Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

by Linda Berdoll

  *

  Hence, that summer’s solstice saw the primers Georgiana had given him shoved beneath the batting of his bed. Moreover, John retreated with renewed determination into his protective shell of silence. However diligently he guarded it, his little fortress of taciturnity was betimes transgressed. For those who were of more congenial nature than he, his quiet invited discourse. Which presented him a conundrum. Idle conversation always included a little idle prattle. Usually these tidbits were quite innocuous. But he was most adamant in his dislike of gossip. Was this because his mother was once the brunt of a great deal of it, perchance? It was undeniable that he had suffered keenly upon the altar of human foibles, hence they were no particular amusement to him.

  Yet even John found it a little diverting that Mrs. Hardin would carry on a conversation with him without him once having to look up, much less respond. These little discourses were mostly about the village and country doings, in which he held little interest. One day, however, one particular piece of information caught his attention and had it not come from Mrs. Hardin, he would not have looked up from his soup to listen even then.

  Mrs. Hardin had made it a personal objective to find him company of the feminine persuasion (as she thought him a rather late-blooming twenty-year-old) and never ceased putting forth first one hearty girl, then another. But this day, as she went about her work chatting both case and canard, she grumbled more than usual.

  For it seemed the girl she had set her eye most doggedly upon for him had fallen into disrepute.

  “Whot’s there t’say when a gerl from a good family falls for the wiles of a man just because he’s rich,” she groused.

  John stopped eating, his spoon suspended midway to his mouth.

  “That man’s not going to see t’her,” she fussed on. “The best she ken hope is if he gits’r with child he’ll marry her off to some lad for a quid and he’ll treat’r like the doxy she is!”

  Abruptly, Mrs. Hardin ceased her diatribe, the collop beneath her chin still quivering with indignation. She looked at John and saw she had his full audience for the first time in her recollection. Not one to waste anything, especially the peerless occasion of having John Christie’s ear, she offered him some motherly advice.

  “Don’t ye go havin’ no time for no gerls that’ll waste theyselves ’pon a few trinkets from a rich man, John.”

  He shook his head he would not. Satisfied, she had turned back to her work when she heard something unlikely. John asked her a question.

  “Who is ’e?”

  She looked at John, dumbfounded. John took it that she did not understand his question, not that she was dumbfounded he had asked one.

  He repeated, “Who’s the rich man?”

  Recovering from her astonishment, she grumbled to herself again, and thereupon said, “Who’d yer think? There’s not that many rich men about here. It sure ain’t no squire.”

  (She did not actually know who the rich man was, but having the floor, she did not want to relinquish it for want of information.)

  John only knew one rich man about and that one sat in a very big house a near cry from the small one where he sat partaking of his meal. Before he could digest that particular, he heard Edward Hardin’s urgent call. Giving his usual mumbled thanks to Mrs. Hardin, he ran out the door.

  His instruction was implicit. Make haste to fetch Colonel Fitzwilliam’s horse. That gentleman had appeared unexpectedly; Scimitar was not yet saddled. The horse’s imminent departure was a mild disappointment to John. The humble equine fancier deemed him a handsome one indeed. Mr. Darcy’s horse was probably finer, but Scimitar had more…John thought about it and searched for the word…spirit. Yes, he had more spirit, which was truly an indefinable point in a horse. Either they had it or they did not. John thought Scimitar had more of that indefinable something than any he had seen. Smooth of gait and fine of spirit. What more could you ask of a horse than that it be honest?

  Working with meticulous dexterity, he bridled and saddled Scimitar. Hastily, he grabbed the reins and slung back the gate to lead him out. Too hastily.

  Unpropitious fate allowed the gate to hit the post and bounce against it just as he attempted to take Scimitar through.

  That set the stage for a horrifying occurrence.

  The gate sprang betwixt him and Scimitar, exciting the horse to bolt. One flaying hoof glanced off the gate and wedged betwixt two boards. Spooked beyond all reclamation, the near two hundred stone of horse reared and thrashed at the gate in a frenzy to free himself. All this clattering fury of a nightmare unfolded as if in slow motion before John’s disbelieving eyes.

  Momentarily, he stood in petrified terror, a cold sickness in his stomach. He had no doubt he was about to witness that fine horse shatter a leg. Some deep will wrested him from his shock, and he leapt about frantically trying to catch a handhold upon the bridle. That, however, only made the horse flail more. The more the horse thrashed, the more desperately John endeavoured to catch him. They were locked into an ever-escalating trial of panic.

  Even amidst such bedlam, John heard a calm voice behind him.

  “There, Scimitar, there.”

  Rather than run to the fracas, Colonel Fitzwilliam strode up with little more effort than a saunter. One observing him might have believed the man not rushed at all. So quietly did he approach, John did not realise he was there until Fitzwilliam firmly grasped his arm, thus thwarting his fruitless quest for Scimitar’s bridle.

  “Be still,” he cautioned. “Be still.”

  The voice was one that made John do just that. Save for the trembling that afflicted every muscle in his body, he stood perfectly still. Fitzwilliam commenced to talk in a soothing tone to the horse whose thrashing had de-escalated but not yet abated. Gradually the horse stopped lurching and heaving about. Fitzwilliam picked up the reins and made a gentle clicking noise with his tongue. The horse stepped forward on three feet and stood with great patience whilst the colonel managed to extricate his hoof from the gate.

  Drained, John sank with a dull thud to the ground in relief. Forthwith, he leapt up, ready for his well-deserved dressing down. Any rant or criticism he would accept without complaint. For if the horse was unhurt, it was not because of—but in spite of—his own ministrations.

  Nonetheless, Fitzwilliam did not look at the mortified groom, intent as he was upon examining the horse for injuries. Gently, he traced his hand down Scimitar’s hock. No blood was evident. Scimitar stood fully upon all four feet, not favouring the recently imprisoned hoof. The horse was evidently uninjured.

  Standing tall and straight during this inspection, John waited with forbearance for its completion to receive his due. The only fervent hope he held (and it was niggardly indeed) was that as the horse was ultimately unhurt, the colonel would only keel-haul him, not have him turned out. But when Fitzwilliam finally turned to him, he did not speak in reproach.

  “I see your instinct is in defence of the horse. When I was your age, I am certain I should not have jeopardised myself in such a manner. I thank you.”

  He thanked him? He had almost caused mortal injury to the man’s horse and he thanked him? John could say nothing; he just stood there, stupefied.

  Clearly aware of the groom’s surprise, Fitzwilliam adopted a scholarly tone, “Whatever you do when a horse is trapped, show no alarm. Move with care, speak quietly. If the horse is to be extricated, that will be the only way to prevent injury. To either of you.”

  With the last remark, he turned to John and smiled. John nodded his head eagerly. Then he watched raptly as Fitzwilliam walked Scimitar about. Slowly, he led the horse in a wide circle, allowing him to calm. Once satisfied of that, he bid John to unsaddle him.

  “I shall let him settle a half-hour before I take him out.”

  Instructions compleated, John climbed atop the fence as Fitzwilliam personally loosed him in a paddock. Odd to be sitting there whilst the gentleman saw to the horse. Had John’s notion of absoluteness not been so rou
ndly shaken, it was additionally abused when the good colonel climbed upon the fence and sat next to him.

  With the merest flick of his hands, the colonel tossed the tails of his jacket from beneath him as he perched upon the top rail. John admired that flick. He thought he might like to have a jacket with brass buttons, epaulets, and tails to flick aside when he sat.

  They sat there a few moments in silence. John cut his eyes over to Fitzwilliam several times then to his excellent steed.

  Of Scimitar, he asked, “’e’s a charger, ain’t ’e?”

  Fitzwilliam nodded. John knew quite well who the colonel was, for he came to Pemberley often. He was a cavalry officer. Scimitar was the horse he rode upon those courageous cavalry charges. Until then, John had never had opportunity to scrutinise him, only his horse. But he had always been impressed with his caped uniform and choice of mounts. Sitting as near as he did, John could see an impressive scar upon the colonel’s cheek. It was deep. Curling his lip slightly at the sight, he wondered if a sabre had rendered that scar and if it did, in what battle. He was eyeing it so closely, he did not realise Fitzwilliam was watching himself be inspected.

  “Are you appalled by my scar?”

  Startled, John looked to the ground and said, “No, sire.”

  In a voice he reserved for the greenest of trooper, Fitzwilliam demanded that he speak up, “What?”

  John said louder, “No, sire.” Thereupon he impetuously added, “It is an admirable scar.”

  Fitzwilliam smiled, “Admirable, is it?”

  The bonhomous company of a man of such substantial rank rendered him profoundly spellbound, else John might have never blurted out, “Yes. Aye have never seen a scar so fine. Was it from battle?”

  “No,” he said, “Not from battle, just in practise for battle.”

  “But yer been to battle?”

  Fitzwilliam nodded.

  Swept thither by the throes instituted of such manly camaraderie, John said, conspiratorially, “Aye ’ear ladies swoon at such scars! The worse the better. Proves you a fine man wi’ a blade!”

  “I have heard such things,” Fitzwilliam allowed, “but all I can see is that a scar announces at least one man bested your defences.”

  John did not actually register this aside, for his attention had wandered from the scar to the weapon which might inflict such. Indeed, the sabre that hung from the colonel’s waist was long and curved.

  Seeing his awe-struck countenance, Fitzwilliam inquired rather disingenuously, “Do you care to take it in your hand?”

  Jubilantly, John jumped down. With a slithering swoosh, Fitzwilliam drew the sword from its scabbard, then tossed it hilt up in John’s direction. Seeing the glinting metal barrelling toward his head, John instinctively reached out, as much to deflect as to catch it. Nevertheless, catch it he did.

  Flicking it several times, he appreciated its weight and battle-marred pommel. Thereupon, he jousted the air, puncturing any number of Napoleon’s Vieille Garde. Giddily, he looked from the sword to Fitzwilliam, who sat yet upon the fence, to see if the colonel demanded it back (he not exactly ready, but at least willing to return him his sword). His gaze settled behind the colonel though, upon Georgiana who was watching from the vantage above them.

  He was mortified to be caught in such flagrant play and meekly relinquished Fitzwilliam his weapon with a genuflecting duck of his head. Taking notice of the young man’s obvious alteration in demeanour, Fitzwilliam turned to see what incited such a reversal. He almost laughed, then caught himself, perchance having been the victim of boyish humiliation himself at one time.

  The innocent provocateur of this discombobulation walked down the incline to the fence and spoke to Fitzwilliam. John busied himself resaddling Scimitar, but he heard Georgiana tell the colonel she was to repair to London.

  In less than a quarter-hour, the colonel was upon his way and Georgiana returned to the house. In that good time, John’s body returned to routine, but his thoughts returned to the mundane quite unwillingly. As he went methodically about his chores, he hummed when he thought about the colonel, the colonel’s horse, the colonel’s sword, and most of all, the colonel’s impressive scar. So enthralled was he in all that was the colonel’s, it took him a time before his thoughts rambled back to his meal at Mrs. Hardin’s table.

  Remembering then just what she had said, his humming stopped, as did his chores. The bucket he held was emptied and he upended it for an impromptu seat. It was better to ponder from a sitting position, for one could prop one’s chin upon one’s palm in thoughtful contemplation. From thence, he recollected what Mrs. Hardin had said and replayed it carefully in his mind.

  Undoubtedly, the contemptible scoundrel of whom she spoke was Mr. Darcy. There could be little doubt. First John sneered at the very thought, then became quite wretched upon Mrs. Darcy’s behalf. Would that Mr. Darcy were of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s character, for Mrs. Darcy deserved better. Certainly, Colonel Fitzwilliam would never compromise a young woman. Mr. Darcy was an unrepentant debaucher.

  Fitzwilliam was almost as rich as Mr. Darcy was, but he was not a defiler of virgins. He was a hero. Or certainly heroic. He was not above talking to a groom. He did not father children then abandon them. Colonel Fitzwilliam wore a red uniform and cape.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam had a truly fine scar upon his cheek.

  49

  Betimes it did not cross Mr. Darcy’s mind to think of John Christie’s paternity. Those occasions, unfortunately, were infrequent and fleeting. Not surprisingly, this preoccupation led to an obvious distancing of his attention.

  If he thought his inattention was unheeded, he was mistaken. For it was obvious to his wife. Moreover, Elizabeth laboured under the misapprehension that his distraction was indicative of a misgiving upon her behalf. She had heretofore been persuaded that his foremost fear was for her to bear another child. This supposition was abandoned. In its place, she instituted an alternate presumption. She became quite convinced he thereupon feared she would not.

  For they were no longer newlyweds. She was expected, demanded—yes, required to be with child (not only be with child but said baby must be male). And did she ever escape this ever-increasing worry, she was reminded of it twice monthly. Once, when her courses came and second, when her mother’s post arrived inquiring had she yet conceived (indeed, her mother’s letters arrived with more regularity than did her menses).

  As time went on, that she had not was glaringly obvious, for children abounded. In addition to Jane’s ever-increasing family (she was expecting yet again), Lydia also had begat three boys, howbeit Wickham seemed to be in her company only long enough to impregnate her.

  Even Charlotte Collins had become the semi-proud mother of a toddler. Of course, in order to have produced Chauncey Charlemagne Collins, Charlotte had to suffer the unenviable task of engaging her husband in conjugal embrace. At least once. (No one actually made a retching sound at the idea of such a union, but several made audible gasps of abhorrence.) This sacrificial act of generation had resulted in a child whose eyes insistently gazed independently of each other and, in his third year, had only a wisp of hair and not yet produced any teeth. However, that was overlooked as politely and solicitously as possible. For after all, regardless of his shortcomings, he had a male appendage.

  It had been just two springs previous when in great excitation, Jane brought Lady Lucas’ letter proclaiming that unceremonious birth. Apparently, Charlotte was brought to the straw quite unexpectedly. Jane related the details to Elizabeth.

  “Her mother was all astonishment and thought Charlotte delivered so hastily owing to a fright.”

  “I suppose she happened unawares to look upon her husband,” Elizabeth concluded.

  Even kind Jane did not argue that.

  *

  Ever obliging, Jane ended her fourth confinement by mid-November exactly as partridge season overlapped that of pheasant. Owning no undue pride, Bingley, who loved to be host to shooting parties for friends and
neighbours, believed a new baby boy as good a reason as any to celebrate in that manner. The men could make a perfunctory inspection of the new infant, then go out for sport, leaving the ladies in peace to talk of feminine pursuits.

  Amongst the ladies in attendance to admire the Baby Bingley came the longsuffering Charlotte wagging her myopic, bread-gumming child with her. Because of the boy’s double-vision, he stumbled into furniture, but other than a few broken bric-a-bracs, was no particular bother. The same, of course, could not be said for his father.

  Mr. Collins accompanied Charlotte to Kirkland Hall, but he was more than usually out of sorts. For in the close company such a lengthy journey demanded of its travellers, Mr. Collins had broken out in a rash. Quite intemperately, he blamed poor Charlotte for his torment, certain that Chauncey was the culprit responsible for his itch and Charlotte did beget him.

  It was most probable that Bingley sought to relieve the ladies of Mr. Collins’s constant whines of affliction when he invited the cleric to join the gentlemen for the day’s shoot. Good intentions aside, Bingley most likely did not think the matter through, else he might never have suggested arming him.

  Any man who went afield with Mr. Collins resting a weapon upon his shoulder, unless a fool, knew full well what possibilities lay in wait. Hence, a brief conference betwixt the other shooters exacted a plan. At no time might Mr. Collins be allowed to trek alone. Each man would take a turn to walk with the vicar and keep watch upon which direction his barrel pointed. (In defence of life and limb was probably the single impetus that could have persuaded anyone to take that duty.) So jittery was their group to have a loose cannon in its midst little game was taken, for the few times a shot was fired, they collectively flinched.

  It was during Mr. Hurst’s watch that disaster struck.

  In the merest flick of a moment, a dog burst upon a covey and sent it flying skyward with a flurry of flapping wings. Before anyone had chanced to duck, Collins whirled and fired blindly in that direction. The dog yelped loudly, but was fortunate to be hit by only a pellet or two (Mr. Collins having been blessed with aim as poor as his judgement).