B006O3T9DG EBOK (51 page)

Mrs. Darcy had not tarried in bed once she had detected Mr. Darcy was no longer there. Hence, Hannah did not have to spend many agonising minutes to give her mistress the master’s request. Indeed, she told her forthwith. Witting that something of significance was to occur, Elizabeth hastily donned her favourite blue dressing gown (the one adorned with gold braid) and draped herself impatiently in her favourite chair to await an audience with her husband.

Elizabeth was impatient to see her husband. Her regard for him had never been greater. Given a choice, she would have run to find him and leapt into his arms. Instead, she was forced to wait for him to come to her. She did so hope that whatever momentousness should come to pass, that it would not place undue restraint upon her exhilaration.

Placing a book in her lap, she flipped nervously through its pages as she listened for him.

He entered without knocking and she smiled happily. His countenance upon seeing hers did not alter appreciably, but she thought that she discerned a bit of question in his eyes. Perhaps he too feared that the reinvigoration of their union had been fleeting. He drew a chair near her. Unknowing that he was gauging the shades of her mind (and not bearing unhappy news), she grew solemn. A small pang of foreboding made itself known in the pit of her stomach. He noticed the adjustment of her expression, but spoke not of it.

With rare hesitance, he said, “I truly cannot guess your mind upon this matter. Should I wait, or not come to you at all.”

With those words, her countenance grew apprehensive. It was clear to him that he should not have been so frank about his trepidations.

To his surprise, she reached out and placed a reassuring hand upon his knee.

Clearly, his countenance was not the mask of impassivity he had believed. Indeed, she appeared quite unnerved. It was important not to allow the quagmire of fear overtake either of them.

Taking her hand in his, he turned it palm up. Onto her out-stretched palm he placed a small package. Her eyelids fluttered in disconcertion, but he still bid her unwrap it herself. For a reason she could not fathom, it was to be opened by her own hand alone.

It was loosely wrapped. Therefore, when she drew the string, the object unrolled easily and fell face up in her lap.

Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry. Whether it was a lamentation or acclamation, he knew not.

He studied every movement of her hand and each expression that touched her countenance. When she began to weep, he knew not whether he had triumphed or failed. His heart had been in his throat for the duration of this presentation, unknowing if she would admire it or despise it as a reminder of what she wanted to forget. In a moment, the truth revealed itself.

Holding the oval ivory against her breast, she turned to him and whispered, “I have never, never had the privilege of receiving such a dear and treasured gift. I shall admire it all my life.”

It was a remarkably good likeness. Indeed, the turn of little William’s countenance had been captured almost flawlessly. She beheld it as if a precious stone. When at last her eyes were sated, she took it in both hands and pressed it against her heart. Tears tracked down her cheeks.

Fighting against a most indelicate weep, she cleared her throat and said, “The painter has not quite captured his nose....”

Neither believed that was her true opinion at all.

His voice was mild, mimicking hers, “I quite agree. But taken on the whole, I believe it a tolerable likeness.”

“Indeed, do I as well. I am all astonishment that such a truthful rendering could be accomplishment without... without....”

Unable to compleat the sentence, she stopped herself.

She said, “I love it dearly.”

She would have asked him whereby the miniaturist had managed to catch their son’s image so perfectly, but she recalled a time long past when he had a miniature done of her compleatly from his own recollection. Elizabeth marvelled at her husband’s powers of description.

“Done when you were last in London?” she asked.

He nodded.

He explained that he chanced again upon the studio where Gainsborough once worked. (The first time he went there, it had been an impulse—indeed, quite rash.) The second time was entirely purposeful. It was difficult to find. However, he recalled the entry was at the back and through a low door. The old painter was still at work. The man recalled Mr. Darcy too. Darcy had commissioned the man immediately. He then spent several hours perched on a stool, looking on as sketches were made to his precise specifications.

“Then it was not Morland?”

“That man was still much engaged with another royal commission. The painter I employed I have used before—on your likeness. Kimble, I believe. He is quite accomplished.”

Looking upon the back, indeed she saw Kimble’s signature.

She said, “Perchance we might engage him to make miniatures of all of our children. I should favour setting them in a row upon my dressing table next to yours.”

“You have no miniature bearing my likeness,” said Darcy.

“Do I not?” she replied pertly. “
Au contraire
.”

The only ivory image of his own countenance he recalled was one taken in his youth. At one time, it sat in a case next to Wickham’s.

“Yes, I recall it. It was taken above fifteen years ago....” said he.

She replied, “Not that one—a different one entirely.”

Now that she admitted that she had it, she knew he would not be satisfied until she produced it for him to criticise. And there was much about it for a gentleman to protest.

She said, “It was done to exceedingly explicit directions.”

“I am sure I shall despise it.”

“Indeed, you shall,” she agreed. “It was done by Morland.”

“He, who eschews trivial commissions?”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. To him that signified a furthering of playfulness they had shared just that afternoon. That observation was a great relief. He began to believe that they had truly experienced a renewal of spirits. As she continued to speak of the miniature, he looked upon her with unbridled affection.

She told him, “Morland took it at my particular request. It is quite... dashing. It might even be described as indecorous.”

Her expression was a bit mischievous and he was altogether uncertain whether she had such a miniature of him at all—and if she did, just what she had imagined. A frown attached itself to the ridge between his eyebrows as he considered whether or not it was true, and if it was, just how explicit it could be.

He did not like his disconcertion on display. Imagining her describing the contours of any part of his person to Sir Robert Morland was displeasing enough. It occurred to him that he had never actually gazed upon his own reflection. (If they frolicked by the looking glass now hidden beneath their bed, he gazed upon it to admire her form, not his own.)

She laughed and pinched his knee, telling him that hers was a tease. His relief was palpable.

He said, “I knew full well you could not have kept such a work from me.”

“Oh my love, it does exist. It simply is not as indecorous as I implied. Indeed, I should like you to see it. I had it painted after your journey across the channel. As much as I love the one in the portrait hall, I longed for an image I could keep near my breast; one to gaze upon at my leisure.”

Clasping William’s miniature in her hand, she stood, announcing, “I shall no longer test your patience. Come!”

Darcy allowed Elizabeth to lead him towards her dressing room. Hannah was within
laying out several combs and brushes side by side, with soldierly precision. She hastily withdrew when she observed that Mr. Darcy was with her mistress. Elizabeth repaired directly to her table. He saw no miniature then, nor had he before. She sat William’s likeness carefully on the table top, allowing her to open a small drawer.

She removed a key. With that key, she opened another, hidden drawer. From it, she withdrew a small, paper-wrapped object. Carefully, tenderly, she unfolded the paper. She placed a small, flat piece of ivory in her hand and held her palm in Darcy’s direction.

To his great happiness, his face did not adorn some undraped cupid. The image was quite as tradition dictated—except for one thing. He recognised his face, his hair, and even his sideburns. However, his wife had made one, nearly obscene, omission.

It would not do. He looked at her.

“That is not me,” he said with finality. “It is an invention.”

The visage upon the soft, white surface was as she saw him—without his collar and cravat.

“Indeed, it is your neck. It is particularly strong and muscular,” she insisted. “See, I cannot get my two hands about it....”

“You have uncommonly small hands. Besides, are not thick-necked men believed to be stupid?”

Now a bit impatient that he did not see himself as did she, she argued, “That is thick-witted, thick-
witted
.”

It was then that she realised he was repaying her tease.

She then said, “Who would know the nature of your neck better than your wife?”

He had no answer. Had he chosen to argue, he might have suggested that Goodwin (who saw to his shave every morn) knew his neck, but he did not care to further the discussion. Elizabeth, however, did want to further the point. Slipping into his lap, she pulled the end of his tie, loosening it. Turning back the collar a bit, she kissed him there.

“The painting caught your image perfectly. Your strong chin, fine nose, beguiling eyes, and yes, your exceedingly handsome neck. It is remarkable for its strength.”

Convinced of her sincerity, if not her facts, he whispered against her hair, “As you are disposed to vex your husband, I shall not deny you that pleasure.”

“Yes,” she said. “You deny me nothing....”

Their discourse that day had served several purposes. William’s miniature gave permanence to their lost son. Moreover, they spoke of their tragedy openly. The abyss of melancholy was avoided. Those obstacles, once so heavy with regret and pain, had been leapt passed within the confines of a few brief moments—and went unremarked upon.

The outcome to this conversation followed the path of many before them. Verbal banter often led to more amorous inclinations. He did not, however, take her there in her dressing room. He took her in his arms and carried her to their bed. Pressing her back against the mattress, he interlaced his fingers in hers.

It was not he, but his wife who bid, “Let us make a child tonight.”

———

The afterglow of passion did not wane.

Their steady attachment, of late a bit tremulous, was once again as it should be—solidified by love and consecrated with passion. However, he did not allow smugness to overcome good sense. His Elizabeth had returned to him, but he knew well that there was no armour against fate.

Indeed, Death lays his icy hand on kings.

Chapter 70

Whot?

Darcy’s response to Juliette’s importunacy that night in London was said as a question, but was offered more in the exclamatory.

“Whot?” he repeated.