Darcy & Elizabeth (43 page)

Mrs. Bennet Rides Again

Elizabeth's toes tingled luxuriously and they wriggled with spasms. Whilst her feet pedalled against the mattress, her hands flailed over her head until they managed to catch hold of two spindles adorning the headboard. With fluttering eyelids and arched back, a slow, susurration of a moan began at the back of her throat threatening to turn into unadulterated acclamation—when came a shrill call from outside the door.

“Lizzy! Make haste!” Then louder, “
Lizzy!
You must come!”

Elizabeth sat bolt-upright in the middle of doing just that when the huge door exploded open, and with it Mrs. Bennet stood, hands on hips, and face florid with anger. Her mother took steps in her direction and Elizabeth drew the bed-clothes to her chin in defence.

“Ma
ma
!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

Behind her mother trod Hannah, clearly on the losing end of keeping Mrs. Bennet from Elizabeth's bedchamber. Hannah was at least as determined as Mrs. Bennet and therefore overtook her mid-most of the room. In a flash she was to Elizabeth's bedside holding a salmon-coloured tabby dressing-gown out before her. Elizabeth verily ripped it from her grip and drew it about her shoulders, but her still-trembling hands were errant of the sleeves. Hannah retreated whence she came, but Mrs. Bennet was intent upon her own purposes and held her ground in the middle of the room whilst wailing for Elizabeth to follow.

“Pray, are my children well?” Elizabeth gasped, trying to ascertain the extent of the horrendous event that demanded she be rousted from her bed.

“Pray, they cannot be better! It is your own dear Mama who has been trespassed upon!”

With an involuntary roll of her eyes, Elizabeth could not disguise a wince of disgust. “I will be right there, Mama.”

“Spare me that look, Lizzy, for I am cruelly used!” she then fled the room, clearly of a mind her daughter was to follow.

There were several curses that visited Elizabeth's mind as her mother quit her bedchamber. She aired a few low utterances when she had thought her gone. But added to her disturbance through the half-reopened door, her mother added, “I am sorry to have broke your rest, but when you come we will be of the same mind.”

When at last the door was soundly closed, Elizabeth said, “Bless me! My mother has compleatly lost her senses!”

“Forgive me, Lizzy,” said Darcy from deep beneath the bed-clothes (and halfway down the mattress), “if I take leave to question whether someone can lose that which she has never owned.”

He then threw back the counterpane with a heave and drew himself to the pillow next to Elizabeth, observing, “Impeccable timing your mother has.”

His hair was in a compleat muss and he instinctively ran his fingers through it in a small attempt to tame his curls.

“Actually,” Elizabeth smiled, “insofar as I am concerned, it
was
impeccable.”

Either from being hidden beneath the bed-clothes or through investing no small amount of time in pleasuring his wife (possibly both), perspiration drenched his hairline into tiny ringlets. Hers had already begun to evaporate, but the expression she bore suggested she was not altogether keen upon sorting out her mother's most recent pother with any haste. Both, however, were duly conscious they might be descended upon again at any moment. Hence, masculine resolve inevitably waned, leaving her to promise herself that she would repay the compliment at their earliest convenience.

Elizabeth drew to the side of the bed, wrapping her cascading dressing-gown about her as she rose. Standing, she rearranged it about her, allowing him a teasing flash of flesh. He rose upon one elbow to better admire the view.

Said he, “You are, indeed, indebted to me for a later engagement.”

Turning her head slightly akilter, she eyed him with unadulterated desire, saying, “Handsome thought, indeed. Do not suppose me desirous of being released from such an obligation.”

With all due reluctance, she knotted her sash about her waist as if to steel herself for what next bother her mother had found—it was not difficult to surmise that Sir Morland was at the root of it. She headed for her toilette, but as she gained the doorway, a backward glance caught sight of his sinewy leg and it gave her a slight catch in her throat. She dared not allow her thoughts stray, however, and wondered what sort of bolt would be in place to bar their door by nightfall.

***

As it happened, there was not one bolt but two and both were exceedingly stout. Elizabeth was already reposing upon the bed when Darcy slid them both into place. He was wearing his silk dressing-coat, but cast it off before he reached the bed. It pleasured her to see that he was not wearing his night-shirt. His nakedness suggested that a recommencement of their interrupted lovemaking was imminent.

Because their door was secured, they had absolutely no inhibitions. Because his nakedness exposed a tumescence of some magnitude, they were in absolutely no hurry, either.

***

From the very beginning, the Darcys had bid Mrs. Bennet make their home her own. They made that invitation without reservation and in compleat understanding and undiluted repugnance of its implications. As a woman who had little turn for economy, Mrs. Bennet was quite happy to bask in the opulence of the Darcys' home—and test her daughter's patience and her son-in-law's forbearance. Unhappily for her nerves, Elizabeth had no scheme in place to tolerate her mother's most objectionable habits. Darcy, however, had his own singular method—one that was well documented and therefore absolutely feasible. Elizabeth was witting that it was a compleat sham, but she entirely forgave him. She only wished that she had a deafness which could suffer a sudden recurrence as had he. Instead, she had to sit about listening to her mother's endless insipidness and watch as her husband sat seemingly engrossed in a book, a look of bemused benevolence upon his countenance.

Although Mrs. Bennet had arrived with all the brouhaha only she could employ, she had been unhappy that her visit was not the jewel in the crown of the Darcys' summer. Although she was wholly unacquainted with Morland's work, she was perceptive enough to understand his importance—he, regrettably, did not return the favour. Hence, she behaved towards him as if he were a servant of Pemberley and was not at all discreet in her opinions upon how the painter employed his brush. Because of her general lack of tact, she was relegated to the grand salon, where she could sit amongst furnishings exquisite enough to soothe her nerves. Yet unless Elizabeth sat there with her, she would not stay for long and would invariably invade Morland's makeshift studio, where she amused herself by being disagreeable to him and absorbing enough insult to furnish conversation for the evening.

Initially, Mrs. Bennet was inspirited by her travel. It had always done her heart good to see how well her daughters married. Having four daughters spoken for and her tenure at Longbourn assured by Mr. Darcy's generosity, one might suggest that it was to her good fortune that she at least had the office of widowhood upon which to martyr herself. Indeed, after a germinal burst of good humour, she quickly reverted to her more familiar guise of affected grief. She genuinely mourned her husband, but was incapable of fatigue whilst enumerating her loss. Upon her crape-wrapped throne, it was still hours after her arrival that she felt composed enough to bid the twins be brought before her.

“They are apt now to survive,” she explained. “Bring them to their Grandmamma!”

Elizabeth did as she was bid, but reluctantly, for she was not inclined to have her children appraised and poked like fat capons on market day—a compliment her mother would no doubt pay.

Although he was torn between desiring to shelter his children from such a menace and feeling guilt over leaving such an unpleasant chore to his wife to bear alone—ultimately Darcy left it to Elizabeth to sort out her mother. (He had bid Mrs. Bennet good day, and so far as he was concerned he had had his daily dish of detestable duty.) Curled and powdered, the twins were given an audience before their grandmother. When first she laid eyes upon their tiny countenances, she could but swoon.

“Lizzy! They are verily two peas in a pod! Not a soul saw fit to tell me that they were identical!” She turned and looked upon Elizabeth as if in accusation, “
Identical
!”

“Actually,” Elizabeth cautiously pointed out, “they are
not
identical.”

“Not identical? Not
identical
?” perturbation gifted her voice a full octave. “I fancy they are identical. Do you suppose that I am blind? Any fool can see they are quite identical.”

Here Elizabeth wavered. She knew it was quite useless to impose reason upon her mother when she had come to a determination, but she thought it imperative that her children not be characterized wrongly. Therefore, she attempted to explain how they could not be actually identical.

“Yes, Mama, I should say they favour each other exceedingly. But as one is a boy and one is a girl, they cannot possibly be absolutely
identical
.”

“Oh, what does it matter?” she scoffed.

“Yes,” agreed Elizabeth. “What does it matter, indeed?”

As it was a rare day when Mrs. Bennet's tactlessness was overestimated, she did not disappoint her daughter's anticipation then. (Elizabeth would scarce allow anyone to touch her babies but Nurse and Darcy, it might have been curious to see what unfolded if Mrs. Bennet had held out her arms, but as it happened, she did not.) After a bit of chin-chucking and respective fussing, she stood back, turned her head a bit (the better to assess their features), and tsked several times.

“It is a shame they are not fair like Jane's children nor half so lively as Lydia's,” she said, then added, “but with such a fortune to promote them, what does that matter? It is enough that they have survived and we must be happy with that.”

Elizabeth gritted her teeth and gave a silent prayer that her husband was out of earshot of that particular observation. With all due consideration of the source, her motherly pride could not allow her to keep her tongue. With cheeks flaming, she found herself sorely wanting in composure.

She said tersely, “They have their father's eyes and their mother's contentment.”

“I suppose you should be happy with that, Lizzy,” her mother allowed. “Bingley cannot be father to every child. Your boy
is
a good sleeper.”

As Elizabeth related it later to Darcy, it was as if Mrs. Bennet were capable of sucking the air right out of the room.

“Somewhere, somehow, a village is being deprived of an idiot!” Elizabeth stormed.

His wife's outrage allowed Darcy to be amused. This single fortune was Mrs. Bennet's saving grace. For had he been unamused, Elizabeth felt certain her mother's querulous demands might have begged her felled by some sympathetic atrocity by their servants. As it was, once their bedchamber door was barred, they managed to avoid her most of the day. And most of the day, she kept close watch over Morland's work. Torn by unrequited desire for the daughter and abhorrence of the mother, Morland spirits suffered grievously.

As this portrait would include so many, accordingly lengthy was Morland's stay.

While everyone became accustomed to his presence, there were several disruptions of Elizabeth's carefully structured sitting schedules (schedules Morland was allowed to think he put in place). The one single stipulation to which Morland would brook no alteration was that at precisely half past two the dinner hour would convene. Mrs. Bennet was provoked beyond all reason that a servitor would be allowed to have a say at all.

Morland kept a chalice next to his chair, but all the champagne he drank brought no courage to him in the face of Mrs. Bennet's illiberal mind and constant observations. By late afternoon, he stared out with tiny, blood-shot slits of eyes and looked upon her as if she bore a particularly vile infectious disease. This disdain did not faze Mrs. Bennet, nor could Elizabeth encourage her to enjoy the calm pursuits and amusements usually pleasing to country ladies.

Mrs. Bennet had not been there a fortnight ere her general dislike of Sir Morland (and his of her) was sharpened into outright loathing. That fractious arrangement soon paled, however, when Lydia was lately come to Derbyshire—sporting a new husband, an infant daughter, and a small ragamuffin woman-child as a nurse.

Goddess of Discord,
Goddess of the Hunt

If Mrs. Bennet was Eris, Goddess of Discord, Lydia was a self-appointed Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. Indeed, in her own eyes Lydia had proven herself to be a husband-huntress of supreme acumen, and she wagged her latest conquest to Pemberley to display prouder than a pointer placing a retrieved mallard at the feet of his master.

***

Lydia had become Mrs. Wickham prior to Elizabeth's illustrious marriage, but Mr. Darcy's loathing of her spouse meant she had been invited to Pemberley but little. Although Pemberley was an exquisite estate, her exclusion from its premises had never much bothered her. Her pleasures had been far more immediate. Bonnets and beaus excited her admiration. But in the few short years of her marriage, those bonnets had become increasingly tatty—along with the men who deigned to press their lips to her knuckles. As far as Lydia first knew, Major Kneebone had little to promote himself but a commission and an admirable lack of guile. As he was hopelessly romantic enough to want to rescue a damsel of questionable virtue in distress, her respect for him was marginal—but what she would settle for in a husband had dwindled with her prospects. When it was uncovered that in addition to making hers a very fortunate bed, he had an aunt who had an affection for him of the magnitude that rivalled the balance she kept with her banker—that spelled 1-o-v-e in Lydia's newly defined dictionary.

Remarkably, this near debacle of love did the unimaginable—it inspirited her with a new-found sentience. When once her family believed sensibleness would be forever lost to her, she was compleatly humbled to have been saved from the clutches of a fate worse than death—living out her life in her mother's house, seeing to her own unruly pack of children. Although her Aunt Gardiner believed her vows of repentance would not last our the year, she dutifully wrote to Elizabeth and Jane of their sister's lately found gentility. (The considerable merit of at long last being shed of George Wickham was enough to give even Elizabeth reason to be hopeful.) Hence, upon wedding her second husband and having borne four children ere she was two and twenty, Lydia had, if not the actuality, a passable appearance of respectability.

The Gardiners had been put in the awkward position of reviewing Major Kneebone's qualifications as husband for their niece. Their general opinion was that, at that specific juncture, no offer of marriage to Lydia could be looked upon altogether meanly. Elizabeth received a letter from her highly distraught aunt which arrived forthwith of this courtship. Mrs. Gardiner was appalled at Lydia's betraying the strict rules of mourning by entertaining the notion of marriage before the year was out.

“Dear, Lizzy, we have done what we can to check her outrageous behaviour, but she refuses to hear our admonishments,” she wrote.

Elizabeth knew that the time had come for her to apprise the Gardiners of the exact nature of Lydia's latest pregnancy and that she had begun mourning her husband long before his death. Therefore Elizabeth replied immediately, delineating Lydia's pregnancy time line and that propriety be damned (or words to that effect), to save Lydia from herself it would be essential that she be married forthwith. Elizabeth made the same error as Mrs. Gardiner in supposing Major Kneebone the seducer of record. Hence, Major Kneebone received a welcome befitting a cad making an honest woman of Lydia rather than as her rescuer. Unacquainted with the Gardiners and the subtle nuances of their good manners, he remained wholly unwitting of their misconception. Mr. Gardiner went through the motions of interviewing the candidate and found him a living, breathing individual who was neither previously promised nor currently incarcerated—and, insofar as they were concerned, he was altogether admirable husband material. Mrs. Gardiner had written forthwith to Elizabeth and Jane, failing compleatly in disguising her delight at the prospect of marrying Lydia off so promptly. Indeed, there was not a whiff of disapproval at Lydia's remarrying without the proper period of mourning. As the Gardiners were people her head turned to quite naturally, her aunt's good opinion caused Elizabeth to exhale a generous sigh of relief. She had no need of hearing that he was moderate in his address and gentlemanlike in his manners—but she was happy to all the same. Indeed, was it not for his choosing to marry Lydia, he would have been judged an altogether agreeable and estimable young man.

Ecstatic over being conveyed to Pemberley in an equipage of unrivalled majesty, Lydia had prattled to her new husband of the prominence of her sister's husband all the way to Derbyshire. Upon their arrival, however, it was Mrs. Bennet who stood in fluttering welcome beneath the portico. (She had stood upon an upstairs balcony for a most immoderate time watching for their coach to clear the lodge-post, then made haste to be the first to greet them.) It was not her mother alone whom Lydia had come all this way to see, and it was with some impatience that she allowed kisses and introductions.

Having been apprised of the arrival, Elizabeth stood in the enormous vestibule in order to keep them from charging in upon her husband without due warning. Lydia was most effusive with her praise of all things Darcy. She could not tell Elizabeth enough how happy she was to be at last welcome at Pemberley and, in the same breath, relate the highlights of their journey—up to and including having passed by Princess Caroline's abode and happening to catch sight of that personage and her alleged Italian lover entering a royal coach.

“Imagine, Lizzy! Her livery was not half so handsome as ours! We were so near to her I could all but smell her scent—truly she must issue an intolerable smell—she looked quite podgy and altogether dirty and unkempt. It is no wonder that Prinny keeps his mistresses. He married her bigamously, did he not? Would it not be outrageous to have such an ugly little tart as queen? Although I must say—we have done far worse!”

Indeed, all of that information was delivered not five steps inside the doorstep. From that notorious subject, she flitted to another with such haste that Elizabeth had no opportunity to interject a word. Her next train of discourse was of greater interest to her audience for it pertained to sights that were beheld in the Derbyshire countryside.

“You have never seen a more crowded thoroughfare in London than the road betwixt Nottingham and Matlock,” she explained.

Lydia's costume was new, a tribute to her husband's generosity. (Her bonnet was a milliner's wonder, a series of pheasant plumes projecting out at such an angle as to poke him in the eye for his trouble.) In between her various observations, Lydia introduced her new husband, who had been nodding both in agreement with Lydia's last bit of information and to avoid her chapeau's weaponry. With Mrs. Bennet trilling and ejaculating her delight behind them, Elizabeth escorted the couple to the large salon where Darcy stood awaiting them with unprecedented formality. Introductions, therefore, were exchanged somewhat awkwardly, Lydia simpering and giggling whilst Elizabeth attempted to take her new brother-in-law's measure. She was full curious as to whether or not the Gardiners' estimation of Kneebone had been inflated by hope. It was readily apparent that he bore not a whisper of Wickham's twinkle-eyed smirk; indeed, whilst she and Darcy gave Kneebone a detailed evaluation, he appeared neither off-put nor put-out, but remained impassively hospitable to their examination. When Lydia spoke to him, he looked upon her with such devotion, it was impossible for Elizabeth not to forgive him his amorous judgement.

His hair was straw-coloured and unruly. He had used more than a dollop of oil, but it had not done the office of keeping a few sprigs of a cowlick plastered to his skull. (In an oft-used manoeuvre, he nervously scratched his fingers across the crown of his head to tame that one wild lock.) His epaulets disguised narrow shoulders, but he had a thick wrist—the ruddiness of which gave him the appearance of a farm boy lately come to town. Thoroughly prepared to despise the fellow, Darcy was happy to find him not at all appalling. Elizabeth did her best to keep Lydia corralled so the gentlemen could converse uninterrupted. Therefore, Darcy learnt that Kneebone's not seeing action in the latest hostility fell not to his disinclination to put himself in harm's way, but that he had seen action in the Peninsular campaign—carrying a fragment of a musket-ball in a portion of his person that remained undisclosed.

Hearing that subject arise of his heroism, Lydia hastened to exclaim, “He was mentioned by name and with honour in the
Gazette
!”

“Ooooh,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet. “A hero, indeed!”

Kneebone's ruddy complexion coloured the approximate shade of a ripe tomato and Lydia rushed to his side and patted his arm with affection. As she had not witnessed that which the other females of Lydia's parish had forthwith of their wedding, Elizabeth remained somewhat suspicious of Lydia's apparent alteration into a devoted wife. But Kneebone covered Lydia's hand with his in a comforting little gesture and said that she wanted him to quit the guards and sell out of the army. He, however, was unwilling to live solely upon his aunt's allowance. With that remark, a silence ensued, not of a particularly deadly variety, but awkward enough for Elizabeth to want it filled. Therefore, she told Darcy of the unusual liveliness of their local roads.

“Pray, what do you make of it?” inquired Major Kneebone of Darcy.

A small expression of concern crossed Darcy's countenance (one so tiny only Elizabeth detected it), but he replied benignly, “I fear it was not a good crop year. Some cottagers seek a means of employment in the east.”

“Many believe that the Corn Laws are to blame,” Kneebone said mildly.

Just as mildly Darcy replied, “I would agree with those who do.”

Knowing that many large landowners were avaricious enough to have supported a law that enriched their own pockets at the peril of those who could least weather the high cost of bread, Kneebone looked quite astonished at Mr. Darcy's position. “Indeed, did you stand among those landowners of Derbyshire who opposed them publicly?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Would it be far too bold of me to observe that those in favour of such decrees are merchants and bankers who claimed their property through default and not, like yourself, true lovers of the land?”

“Yes, it would be bold,” said Mr. Darcy, “but not incorrect.”

Both men then exchanged a moment of understanding—one disturbed by the interruption of their mother-in-law.

Mrs. Bennet demanded an alteration in the topic of their discourse, announcing, “Politics, gentlemen! Is there any subject more tiresome to ladies? Do desist!”

“Mama, some ladies are in want of information of that sort,” insisted Elizabeth, unhappy at the prospect of not furthering the subject of keen national interest. “You are quite unfair to our sex!”

She had not an ally in Lydia, however, for beyond her husband's past heroics, she disliked the discourse. Elizabeth saw immediately that she was overruled if not outnumbered. A servant offered the men a glass of claret and Mrs. Bennet took both her daughters by the arms, insisting they leave the men be. Elizabeth gave a longing look over her shoulder, hoping against hope that her husband would rescue her. It was a point of pride that Darcy did not exclude her from what usually came under the banner of men-talk (the pride was for her husband's lack of male-prone insecurities, not for her own acumen). As her mother whisked her away, it was the first time in her recent recollection that he had not rescued her. Upon this occasion, she supposed, it was acceptable. Indeed, it was her duty to rescue him. Lydia's behaviour when in his company was inexcusably forward. Even in the presence of her new husband, she could not keep her hands to herself. If he could escape her, he would—and Elizabeth would not have to peel Lydia's fingers off his coat lapels.

Darcy was by then deep in conversation with Kneebone, which left the ladies to betake themselves to the nursery and admire Lydia's newborn. Whilst Elizabeth led the way, Mrs. Bennet was happy for the opportunity to lament the recently departed Wickham, for he had been a particular favourite of hers. Amongst her few admirable qualities was that Lydia was the one daughter who did not scruple to confront and correct her mother's many misconceptions.

“Oh, do not speak to me of Wickham,” she said with finality. “He was black at heart, hollow and black!”

“But dear, sweet Lydia,” said Mrs. Bennet, only slightly chastened, “Wickham had such a handsome countenance and an open, pleasing way. I cannot believe all that you say of him is true.”

At this, Lydia snorted. For her part, Elizabeth was altogether uneasy having Lydia within Pemberley—sporting a new husband or not. Just the mention of Wickham's name gave her a small shiver down her spine.

She had not said a word to Darcy of the ghostly visage she thought she had observed when taking leave of Brighton. Darcy had made it clear that he had no true evidence whether Wickham had or had not perished upon the battlefield of Waterloo. In light of no other information, they had chosen to believe the official notification of his death. She had successfully kept that worry in the farthest reaches of her thoughts. At least that was where it stayed until his name was spoken in her presence. She listened as Lydia quickly returned to better humour, warbling and preening over her new daughter for Mrs. Bennet's benefit. Elizabeth gave all the appropriate adulations to the baby's aspect and admired her good nature, taking her carefully into her arms, but as she did so, she was overtaken by ever-increasing unease. It was a disconcertion that could not be appeased by the notion of Lydia procuring an adoring and gentlemanly husband. Lydia had overcome widowhood, adultery, and imposture with unseemly effortlessness. Indeed, Lydia had always managed to overcome life's many struggles without sacrificing much of anything, save time and conscience. Elizabeth was torn between pity for Kneebone and holding out hope that Lydia would come to merit him.