Georgiana was silent, absorbing this, for it seemed to her to be against everything she had been taught, when it came to ladies’ accomplishments.
“I think you are too modest to realise it, but you have many admirers beyond myself on this ship,” he said.
“I suppose I did – a little,” she said. “I am one of only four women, though, and you must know I only ever think of you in that way.”
“I know, else I might be far more jealous,” Matthew said, pulling her closer. “Although I hope you will think more highly of yourself, for they – and I – admire you for excellent reasons.”
Georgiana kissed him deeply, and murmured, “I will try, although yours is the only admiration I desire.”
“And you have always had it, and always will. I would like to see you continue with the pistol practise, though. I will teach you how to load and clean the duelling pistols, and if you choose to go home from Batavia, you may carry them. I think Bowden protection enough, but a little extra would not go amiss.”
This, then, was the real reason why he had asked her if she wanted to try shooting the pistols.
“I do not want to go home,” she whispered. “Please do not make me leave you. I am afraid of being parted from you, and you promised we would stay together.”
“You feel that strongly over it?”
“Yes. Either way it is a frightening thing, but it is far more frightening to think of going all that way without you, and I want to be with you. We have spent too much of our marriage apart already.”
“Then we will stay together, Georgiana. We will face it together.”
“Thank you.” She snuggled up close to him, and after some time, he said: “Georgiana, sometimes you are also quite feminine, and I hope you know I love that as well, although I wish you did not have to be so in these circumstances.”
Chapter 23
Elizabeth was thankful her boys were not older, for if they were, she could not have pressed her face against the front window of the post-chaise in the way she did on their approach to Stradbroke Castle, whilst attempting to appear proper as their mama. Press her face she did, already in good spirits because her family had handled their night at the White Hart so well, and her eagerness was looked on with some amusement by Darcy.
“It is a proper castle,” she said, with enthusiasm.
“Half of it is. The brick half was a Stuart addition – the family were Royalists, and their fortunes fell after the civil war, so although the old castle had become impractical, they could afford no more. I believe my aunt and uncle wish to see the whole facade redone in stone, in a more cohesive manner.”
“I will admit I care mostly about the castle – it is far more romantic. Georgiana said they have begun to use it again.”
“Yes, I am eager to see what improvements have been made.”
“I think I will enjoy our stay here very much, but I hope you are not too much inspired, so you decide to put a gothick facade on Pemberley, or some other such nonsense,” she teased.
“There is no chance of that happening,” he said, drily.
They were greeted in the courtyard, but with a steady rain drumming, their primary concern was for the boys, and the twins made their way inside under the protection of blankets draped over their baskets, and umbrellas held above them. Elizabeth had her dress thoroughly dampened during this effort, but did not care so long as the twins got in dry.
Elizabeth, Mrs. Nichols, and the nursery-maid, Rachel, each carried one of the boys up to the nursery, and they found it to be a long, low-beamed room, with three cradles ready and waiting for its new inhabitants. The twins were not yet sleepy, however, and willing to be handed over to their great-aunt, who had followed them up to the nursery.
Lady Ellen held both of her nephews in turn, and said, “It has been so many years since we have had boys in the nursery, and for a little while, we will have four.”
“I hope you shall have another, soon enough,” Elizabeth said, and followed her aunt’s gaze.
Across the nursery, young Ellen Fitzwilliam was tottering along on her feet under the watchful eye of a nurse, while her elder sister Alice sat upon the floor, playing beside the boy who was to become her step-cousin by marriage, Jean-Charles Durand. The girl had the delicate features of her mother, and the boy’s features were hardly less delicate, although he preferred to play with toy soldiers, rather than Alice’s dolls.
Once she had seen her own sons settled, Elizabeth went over to where they were playing, and said, “Alice, Jean-Charles. I am very pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Alice, glancing up at the adults before returning to her dolls.
“Bonjour?” said Jean-Charles.
“We are still working on his English,” Lady Ellen said, quietly, and then spoke to the boy a little in French. “He is young – he will learn soon enough.”
“Bonjour – good mowning – Madame Darcy,” said Jean-Charles.
“Bonjour, Jean-Charles,” said Elizabeth, wishing she had learned even a smattering of French. “I am glad to meet you, and I am very much looking forward to meeting your mama.”
Before Lady Ellen could translate for Elizabeth, little Alice said, “You cannot meet my mama. My mama is gone with the angels now.”
“Yes, Alice, she is, although I know she would wish to still be with you, if she could,” Lady Ellen said to her granddaughter, her eyes filling with tears.
Elizabeth, sensing her aunt did not wish to be seen in such a discomfited state, excused herself to check on her sons again, and after what she hoped had been enough time for Lady Ellen to recover, suggested they go down and find the others. They paused, when Elizabeth had closed the nursery door behind them, and Lady Ellen, seeming to wish to explain herself, said: “I know it has been nearly a half-year since her death, but sometimes it feels as though it has just happened – it is all still so fresh in my mind. To linger for so long with a fever, and to know her child had not survived the birth – it is a death I would not have wished on my worst enemy, much less my closest companion.”
“Her death grieved us all,” Elizabeth said. “I did not know her nearly so well as you, but I was deeply saddened when Mr. Darcy told me of it.”
“Some might say we go into half-mourning too soon, and Edward’s marriage comes about too quickly, but I am eager to have Marguerite join our family, although I am not eager for the responsibility that will be laid upon her. And I should add that I am grateful you have borne that responsibility safely.”
“Thank you, Lady Ellen.”
They walked down a creaky, mildly lopsided staircase and through a few old rooms to a drawing-room that was surprisingly modern – not modern in Caroline Harrison’s interpretation, but very much in Elizabeth’s, for it was all lightness and comfort, and seemed the essence of femininity compared with the rest of the house.
Everyone else of the household party was seated in this space, including Lord Fitzwilliam. Georgiana had described him as looking haggard, during her visit to Stradbroke, but now it seemed as though the rawness of grief had worn itself out, and had been replaced with a sort of steady, serious mourning; he looked more silent and reserved, Elizabeth thought, than Darcy ever had. Elizabeth softly gave him the condolences she had only been able to send in writing before; they were acknowledged with a nod and a murmured thank you.
In the silence that followed, Elizabeth cast her glance about the room, looking for the occupant she was most interested in. She found her, eventually, seated on the sofa beside Edward, wearing a grey muslin gown. Grey was a colour that rarely looked good on a woman, but it did so on Marguerite Durand, who appeared to be strikingly beautiful, yet unconcerned with her own beauty. Elizabeth had already been predisposed to like her, and none of this first impression changed her mind.
She and Edward both rose together, and Edward said, “Mrs. Darcy, may I present my betrothed, Madame Rochechouart-Châtilloux.”
Elizabeth made a deep curtsey, and found
it returned, although she could not help but be quizzical over Edward’s using what must have been Madame Durand’s maiden name. The woman returned her curtsey equally, and said, in heavily accented, careful, but wholly proper English, “Mrs. Darcy, I am very pleas-ed to make your acquaintance.”
“And I yours, Madame Rochechouart-Châtilloux,” Elizabeth said, attempting to mimic Edward, but still struggling with the name. “I have heard much about you – all of it good.”
They were all seated again, and Elizabeth could not help but turn her focus towards the couple in the little time they had before dinner. They seemed tremendously happy to be together, exchanging those little glances and touches – the latter studiously overlooked by everyone else in the drawing-room – that were wholly indicative of their love. Elizabeth found herself feeling a little giddiness on their behalf, a flirtatiousness she did not usually allow herself, outside of teazing her husband, which was her regular outlet for such energies.
She found herself a little disappointed when, in the course of dinner and in the drawing-room after, Madame Durand – or Rochechouart-Châtilloux – showed herself to be of impeccable manners, with none of the fire that had led her to call the de Bourghs pig farmers. She had not been so provoked, however, and was not likely to be unless Lady Catherine returned, and so Elizabeth was left to like her based on the knowledge that she had done so, and the altogether pleasing manners she had shown thus far, and like her Elizabeth did.
+++
She and Darcy had been given a very fine – although exceedingly, almost disturbingly quiet – renovated apartment within the old castle, and when they had settled into this space for the night, lying in the great bed there, she finally had opportunity to ask him if he knew why the Frenchwoman’s married surname had been done away with.
“I understand from Edward it was changed first in France, to help her in the case of regaining her lands. When it came time to put the engagement in the papers, they thought it better to go by her maiden name here, as well, to lessen any connexion with Matthew and the Polonais.”
“Shall her son’s name be changed?”
“No, of course not. Edward has too much respect for the man, and I must assume she does as well. Her son will bear the name and someday it will all have to be explained to him, but for now they will tread the easier path.”
“It is such a strange coincidence, but then, so much in life depends on such coincidences,” Elizabeth said. “What if Charles had decided to let some other house, instead of Netherfield Park? How many marriages, now, have stemmed from that decision?”
“I do not think we can say for certain, although the one I most care about would have had its chances substantially lessened. Perhaps we would have met at Rosings.”
“Perhaps we would have. Perhaps you would have been in a better mood, and therefore I might not have been so prejudiced against you,” she said, running her hand along his chest, and trailing her lips down his neck.
“Perhaps you would have acted like a wanton flirt, and I would have avoided you,” he said. “Elizabeth, what has got into you?”
“I believe the question is rather more what has not got into me, Darcy, but if you must ask, I find myself rather inspired by the flirtations of a newer love.”
“Do you wish to go back to those days?”
“My dear, we never had those days. Everything was so serious by the time you returned to Hertfordshire. Which suits you anyway, I think. You are not the flirtatious type.”
“Is that what you desire, a little flirtation?”
“No – I know not to expect it – you have many other merits, over skill in flirting,” she said. “A little flirtation would have gone a very long way, though, early in our acquaintance.”
He rose abruptly from the bed and went to the window, cut larger than it had originally been through the thick old stone. The window ledge was deep and held a decanter of what appeared to be port, beside it two glasses. He poured a goodly quantity into both. “Would you like some port?”
“I suppose so.” Elizabeth hoped she had not wounded him. He might not have been a flirtatious man, but he had so many other qualities she admired and adored. She rose and joined him by the windowsill, and when he handed her the glass of port, his hand brushed along her fingertips in a careful, deliberate manner. She took a sip.
“How do you like the port, Miss Elizabeth?”
So this was his game, then. This was his game, with their sons in the other part of the house, having been nursed by their mother before going into a peaceful sleep. This was his game, and Elizabeth liked it very much. She was pleased by it – pleased that he was attempting to be flirtatious, pleased that in such a dark, sombre season, he could find a little frivolity, a little amusement, a little pleasure. Perhaps travelling away from Pemberley and his troubles there had done him a measure of good.
She would wait for his lead: she suspected she had indeed wounded his pride, but he had reacted to it in the best possible way, and she was eager to play along. Was he considering her the Miss Bennet of their engagement? Or the Miss Bennet who had appeared unexpectedly at Pemberley? The Miss Bennet of Hunsford and Rosings? Or the Miss Bennet of Longbourn and Netherfield Park? She would be quite happy to act the part of any of them.
“I like the port very much, Mr. Darcy.” She smiled at him in the way she might have, if they had ever been a flirtatious young couple.
“I am glad. Will you sit with me, Miss Elizabeth?” He returned her smile in a way he never had, at Longbourn, Netherfield, Hunsford, Rosings, nor even Pemberley, before their marriage. Then he motioned toward the bench at the foot of the bed, and she followed him there delightedly.
“We seem to be without a chaperone, Mr. Darcy.” She reached over and tousled his hair. She had never tousled his hair in such a deliberate fashion, for it seemed something likely to irritate both him and his valet, and Elizabeth found she enjoyed it very much.
“We are not so far away from the wedding – it hardly matters now,” he said, lightly.
“I believe my parents would disagree with you.”
“You are welcome to call in a chaperone if you would like,” he said, nuzzling her neck so that she very nearly spilled her port.
“If you can be brought to behave yourself, I do not think it will be necessary.”
He withdrew from her neck. “Behave myself? I am the picture of decorum.”
“Ha! Decorum!”
“Perhaps we should discuss something mundane. How is your trousseau coming along? I rather like the trim on this dress – I hope you will have more done like it,” he said, running his finger along the neckline of her nightgown. “Although I find it wants some trim here.” Now, his hand trailed along the underside of her breast.
“Scandalous man! No more of your protests that you can behave yourself, for clearly you cannot.” She planted her own finger firmly on his lips, grinning in merriment.
“My apologies, Miss Elizabeth. I will keep my hands to myself from now on.” He planted his hand upon his own leg, then turned and kissed her firmly on the cheek.
Elizabeth was glad they had one significant advantage over the couple they were pretending to be: they could consummate their union whenever they wished. As much as she was enjoying their mock flirtation, Elizabeth could not bear to wait much longer for this. She drank down the rest of her port.
He kissed her lips, almost chastely. “I find I like a woman who tastes of port.”
“I find I may be marrying a rake.”
“If it is possible for a man to feel a rake’s desires towards only one woman, then yes, I suppose you are.”
It was rare that her husband could still make Elizabeth blush so thoroughly as she did now. She rose, nearly overcome with desire. “I had better show you out before you become even more incorrigible.”
“Yes, you had better do so.” Instead of offering his arm, he put his hand on the small of her back. When they neared the door, his hand slipped down to her bottom and gave
it a perfunctory pinch.
She gasped, and giggled. “Well played, Darcy. Very well played. May I have my husband back, now? You have proved your point.”
“I will have my wife back, first,” he said, and doing another thing he never had before, dropped one arm behind her knees, picked her up, and carried her – chuckling delightedly – to the bed. She managed to muss his hair quite thoroughly in mock retribution before he set her down and loved her as thoroughly as he only could in having known her for more than two years as Mrs. Darcy, not Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
+++
Edward Fitzwilliam and Marguerite Rochechouart-Châtilloux were wed by special licence in the great hall at Stradbroke Castle. This was not because the family were still in half-mourning for Lady Fitzwilliam – although they agreed it was for the best to keep the wedding as quiet as the engagement had been – but more because the Fitzwilliams had always used this advantage of their nobility to wed, and there was no reason to cease tradition now.
Only a few very close neighbours had been invited, to watch the Frenchwoman walk up the middle of the hall on the arm of Lord Brandon, there being no more suitable candidate for the office. Madame Rochechouart-Châtilloux’s own father had gone to the guillotine during the Revolution, and the remainder of her close family had all been killed in the war or died naturally since. If older, her son might have done the office, but a child of his age could not be expected to walk with anything approaching the sort of dignity Lord Brandon did, and so little Jean-Charles had been given the office of bearing the rings instead.
The bride wore a new gown of very pale lavender silk, and this suited her even better than grey had done. She looked a stunning bride, when she reached her betrothed and the local vicar, and Edward looked a little stunned, to be marrying her.
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