B006O3T9DG EBOK (36 page)

“You rallied,” he admitted.

“I shall rally again”

Finally, she admitted to herself that she had not yet repaired.

“Can we not stay here...?”

It did not occur to him that she desired him then. He covered her toes with his hand and began scolding her again for her bare feet.

“Never ride out without your boots. Not only shall you catch your death, your foot shall slip through the stirrup and you shall be drug to death. Never ride barefoot. Always wear your riding boots,” he lectured. “And if your horse cannot be checked....”

“Yes,” she interrupted, for she did know what she should have done.

She nodded like a child, for he was quite right. Indeed, he wore but a shirt and breeches, but he had taken the time to draw on his boots. Always fastidious, always correct. Even when pursuing her, he drew on the proper boots. Were they never to frolic as if lusty young lovers and make love in sunlit fields and golden flowers without a care? That seemed an impossibility.

Without asking, Darcy led her to Boots and legged her onto the horse’s saddle. Claiming the stirrups, he drew himself on behind her. He then whistled for Blackjack. The horse trotted along behind them.

By their return, a new day had dawned and men were at their chores. Both Darcys knew that the rear postern was the most discrete entry to the house and would therefore generate the smallest amount of attention. With nary a word, Darcy handed the reins of both horses to the footman. Well-trained by generations of service to Pemberley, the man’s countenance did not flicker recognition of their déshabillé. Nay, he did not even appear to look at them. Despite his appearance of discretion, word would reach the furthest echelons of the house that the master and mistress had gone riding in an odd state of undress.

That would be grist for gossip-mongers for some time. At the thought of it, Elizabeth threw her head back and laughed. Darcy did not laugh. Indeed, he cleared his throat and frowned. This was not because he was not glad, for he was—very glad. His countenance rarely betrayed mirth. Indeed, his countenance betrayed few emotions, most especially the one she had just excited.

For the sound of his wife’s laugh had entered his ears and settled directly in his loins. They were both mired in desire; just on separate paths.

Chapter 50

The Laughter of the Gods

It was an altogether lovely morn. The windows were thrown open and the sun danced a dappled pattern across the tabletop. A soft breeze rippled up from the bottom of the curtains, shook them slightly and then let them go. Blue tits chattered at a cloudless sky. All was not right with the world, but it would do.

Quite witting of the flagitious alterations of life, Mr. Darcy sipped his coffee carefully. Mrs. Darcy put down her cup and turned to her husband, for she had an announcement.

She said, “I wish to visit Longbourne.”

Once again the breeze caught the curtains, this time whipping them loose. It was as if a squall had suddenly burst through the balcony doors, threatening the fabric of their easily rent happiness. A servant hurried to secure the drapes. Just as hastily as it had arrived, the gust was contained. During this small drama, Darcy’s eyes did not betake themselves from his newspaper. Even careful study would not have revealed that his wife’s unexpected fancy to sally forth unto Hertfordshire was remarkable to him in any way.

It was, however. It was not only remarkable, it was alarming. Outwardly, he remained calm. No such thing could be said of his soul.

Every fibre of his being screamed out, “Secure the shutters, lock the doors, drag the dogs inside, and pull the covers over everyone’s heads.”

As a man of known fortitude, fear rarely troubled him. A cold sensation clamped onto Darcy’s spine then. His heart was vulnerable in ways he never thought possible. He would not have it. He would not allow the sorrow they had meticulously tucked into their hearts be ripped asunder by the thoughtless harping of his mother-in-law. Had Elizabeth truly lost her head? Was she seeking penance? They had barely begun to reconstruct some semblance of their former lives. The crises they had suffered bid him keep his family under his protection, and thus under Pemberley’s protection as well.

These feelings, so violently felt, remained unexpressed.

He carefully replaced his cup in the saucer. Darcy did not look at his wife. His gaze was purposely transfixed on a point just between two lines of his newspaper. Whilst his eyes remained enthralled by what they did not see, he gathered his thoughts. A query was in order—this he knew. Try as he might, however, he could find no way to couch that inquiry without insulting her sanity. They had both dwelt upon the edges of distraction far too long.

“Your mother would be most happy to see you.”

Having conceded that point did not mean he had to approve of her plan.

“A more finely crafted agreement is not to be found in all of Derbyshire,” she said.

It took him a moment ere he could determine if she mocked him. As he considered that possibility, his eyes did not flicker in her direction (despite how radiant she looked in the morning light). Rather, he read and reread the same sentence several times in a row. He bethought the matter and admitted that she had never been known to mock him. That would be an unforgivable trespass against his dignity. Their situation had not altered to that degree.

Having worn out that page, he carefully turned his paper to the next. He gave the next one all the attention of the last. It was his distinct hope that his apprehension was unapparent. At one time he was the master of his countenance. It had not reflected any emotion he did not choose to expose. Of late, inscrutability had become his greatest struggle.

He felt the weight of her gaze upon him. He dared not look at her lest she see his displeasure. He wanted to be her champion, not her disapprover. Still, her plan seemed nonsensical. Some might even call it a reckless endangerment of one’s being. Mrs. Bennet was a callous goose. Her thoughtlessness was of legend. Why would Elizabeth seek her mother’s consolation above his?

Just when he decided that she had lost her wits, he recalled her exact words.

She had not said that she wanted to see her mother.

She said that she wished to go to Longbourne. For whatever reason, she sought comfort in her childhood home. Just as he found solace in Pemberley’s quiet beauty, Longbourne and the recollections of a more innocent time beckoned her.

Of the need to explain herself, Elizabeth said, “I know I shall not find him there, but I do miss my father.”

Standing, Darcy pushed back his chair and walked to her.

With a low bow, he said, “It would be my great honour to accompany you.”

Knowing the cost to his sensibilities each time he was in her mother’s company, Elizabeth was exceedingly grateful. In want of displaying her gratitude, she stood so hastily that she bumped the table leg, overturning her tea. A young footman made a move to clean up the spill; another waved him away. Both of the men withdrew from the room, and it—the morning breeze, the chirping birds, the sun-kissed tabletop, all of it—was left to the Darcys. Elizabeth did not observe the aesthetics of their situation. All she knew was that her husband had wrapped his long arms about her and rested his chin upon the top of her head. She closed her eyes.

She said, “My affection for my father did not blind me to the occasional impropriety of his behaviour....”

“There are none amongst us who can say we have not exposed ourselves to ridicule. If that was the standard of love, I fear you would never have accepted me.”

She said, “You and my father are so unalike. I cannot imagine two men with so little in common.”

Tears, sweet tears, filled her eyes. His arms tightened about her.

Speaking of her father brought a particular recollection to Darcy’s mind.

He had stood beside a tiny baby’s coffin more than once. Their first child, a stillborn son, was buried whilst Elizabeth lay abed, lost of her senses. No one believed that she would survive. She lay all but motionless, in the pit of her own special hell, for a week. Her husband left her side only to mark the burial of their son. Grief-stricken for their dead baby, he was cold with dread that she might die as well. No one spoke to him; no one dared.

Darcy had lingered by the gravesite long after others had repaired to their own houses and loved ones. It was bitterly cold. Years later, a grey, blustery day would gift him a chill particular to that recollection. Less frequently, he remembered that Mr. Bennet had stood shivering as he waited for his son-in-law to quit the grave. Darcy did not recall Mr. Bennet’s words, but the warmth of them solaced him through the difficult days to come.

For years, Darcy had been troubled by nightmares of those events. Only the continued happiness of their situation and the faces of his children had finally allowed the pain in his heart to ease. His only consolation then was that Elizabeth was spared the full horror of that day. Her suffering had been deep enough. Eventually, Jane had told her of the baby’s burial, the bleak truth of it all shined up nice and pretty for her consumption. He did not want to open old wounds. Those more recent were test enough.

Rather, he told her, “You are wrong, my love. Your father and I had something very great in common.”

She looked up at him quizzically.

“We shared a love for a particular lady.”

She smiled at the thought of her father, droll and crusty, full of affection.

“Perchance,” she mused, “Papa is in heaven now, hand in hand with our lost sons.”

Chapter 51

Alistair Steps Up

Having cast caution (and a good bit of her pride) to the wayside, Juliette had nothing to do but to wait and see if Darcy would come to her rescue. Howgrave still insisted she accompany him to his political rallies and, as she was beside herself with apprehension and anticipation, they became evermore unbearable.

When she was the darling of the political ring, she found it all quite diverting. Now, the tedious arguments over the gold standard and ecclesiastical appointments left her bored senseless. It was her dearest hope that one disputant would slap the other’s face and demand a duel. Any violence would be preferable to her than the endless rhetoric. As malcontents became more frustrated, their speeches inflamed others. At last, fomentation was at hand.

“Our voices must be reinstated!” screamed one red-faced man.

His eyes bulged dangerously and Juliette silently prayed apoplexy would strike him—and all his political cronies—dead. That was not to be. Someone insisted that calm be restored and she was once again desperate to escape the tedium.

Smoke choked the air and made her eyes red. When she dared, she fled the dais holding her handkerchief to her lips. The small antechamber behind the hall was bathed in a haze of smoke, but it was not half as stifling as in front. Only a few men stood about. All, save one, wore work caps. The man in the silk hat was tall and quite distinguished-looking. He was well-dressed by most standards, but stood toe to toe and mired in conversation with the others. After a moment, the gaggle of what looked to be jobbers and packmen, left. They paused by the door only long enough for each to pick up a club from the dozen or so standing against the wall.

The man wearing the tall hat was puffing hard on his cigar. In a lady’s presence, that was uncivil. It would be a test of his manners whether or not he disposed of it when he saw her (as she knew he would). As soon as the door closed behind the others, he threw his cigar on the floor and then mashed it out with the toe his boot. She was both surprised and delighted that a man within the boundaries of political doings subscribed to any part of gallantry. Her husband’s associates were heathens.