Darcy & Elizabeth (32 page)

“Come,” she said, turning, “We must learn the gender of the foal and I am not so happy to ask the favour of determining that of Mr. Hardin.”

“As you wish,” he said. “As you wish.”

The Pleasure of His Company

The antics of the gangly new foal entertained them for some time, but soon the lateness of the hour made Elizabeth yawn. Therefore, it did not take much coaxing from her husband to persuade her to return to their bed. She took his arm, and they strolled languorously back up the path to the house. It was her design that their languidness be celebrated through connubial congress, for though she was tired in body, her heart was quite inspirited. Regrettably, he only escorted her to the base of staircase. There, he kissed her hand.

Said he, “You will forgive me, for there are arrangements that must be made for the foal.”

She did not want to be sent up to bed without him, but she inadvertently yawned once again—which was not the message she meant to deliver.

“Cannot Mr. Hardin see to them?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“You shall not be long?” she said wistfully.

Her disappointment was apparent, hence he said reassuringly, “I will return directly.”

Elizabeth dutifully ascended the stairs. After a quick look in at the children, she situated herself upon the bed to await Darcy's return. As time went by and he did not reappear, “directly” began to feel more like an eternity to her. Still, she was determined to wait for him. Restlessly, she took up a book that she had meant to read. But once she realised that she was reading the same sentence again and again without comprehending a word of the text, she tossed it aside. When she did, her attention was arrested by the light shining in through the doors leading to the balcony. The moonlight had illuminated the stone of the balustrade as if it were day. It was an eerily lovely sight. She sat up, put out the candle next to the bed, and wrapped her arms about her knees. From the darkness of the room, the spectral show lured her from beneath the bed-clothes and out through the doors.

It was chilly and she scampered to the railing. Looking up to the glittering stars and waning moon that seemed to hang like a lantern from the heavens, she stood first upon one foot, then the other, endeavouring to keep her toes from freezing. It was far too cold to stay for more than a few minutes, but she took a longing look towards the stables, straining to see if there was any sign of her husband coming up the path. Regretfully, all was dark. But just looking in that direction and picturing her husband as she supposed he was just then—talking to Mr. Hardin of the foal and Boots—filled her heart with adoration.

Dreamily, she rested her arms across the rail and allowed herself to bethink his attire—for to her it had been quite noteworthy. Indeed, it was a rare occasion upon which she saw Darcy thusly—eschewing his waistcoat and neck-cloth and wearing only his shirt and breeches beneath his great-coat. He rarely left their apartments without being fully attired. Her mind had been too preoccupied, first with Boots and then with her husband's unexpected melancholy, to have given it much thought. It was only in the sparkling chill of the night that she allowed his figure the full attention it deserved. Unfortunately, she had to enjoy the sight only in her thoughts.

She recalled most particularly how a bit of chest hair had peeked above the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. His great-coat had been tossed on without his usual meticulousness and had remained unbuttoned, so she had an advantageous view of his breeches as well. He had mis-buttoned them. Odd how that came to her then; she had barely noticed it at the time. Neither had she paid proper due to his boots.

Yes, his boots.

They had been turned down at the knee. She had never quite conquered the libidinal interest she had taken over Darcy's boots—or rather, Darcy in his boots. It was fortuitous that her mare bore knee-high stockings on her feet, or it might have been surmised by everyone that the mare had not been named for her own markings. Rather, she had been named on behalf of the ridiculous fixation her mistress had over her master in his riding boots.

It was peculiar that she only just then thought of that singular lust. It brought back the fond memory of the night he presented Boots to her. He and Fitzwilliam had purchased her in another county and told her that her name was Dulcinea. That was a lovely name, but her husband stood next to the mare, his long legs next to hers, her white-stockinged feet next to his tall black boots—the name was as impetuous as it was inescapable. Elizabeth had repaid her husband that night for her wonderful birthday gift—several times, in fact. She remembered most particularly because when he had undressed that night, she had asked him to wear his boots when they made love.

Not surprisingly, he had looked at her most peculiarly. She could not recall the event without thinking of his confused expression when he had asked, “Only my boots?” as if he had not heard her correctly. After she had nodded emphatically, he had made no further query. He retired to his dressing-room and returned as she had asked. The sight of him—toned limbs and, of course, turgid member—had never quite left her thoughts.

Just then, she was startled back to the present by a sudden gust of wind that whirled through the pillars and came up beneath the tail of her night-dress. At the incursion of cold air against her legs, she gave a tiny squeal. She did not, however, retreat to the warmth of her bed. Since her husband's away to the continent the year before, she abhorred sleeping without him—even when he was within the sound of her voice.

“Lizzy.”

His voice had been quiet. It drifted to her as if upon the wind.

She turned.

He stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. He had not removed his great-coat.

“Come, dearest Lizzy,” he said softly. “You will catch your death.”

She had taken a step in his direction, her arms outstretched. She stopt. Her arms, however, did not fall to her sides, but remained extended, beckoning.

He took the expanse of the balcony in three long strides and took her in his arms with such ferocity that she gasped. He covered her mouth with his and kissed her hungrily. Briefly, she puzzled over how he managed to read her mind so remarkably.

With a sharp intake of breath, he drew his lips away, whispering, “When I saw you here…as you are…in this attitude…the wind…”

His voice trailed off, leaving her absolutely no idea what he meant—that he had seen her then as the embodiment of his earlier dream. Little did she care what inspired his kisses, for they had recommenced. She pressed herself against him, lost in his love. So lost was she that she hardly noticed when he put his hands beneath her armpits and abruptly lifted her upon the wide stone railing. (However, the cold stone against her nether-end was a bit of a jolt.) She certainly did not fear falling, for he held her firmly, but the chill of stone caused her to burrow beneath his coat, her arms and legs wrapping about his body. When he cupped his hands beneath her rump, she thought he only meant to cushion her against the surface of the rail. But he did not.

He lifted her up and against him and turned about, carrying her thusly through the doorway, then set her down upon the end of the bed nearest the fireplace. Warmth from the remains of the fire still emanated from the hearth, rendering the rumpled bed warm and inviting. Still, he did not hasten her beneath the bed-clothes. He stood before her with his arms to his sides. It was a tall bed, but he was taller still and she drew herself to her knees. They remained in that attitude for a moment. As they faced each other, all that could be heard was the rustling of the wind and their laboured breathing. He ridded himself of his coat and impatiently kicked it aside.

“Darcy,” she said, reaching out for him.

Embracing her, he bent down, nuzzling her hair with his lips. Then he cupped her chin in his palm to draw her gaze to his, saying, “You should be imprisoned.”

“What?” she asked dumbly.

“It should be unlawful for any woman to be so alluring,” said he, his words no more than a susurration.

When she gulped, it was unpardonably audible.

He kissed her lips once again and her arms fell weightlessly to her sides—her surrender was compleat.

With great deliberation, he reached out and released the ribbon at her neck. Her gown fell capriciously to one side. By his design, the moonlight cast its glistening spell across her ivory shoulder. With the same purposefulness, he kissed her there. Hitherto, his motions had been attentive, but circumspect—even as his kisses proceeded up the side of her neck. His restraint was not soothing to her, however. She sensed that beneath his composure, every sinew in his body lay coiled. Hence she should have been prepared when he took each side of the placket of her gown and ripped it from her body.

She gasped, but she did not shrink from him.

Just as it had done to her shoulder, the moonlight cast a shimmer across her exposed bosom. Although his breath had become ragged, he did not immediately touch her. When he did, he placed his hands lightly about her waist. Her skin trembled uncontrollably beneath his touch. She endeavoured mightily to keep still, but to no avail. In her defence, he did little to abet that quest. For his fingers did not linger upon her waist, but made their way up her sides. He took a devillishly long time getting there, but when he did, he cupped her breasts in his hands. Thereupon, he bent to kiss first one, then the other.

By the time he had compleated this adulatory demarche up her torso and was giving his full attention to her bosom, she had ceased quaking. Indeed, all thought of governing her own body ceased and she began to contemplate what acts she meant to perpetrate against him. It would have been a temptation to rend his shirt as he had her gown, but she knew she had not the strength. Still, she wanted him rid of it. She wanted him rid of it immediately and hastily began to tug it from his waistband. Gallantly, he forewent the pleasure of her lovely bosom to extricate himself from his shirt. Thus abetted, her lips were free to linger upon his chest, until, tossing his shirt aside, he grasped her hair and drew her head to the side and began to kiss her neck once more—this time quite hungrily.

She allowed that, but only because she was greatly occupied by foraging past the buttons of his breeches to reach the virile member within and free it. As his manhood was much in need of freeing, he returned the favour by gently seeking the recesses of her womanhood. She pressed her knee against his thigh, writhing with the pleasure he extended her. Her reluctance surpassed his when he released her. But his reason was a noble one—he meant to rid himself of his costume entirely.

As he began to hop about, tugging at the heel of one boot, she bade him otherwise.

“No,” said she. “No!”

He stopt.

And when he did, he looked upon her with an expression of confused perturbation. Providentially, she managed to modify her admonition, “Not your boots!” Insofar as his breeches were unbuttoned, he forewent the nicety of further disrobing. She fell back across the mattress drawing him down upon her—breeches, boots, and all.

As it happened, his urgency disallowed further foreplay. Not unexpectedly, he reached achievement far too quickly to satisfy her fully flowered cupidity. Still, she gave him a smile that implied greater satisfaction than she felt. But he lay with her only long enough for the perspiration to evaporate from the furrows of their bodies ere he sat up and resituated his accoutrements as if to leave. What was this? Perhaps she had erred in smiling. Had she left him to think her ready for sleep?

He did leave the bed, but only as far as the doors to the balcony, which he soundly closed. She turned upon her side, watching him closely as he did so. Without looking in her direction, he went to the fireplace and stirred the fire. It was whilst she watched him that she first caught the scent of roses. As the fire began to glow once again, her gaze was arrested by the sight of flowers lying across her pillow. She was astonished. Whether he had gone to the trouble to pluck them from the greenhouse or merely taken them from an arrangement on the mantle, she cared little. He had laid them across her pillow. She reached out and picked one up, holding the petals beneath her nose and taking an aromatic whiff.

Only then did he return to her. But rather than lying beside her, he sat upon the side of the bed and pulled off first one, then the other boot and set them in precise order next to the bed. He stood and withdrew his breeches and sat upon the side of the bed.

“I thank you,” she said, holding the rose aloft.

He gave a slight nod.

“Shall we sleep?” said she, tossing the flower aside.

It was clearly a facetious question, for he bore a certain accoutrement that suggested sleep was not an option. She knew he bore it, because it was difficult to ignore as he crept across the bed in her direction.

“Come to me, Lizzy.”

It was both an invitation and a promise.

How Low Is Bottom?

After declining Daisy Mulroney's offer, it took very little time for unrelenting want to take hold of the Arbuthnots. The only avenue remaining to their little family was the one that lay up Ayliffe St. That route led directly to the Whitechapel workhouse. To betake themselves upon that long walk through Goodman's Fields to such an austere edifice was a decision born of practicality. Nell was still of enough mind to have resolved never to employ such a desperate measure for herself alone—she could still manage quite well in those mean rookeries patching clothes and minding the dead, thank you.

“It's ye little ones, it is,” she insisted. “I canna care for us all.”

When hearing of this decision, Sally sneaked a peek at Nell. The direness of their predicament was undeniable. Nell told them that it was not difficult to find a spare cot for one, but not three, and that she could do without overmuch to eat, but she simply could no longer endure putting her granddaughters to bed only to hear their hungry whimpers. She was used up.

Moreover, Sally was even then old enough to be lured by the quick money particular to the immoral trades, Nell worried for her of that as well. Although the workhouse was an institution whose sole occupation was the housing of the ill, or vagrants and parish children brought thither by want, it had its advantages—even Sally recognised them. There they could look forward to bread and milk three times a day and, if luck shone upon them, suet dumplings and butcher's meat once a week. They would have a roof over their heads and even a cot upon which to sleep—there was little not to like but for the unspoken fear that their walk thither would be but in one direction. Sally feared the worst—that Nell would not only be taking them there, but would leave them there. She dared not ask what she could not bear to hear.

Wrapping all their worldly goods was the work of a minute. Hence, with each child's hand firmly clutched in hers, Nell heaved a sigh before commencing their descent into the ultimate bastion of poverty. Sally was inclined to think herself too big to be taken by the hand, but she had not the heart to pull away from her grandmother then. Neither Sue nor Sally said a word as they trod along. But as they crossed each street along the way, Sally took a longing look down through the haze of each cobbled way and fancied that she caught sight of her brother's lean figure coming to rescue them all.

***

Once a handsome building, the Whitechapel Workhouse now stood in oppressive consequence. It was a three-storey dark-brick edifice, which, in Sally's eyes, seemed a quarter-mile long. About the door milled a mishmash of downtrodden humanity. Overseeing the lot stood a man bearing the aspect, if not the robes, of a true martinet. His countenance was so cross, Nell held both the girls in an iron grip and hung back a bit, perhaps to give herself time to take a lay of the situation. Directly the officious man waved his walking stick over their heads—and the infirm, unhinged, and the fallen like a cardinal invoking Divine Unction. Before they knew it, the man barked orders for them to enter and they were somehow thrust through the throng and then to the doorway.

“See the board!” he bellowed.

Inside, Nell and her charges observed a long wooden bench. A bit discombobulated in the uncertainty of just what board they were to look upon, she endeavoured to hide her disconcertion (yet of a mind to continue the ruse of her superintendence of their destiny). She concluded it was unlikely that they came in all this way to gaze upon a bench and she motioned to the girls to sit before taking her place between them. Time proved this a proper disposal of their persons, for within the quarter hour a fierce-looking matron appeared, assuring them of their good fortune arriving on the very day and hour the Board of Guardians sat reviewing admissions. Nell would have to vow their residence in the area and the bastardies of her granddaughters. She assumed their destitution was evident by the rags they wore. Through all of this, Sally sat still as a mouse, a warning glare from Nell unnecessary, as the general oppressiveness of the place was enough to render her mute.

Before they were allowed in, the matron announced the single rule within the house: no refractory behaviour. Not exactly certain what refractory behaviour was, before Nell could stop her, Sally dared to enquire. Her question was met with a hard stare, suggesting to Sally that she may have just committed a refractory act. In due time, it became clear. There was to be no foul language, assaulting of other inmates, or indecency of any kind. These were all simple enough rules. However, there was an absolute rule against drunkenness. This would be a cruel dilemma for Nell, and further reason for Sally to fear their being left in the hands of the workhouse command.

That did not come to pass. Indeed, Nell put her belongings under a cot for herself. But from the roll of clothes Nell withdrew a bottle. Sally gasped. Having feared greatly that Nell would leave them, she feared then that Nell would be cast out for such an infraction. That would result in a day's solitary confinement. Just the mention of it incited howls of anguish from Sue, encouraging Nell to keep to a sort of white-knuckled sobriety. Sally watched over her most keenly, knowing that if she did not refrain from drink, the terrors might come back upon her and send her forever to the ward of the unhinged.

The matron led them through their paces before a solemn conclave of dour-faced men. As Nell and the girls were in reasonably good health for their situation, the medical officer found no reason to put them in quarantine. However, their dignity was further affronted by having to stand naked as God made them for a delousing before being handed grogram gowns and calico shifts, day caps, worsted stockings, and woven slippers. To their surprise they were allowed one linsey-woolsey petticoat apiece—which suited little Sue, as she had not owned one of any fabric afore. She twirled about, proud as a peacock, and would have made herself dizzy had not she been roused from her reverie when a bell heralded dinner. It was all her sister could do to catch her by the collar before she took off headlong towards its sound.

“Recollect yerself, Sue,” admonished Sally.

They were settled into a dormitory that ran the length of the building. It was a wooden cot with a straw pallet that they would have to share, but Sally looked up to reassure herself that there was, indeed, a roof over their heads. They were not taken on a tour of the place, but in due time, Sally learnt that it was a self-sufficient place. All duties of the inmates were entailed towards that goal. They would all have to work. Some of the women were set to spinning wool and flax, some to sewing. Others knitted. One look out the back window at the plethora of green enticed Sally unlike any treat she had ever been offered leading her to volunteer for the only outdoor work available, the piggery. She was up to her ankles in muck, but she cared little. Somehow she felt more besmirched with far less grime when the dirt originated from the street.

Inasmuch as Nell committed herself to teetotalism, she was freed from her tremor and thus her fear-driven fits, allowing her to join the retinue of seamstresses. Sue was too young to do a true day's work, thus she followed Sally lest she be farmed out as a charity case. Other than having a certainty of food on the table, the one positive in the dank, depressing walls was that when not at their chores the children were rounded up and taught to write, read, and cast accounts—not only the boys, but the girls as well. Therefore, it was Sally's great fortune to have learnt to read in the year prior to receiving an actual letter.

It was not just one letter, but, miraculously, two. Both were posted from Derbyshire. The timing of their arrival was exceedingly propitious. Six months before, Sally's little family had no firm address. Six months before, Sally could not have deciphered her brother's letter herself.

At this unexpected turn of events, Nell Arbuthnot sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes shut tightly and feverishly whispering a prayer to God above. Nell knew, if Sally had not yet learnt, that no good news came by post. More excited than frightened, Sally Frances retreated to her allotted cot before daring to determine what news her letters beheld. She pulled her legs beneath her, settling into a position of anticipation. She laid first one, then the other before her and ran her fingers lovingly across the lettering of her name. Taking a deep breath, she took the first one in her hand, her young fingers trembling as she prodded loose the wax that sealed it.

Clearly, it had made its way through many hands, but the seal was still intact. That it had found them had been very nearly as great an astonishment as that someone had actually taken pen to paper and written to her at all. Although Nell was incredulous at such a mystery, Sally instinctively had known from whom it would be. Much like her grandmother, Sally's devoutness had been more in lip service than active pursuit. The single faith she had religiously clung to was that her brother would one day reappear. Here, in her hand, was the answer to her prayers.

“Dear Sister Sally,” it began, “I hop this leter finds you wel.”

By happy chance John Christie's grasp of letter composition did not exceed hers in comprehension. In careful hand, he inquired of the health of the members of their family (notably excluding Archie Arbuthnot). The remainder of the letter was short, almost brusque. He admired the local militia and said he hoped one day to curse Bonaparty's corpse himself. Upon reading the second letter, Sally understood that it had been written first. For although it began much as the other by inquiring after their health, he told of acquiring a fine situation at the estate of Pemberley in Derbyshire County. Sally had to stop and carefully spell aloud those names of places, for she was much unacquainted with counties beyond her own. The name Derbyshire was a bit of a struggle as was Pemberley, but the name of Darcy, however, she made out for herself. She read on to learn that he was employed to look after the horses and found that such work made him feel good in his bones. His lady, he said, was beautiful and she smiled at him when he brought her horse to her. He sometimes took his meals with a Mr. Hardin and his wife, saying that more than once she had made him sweet biscuits. He then bid them good-bye and promised to write again soon. Almost as a postscript, he noted the long-past death of their mother.

“May she rest in peese,” wrote John Christie.

Of the entire letter, that their mother was dead and buried was the very last of Sally's concerns. Nary man, woman, nor child was unaware that war of a significant nature was certain to take place across the waters. She despised the thought of her beloved brother leaving his horses for the company of men bent on war. She prayed it was but a young man's curiosity.

Although Sally had immediately taken pen to paper and posted a letter in return, in the months that followed she received no reply. Rather, another arrived penned by him and posted from Dover. This missive bore information that was grievously unsettling. For in it John Christie announced his enlistment in the Regulars as an infantryman and his deployment as a grenadier. As he wrote his letter then, he sat upon a sack of flour that was soon to be loaded onto the very ship that would take him across the Channel to battle. He referenced some sort of “unhappy” business that prompted his enlistment—but did not elaborate. But it was not merely the intelligence of his enlistment alone that troubled her. Behind his spare words, she sensed a sorrowful history. She had long hoped against hope that although far from her, her brother had been happy. Now she believed that was he was not. She winced at the notion.

Nell, a notorious admirer of men in uniform, was impressed, “Grenadier? A grenadier canna be all that bad—can it?” The newspapers that had once been alive with war's alarm were filled with tales of battles that had been fought and won. Soldiers were even then streaming into London, some of the overflow of wounded had been placed in the Whitechapel infirmary. Sally began to skulk about the ward under the pretence of writing letters home for the injured. But her true reason was to ask if anyone there was from Derbyshire or was a grenadier. No one was, but more than one veteran was happy to relate the casualties of such stout-hearted souls as the grenadiers.

“They be tall. They be taken out first,” said one grizzled soul who would never walk again. “Nay, grenadiers don't last long fer it.”

After hearing that damnation one too many times, Sally returned to her belongings and reread her brother's letter. “Grenadier” he had said—because of some “unhappy” business. She crumpled the letter in her hand and fell forward into the coarse straw, commencing a soundless sobbing. Although nothing in the missive indicated it, she knew in that instant that her brother was not just gone, but dead. Nell was appalled as much at this histrionic spectacle as the gross abuse to a letter that had come all the way from Dover. Carefully, she uncurled Sally's fist and took the missive from her, smoothing it out on her lap.

“There, there, child,” she soothed with just a little condescension. “What words can want all that?”

Because Sally was inconsolable, Sue began to wail loud and long. Nell drew the tear-stricken child onto her lap with a series of shushing sounds meant to be reassuring. But Sue had long ago learnt her own remedy and employed it then by putting her thumb in her mouth. She continued to snuffle but ceased sobbing. Nell believed her to be five years past that sort of failing.

“Belay that, girl!” she said crossly, catching her by the wrist. “Yer too old to be on the teat!”

Having had her single comfort snatched away, Sue begat another wail, this one threatening to arouse unwanted attention, hence Nell relented.

“Have yer way then,” said she and turned loose of her hand.

Sue's thumb popped back to her mouth as if tied with a string, but she continued a hiccupping cry regardless.

By the time this ruckus abated, Sally had regained her own senses. Under Nell's disapproving gaze, she ceased to cry but turned her face to the wall, disinclined to explain herself. Indeed, she told not a soul. She did, however, make another vow. Her brother deserved all that was good in the world. If he received otherwise, that offence fell at someone's feet. She would travel to this place called Derbyshire and venture to this house of Pemberley. She would uncover what befell her brother that drove him to join a battle clear over the water. She would if it took all the rest of her days.