Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

by Linda Berdoll

  A slight, but unseemly, shudder fled down Wickham’s spine. For he recollected that Darcy had more than a little wrath against himself (that unfortunate Georgiana matter). If the punctilious Darcy could actually become incensed to murder, was anyone safe?

  Yet, Wickham reconsidered the facts carefully. Darcy was ill-tempered. He was ill-tempered and unyielding. But murder? A proud man, Darcy prided keeping himself under good regulation beyond any other conceit. Even in his anger at Wickham over Georgiana, he had not been enraged. Not visibly enraged. He had not drawn his blade.

  In his contemplation, Wickham idly flipped a bob, but he espied a familiar reflection in the ornate looking-glass over the bar.

  Col. Geoffrey Fitzwilliam sat alone at a table upon the far side of the room. His back was to the wall, but he did not look about. Dishevelled and drawn, he stared, with great concentration, into the half-empty glass of clear liquid sitting before him. Accompanying that glass were a half-dozen others, identical except that they had already been drained.

  From the bung-eyed look of him, his sheets had been flapping in the wind for some time. It was an odd sight to see Fitzwilliam unkempt, much less sozzled. The man was never known to bend his elbow immoderately.

  Fitzwilliam was not yet blind-drunk, but near enough that Wickham was not afraid to turn about and look at him directly. He wondered just what could have precipitated Fitzwilliam embarking upon a gin binge. It occurred to him that the history about Darcy might be linked to Fitzwilliam so suddenly taking to drink. Perhaps it was Fitzwilliam who killed three men rather than Darcy. But that seemed little more likely than the first premise.

  In spite of Wickham’s certainty that Fitzwilliam, as her co-guardian, knew of his attempted seduction of Georgiana, Wickham thought it safe to approach his table. Georgiana was not his sister and, most important, he appeared to be unarmed.

  Wickham set his glass down and drew out a chair, taking a seat before Fitzwilliam’s unsteady gaze focused upon him. Under the circumstances, Wickham forsook pleasantries.

  He leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “There is a great deal of hearsay about the doings of our friend Darcy…”

  Enlisting a steely-eyed (if slightly unfocused) glare, Fitzwilliam stared at Wickham. Was it that it took that long to identify who sat before him or to process what he said, one can but conjecture. Nevertheless, he did blink several times. Quite abruptly, he stood, grasping the edge of the table, his knuckles white under the pressure.

  Thereupon, with a single, violent motion, he upended it, sending all of the many glasses crashing to the floor.

  At the ruckus, whoever was tinkling upon the piano stopped. The dice ceased to roll, the card players quit shuffling, and a barman stopped pouring mid-drink.

  Trumbell’s was a respectable gaming house; brawls rarely occurred. To Wickham, it was an eerie repetition of the previous night’s mortification, but at that time, he had not feared mortal retribution.

  However, Fitzwilliam did not make a move to call Wickham out. He stood there frozen, staring at Wickham (whose mouth had become suddenly quite dry). Then, with the same dispatch as his fury had erupted, it vanished. Fitzwilliam tossed some coins down and stomped from the establishment.

  When Fitzwilliam hurled the table, Wickham had instinctively picked up his own glass, thus saving it from being dashed. With it yet in his hand, he gathered what tattered dignity he could muster and walked back to the bar. Music began to play and talk gradually resumed. Once out of scrutiny, Wickham tossed the remainder of his rescued drink down his throat and called for another.

  “Perhaps,” he thought, “speaking to Fitzwilliam was a misjudgement. The colonel was obviously piqued yet about that Georgiana business.”

  As to why he was so roundly ploughed, Wickham had little notion. So long as he had escaped injury, he had no particular interest in uncovering the reason. He -dismissed Fitzwilliam from his mind. When he thought again of the scuttlebutt about Darcy killing three men, he disregarded that matter as well. No, it simply was not possible. Darcy was far too disciplined, far too punctilious to dirty his hands by such a base act. If he wanted murder done, he would hire it. It was all an enormous exaggeration. It was simply not possible.

  That was how Wickham had always found favour in a situation. He gave no consequence to that which did not conform to his own reasonableness.

  He would learn to side-step Lydia more adeptly. He would manage to scrounge enough to bribe his way safe from battle. However, he would not see what he did not want to see.

  Wickham was, and ever would be, true to himself alone.

  42

  With Jane’s confinement speeding toward fruition, the Darcys had become an increasing presence at Kirkland Hall. Elizabeth would not allow her sister’s delicate constitution to go unguarded during such a perilous time and Darcy would not allow Elizabeth’s person to be without watch, either. Thus, it was necessary for him to concoct a series of convoluted excuses to accompany her every single time she visited.

  It had taken several weeks for Darcy to allow Elizabeth out of his sight, invariably trailing her into her dressing room. After a time Hannah had become positively blasé about Mr. Darcy perching himself behind a folding screen whilst Mrs. Darcy compleated her toilette. She never once faulted Mr. Darcy’s relentless monitoring of his wife’s whereabouts, for Mrs. Darcy seemed to have little qualm about it herself. They moved about as if joined at the hip.

  Hannah did not know it for fact, but believed nonetheless, that Mrs. Darcy was humouring her husband’s necessity of keeping her under close scrutiny. As independent in spirit as she knew Mrs. Darcy to be, the forbearance with which Mrs. Darcy withstood her husband’s smothering protectiveness was indicative of their esteem for each other.

  In truth, although Elizabeth protested she harboured no emotional trauma from her abduction, her husband’s constant presence was a comfort. She was not yet so -collected as to ride in the carriage alone.

  When they stayed at Kirkland, Darcy was afield during the day with Bingley and Mr. Hurst after black grouse. Thus, he was diverted with game and Elizabeth could enjoy company with Jane, both able to enjoy a respite from trepidation.

  *

  Kirkland Hall was quite beautiful. It was not quite so fine as Pemberley, but sumptuous all the same. Elizabeth and Darcy knew it well for they had visited Bingley there before Jane had come to stay permanently. He encamped early because, still anxious for her approval, Bingley wanted everything to be in order before she arrived.

  Bingley’s sisters were still much in tow—Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst understood that Jane was carrying either the Bingley heir apparent or presumptive. Whichever she bore, if they wanted to continue enjoying the largesse of their brother, their single guarantee of tenancy insisted upon a reconsideration of their haughtiness to his wife.

  Elizabeth did not speak a word of her own miscarriage to Jane.

  “I did not even know I carried a child,” she explained her reticence of the matter to her husband. “Excessive sorrow would be self-indulgent.”

  With that rationalisation, Elizabeth continued to bury her misfortune in the dark recesses of her mind. She stalwartly refused to let it haunt her (except upon the occasions of being introspective, self-critical, self-pitying, or alone). As deeply as her martyrdom was imbedded in her subconscious, another niggling disturbance was welcomed to be her surrogate idée fix.

  Jane told Elizabeth that she and Charles no longer shared a bed. This was not a disbandment by reason of the general annoyance of sharing one’s sleeping space. It was biblical. They copulated not. (Nor did they fondle, finger, mousle, nor grope. But as they had not employed these particular variations of love previously, they must be dismissed as irrelevant.) They had ventured not into amorous embrace since Jane had first determined herself in a maternal condition. The door betwixt their bedrooms was locked.

  Aghast at such a notion, Elizabeth, with no undue disconcertion, inquired of the reason.

  “So C
harles will not walk in his sleep and come to me accidentally,” Jane said using her own peculiar logic.

  “I mean,” Elizabeth said patiently, “why do you not share a bed?”

  Jane told her their mother had advised her that it was not good for the baby. Elizabeth countered (with a little more acerbity than she intended) that she did not think it particularly wise to take marital advice from one whose own marriage was so unhappy.

  “Lizzy, you are speaking of the woman who gave you birth!”

  Jane’s scolding did tweak her conscience, howbeit the timing was most unfortunate. It was easier to observe the fifth commandment from a distance. With Mrs. Bennet under her roof, the sixth (proscribing homicide) was problematic enough for Elizabeth.

  The Family Bennet had arrived a week before Michaelmas. Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Bennet, Mary, Kitty, Maria Lucas, and even Lydia Bennet Wickham. Albeit when Lydia applied for the visit, Elizabeth made certain it was understood her husband was unwelcome. It was, unequivocally. There was no inveigling from Lydia, for she thought Darcy’s displeasure a perfectly good reason to holiday without Wickham (who became exponentially less charming a husband with each year of their marriage).

  Lydia accompanied the Bennet Family unescorted by Wickham and, once again, quite pregnant.

  Fortunately, Georgiana had returned to London chaperoned by four armed, exceedingly trustworthy footmen. Darcy had argued vehemently against her leaving the safety of Pemberley, but Elizabeth persuaded him that Georgiana’s peace of mind would be better served by not disrupting her usual routine. (And she presumed -Georgiana could do worse than bandits with Lydia in visit.) He would have escorted Georgiana himself, but his loyalty was divided betwixt his wife at Pemberley and his sister in London. It was a cruel dilemma. Because it was Elizabeth who was most grievously attacked, ultimately his reasoning told him that his place was with her.

  With her family in attendance, Elizabeth thought it might have been less of a strain upon her husband had he accompanied his sister to London. For Mrs. Bennet contained her gushing admiration for Pemberley just long enough to belabour the matter of the robbery.

  She took Elizabeth’s hand and held it to her bosom, almost keening, “Oh, Lizzy! Oh, my dear, dear Lizzy! Beset by highwaymen!”

  “There, there, Mrs. Bennet,” comforted Mr. Bennet, who winked at Elizabeth, “you can see our Lizzy is just fine.”

  “But, Mr. Bennet! What good is it for her to marry such a very rich man if he cannot guard her! Ten thousand a year has he and he cannot protect her! She could have been killed! Or worse!”

  Her distress appeared to be escalating at the excitement of her own words (and no one was of a mind to inquire what was a worse fate than death to Mrs. Bennet).

  “Mr. Darcy! Oh, Mr. Darcy! How could you have let this happen to our own, dear Lizzy?!”

  As was his habit when anything untoward was occurring in the room (this included anytime Mrs. Bennet was present), Darcy stood looking out the window endeavouring to ignore the upheaval. Therefore, Elizabeth cringed upon his behalf.

  Overwrought in the only manner he would allow himself, that of silent self—condemnation, her husband suffered yet. However, her mother simply would not hush about it. However little he cared for Mrs. Bennet’s opinion, Elizabeth knew her mother’s abuse was not inconsequential.

  Weary of his wife’s outbursts, Mr. Bennet took her arm with husbandly courtesy and led her to a chair. Mrs. Bennet blathered on, fluttering a lovely, lace-trimmed, cambric handkerchief from forehead to breast. Elizabeth found herself contemplating just how long it might take to render her mother silent if she squeezed her hands tightly enough about her neck. She fancied she could see her jugular pulsating enticingly.

  “Oh Mr. Darcy! Mr. Darcy! Will our Lizzy ever be safe again?!”

  Perchance it might be more expedient to simply slit her throat. When pigs were slaughtered, they were hoisted by their hind legs. Elizabeth espied a heavy beam near the ceiling and thought it quite sturdy enough for a winch. It was only when she looked about to see if a penknife was handy that she was returned to her senses. Matricide was a major sin, no matter the provocation. She gave an inward shake of her head, supposing her decidedly intemperate flight of fancy due to “recent events.”

  Unaware that her second-eldest daughter was eyeing her neck malevolently, Mrs. Bennet fortuitously ceased her shrill harangue, continuing on with the insistent fluttering of her handkerchief. She was not yet ready to abandon such a prop, for it was an impressively melodramatic touch, reminding everyone in the room it was she who suffered the event most keenly.

  Over her shoulder, Elizabeth looked at Darcy, who stood absolutely still, his mask of reserve firmly in place.

  Temporarily spent, Mrs. Bennet rested her head against the back of the winged chair. Elizabeth feared this lull would merely allow her mother time to gather a second wind. Blessed be for Mr. Bennet, for he wrested the conversational topic from his wife, inquiring of Mr. Darcy how he favoured the weather. Realising the effects of her histrionics were fading, she sat bolt upright and regained the floor by abruptly changing tack.

  “Mr. Darcy! Forgive me! A mother cannot but help herself! I compleatly disremembered what an exquisite home you have! Such refinement! Such beauty! Such elegance!” (Mrs. Bennet rarely spoke in other than the exclamatory and always in repetition.)

  Fortunately for the Darcys, Pemberley’s beauty, refinement, and elegance would be honoured with the good lady’s presence but for the first half of their visit, owing to the need to share the second with Kirkland Hall’s beauty, refinement, and elegance (“But not half so grand as Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Bennet had assured him).

  Shared office of host with the Bingleys was another benefit of Jane’s imminent delivery. But whilst her family tarried at Pemberley, Elizabeth weathered them as best she could. It was not an easy duty. In light of recent events, Elizabeth and Darcy were in no mind to entertain, finding nothing celebratory in robbery and death. Hence, Elizabeth pointedly ignored Lydia’s frequent whining about the dearth of society in her life and her need for the diversion of a ball. Not of a mood to endure the prospect of her family (particularly Lydia) being foisted upon well-placed members of the local gentry, Elizabeth insisted propriety demanded they remain in seclusion—the Darcys because of traumatic events, the Bingleys because Jane was great with child. Laudable intentions upon Elizabeth’s part, but to no avail.

  In honour of the visiting Bennets, the Millhouses arranged a ball at Pennyswope for them. At his wife’s encouragement, Lord Millhouse persuaded Elizabeth that it would just cause more talk if she and Darcy refused society. Thus, she tried to assuage her impending mortification by reminding herself that the mistress of Pennyswope bore eccentricity well and hoped her family’s bouts of unseemly behaviour might be considered such.

  The favoured Millhouse nephew, Newton Hinchcliffe, was in residence, and with writing tablet in hand, mused in his room most days. Lady Millhouse thought a ball just the occasion to lure him to exercise, as fresh air was evidently an impossibility.

  At the news that the eligible young Hinchcliffe was in Derbyshire and their archrival for his affections (unbeknownst to her), Georgiana, was in London, Maria and Kitty trilled in impenitent excitement.

  As they dressed upon the appointed evening, the obviously pregnant Lydia tightened her corset recklessly, impending motherhood be damned. She refused to let so minor an issue as a coming baby infringe upon her participation in society.

  For having bested her sisters by marrying first, that coup was negated by their much more advantageous matches. She was not about to relinquish her position of superiority with the impressionable Kitty and Maria. (The current arena of competition was the race to produce grandchildren. Although Lydia had given birth to the first son, and saw herself at match point, Jane was already enceinte. Hence, Lydia knew her position was in jeopardy. The importance of a child who had expectations far out-stripped that of a child of an army officer. All might not be lost,
for Lydia knew well that if her -sisters did not produce heirs for their rich husbands, their fortunes could fall to a cousin. Longbourn was entailed to Mr. Collins. It was conceivable.)

  In Maria and Kitty’s eyes, Lydia’s infamy as a femme fatale was unparalleled. She went to Brighton, she wanted Wickham and she got Wickham. (More accurately, Wickham had her, but semantics are rarely questioned under some circumstances.) They, unfortunately, looked to her as an expert upon allurement and she counselled them both in their quest of Newton Hinchcliffe specifically and romance in general. When Elizabeth overheard Lydia whispering to Kitty that was she to have any success in attracting young men (“You do not have the face for it, Kitty, so you must use other wiles”) she must begin by dampening her chemise, thereby more advantageously exhibiting said “wiles” beneath her muslin, Elizabeth could be a silent observer no longer.

  “Lydia, to advise your sister to do such as that just to reveal her figure to young men is beyond mere vulgarity. It will announce to them she is loose.”

  “Of course, Lizzy,” Lydia was exasperated at Elizabeth’s denseness, “that is how one attracts lovers. One does not have actually to be loose. One must only appear to be.”

  Elizabeth very nearly reminded Lydia that in her case, actually being loose did attract one rather unsavoury lover. However, since Wickham ultimately became Lydia’s husband, Elizabeth decided not to stir that particular kettle of fish. And knowing any reproof would be laughed at, Elizabeth offered a simple statement of fact.

  “As it happens, if either of these girls attempts repair from this house with wetted slips, I shall feel myself falling ill and give our regrets to the Millhouses. Am I understood?”

  Lydia pursed her lips and made a face, but did not argue.

  *

  The ball was barely tolerable. Only a few guests dared venture a comment about “recent events.” The one person Elizabeth might have thought to do just that, Lady Millhouse, had remained staunchly silent upon the matter and when others alluded to it at the ball, she pointedly altered the subject. Thus, she was spared all but the dereliction of decorum in play in her own family. By the time they took their leave, her cheeks were in quivering weariness from the smile that she had determinedly fastened upon her face all evening.