Darcy & Elizabeth (16 page)

With that, he raised just enough to allow his gaze to take in the length or her torso. But rather than offer exultations to her comeliness as she expected (and was prepared to refuse), he took her hand and kissed it. Gently, he placed his palm against her cheek, his large hand framing her face. She had no alternative but to return his gaze. But he spoke not. With great tenderness, he drew his thumb across her chin. It was a gesture of such familiarity, she was momentarily rendered speechless. When she regained her voice, she spoke with finality.

“You have returned to me.”

As if having leapt an enormous hurdle, she let out a sigh and nestled to him, revelling in his closeness.

She then said, “To have you again by my side is all I ask.”

“It is you, dearest Lizzy, and no other, who inflames my ardour,” he whispered. “I would never knowingly cause you such vexation.”

He began to kiss her—deep, lust-drenched kisses that took away her breath.

When she regained a bit of it, she managed to croak out the denial, “I was not
truly
vexed.”

Whether she was or was not was not truly in contention. What was affirmed was his desire for her and hers for him. This avowal was buttressed by a continuation of their kisses which had but one end and he embarked upon that culmination forthwith—with explicit delineation.

The release of his long-imprisoned engorgement was a palpable relief, but he managed to contain his urgency long enough to insinuate himself beneath her skirts. Thereupon, she wrapped her arms about his head, burying his face in the ampleness of her bosom. That deed replicated such a deeply seated longing that it was all but he thought he might actually bay with desire. Gathering every fibre of self-restraint, he did not, but with a fierce handhold of her hair, he drove into her again and again until at last blessed relief flooded from him.

He only belatedly became sensible of her cries. In fortune they were born of passion, not pain. When it had once been his constant study to see that she was pleasured before he found his own, he then had not. As much as he would have liked to censure himself for such impetuosity, that did not occur. Some things, he knew, were quite beyond reason. Although he suspected success, had she not found gratification, he knew there would be many days and many nights to make amends.

In the quiet that followed, he once again began to kiss her. This time it was no less deeply and only marginally less lustful, but his eyes began to close.

“You,” he said softly, “are God's most beautiful creation.”

That he made such a shameless aggrandisement did not decrease her enjoyment of it in the least. She nestled happily against him and he kissed her forehead. In less than a minute, she heard the faint purl of a snore. As she lay and listened to his contentment, she did not question his sincerity. She had further questions to ask, but was not so unwise as to put them forth anytime soon. She would see to it that the occasion would arise when she would proffer them without employing unfair arts. When she did, she would not be disadvantaged by invidious emotions. She did not want to despoil such propitious calm as they enjoyed just then, for much distress had been mollified.

Her only remaining apprehension had not yet been addressed. Carefully, she drew her skirt down over her legs and tugged at her drooping stockings. She did this for two instinctive reasons. Firstly, she was still disinclined to bare all to the husband who thought her “God's most beautiful creation,” and she was quite certain she heard the unmistakable wail of a hungry infant.

Wickham, Alive and on Queer Street Once Again

For all his many failings, Major George Wickham was the owner of many an estimable quality. Foremost among his attributes (one of which he took full advantage) was an expression of goodness about his countenance that suggested an open and gentle manner. Too, he was of exceptionally fine figure, even when he could no longer claim the beauty of youth. Once he had attained his regimentals, few men could say they commanded a handsomer aspect. Hence, all who had occasion to be in his company were charmed beyond measure. No opinion of him, however, surpassed his own estimation of himself. Therein lay the disadvantage of his character—his failings were profound, his fine qualities, shallow.

“I have a warm, unguarded temper,” Major George Wickham was happy to admit (with a simper included in the bargain).

And to excuse his all-too-regular forays into night-life he offered, “Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man and my spirits will not bear solitude. I must have employment and society.”

He also loved schemes and designs of all shades (as the trail of gaming debts he left behind him could attest). But Wickham had no master plan for his life's path beyond becoming rich. As his birth was less than illustrious, he believed the most direct route to these riches would be through marrying well. When obstruction was thrown in his path, he somehow managed to circumvent compleat disaster by either absconding or lying low. Indeed, he prided himself on landing on his feet with all the stealth of an alley-way cat. Hence, as his prospects dimmed in England, he cast his gaze to beyond the Channel. Initially, Wickham's long-cherished hope of making his fortune through marriage abroad was dashed by Darcy's intervention in his illicit liaison with Lydia. But he had not tossed the notion aside compleatly. Nestled within the most designing recesses of his duplicitous mind remained the merest glimmer of hope. He held on to it with the same unflagging optimism that had always kept despair at bay. He clung to that hope with all the tenacity of one who has compleat confidence in his own resolve—however unlikely the ambition.

The oft-told history of sad events that comprised George Wickham's particular version of his life was forlorn indeed. When necessary, he could consolidate it into a few sentences, omitting nary an ill-use: born into the apotheosis of wealth, taken as an infant to live within the hallowed halls of Pemberley, promised a living, cast out, coerced into marriage, dragooned into battle…

To his mind, it was quite true that he had been dragooned into battle as surely as had he been knocked senseless and dragged there by a press gang. His advancement with the military had been sabotaged by Lydia's irredeemable deficiencies as his wife. Had she not been such a screaming shrew, he fancied himself in line for assignment in the Life Guards Green. There, his sole purpose would have been to stand ready to defend the Prince Regent from all would-be assassins cavorting in the West End during his majesty's gambolling forays. Or, if Foreign Service was absolutely demanded, at the very worst he could have obtained an assignment as an attaché. But the Life Guards Green or attaché demanded an exemplary public presence—not a puling harridan of a wife who was happy for any excuse to cause public scandal. Hence, instead of displaying valorous conduct from the safety of the general's tent, he had been forced to lead a poorly trained contingent of gangly grenadiers into hand-to-hand combat with Napoleon's fiercest battalion. Bugger.

Had he not had the supreme presence of mind under dire urgency of battle to garner a steed and make safe, he would have been a worm-riddled corpse in an unmarked grave in that godforsaken country still…

Although he would have denied it to the death, an argument could be made that every misfortune he had ever encountered (and their number was legion) was by his own hands.

***

Greeting the harsh new morn with a headache had become regular as rain for George Wickham. So regular was it that his much-renewed vow of sobriety would be restated before he lifted his head from his lump of a pillow. That resolution was showing more wear than his unmentionables, but as he had no better likelihood of mending his small-clothes than his ways, he chose not to ponder either. Nor was he comforted when he finally reckoned his whereabouts through the squinted caution of half-opened eyelids. Guardedly, he sat up and looked about.

Dissipation had taken hold like Cerberus, and his lair was not pretty.

He could remember a time when he had slept between silken sheets beneath a canopy of damask in the family wing of the grand and glorious Pemberley Manor. Of course, his was not quite as exalted as the bedchambers inhabited by the Darcys themselves, but yet quite sumptuous in its own right. He longed for that bed. He longed for his position as favoured ward of old Mr. Darcy. He would have been there yet had not old Mr. Darcy gone and died, leaving his prospects in the comfortless hands of his dour and unsociable son.

To Wickham, all of his misfortunes fell to this childhood friend's abuse. Clearly, Darcy had been, and was yet, jealous of his father's affection for Wickham. Had he not been cast out without a sixpence? Denied the living he should have had?…

Wickham retreated from these thoughts. They were unprofitable. If they proceeded, their natural course might bring to mind recollections of a dishonourable nature. He chose not to recall that his own dissolute inclinations resulted in being sent down from Cambridge—those inclinations plagued him still.

It was one scandalous seduction among many that had fully warranted not only censure, but very nearly bloodshed. That little peccadillo with Georgiana Darcy did teach one unalterable truth: never, never trifle with a rich man's sister. Or at least never get caught at it. He should have recollected that simple wisdom when he inadvisably attempted to trifle with Darcy's wife as well. Ah, but that was another story altogether…

Those early misdeeds, of course, were of a lusty youth. Those of his adulthood fell quite beyond the pale. Murder and desertion were hanging offences. Then they would have to be of public record, would they not? He had covered his trail well; his scheme for re-entry into some semblance of his former life, impeccable. No one would ever be the wiser. Would they?

No, it was best not to ponder the past. The future was grim enough.

The bed on which he laid was nothing more than a cot, one that sagged abysmally even when not occupied (and all but gave way compleatly when it was). The odour emanating from beneath it suggested that the emptying of the chamberpot was long overdue. A housemaid to see to such things, however, did not come with such accommodations. The only bright spot on a very dark horizon was that if he awakened spitting feathers, he was happy to be spitting them in London. Belgium may have been a bust, but Paris had been a debacle. He wanted not to think of it.

Hence, he looked down and between his feet for the offending pot, but had to get down on one knee to retrieve it. Gingerly, he withdrew it, then walked the brief length of the room and swung open the sash. As its contents trickled down the bricks and splattered on the cobbles below, he exhaled an immense sigh of relief at achieving this mean little victory over the foetid air inside. A passer-by had to sidestep the mess, exhibiting the unmistakable signs of unhappiness with a raised fist and proffered several aspersions upon the circumstances of Wickham's birth—expletives Wickham happily cut off mid-squawk by slamming closed the shutter. With that singular triumph, Wickham retreated back to his cot and sank heavily into its depths. He attempted to nestle into a more comfortable position, and when situated, rested the back of his hand across his aching eyes. That his pose mimicked the feminine histrionics of more than one novella was lost on him, for his attention was far too compromised by wading through an ever-increasing muck of self-pity.

George Wickham once again on Queer Street would be of no particular astonishment to his friends, had he any friends left to surprise, but into this habitat of debauchery and intemperance wafted a most unlikely sound.

From the corner came the soft whimper of a baby, one that threatened to spiral into a wail. More unlikely than the existence of a little one in his exceedingly humble excuse for lodgings was that, upon hearing the cries, George Wickham immediately staggered to his feet and took himself directly to the child's bedside. Once there, he did not scowl or scold. With unfathomable tenderness, he lifted the child from beneath the bed-clothes and began a reassuring little shuffle, clucking and cooing like a mother bird.

What Ails Miss de Bourgh

It was not three days after the cursed post from Pemberley arrived that Dr. Brumfitt made his way to Rosings to perform his weekly survey of the health of the ladies therein. As his curricle bumped and swayed along the lane, its forward passage irritated the dry scab of un-metalled road into a blinding storm of dust which engulfed him and his humble equipage as it came to a stop at the lodge gate. He coughed and waved his hand impatiently in impotent hope that the dust would settle back on the road and not upon his freshly brushed suit. Lady Catherine disliked seeing her minions mussed and he knew a man of his position had not the authority to stand in the brushing room. He raised his hat, re-patted his hair, then made a small attempt to sweep his besmudged topcoat with his fingertips. He wanted not to incite Lady Catherine's wrath unduly. Word had it her temper was even more frayed than usual.

Dr. Brumfitt was a florid-faced, potbellied man with more nasal hair than side-whiskers. However, his step was slightly more brisk than the average fat man through the aggrandisement of being the sole surgeon in the village of Hunsford and surrounding countryside. There was a doctor about to tend to ills of the common folk. As surgeon, however, his principal patients were Lady Catherine and her daughter, Lady Anne. In Lady Catherine there was little to see to beyond passing her the latest remedy for her rheumatic hip and listening to her endless complaints. Beyond his eternal mortification at her ladyship's continual inability to insert an essential consonant when she spoke his name, it was an exceedingly advantageous situation. Indeed, having a patient whose unflagging ill-health was only equalled by her mother's ability to fund his services gave him just cause to see to it that her daughter remained alive. Unfortunately, he had little encouragement when it came to Lady Anne's fettle. He was summoned to Rosings with regularity to issue that opinion, one that was little more dismaying to Lady Catherine than it was to his future purse. Hence, his gravity upon those occasions was not an affectation.

Once his audience was approved, Dr. Brumfitt lost little time in scurrying to the small parlour where his inspections were usually undertaken. Surprisingly, Lady Catherine and Lady Anne had preceded him. Both sat in the relative regality of high-backed wing chairs. Lady Catherine still wore her morning-dress. Lady Anne nursed a silent cough.

Whilst yet in nodding genuflection to them both, Dr. Brumfitt attempted to polish the tops of his boots on the backs of his leggings. This manoeuvre only partially cleaned his boots and when he made a quick check, he noted a menacing smudge on the back of his calves. Therefore, he edged uneasily around her ladyship and navigated his considerable bulk into an armless chair, which he then drew as near as he dared to Lady Anne's knees.

There, all thoughts of sartorial disgrace were forgotten. He once again took measure of her sickly pallor and was truly (very truly) distressed. The surgeon pressed his ear to her wheezing chest, and clucked and shook his head as he had each time he called. This day he clucked a little more vehemently. Whilst he did, Lady Anne sat with impassive reserve at his implied prediction of doom. Quite inured was she to being the object of pity.

“Pray, what say you, Mr. Bumfitt?” Lady Catherine said.

Having long past given up reminding her of his correct name, he, with all due commiseration, solemnly pronounced, “I fear every winter steals a little more of her breath, your ladyship.”

It was indeed a dismal prognosis. Lady Catherine either grimaced or gave a thin smile (it was difficult to determine which one) at his words. By considerable linguistic pussyfooting, Dr. Brumfitt had already ascertained that Lady Anne's menses troubled her only four times a year. The withered little twist to Lady Catherine's lips lingered just a bit as she gazed upon her daughter's frail figure and pondered those unhappy certitudes. If Dr. Brumfitt's foretelling was true, she knew that the fertility of Lady Anne's unreliable womb would ebb with her lungs.

Unused to abiding disappointment on any front, her motherly concern battled utter disgust quite unsuccessfully. It was essential that feminine frailty not impede her designs. Her daughter may not have yet learnt what her mother knew well: consequence had its debt to generation.

Although initially Lady Catherine had been vexed to distraction when she learnt of Mrs. Darcy's successful confinement, the post from Pemberley was the impetus she needed to take decisive action. Still, she cautioned herself that one must use one's resources efficiently. She had assayed them carefully and pondered the unkind fact that her daughter might not last many more seasons. This one was all but over. She concluded that a suitor must be found with all due haste. But where? With keen deliberation, she drew up her hand and stroked her chin. Whilst deep in contemplation, her forefinger and thumb located a few stray hairs that abided at the corner of her mouth and twirled them into a single queue. As her thought deepened, her eyes narrowed ominously, imbuing in Brumfitt no small alarm.

Now faced with imminent loss of his cash cow through sheer attrition, he posed a suggestion, “Perhaps Bath, your ladyship. The healing waters may be the answer.”

“Bath, Mr. Bumfitt?” She ceased her twirling, stroking, and squinting, and announced, “The healing waters will be ideal. We shall depart for Bath directly.”

She announced this with such resolve, it left no possibility that such a notion originated with anyone other than herself. (She was, by all reports—even some not her own—a most clever and sensible woman.) Although she agreed most heartily with the suggestion of taking Lady Anne to Bath, it was not for the waters. It was for the society. London was the epicentre of the
beau mode
and the shrine of the socially ambitious, but its season was all but over. In Bath the season knew no end. With the answer to just where to commence her behindhand search for a match for her daughter suddenly before her, she would waste little time to set her scheme into action. Her dour mien brightened ever so slightly as to be barely visible to any eye upon her.

However, she was
quite
pleased. Lady Catherine now had a plan in place that would satisfy both avarice and revenge in one fell swoop. Perchance an alliance may have been no longer tenable between her nephew and daughter, but another generation was at hand. Tainted though it might be by Miss Bennet's inferior family connections, it still bore the Darcy name! It would do quite well enough!

The corners of her mouth creased again, this time into a mean little smile. She knew the springs of Bath drew the titled and the rich (and those with titles looking for those with riches) like flies to honey. It would be little effort to arrange a betrothal most advantageous to all parties. A pregnancy initiated and a baby born. Time was of the essence. A wrong to be righted at last! The de Bourgh and the Darcy fortunes united!

“Yes,” Lady Anne's mother announced with finality. “Bath.”

***

To those not of her acquaintance, Lady Catherine's facial expressions were an enigma. As she was a woman not known for her good humour, the one she bore then left the surgeon feeling unsettled. He was not usually offered tea, nor did he expect it this day. He hastened back to his curricle with such rapidity that he did not catch his breath until he was well up the road. Had anyone been watching they would not have seen him turn and look back, for soon a cloud of dust once again engulfed his figure.