reluctantly accepting that her mortification was mostly of her own doing, she reclaimed the sponge and began to relather his body, a pursuit, unquestionably, he did not disfavour. Thereupon, they embarked upon an ever-increasing exploration of the possibilities of aqueous achievement. This investigation was vehement, hence, water sloshed, then spilt onto the floor. A misfortune, for when those possibilities were discovered to be limited, he endeavoured to pick her up and carry her dripping to their bed.
It was then that near-disaster struck.
For the decision to move from the cramped quarters of the tub was made post insertion of his virile member. Indisputably, stepping out of a bath is not in and of itself a particularly tricky manoeuvre. However, if one’s wife has her limbs wrapped about one’s waist and one is determined to continue carnal union, the additional obstacle of a slick floor presents a high probabili
ty of mishap.
Which occurred.
He landed upon his backside, but it was not his chief concern. He feared that the explicit nature of their embrace might have subjected Elizabeth to impalement and thus violent injury to her…self. The laughter she attempted to stifle persuaded him not. Thus, this particular amorous infusion was compleated upon the floor, the slipperiness of which rendered the act as one of exceedingly ambulatory passion. This trip was of considerable length and ceased only upon the occasion of Mr. Darcy effecting seminous emission whilst Mrs. Darcy’s head was wedged in a corner.
As they lay there in a puddle of bath water, Elizabeth was grateful Goodwin had the sense to stay out (she truly did want to limit herself to one mortification per day). Eventually, the combination of their nakedness, the water, and the chill of the floor influenced them that their position of repose was untenable. Untangling their limbs, they heard activity downstairs responding to the gentle tinkle of the dressing bell. In reluctant haste, they left each other’s company then to dress, reclaiming decorum for the benefit of society’s evening.
19
Born in the servant quarters at Pemberley, Harold Goodwin could not remember when he was not in the Darcys’ service. His mother was a sister to the housekeeper, his uncle, manservant to Mr. Darcy, the elder. As a child, he carried laundry and learnt the art of polishing a gentleman’s boots. He was but fifteen when young Master Darcy was born. Even at so innocent an age, Goodwin understood the magnitude of joy the family held at the birth of their son and heir.
And a strapping, healthy baby he was. That was apparent to Goodwin as he looked over his mother’s shoulder whilst she tended the baby in her new duties as his nurse. Mrs. Goodwin had a great deal of practise with babies, Harold being her seventh, and not her last, child. But the number of surviving offspring was not what was paramount to the Darcys in selecting who to care for their son. Practise was mandatory and easily identified. Loyalty and discretion were needed even more prodigiously, but not so easily found.
Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife Page 16