Darcy & Elizabeth (10 page)

Mrs. Darcy Is Receiving

Two coinciding events did little to improve Elizabeth's spirits. Firstly, Jane's maternal yearnings called for her to return to her own little ones.

It had been her decision that her stay with Elizabeth would be without her lovable, if rowdy, brood. This absenting bespoke the unassailable truth that even Jane understood just how unruly her children could be. Yet Elizabeth knew how very much her sister would miss her young ones and insisted they would be of no trouble, for the halls of Pemberley were vast and servants plenty. Knowing the importance of her sister's company to Elizabeth, Darcy nodded in full agreement, happy to make any arrangements to see that it came to pass. But when Jane declined to bring them, he gave a silent sigh of relief. It may have been ungenerous, but in truth, he was unwilling for Elizabeth's recuperation and their newborns' care to be anything other than the household's singular objective.

The only occasion that would have bid Jane absent herself from her family for so lengthy a time was that her dear sister needed her. Once Darcy had returned home and all looked to be in order at Pemberley, however, she still chose to remain until Elizabeth's strength returned. Therefore, Bingley took his leave back to Kirkland Hall alone. Doing so was no small undertaking. For Bingley was known as nothing if not a doting father, however, he could under no circumstances be characterized as an exacting parent. (Indeed, so pliant was he, Jane was the family disciplinarian.) Bingley was not unaware of this particular shortcoming. Thus, sent on his way shouldering compleat responsibility for their children's well-being, an expression of pained apprehension graced his countenance. It remained there all the way home and only waned when he stepped from his coach only to be pummelled to his knees by his children's enthusiastic greeting. The sheer happiness of his homecoming was eventually usurped by those matters of childrearing both mundane and untidy which soon overwhelmed him.

Hence, it was not abdication of his duties that bid Jane's return. She was summoned by the sheer volume of posts that arrived each day, all penned in Bingley's barely legible scrawl, each one overflowing with reports of mishaps and inquiries of procedures. With each week the tone of these missives increased in urgency until they eventually reached the level of outright panic. Jane knew well the limits of what chaos her husband's sensibilities could withstand. Therefore, when Elizabeth was on her feet, Jane took pity on her husband and sent word of her imminent return. Still, her parting from Pemberley was fraught with doubt.

“Oh, Lizzy,” she said, “I had so desired to stay longer, but Charles is quite beside himself…”

Elizabeth, who had helped to birth all but one of Jane's babies (the third coming with such haste that Elizabeth's carriage hadn't cleared the lodge-post ere the baby had been placed in Jane's arms) patted her hand and offered those words of reassurance and gratitude appropriate under the exchange of such services. It was her intent to have Jane leave with nothing but cheery messages and a promise that they would all soon come to Kirkland, but she could not. The carriage awaited and Jane had but to be handed aboard when feelings particular to those who have shared much spilt from Elizabeth's heart. She wrapped her arms about Jane, holding her tightly.

“You are my port in a storm, dearest Jane!” she cried. “I surely would have not survived had you not been there. We—all of us—would have been lost!”

Embellishment of her sentiments was not in Elizabeth's nature, nor were they merely inflamed by the imminent parting. Her anticipation of Jane's absence had already taken hold of her heart. The pain was palpable. Jane was too overcome with corresponding emotions to speak and held dearly to Elizabeth's neck, both yielding to tears.

Darcy had profusely thanked Jane for all she had done for his family. Hence, he had only come to bid Jane goodbye and to wish her a safe journey home. Outwardly dispassionate, witnessing what passed between the sisters threatened his own countenance. He cleared his throat several times before at last Jane's carriage went on its way. When he and Elizabeth turned to re-enter the house, she still stifling tears, he placed his arm across her shoulders and briefly squeezed her arm. When she turned about, taking one last longing look at Jane's fast disappearing carriage, she was altogether unwitting that his hand still rested upon her shoulder. His hand was so large that she should have taken notice of it, but she did not until his thumb began to stroke the side of her neck.

She then turned her gaze to him, but he had dropped his hand and thereupon extended it in a sweeping fashion towards the portico. Suddenly aware of the footmen standing at attention beside them, she realised a shared moment of tenderness had just escaped.

Her heart was quite exquisitely wrenched.

***

Jane's coach had no better than cleared the lodge-gate ere it met an even more lavish carriage approaching from the opposite direction. She recognised the livery, but it got on so fast that she had no opportunity to recognise its occupants. Still, she held little doubt just who it carried. The spattering of gravel in that coach's wake suggested a disinclination by those travellers to pause and converse. Indeed, such was their anticipation of their visit to Pemberley, so near their destination, they allowed nothing to slow their progress.

With luggage enough to inflict fear into the heart of the most stalwart hostess, Jane's sisters-in-law, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst, had hied forthwith of word from Jane relating that Elizabeth was much improved. Those words were as good as a personal invitation from Pemberley and they could not contain their enthusiasm (or their curiosity) until Jane returned to Kirkland Hall. They set out immediately to see all for themselves. It was, after all, a feminine duty to sally forth unto that home boasting the newly birthed to apprise the comeliness of the baby and ascertain the degree of disintegration childbirth had wrought upon the mother's aspect and figure. Rarely was one disappointed.

When the sisters were announced, the pocket-square that Elizabeth had used to dry the tears she shed for the loss of Jane's company was still damp. The thought of their fawning countenances did not improve her spirits. In the brief time she had to prepare for their entrance, she then reminded herself of the single virtue of their visit—it would not ruin an otherwise perfectly enjoyable day. As she rose to greet them, Darcy made fast for the farthest reaches of the house, claiming some urgent business to which he must attend. Although she gave his retreating figure a glare, she truly could not blame him—had she means of escape, she would have taken leave as well.

She had little more time than to pat her hair and wrap a drooping ear-lock or two round her dampened finger. Briefly, she deliberated on which posture would serve her aspect best—to draw in her mid-section or restrain her bosom. So prominent were they, attempting to do both seemed an impossibility. Hence, she abandoned the notion altogether and merely straightened her back—letting her form fall where it may.

Caroline swept into the room with Louisa Hurst fast in her wake.

“Eliza, dearest,” cooed Caroline.

She made a beeline for Elizabeth with extended arms and an expression that threatened a kiss. It was all Elizabeth could do to accept the inevitable and use greeting Louisa to wrest herself from Caroline's grasp. But Caroline was not yet ready to release her.

She placed the back of two fingers first to Elizabeth's forehead and then to her cheek, clucking, “My poor, poor, dear Eliza.”

This solicitousness was offered in a manner that was absent of both congratulations and commiseration.

“What you have endured! It is no wonder you look so ill, I do hope you keep mostly to your bed.” Then grasping Elizabeth by both upper arms, she sought Louisa's attention. “See Louisa, it is
so
true. Childbirth steals one's bloom.”

As Louisa was once a mother herself, it might have been expected that she should not particularly care for Caroline's last jibe, but she defended neither Elizabeth nor motherhood in general. As for Caroline, she was oblivious to anything but her own objective—which was, and always had been, to demean Elizabeth. (Having been disappointed in her pursuit of Darcy, Caroline had resented Elizabeth's success. It was a dislike that was mutual and one that had not worn out with time.)

At last Elizabeth wrenched away, but Louisa insisted upon the same affection. When they were finally satisfied to let her go, it was all Elizabeth could do not to draw the back of her hand across her cheek to erase the remnants of their spittle. She motioned them each to take a seat, and settled back in her own chair making one last attempt to resituate her fichu across the bodice of her morning dress.

As always, both ladies were dressed in the latest fashions. Caroline sat in her usual grand attitude, one that she had no doubt practiced to better display her ensemble. Elizabeth could not fault her taste, for the gown was an exquisite shade of poppy and, although the enormous girandoles that hung from her earlobes were a bit extravagant for an afternoon call, the coral stones set off her gown to perfection. Louisa had never quite owned Caroline's discerning style, but if her costume was not as splendid as Caroline's, it was not for the want of trying. She too was festooned with ruching, tags, and lappets, and perched upon one shoulder was a brooch featuring the cobalt pinfeathers of a peacock. (Clearly, they were of a mind that six weeks was all the time their wardrobes could spare to mourning the passing of their sister-in-law's father.)

They continued to commiserate her state and Elizabeth made herself to reply only, “I thank you for your kindness, but as you can see, I am quite well.”

“And how does Darcy enjoy his return? I understand he enjoyed Brussels and its habitués most exceedingly. I cannot believe that he will be happy once again in such simple company as we can provide here at Pemberley,” Caroline said with a sly smile turning up one corner of her mouth.

“Yes.”

“And poor Wickham—dead as mutton, I'm told?”

Louisa gave a small but audible intake of air at her sister's last inquiry.

“Oh dear, Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet…” Louisa corrected the priority of Caroline's enquiries. “We were deeply saddened for both you and Jane to hear of his loss.”

Remembering herself, Caroline nodded emphatically, signalling at least a temporary retreat, “Sad times these.”

Elizabeth could not be certain if it was her sister's nonchalance or audacity that bid Mrs. Hurst's involuntary reproof. Regardless, Louisa was thereupon elevated in Elizabeth's estimation from the devil's sister to merely an annoying piece of work. An uneasy truce prevailed with Caroline and her sister conversing like two chirping blue tits, oblivious to Elizabeth's inattention.

Elizabeth had thought that she no longer needed her afternoon nap, but the heaviness of her eyelids announced differently. She was uncertain, however, whether it was the day's stress or her guests' inanity that demanded slumber then. Regardless, she felt herself being lulled into a partial wakefulness—able to nod, but not truly cognizant of the conversation.

She was brought to her senses, however, when she heard “Are the babies at hand?” She started, eyes wide, much like a feral creature catching sight of an approaching predator. She also knew that without an impenetrable excuse, it would be unpardonable not to allow her children to be on display. In her present state of inertia, however, she was unable to offer anything reasonable. At Elizabeth's reluctant request, a servant withdrew to have the babies wheeled into the room. Caroline and Louisa sat with hands folded on knees, at the ready to enjoy their office of Examiners of Infant Beauty.

In fortune, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst only stayed the night. Having obtained the intelligence they came to uncover, they were happy to depart the next morning and had thirty miles to belittle and mock her. Elizabeth believed they would as truly as the sun rose each morning. So convinced was she that dispersion was then in progress, as she stomped up the staircase after bidding them good-bye that she mimicked Caroline's sing-song locution, “Eliza looked very ill indeed. Her figure suffers dearly. She is certain never to regain it. And the babies! Have you ever seen such unsightly children? How does poor Darcy fare under such disappointment?”

Approximately halfway up the stairs, Elizabeth realised that she might be overheard and ceased. That did not keep her from wishing that she had the brazenness to inquire, “Any chance of a match yet, Caroline dear? No? A pity. We
do
weep for the disappointment that you must
suffer
.” However provoked, she knew that she could not bring herself to be that uncivil. The thought was amusing though, and for the rest of that day, she pacified her mind with thoughts of sow's ears and silk purses.

Her respite was short-lived.

Initially, few were bold enough to decide which event etiquette demanded to be observed—Elizabeth's father's death or the babies' birth. It was a temptation for many to observe that event which was most felicitous. But after some thought upon the matter, it was concluded that it was not at all untoward to combine a condolence call with a quick look at the infant anomaly. If that also happened to sate the rabid curiosity of those who happened to call, it was all the better for politesse.

It was a convention that Elizabeth came to despise—however good the inspector's intentions. She knew that Caroline and Louisa's visit was just the beginning of what would be a stream of tittering female well-wishers. All would come to extend their condolences, examine the twins, and winnow out what they could of the suspected scandals that had come to pass within and without the Darcy household. The Bingley sisters' company had been a trial, but also beneficial, for it had allowed her to exercise her discipline and rehearse her noncommittal responses. It had fallen apparent with undue haste that such practice would be quite useful.