She prayed upon the matter relentlessly. Finally, the decision was made. However difficult, Jane knew she could not shirk a responsibility. If it might benefit her dear sister, she would yield what wisdom she held. This decided, it was with some trepidation (and a wavering voice) that Jane embarked upon the conversation.
“Lizzy, do you suppose…I know you have your own mind about such things…but, do you suppose it was not best during your confinement to have…”
Jane’s vocabulary upon this subject was even more limited than most ladies of the day, hence she (resorting to the universally accepted euphemism) gave a wag of her head in place of the unknown verb, “…uh, ‘been’ with your husband when you were with child?”
Jane sat hunched awkwardly, looking steadfastly at her knees, cheeks florid. It took her sister but a brief rumination before she understood what she meant.
Nonetheless, that is exactly what she asked Jane.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Even with the head waggle, both knew what she asked was not what Jane meant by “been with your husband,” but why it was not best.
“Well Lizzy, ’tis said that it is bad for the baby.”
“Too much jostling about?”
Elizabeth was highly amused that Jane should even bring up the subject, modest as she was about such matters.
“That,” Jane said, but added, “but it is said, if a woman’s insides are excited she might suffer a miscarriage.”
“If her insides are excited,” Elizabeth repeated. “But I did not miscarry, I was delivered of a dead child.”
Saying the words chased any humour from her.
“Yes. Owing to a fright,” Jane said.
Thereupon, sitting up very straight, Jane raised both eyebrows.
Elizabeth repeated these words too, if only to assure herself she was hearing correctly.
The physician had said that was why she had miscarried, owing to the fright of the “robbery.” But Jane did not know that and Elizabeth could not remember being frightened once during her second confinement. The tutored sat silently waiting for the tutoress to continue.
The appointed hour had arrived for Jane finally to reveal to Elizabeth the secret she had held with such dread for so long: She Knew the Reason Elizabeth Had Lost Her Baby. She held her breath (unschooled in theatrics, Jane had no idea she had just taken a pregnant pause) until she could muster courage to expel her revelation.
“I am told that if you do ‘that’ when you are with child, the baby will see your husband’s…” thereupon stumped for a noun, Jane paused, again instituted the head wag, then continued, “your husband’s…and be frightened to be born! That is why your baby would not come out.”
There. She had said it. Scientific fact.
“Oh,” Elizabeth replied, quite genuinely unable to think of any additional response.
Elizabeth was, however, certain that it was the most ludicrous supposition she had ever heard. The only births she had witnessed were Jane’s babies’, true, but those infants’ eyes came into the world quite firmly shut. Moreover, it was too dark in there for the baby to see anything if its eyes were open. Nevertheless, there sat Jane before her. And from the superior position of success, she bore the profound expression of A Woman Who Knows.
Which bade Elizabeth’s consideration of absurdity begin to waffle. Perchance it was possible. Perchance carnal indulgence did cause their baby’s death. Suddenly, Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt in the pit of her stomach. It subsided, but not with dispatch.
Not long after Jane quitted Pemberley for the day, Darcy espied Elizabeth sitting dejectedly in her sitting-room. He entered, walked to a chair, and sat.
“What is wrong?”
Elizabeth shook her head, less in denying anything wrong than in disbelief of what she had heard.
“Jane has told me that she knows why our baby died.”
It was the first time they had spoken of it for some time. These were murky waters that even he would just as soon not wade.
“As a mere mortal, I had believed it was because he was turned breech. If Jane has uncovered something of which we were not privy, I am grateful she has decided to confide in us.”
His usual laconism was dredged in more than a tinge of sarcasm. Upon some occasions, a little acrimony is understandable. Therefore, Elizabeth did not even consider reproof. Nevertheless, she felt impelled to defend Jane’s motives whilst he muttered something about Jane taking up office as Job’s comforter.
“She said she spoke only in caution for the next child we will have,” she glanced at Darcy. His brow had furrowed. “She thinks we lost the baby because we shared a bed during my confinement.”
“How might she know that, Lizzy?”
“If you think I told her, I advise you I did not. When she was first expecting Elizabeth, she said she and Bingley…did not…” she did not realise she mimicked Jane’s head wag. “I was all astonishment and told her thus. She could only fancy what I chose.”
“Why does good Doctor Jane think that proximity should cause you to lose the baby? We did not…” he wagged his head, “when you were near due.”
Taking a deep breath, she relaunched the story.
“Jane says that if a woman’s insides are ‘excited’ when with child, she will miscarry.”
“You did not miscarry.”
“True. But she also cautions, that if we…do that…” she started to smile, abandoning any attempt to relate the story with solemnity, “the baby will see your…” she wagged her head again, “and be frightened of it. Afraid to come out. And that is why ours could not be born. He had seen your…you and was frightened from birth.”
His eyes narrowed, lips tightened, nostrils flared. Substantially.
“That is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard!”
When he spat that out, he sounded somewhat defensive. It occurred to her that was this story true, the culprit in the birthing fiasco was his manhood, not her narrow birth canal. But this retelling rendered that from unlikely to ludicrous.
“Yes.”
“Then why do you repeat it. For humour?”
“No…I know it must sound ridiculous, but yet…in light of no other notion as to why ‘it’ happened, I fear I am coming to consider even the most absurd of tales…”
“I cannot speak for a woman’s ‘excited insides,’ but if that second tale was true, Lizzy, there would not be a child born in Derbyshire. Country-folk call it ‘steg month’ not ‘steg three-quarter-year.’ And for all the talk of steg widows, as it happens, husbands upon the land investigate their impregnated wives until they are met with the protruding infant’s head!”
“That is a gross exaggeration.”
“Not entirely. The country folk certainly lose no more children than the gentry. You know the man, Piddlenot, who tends the cattle south?”
She nodded.
“From his own lips I heard the story. When his good wife relinquished the herd relating herself in labour, he inquired of her if she had time for him to ‘dip his wick’ before she had the baby.”
“Even he would not confess such a thing!”
“I believe it was more in the manner of complaint. It seems she denied him.”
“Whatever did you say?”
“I cannot remember committing myself to a comment.”
“Was I that baby, I daresay the sight of that man’s privates might have frightened me from delivery.”
(It would not be unkind to say Piddlenot was an ugly man. To say that he was disgustingly ugly would be unkind, but not untrue.)
She perched herself upon her husband’s lap and sighed. It had been a dotty notion to attempt to enlighten Jane in matters conjugal.
“Have I disabused you of such an outrageous suggestion?”
“She was honestly trying to be helpful,” Elizabeth assured him.
“But you do not believe it?”
“Not truly. How could I? The story you fashioned to seal your debate was far t
oo illuminating. ‘Dip his wick?’ I shall never look upon a candle quite so innocently again.”
*
Vast estates across the countryside harboured countless duties, some overseers upon them more conscientious than were others. Although it had traditionally fallen to Pemberley’s mistress to visit the ill amongst the tenantry upon their lands, Elizabeth’s self-perceived idleness eventually embraced it as her mission. Her own privilege in the face of illness and misery she witnessed was unconscionable. There was certainly no starvation, but deprivation was rampant.
The necessitous existed to varying degrees all over England. But neediness as seen from the middling vantage of Longbourn was not near so grim as that same view from the height of Pemberley. Compared to many landowners the Darcy family had a finer honed sense of noblesse oblige. (Generous to a fault, a few of similar station had remarked, their own parsimony exposed in comparison.)
If she lived in splendour, Elizabeth knew well that it was through her husband’s largesse, not her own. It would have been exceedingly presumptuous of her to suggest that the Darcy fortune be dispersed across the countryside any differently than it had for generations. Had it been hers by birth, she might have had a struggle of conscience. But it was not. And that it was not, released her to contribute the only thing she had that was truly her own—her time. And of that she gave unsparingly.
In the deadlier days of winter, Elizabeth’s weekly visits to the sick became daily. So determined was she not to be a mere condescending dilettante, she enlisted Georgiana’s assistance when she was about. The need was great. Dropsy and consumption threatened adults. Quinsy and the croup menaced the children. They brought soup, bread, and occasionally a foot-dragging Dr. Carothers to see to a particularly sick child.
“The apothecary is good enough to see to these people, Mrs. Darcy,” he told her stiffly, but did what she bid nonetheless.
Repetitious acquaintance eventually overcame Georgiana’s inborn squeamishness. (Furuncles, carbuncles, and chancres not a particular inducement to reform.) Once this vertiginous tendency was conquered, she set upon the ailing with a ferociousness none might have suspected of her. She stoked bitters, calomel, various poultices, and embrocations in a miniature portmanteau. Cobwebs she tucked in surreptitiously. It was unlikely they might happen upon a severed appendage, but if the improbable occurred, those little spider toilings were excellent to stanch the bleeding (one must be prepared).
Collywobblers, she fed asafoetida, and the dyspeptics were encouraged to belch. In so little time and with such aplomb was she issuing her advice, Elizabeth was quite astonished. Amidst all the eructation, kecking, and coughing, Georgiana and Elizabeth became quite a merry pair. And, inevitably, upon this indecorous turn of events, Darcy announced a dictum.
“It is quite inappropriate for a maiden to be exposed to…humanity so injudiciously.”
Elizabeth knew full well that this was a Janus-faced accusation. He may not have been any less pleased that his sister was cavorting about the unwashed masses than his wife, but he was most decidedly affronted that Georgiana might be exposed to said unwashed masses’ anatomies.
Elizabeth assured him, “You can be certain her eyes are protected from anything so vulgar as bodily functions. We only touch children’s foreheads for fever and pour broth into elderly women’s mouths. Surely you cannot deny those poor souls that?”
No, he could not. Nor could he quite leave the subject be.
“It is my understanding that nursing is indisputably a cabalistic calling. I beg not to suggest your sound nature would fall to such allurement, Lizzy. However, Georgiana is not so commonsensical.”
“Are you suggesting that because your sister has found an enthusiasm, she is in danger of becoming an hysteric?”
“Enthusiasms are well and good, but unrebuked they can be as intoxicating as any liqueur.”
“Pray, where do you read such absurdities?”
He drew upon his considerable hauteur to reply, “I do not find it necessary to enjoy an observation under instruction of someone else’s opinion.”
“Very well. But fear not, Georgiana’s interest is merely piqued, not obsessed. I promise you, she shall not abscond in a gingham dress and white cap to St. Bart’s.”
Stymied upon the long-abused battleground of decorum, he reasoned, “These people are proud, Lizzy. You do not want them to think themselves pitied?”
“We do not aid the able-bodied, only the ill.”
Reason overcome by logic, it was time for a full frontal assault.
“You shall become ill yourself.”
“I am indecently healthy. Dr. Carothers said as much.”
He circled the flank.
“You shall bring disease back to us.”
Capitulating that point, she said she would not tend the contagious so closely.
“I shall not enter a house sick with consumption. We shall just take them what they need and leave it upon the stoop.”
Elizabeth knew Darcy had perfected his tactics for such a campaign and that he was quite pleased with himself for it. No ultimatums were given, no shots fired, so to speak. He, obviously, did not even feel a twinge of guilt at using her love for him as a weapon. It was a victory worthy of Elizabeth’s own powers of persuasion. Given enough time, she thought he might actually rival her in these contests of reason.
He added, “And two footmen shall accompany you.”
This, perhaps, was revealing a bit of overconfidence upon his part. For she was halfway to the door and stopped when he said that, turned and stood looking at him in silent study. She did not appear to be reflecting kindly upon the wisdom of his demand (and particularly that it was obviously a demand). He had learnt, after much practise, to couch his demands to Elizabeth to appear as requests, but she saw then he had suffered a lapse.
In a moment she said, “’Tis far too pompous to ride about the lands of Pemberley in a coach waited upon by a gaggle of footmen. A waggon and driver will suffice.”
“I shall not have you out alone.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, to which he added prudently, “Please. For me.”
“For you, anything.”
And thereupon a compromise was struck. Or so he thought. Actually, she capitulated only to that of which she had already predestined. This was not pointed out to him. One should not wag the bloodstained flag of defeat beneath the victim’s nose. That was indefensible.
Of course, she knew it only prudent not to expose her family to illness. And the footmen would be quite helpful in carrying the pots of soup. They could nurse much more efficiently with such sturdy help as that.
Sovereign power of persuasion had not yet passed.
*
Indeed, Elizabeth thought them quite the spectacle riding about the countryside trailing maids and servants visiting poor sick, and the sick poor. Others amongst their acquaintance thought them quite unseemly (if not outright mad). Georgiana thought this well-nigh hilarious, for she had never had the opportunity nor gumption to do something denounced as truly improper. It was a giddy freedom to be thought unconventional.
“Soon my reputation shall be sullied enough to be known a novelist will lend me credit!” she whispered excitedly to Elizabeth, in obvious anticipation of such an event.
The assignment of mercy waggon driving duty fell to Edward Hardin. That her husband forsook his most dependable man (the linchpin for the entire estate, he often said) to cart her about was not lost upon Elizabeth. It was a fortuitous coupling. Hardin offered the kindly suggestion that a non-liveried intermediary should ride with them to the cottages. The people therein were much more likely to confide their need to a simply dressed and soft-spoken one of their own.
Thereupon John Christie was brought into this fold. It was he who was delegated to approach a ramshackle home. Time had not obliterated Darcy’s abhorrence of John, but it had waned to the extent that John quit leaping behind a tree if Mr. Darcy came into sight. Nevertheless, the boy was a littl
e uneasy yet the first time he rode upon the waggon. Before long, however, he collected himself, finally believing it unlikely that Mr. Darcy might accost them and yank him from his seat.
John was considered good help by Elizabeth and Georgiana, staying at their elbows getting water, silently retrieving needed supplies from the coach. Endeavouring to coax conversation from the boy, Elizabeth told him he had missed his calling, that he might have made an excellent doctor.
He beamed at the suggestion, but said nary a word.
Hardin said, “Yer’ll not get that boy to say boo to a goose, Mrs. Darcy. Lor’ knows me and me wife have tried.”
As if taking that as a verbal gauntlet cast at his feet, John did first the expected, he crimsoned. Then the unlikely. He spoke.
“No ma’am. Not me. No. Yer needs learnin’ fer the likes of that. Aye got no learnin’.”
His candour incited the demure Georgiana to object.
“‘Learning’ is a derivation of a verb,” she announced.
He looked at her blankly.
“Learning is a derivative of the verb to learn, with the addition of a non-inflectional affixed.”
If she somehow believed this had cleared his confusion, he did not. He looked at her, for all the world, as if a toad had crawled out of her mouth. She tried once again.
“Learning is just that. To learn. An action verb. One can learn.”
Thereupon, they were at least, literally, speaking the same language again. Nonetheless, he shook his head at the absurdity of the idea and laughed nervously.
“No ma’am. Yer got ter have brains ter learn too. Don’t got that neither.”
Ignorance (as differentiated from stupidity) was rampant upon the countryside and to be unlearnt should not have shamed John. None of the grooms could read. Only those amongst the upper level servants could: Mrs. Reynolds, of course, Goodwin, and Hannah. (It was Hannah alone, though, who spent a portion of her prayers each day addressing the shortcoming of owning excessive pride in such an achievement.) Even with that understanding, upon their next missionary trip Georgiana brought a book of the alphabet and a slate.
Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife Page 44