Darcy & Elizabeth (30 page)

To Bathe or Not to Bathe

“Pray, do you think this is a wicked indulgence, husband?” Elizabeth asked, a one-sided curl of a smile suggesting the question not truly ecclesiastical in origin.

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy sat luxuriating in a huge copper tub, their heads resting on opposing ends, their limbs overlapping mid-most. Elizabeth's hair was pinned upon the top of her head, but the steamy air had influenced a few strands to cling to her face and neck. Mr. Darcy's head was partially submerged, allowing his hair to float about his head like wings. He had one ankle hooked over the edge of the tub, but beneath the remnants of the ever-dissipating soapsuds his other foot was intent on making mischief where his wife sat.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked with studied innocence.

With a little yip, she shook her head as if he had, for all intents and purposes, answered in the affirmative. She took hold of his big toe and, with some effort, pulled it above the water line. The saturated wrinkles thereon made it look more akin to a stewed prune than a human digit. It announced that their sojourn in the tub had been a lengthy one. She raised an eyebrow.

“Is it not dissolute to languish as we do?” she asked. “I certainly
feel
wicked.”

Mr. Darcy had gone to a great deal of bother to find a Slav coppersmith lately of Prague to fashion the enormous vessel in which they luxuriated just then. It did not improve his temper to have the morality of the entire venture questioned after he had invested half a year and seventy-five guineas to obtain it.

He sat up quite abruptly and gave a quick toss of the head, thereby flicking back his dripping forelock. An expression overspread his face that suggested he thought himself chided. Elizabeth recognised the expression. It was one increasingly familiar—but not from her husband. She witnessed it upon the countenance of her husband's son. That occurrence usually happening when something he should not have was taken from his determined little fist. Any moment she expected her husband's lower lip to protrude as well. She wanted to laugh, but managed to avoid that blunder. Under no circumstances would Mr. Darcy enjoy himself being an object of mirth.

“Surely no one bathes as often as do we,” Elizabeth announced (the word “together” was implied but unspoken).

“Pray, do you believe that an activity is inherently wicked because it is not commonplace?”

As he often did, he took her idle musing as a grave deliberation.

Said she, a little too testily, “I do not. I only suggest we overindulge…” (here her own toes embarked on mischief of their own) “…the blessing of cleanliness.”

“Pray, do you recall,” he said, catching her foot, “the first time you occasioned my bath?”

She was not given time to reply, for he clasped her ankle and gave it a tug. This time, she was alert to such business and, with a quick feint of her foot, wrested it from his grasp. She then drew her knees beneath her and threw herself atop him, sending a large amount of water sloshing over the side.

“Mmmm,” she recollected, pressing her body to his. “Indeed, I do recall it. The mortification
and
the reward.”

The incident that he alluded to was well within her memory, for it had occurred quite early in their marriage. On that propitious occasion, although her egress into his bath had been unpremeditated, she had been treated to favours of unrivalled eroticism by her husband (whilst in, out, and around the tub) that remained quite singular in her recollection. Therefore, when upon those occasions he brought it to mind it never ceased to inflame her cheek—and her libido. If her husband knew that and used it as a ploy of arousal, she could have saved him the bother. With nothing between her breasts and his chest but the slight surge of the warm bath water, she was quite aroused without such reminders.

Indeed, that long-past evening had prompted a proclivity between them of enjoying water-borne delights. So predominant was this leaning that Mr. Darcy had not only engaged a coppersmith for an oversized tub, he brought about the renovation of one of the smaller of Pemberley's many rooms in which to place it. In those hours he remained steadfastly within the walls of Pemberley at Elizabeth's request, his mind needed employment. He had drawn and redrawn plans, engaging the finest artisans to carry them out. The flooring was of a particularly high quality white marble, bearing fine blue veins throughout, and the walls were lined with blue and white Dutch tiles. He managed to keep the project a surprise from her until the waggon carrying the tub arrived.

As would be expected, the delivery of an apparatus of such magnitude drew an audience of servitors who snuck away from their duties just to witness it. It was contained in a wooden crate, one not dismantled until it was brought inside. It had been by his own design that Darcy had not personally overseen the unloading of the tub, but watched from a window above. It had fallen apparent very quickly that removing himself from the process did little to reduce the level of curiosity surrounding it. Indeed, that it was camouflaged in a box seemed to pique interest rather than the reverse.

“Smeads,” Darcy called. “See to it that those not directly involved return to their own duties.”

As Smeads had been a fixture in his family for as long as he could remember, Darcy paid little attention to him so long as the house ran smoothly. He suspected, however, that Elizabeth did not care for him. She had not said as much. Indeed, he had asked her obliquely if she was pleased with Smeads's elevated position, but she had demurred—possibly not wanting to cause her husband additional upset. Her reservation, even unspoken, had bid Darcy to eye Smeads more keenly than he would have otherwise.

At Mr. Darcy's order, Smeads bowed smartly and began dispersing unnecessary staff. Such a brisk response should have made Darcy happy, but it did not, although he was uncertain why. A little ruffled by the suspicion that Elizabeth's every reservation had such an effect upon his own opinions, he dismissed the notion, happy to have his mind occupied with the work before him.

And it was very much a work in progress. He fully intended to have the room equipped with towers for hot and cold water, but for now they could only wait for the tedious business of filling the tub with buckets. Once the bearers of the buckets retreated and they had immersed themselves within, they agreed that it was worth the wait.

As if by foreordainment, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy prepared to enjoy every facet of their tub.

Wordlessly, Mrs. Darcy rose slightly from her husband allowing them both to sit. (Much like a conductor had rapped upon his podium for the orchestra's attention and raised his baton.) For a moment they did so, only gazing into each other's eyes. Simultaneously, she manoeuvred her ankles around and behind him and he grasped her rump, drawing her near. So near were they, she placed her hands upon either side of his face, expecting to exchange loving gazes. His gaze
was
loving, but it had been arrested by a dual sight other than her eyes.

“You, sir, are not looking at me,” she accused.

“I do so dislike contradicting you, but
au contraire
,” he whispered, his gaze not altering.

His hands, however, did make an adjustment. They had been caressing her hips, but then slid to either side of her torso, just above the waist. Pensively, he stroked her there with his thumbs.

She did not truly want to interrupt his sensual contemplation, but she could not keep from clamping her elbows against her sides. Even worse, she could not stifle a laugh.

“Lizzy...” he took almost a lecturing tone and, in his impatience, dropped his hands from her.

“I dare say, sir, this is hardly my fault. You know well I am quite ticklish.”

She attempted to compose herself, but when he once again attempted to caress her sides, she fell to more laughter. He looked upon her disapprovingly and again dropped his hands, this time in disgust.

“Please,” said she. “Please. I promise I shall keep my countenance.”

“No,” he replied. “The mood is lost. I may as well take my leave.”

He made as if he meant to stand, placing his hands on the side of the tub.

“I beg you, no,” she cajoled. “I will be solemn as the vicar on Sunday.”

With this promise, he made a melodramatic show of relenting and resettling himself. This time, however, he did not risk stroking her sides and decided to wreak mischief beneath the water line. The disturbance he rendered her was of the sort to cause her to shriek. Thereupon, it was her turn to chastise.

“Do not,” she cautioned, “
Do not
!”

“Be still, Lizzy,” he warned. “Goodwin might hear you.”

Endeavouring to catch hold of the hand that was the greatest danger to modesty, she did let out a small squeal. She immediately clamped both her hands over her mouth—thereby leaving herself open for more larking about beneath the suds. Upon doing so, he located other areas that were as susceptible to tickling as her sides.

“No,” she shrieked. “
No
!”

Lest they be taken for needing rescuing like that day of yore, she saw it was necessary to squelch this mischief by redirection. She enfolded his head in her arms, burying his face in the crevice between her breasts. Immediately his hands quit their employment and found another, more rewarding occupation by cupping her breasts. He held them there a moment, almost reverentially and allowed his lips to press against them. Whether from his touch or her exposure to the cool air, her nipples cockled. She was so taken by the tenderness of his enterprise, that she enfolded his head in her arms and ploughed finger-furrows through his hair. So lengthy was his idolatrous attention, her head rolled to the side, revelling in its grandness.

But as such applications rarely are sustained, these were followed by further, greater rewards—at her instigation.

Feeling his arousal, she begat a gentle, but insistent undulation—one undeniably successful in encouraging a specific response.

“At your command, madam,” he said still whispering.

His response was precisely what she desired. But to have her will be done, he lifted her upwards out of the water and, with a gingerly bit of positioning upon his part and small wriggle upon hers, success was met. (As he
was
much favoured by nature, she smiled inwardly at just how very far out of the water she was drawn in order to be engaged thusly.) Thereupon, true undulation began, and she was of a mind to wrap her arms around his neck and draw herself nearer. He, however, was of quite another mind and held her by her shoulders before him. With each surge and withdrawal, he watched her so intently she could but return his gaze in equal measure. Their breath was becoming more ragged, but he reached out and placed his palm against her cheek.

“Lizzy, Lizzy,” said he, “when I thought you could never become more beautiful, still you gain countenance.”

There was nothing particular she wanted to say just then (if, in fact, she had the capacity to speak), but she turned her head towards his hand and took his thumb into her mouth as she reached achievement. The engagement that ensued to Mr. Darcy's ends was not a bit evil, but definitely rambunctious—Mr. Darcy ultimately of the opinion his money had been well spent.

After a spell of quiet, Darcy pulled himself dripping from the tub and walked the length of the marble floor to where his dressing gown lay. Elizabeth rested her chin upon her folded arms upon the edge of the tub, enjoying the pleasing vantage of her husband's naked form.

To his broad back, she said, “You take to the water so happily, should we not sample sea bathing?”

This was spoken entirely in jest. Now luxuriating in post-coital recumbence, she was as happy to bedevil him as he was to be teased. Still, she treaded lightly, his small regard for this newly fashionable activity and its attendant accoutrements of dress were not unknown to her.

“Harrumph,” said he. “I should not like to think of myself wearing a bathing costume. I should not like to think of my wife wearing one either.”

“Nor do I,” she agreed, “I quite like what I see at present.”

At that he turned and gave her a cheeky smile, one quite unlike him. She thought that perhaps she had disturbed his composure. She hoped that she had—it was only fair in that he had done the same to her with such regularity. She also knew that it was unlikely that either would have themselves winched out into the sea in a waggon wearing little more than their small clothes, but she had her reasons for betaking themselves to the seaside. Little Janie had a suspicious cough and the sea air
was
the surest restorative. The larger question would be whither they would go?

Brighton was the most famous seaside resort and Ramsgate the most fashionable of the Kentish seaside bathing places. But Ramsgate inspired memories Darcy had long been in want of forgetting. Only those who dared ignore rank were those at its pinnacle. The Darcys were at its pinnacle. And for them, they would not season this year in London. Brighton, Elizabeth had heard, had a lovely pier upon which to stroll—perfect for a carriage. Brighton, she decided, it would be.

A Blow to the Unused Heart

A courtesan is vastly inconvenienced when falling with child. Such a bother suppressed not only Césarine's merriment, but her income. Her confinement was even more ill-timed. Her capital was depleting with no small rapidity owing primarily to her inability to engage in any part of pecuniary restraint.

At one time the throes of a “delicate condition” might only have caused her an inconvenience. She might have announced a retreat to the country to take a cure, or possibly embarked on a Mediterranean excursion. But she could no more. It was not her health, but her wealth that impeded such ploys. She lived as if each day were her last, sending Marie-Therese upon regular trips to the pawnshop bartering with jewels of ever-decreasing value. The one piece she refused to part with was her ruby necklace, saying that she would be buried in it rather give it up. (Increasingly that became a possibility.) There were other worriments beyond her lavish lifestyle. Indeed, her funds were further taxed by bills from various doctors and apothecaries, the stack of which was accumulating in reverse proportion to her
bijouterie
. She should have known better than to make her predicament public, but Césarine had never been known for her discretion. Although it had not been important upon her ascension to the apex of the demimonde, once there, impending poverty created a stench of failure. There were few men of her acquaintance who wanted to be associated with a decline. Hence, her influential lovers scattered like rats abandoning a sinking ship. For all purposes, Césarine was indeed sinking.

Bearing a child overtaxed her already compromised constitution. She was soon assigned to her bed—the very same bed in which she had transported rapturous lovers to forbidden ecstasies—and no one, save Wickham and the ubiquitous Marie-Therese, was there to watch over her. Viscount du Mautort was still devoted to Césarine, but could come but seldom. For having been alerted to her son's irresponsible love life, his mother, Countess du Mautort, had hied to Paris intent on interfering with her son's allowance, and thereby his friendships as well. Du Mautort's woes, however, were of little concern to those who attended Césarine's bed.

It would have been to their utter amazement had Wickham's acquaintances seen him then—lovestruck and morose, pining over a woman. Through marriage, intrigues, and liaisons, he had never once fallen in love. It was not that he was without those inclinations that drove men to move mountains and slay dragons, for he believed if the stars were aligned to perfection, he might one day fall under a woman's sway. But he struggled against that possibility all his life, for his heart was very dear to him (being tolerably near his stomach) and once it was lost to another he feared it might never be retrieved. It was much more agreeable to be the betrayer rather than the betrayed—and if he did not put his own heart at risk it would never be lost. He had believed it was entirely an issue of mind over matter. His heart was under strict regulation: if he chose not to fall in love, he would not. He had other fish to fry.

He was drawn to Césarine for many reasons—not the least of which were the charms of her bed. There was, however, a greater force at work. Wickham admired beauty, the pretence (rather than the actuality) of breeding, a coquettish manner, and a gaming spirit above all other qualities. That these were most prominent in his own character was a possibility that he had pondered. Indeed, such was his ego that no love, no matter how exceptional, could have rivalled that which he held for himself. That is, until he found himself under Césarine's spell. For, although it was unapparent to him, in all ways save her aspect, Césarine was his mirror image. He had reached the pinnacle of narcissism—he had fallen in love with himself. Not that he realised it. Through childhood, youth, and manhood, introspection had never once plagued his thoughts.

He truly believed that with her
savoir faire
, his ingenuity, and their combined beauty, nothing was beyond their grasp. They would parlay their talents at the gaming table into a tolerable stake, whereby they would travel to the four corners of the earth until at last they tired. Thereupon they would purchase a grand château—grander than Pemberley—and live out their lives in untold splendour. He smiled as he thought of it.

Had he attended to his catechism with more dedication than his seductions, he might have remembered the admonitory proverb that said there was more hope of a fool than a man wise in his own conceit. As he did not, when at last he was careless with his devotion, the fall was extraordinary—but not compleat.

He loved Césarine more than anything in life with the exception, ultimately, of himself.

***

Not once had Wickham sat in a sick room. Not for his mother, his father, his wife, and certainly not for his children. (He did slouch about a bit outside old Mr. Darcy's death watch daubing a suspiciously dry pocket-square to the corner of his eye—but if one were perfectly frank, those tender feelings that had been awakened in him were far more on behalf of that man's bequests than undying affection for him.) Indeed, the single sick room he had reason to inhabit was one he fashioned for himself after contracting a nasty case of gout—one that had kept him off the dance floor for most of the season in the year '12—thereby convincing himself he knew something of suffering. Hence, bearing the particular burden of that horrific disorder, he believed himself quite commiserative to others who had fallen ill (although, Lord knows, nursing the ill
was
the work of women).

When it came to obliging expectations, Wickham was a rapid study. As Césarine's condition grew worse, he grew morose with unusual synchronicity. He clutched her hand and issued every sympathy, commiserated every pain. The more weakened she became, the more his love flowered. By the time her labour commenced, he had somehow transfigured into his own cranky version of the most lovelorn lamenter that ever pressed tear-stained cheeks against a suffering brow. Given compleat understanding of Wickham's narcissistic nature, one might have been led to wonder if his utter devastation was less for her suffering than his loss. (If Césarine was of that opinion too, one can only conjecture.) As it was, he was the only lover still faithful to her side; hence, Césarine avowed his love was returned in equal measure.

Wickham most fervently desired to believe that true, however in the deepest reaches of his heart he was not altogether persuaded. He was tempted to call for a prayer book and demand a blood oath, but in some situations even he knew that questioning veracity is indecorous, so he did not. He renewed his professions of undying love and translated that love into pages of melancholy script describing the depth of his devotion (often in iambic pentameter and purple ink). He read them aloud to her with such heartfelt, singsong reverence that when Marie-Therese inquired of the doctor if he knew of some potion for sedation, Césarine was not whom she had in mind.

Showing remarkable pluck, Césarine Thierry, unmarried woman, delivered a living, breathing, and thoroughly bastard daughter before she succumbed to the collision of childbirth, fever, and consumption.

Inconsolable, Wickham lay prostrate across her body, begging God to take him too. Marie-Therese clasped him by the shoulders and urged him away.

“There, there, my little kumquat,” she cooed. “There are things that must be attended to.”

Wickham only moaned and clutched Césarine's body ever more tightly, thereby compelling Marie-Therese to call for Cook. (Cook was the last remaining servant, and although not particularly devoted to Césarine, she was a sensible enough woman to know that if she took her leave there would be even less chance of obtaining her back wages.) Cook was not happy to have to manhandle a grief-stricken mourner, but once accepting a duty, she did not shirk it. Cook, whose meaty forearms were not less slight than a smithy's, took hold of Wickham and rendered him to his feet—but regrettably not to his senses. She caught him under the armpits and hauled him out the door, whereupon she sat him (still weeping) into a side-chair. But so flaccid with grief was he, he slid immediately to the floor.

As a woman not overburdened with patience, Marie-Therese could suffer Wickham no longer. It was not that she was not bereaved, for she was—in her own way. She was only mercenary, not heartless. Sentiment was one luxury she could not afford. Time was of the essence. Money-lenders were even then gathering to pounce on Césarine's belongings not yet at the pawn shop. They were intent on dividing what spoils remained against her promissory notes. Not only were tradesmen owed, but invoices from doctors had been stacked in a neat little pile on the dressing table. Creditors would be swarming through her drawers forthwith. Marie-Therese was uncertain, but believed the last of the most precious jewellery had been stowed in the cotton batting of the mattress where Césarine's corpse lay. But she made no move to help Cook to lay out the body. The beefy woman gave a great heaving sigh at the obligation of further distasteful work—work quite outside her culinary domain. But as help was unforthcoming, she went to work—supposing, heaven knows, she had the wherewithal and experience to put together even this tart.

The deceased Césarine's jaw drooped in the distressingly familiar yowl of death and Cook twirled a pocket-square she had wrested from Wickham into a sling to bind it up. Marie-Therese oversaw her activity from the corner of her eye as she methodically scavenged the room. Nothing was left to chance. All the while she worked, Wickham continued to weep from his heap on the floor. A great hiccupping keen had commenced, but he quieted himself as he pulled up and onto the seat of a prayer-desk. He looked briefly at the object upon which he sat (as ornate as it was little used) and then began to weep once more.

Wretched was he. Wretched, disconsolate, and confused. Confusion did not lift when the bell tolled a caller. As if an automaton, he drew himself to his feet and, whimpering all the way, walked to the door and threw it open.

“
Quoi
?” he rudely asked.

Before him stood a solemn, portentous, and not a little censorious, trio of nuns. The older one was forefront, the other two at her elbows. Instantly, Wickham regained a diplomatic demeanour. He bowed, and as they gained the room, he made a quick look about the corridor. His inspection was two-fold. Firstly, he wanted to determine if there was an accompanying priest, and secondly, if there were any lurking creditors. When he observed no one, he cautiously closed the door and turned to the threesome who stood looking at him balefully. Recollecting his recent disconcertion at the prayer desk, he instinctively drew back and called to Marie-Therese to sort it out. He wanted nothing to do with those of religious persuasion at this juncture—suddenly quite aware that Césarine's soul had been grievously ignored.

With an acute lack of forbearance, Marie-Therese appeared and, with a wave of her hand in the direction of the far corner, indicated the temporary repository of Césarine's child. Cook, more sensible of all that had transpired than anyone else in attendance, had judiciously placed the newborn in a makeshift bed in the bottom drawer of a highboy. The baby had lain perfectly quiet for so long, it hadn't occurred to Wickham that she was still alive. Whilst Marie-Therese hurried back into Césarine's bedchamber and began to rummage over, under, and beneath the bed, Wickham heard her grouse. She complained quite bitterly and relentlessly that men, and particularly
perfide Albion
, were the most impotent, incompetent, unlettered, improvident fleas on the back of a dog that ever the world had seen.

Marie-Therese's French was far too quick for Wickham to make out what she said beyond the aspersion of his nationality, but he still became incensed. It was all moving too quickly. It was as if the pretty little fable which represented his mind's-eye version of his life was being ruthlessly dismantled. Soon there would be nothing left of either Césarine or their love.

He could not quite grasp the sense of it.

And then, he did.

The nuns had been summoned to take the babe to the convent and Marie-Therese was pillaging any of Césarine's chattels that she could stash in a portmanteau. Her possessions stolen and the child,
their
child taken! This was an outrage. He would not have it!

***

It came to pass that Marie-Therese did well scavenging all of Césarine's earthly possessions (or at least those she uncovered). Of her success, Wickham was unaware. The one thing Wickham knew was that Césarine did not go to her great reward adorned with anything about her neck but a simple gold cross—a present from du Mautort. That gentleman also wrenched loose of his mother long enough to pass the hat to pay for poor Césarine's funeral expenses. Fortune had it that the mistress of a scion of the sugar beet industry had died the same day and services were held at the Church of the Madeleine with only an hour separating hers from Césarine's, in fortune, the flowers remained unwilted long enough to honour them both. However, du Mautort assumed they were Wickham's doing and fell to his knees weeping in gratitude when he saw them. He would have been happy to have stood that cost himself, but his pockets were all but played out from hiring a trio of troubadours to sling rose petals before their meagre little procession as it travelled to the burial site. Marie-Therese did not deign to grace the procession with her presence at all, but du Mautort walked with one hand placed reverently atop the coffin, his other over his heart.

No one stood in the position of bereaved husband. As profuse as had been his possessiveness of her time and despair over her death, it would have been expected that Wickham would have led the cortège. As it was, he did not. Marie-Therese went to great lengths to search him out, for she had something which she would take great pleasure in presenting him. But alas.

Indeed, once again Wickham had gone missing.

Wickham, much like all gamesters, knew that the height of cleverness is to be able to conceal it. While he did not hold the aces, he had one very valuable one in the hole. However, it was not the one he thought it was.