Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

by Linda Berdoll

  Congratulations flowed along with the wine, but as another always compounds the delight of one good bit of news, an announcement equally tumultuous and no less happy was submitted. For even Bingley’s happy disposition had finally been trampled by the very near proximity of Netherfield Park to Longbourn and, invariably, the ever-rapacious Mrs. Bennet. They had made arrangements to quit their tenancy and were in the process of making final negotiations to move to Kirkland Hall in neighbouring Staffordshire.

  That was but thirty miles from Pemberley! Darcy pronounced it a fine estate (it was he who had quietly written about the vacancy to Bingley). Upon hearing this assessment from someone whose opinion she valued, Jane looked consoled.

  Her husband had purchased it upon impulse, sight unseen. When he told her about the place, his countenance bespoke the unmitigated happiness of a child seeking admiration of a new toy. Therefore, Jane could do nothing but assure him she loved the place sight unseen. It was a relief for her to learn she would not have to persuade herself sincere.

  From the heights of newborns and new homes, discourse waned. Bingley’s newest obsession was the gentlemanly sport of boxing, and he regaled Darcy with tales of pugilistic exploits. As the ladies excused themselves, the lolling Mr. Hurst sat upright in his chair (which was as much animation as anyone had quite known of him).

  “It is far more rousing than the races, Darcy. I must have you come,” Bingley said.

  As he inveigled, he walked about waving Bell’s Weekly, which contained the outcomes of the latest matches, but Darcy’s countenance did not reflect his friend’s enthusiasm. Indeed, he looked quite dubious.

  “I should not think watching two men batter each other with fisticuffs much of an amusement, even if one can wager upon the outcome,” he replied rather dourly.

  “If you do not favour watching the sport, one can be instructed in the art. It is quite beneficial to the constitution.”

  “I take my exercise with a foil, Bingley. You know that.”

  All avenues expended, Bingley sat dejectedly in a side chair, his bit of moroseness unquestionably inflated by a bit of playacting. Darcy successfully contained a laugh, allowing Bingley to continue to believe himself an object of pity.

  “I have laid money down upon one boxer, Darcy. He is a fine pugilist. Savage Sam Cribb.”

  “Indubitably an artiste of unparalleled sensitivity.”

  Not so thick as not to understand that jibe, Bingley replied indignantly, “That is not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “I have laid money down backing this boxer and I have yet to witness a match.”

  “Pray, why not?”

  Bingley sat a moment and glanced at Mr. Hurst who was studying Bell’s with great industry.

  Satisfied that he would not be heard, he leaned toward Darcy, lowered his voice and uttered the unthinkable, “Jane refuses to allow it.”

  At this most mortifying admission, Darcy dared not even smile. Therefore, he frowned.

  “Too unsavoury,” Bingley added.

  It was quite evident to Darcy why Bingley begged his company. If her sister’s husband attended such an event, Jane would relent.

  Friendship required certain…concessions, hence he reluctantly relented. To make certain the debt was understood, Darcy acquiesced with overt magnanimity.

  The single obstacle Mr. Darcy saw that lay before him was convincing Mrs. Darcy. This was not a question of permission to do his own bidding. The difficulty would lie in persuading Elizabeth, who adored the excitement of the races, not to accompany them.

  *

  Upon the carriage ride home, Elizabeth experienced an unexpected attack of melancholia. She thought possibly seeing her beloved sister once again and talking of Longbourn had made her homesick. True, she did miss her father dreadfully. Her mother, not so keenly. Hence, she was perplexed from whence sprang her languor.

  Accompanied by two individuals whose natures were not particularly effusive (and ignorant that her husband was plotting to divest himself of her company for an evening of sport), the mood in the coach was positively bleak. It was unfortunate that he had yet to devise his plan of attack. A little repartee would have been welcome.

  Alone in her dressing room, the unfamiliarity of the London house quieted her further. Endeavouring to keep her nostalgia at bay, she recollected the profoundly pleasant remembrances of their first night together there as man and wife. As anxious as he had been to bring his wife to Pemberley, it was the only true honeymoon they had.

  They had talked several times of travelling to Italy when the French conflicts had ended. Elizabeth truly believed, however, Darcy should be happy if he never left England.

  She rested her head upon her arms and pushed the curtains away from the pane. The window overlooked the street and the sound of carriages passing beneath could be heard. It had misted and the cobblestones shone in the night, yellowed by the amber glow of the new-fangled gaslights. It was odd to look out expecting the darkness only to be greeted by illumination.

  She thought of her husband, who most likely lay just beyond the door, and longed to speak to him of her low spirits. Believing his less than sentimental inclination was likely to make him an unsympathetic confidant to such a weakness in herself, she was reluctant. Nevertheless, she wished he would venture to come to her. He had come into her dressing room just the one time and not again, even in play. Wouldst he come for her if she sought him not? Would he enter her dressing room again then? In all probability he would, but then his dignity had sterner understanding of ridicule than did his wife’s. She, who finds herself upended in his bath.

  Recollecting how she had sat in anticipatory apprehension in that very dressing room the night of her devirgination, she could not but smile. Was it memory of her innocence that bade her recollect that night in such exquisite detail? Perchance she was an irredeemable romantic.

  In a moment, she stood, went to the door of the bedchamber, and opened it.

  There were rose petals upon the bed.

  35

  The staff at the Darcys’ London house was not much accustomed to commotion. Miss Georgiana was frequently in town with her companion, Mrs. Annesley, but as she was quiet and made few requests whilst she dwelt there, little disruption bechanced. Before he married, Mr. Darcy had been in town but seldom, often for but fortnights at a time. Howbeit much sought after as a guest of others, he was host to just a few entertainments himself. All of which had made for an unruffled, yet prestigious service.

  The season after Mr. Darcy’s marriage implemented a great deal of upheaval and resultant tumult amongst the servants. Some were not altogether happy about the extra work this hubbub instigated, but most were in excited anticipation. Most particularly vexed, however, was the house steward, Cyril Smeads.

  Smeads, the family called him. Mr. Smeads to his underlings. General opinion of under-servants in the Darcy service gave grudging respect to crusty old Mrs. Reynolds at Pemberley. (That woman had outlived three husbands and four children, and sheer perseverance is always a highly admired virtue.) Smeads was Mrs. Reynolds’ son and single living issue (nepotism a dearly held tradition in all walks of life). Nevertheless, dislike of him was earnest and universal. So ill was he regarded, wagging tongues rendered it unto lore that Smeads had beat his siblings to death in their cribs.

  Most believed Mr. Darcy would have put Cyril Smeads out upon the street was it not for his mother. Most, if not all, hoped when old Mrs. Reynolds died, he would finally do it. Some said that was wishful thinking, but they all looked forward to the possibility.

  Indeed, Mr. Smeads was not much beloved by those who toiled for him. It was undeniable, had someone chosen to defend his character, that he was prone to little snits of temper and laughable that he could not pass a looking-glass without at least a preening glance. Was all that not test enough upon their forebearance, at every turn he endeavoured to weave foul designs upon the women in his service. This, of course, was well-practised in
many houses, but such schemes were, still and all, inexcusable.

  Of all the man’s many sins, why he hired that vile footman, Tom Reed, was the most inexplicable. Such a beast was that knave that even Smeads would not allow him to serve the table. When he took him on, Cyril Smeads did not question Reed’s character, just that he had height and a good leg. For nothing mattered more to Cyril Smeads than appearances.

  Within days of Reed’s being taken into service was the momentous occasion of Mr. Darcy’s wedding. In preparation, the great man had relegated very specific instructions upon what he wanted done when he brought his wife to the London house for his connubial consummation. Under usual circumstances, he consigned the menu to Smeads discretion (who found absolution in good taste, if condemnation in scruples). Upon that occasion, however, Mr. Darcy chose not to do so. His specifications for every one of the twelve courses were detailed to the point of the temperature of the soup and the choices of mustard. Additionally, a silver brush and hand glass set was to be laid upon a silk cloth in Mrs. Darcy’s dressing room. In Mr. Darcy’s was to be a silver bowl, filled with rose petals (deep pink). These petals were to be plucked from flowers in the hotbeds of Pemberley’s conservatory and brought in fresh that afternoon. The balcony doors would be cracked one inch. A single five-stem girandole (six-inch candles) must stand next to the bed.

  Hence, the house hung heavy in expectation of that visit. However, the couple had departed nearly as precipitously as they had arrived. Nevertheless, the two maids that were charged with stoking the fireplaces in the interim burst forth quite a bit of prattle upon their return downstairs. Speculation was rampant upon what the honeymooning couple did or did not wear beneath their conjugal covers. Of course, those bedclothes came into scrutiny when the soiled laundry was brought from the honeymoon chambers.

  The wedding-night sheet told that the mattress quadrille was danced a half-dozen times, and the chambermaids tittered about it innocently enough with the washwomen.

  The big footman Mr. Smeads had hired who spent far too much time slouched in the kitchen had grabbed it and laughed rather lasciviously. It would have been reported to Smeads that the man he hired to ride upon Mr. Darcy’s coach for no better reason than he was the right size had pilfered it from the laundry, but no one dared. Reason why they did not was equally divided betwixt their disdain of Mr. Smeads and outright fear of the footman.

  Tom Reed had earned a great deal of ill-will in that kitchen. There was no doubt he could not keep his hands off the scullery-maids’ bottoms and a general belief he pinched the silverware as well. Therefore, no one could even enjoy a little bawdy talk about the newlyweds in the light of Reed’s leering. Dislike of him was so unlimited, any pleasure of his cast sudden dissatisfaction upon their own.

  There was a tremendous heave of relief when he and his brother, Frank, rode the coach back to Pemberley (even if the sheet was in Tom Reed’s haversack).

  Upon their return to London, Smeads was called immediately to stand before Mr. Darcy in his library. The servants saw nothing unusual in that, but when Smeads left their conference, several bechanced to see his countenance. And his expression led them to believe, not unhappily (perchance even gleefully), that Smeads had been upbraided in some manner. If it was because of the destination of the pilfered bedcloth, and that Mr. Darcy had seen it in some vile country tavern as gossip had reported, there was no clear conclusion. Regardless which of his many misdeeds found him retribution, those who worked under Mr. Smeads’s petulant command found the gratification exquisite.

  Word that the Pemberley stables were set afire had preceded the Darcys to London. But it was not learnt until the arrival of their retinue the additional news that Tom Reed had actually been beaten from service. And that none other than Mr. Darcy himself inflicted those lashes. That disclosure was repeated until it passed through every room in the house. Once the news had made the rounds, it was pronounced by all who heard it as the plum in the pudding of their day.

  Within two days, and with no undue reluctance, Darcy met with his solicitor to make arrangements for Georgiana’s first publishing. Elizabeth and Georgiana, thick as two inkle-weavers, spent this same time in giddy decision of her pen name (a necessity by reason of her station). Georgiana favoured something French. Elizabeth looked to something droll. The decision in favour of “A Derbyshire Lady” came quite honestly from Georgiana with no influence from her sister-in-law. If Darcy was not convinced that she did not suggest it, Elizabeth thought that frightfully unfortunate.

  Coincident to the pursuit of the finer arts was a venture unto the coarser, that in the manner of the eagerly anticipated, if wrangled, trip to the sparring ring. It ended, however, all too badly. That was most unfortunate, but to Darcy not without merit, for it terminated Bingley’s induction into the spurious arena of boxing compleatly and unequivocally.

  Indeed, Jack Lewis took out Savage Sam Cribb not a minute into the first round. This bastinadoing debacle might have occurred regardless of the half a horseshoe Lewis had hidden in his left glove. But the expulsion of Cribb’s teeth would not have been quite so…expeditiously catapulted onto the onlookers had he not. This tir de barrage of Cribb’s incisors fell mostly upon his benefactor, Bingley, who stood ringside along with Darcy and the ever-cupshotten Mr. Hurst.

  Because the wagering was heavy upon this particular match, a few of the more cynical in attendance suspected possible pugilistic malfeasance. They beset Jack Lewis and gainsaid his win by tossing him through the front window of the boxing establishment. This defenestration of Lewis was unseen by Bingley, for he had swooned at the eruption of Savage Sam’s mouth.

  Had Bingley himself not reversed his admiration for the sport of his own volition, his wife most certainly would have persuaded it. For as it happened, a bicuspid persevered through swoon and carriage, nestled in his hatband. But when he doffed his hat at home, it spun off the brim and came to rest, most unfortunately, in the cleavage of Bingley’s lovely wife Jane. As one might surmise, what happened next was unpretty. Therefore, it shall not be dwelt upon.

  Cribb did get off rather well, for a contrite Bingley settled a sizeable annuity upon him. It was only because his affront did not cause Jane to miscarry (although she leapt quite enough to have kindled one) that Bingley was eventually forgiven by anyone.

  Not so horrified as Jane (and initially even a little intrigued), Elizabeth little liked her husband’s person being in so close a company with violence. As for Mr. Darcy, he needed not his wife’s urging to tell Bingley he would sooner purchase a ticket to Vauxhall than share another escapade anywhere near the vicinity of Covent Garden.

  *

  London was not foreign to Elizabeth, for she had visited upon a number of occasions. When in town, she had always stayed with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner in their quite handsome townhouse. Cheapside, however, was not the West End. Moreover, their home was a positive hovel compared to the size and tasteful elegance of Darcy’s Park Lane residence.

  Elizabeth’s single glimpse of the place having been upon her wedding night (and architecture, at least of a metropolitan nature, not being her keenest interest), she had but caught a glance of the red brick and white columns as they departed.

  Contrary to many of London’s wealthier citizens, Darcy eschewed Greek and Egyptian exotica (exotica considered the most fashionable of statements to be made) in favour of an ambience of understated, if undeniably opulent, dignity.

  Pemberley had been the Darcy family residence for centuries, but he had bought his London house himself. Therefore, Pemberley may have influenced Darcy, but his London home stood testament to his own particular taste and French ancestry.

  If she did not appreciate exotica, the diversions of London excited Elizabeth more than she should have liked to confess. Having attended but one opera and nothing more, she hardly considered herself a patroness of the arts. Her sensibility found diversion more happily in the exhilaration of a horse race. She did suggest they attend a play featuring a partic
ularly popular tragedienne. However, her husband demurred, commenting neither upon the play nor the playwright. He merely suggested a performance by a new composer in its stead. Although the Theatre Royal symphony hall was, as often as not, less a spot to see than to be seen, Darcy did enjoy actually listening (and, unbeknownst to his wife, he was happy to have reason to attend a concert and not a drama featuring a woman he had once found lacking).

  He held but a single reluctance upon coming to London with Elizabeth. Nevertheless, it was not insignificant. For their life at Pemberley was unconnected from the indiscretions of his past. However, London was an entirely different matter. No doubt, their paths would cross former…acquaintances of his. Thus, he accepted the inevitable, vowing he would take each occasion as it came, each encounter as presented. If Elizabeth asked, he would answer. If she did not, he would not offer.

  And notwithstanding Elizabeth was the centre of that particular dilemma, she was wholly unwitting of it.

  Hence, his bygone paramours were not what came to mind when Elizabeth first set her eyes upon Darcy, dressed in full panoply, ready to escort Georgiana and herself to their court presentation. Hanging from his waist was a sword that swung down his thigh in a graceful arc. Court protocol demanded such regalia (he but rarely wore seals and chains), but Elizabeth had yet to see him thus. Unschooled in weaponry, she nonetheless raised her eyebrow in admiration. (Whether it was the sabre or the sabre bearer who most incited this regard, one can but conjecture.) The hilt was French. The gilded relief covering handle, knuckle guard, and quillions were worn smooth from centuries of use. Had she asked, he would have explained that the blade was not true to its hilt, for this had been replaced after some long past, bloody battle.

  Tentatively, she reached out and touched it, letting her hand slide down the cold enamelled sheath. Suddenly, the double entendre of that particular gesture occurred to her and she dropped her hand free. But the sense of lewdness was not easy to shake.