Darcy & Elizabeth (7 page)

If she could only escape to take to the outdoors, she was certain the air and a brisk walk would lift her spirits—but she had not the opportunity or, truth be told, the strength. Her only comfort was knowing that this was her second pregnancy. Her body had weathered a stillbirth and Darcy had certainly not turned away from her then. Still, a double gestation was twice the ruin. That long-past ordeal was horrific to endure, but her figure had not noticeably suffered. At the time, she had thought it cruel to have absolutely no visible reminder that she had even carried a baby save for its tiny grave. Hence she could not entirely despise swollen breasts and sagging belly when gifted with two such adorable reparations.

She remained conflicted as time allowed the gradual return to fitness of her insides but not the same kindness to her figure. Indeed, the belief that she might never regain any part of physical allure began to prick her pride. She felt ungainly and unattractive. Under such circumstances, most ladies would have diverted attention from an uninviting form through the adornment of lovely gowns. Alas, that avenue was lost to her. There were but two gowns with buttoned bodices in which she could squeeze her swollen bosom and still-shrinking belly—regrettably both unflattering in cut. One was quite a pretty shade of lemon, the other forget-me-not blue, but mourning a father's death demanded that they both be dyed black.

Her night costumes fared no better. Both the size and employment of her bosom did not allow her to fit into her most fetching silk night-dresses. Hence, she was compelled to wear placket-fronted muslin gowns. Jane had offered to send for the seamstress, but Elizabeth threw a shawl about her shoulders and refused. With more conviction than she felt, she told Jane that she would not remain in her present state long enough to merit new frocks. Her heart, however, told her that if she had new gowns fashioned to fit her newly bloated figure, it was a capitulation to the possibility she might not regain her old one. Had she not suffered enough humiliation, her husband made his displeasure abundantly clear in that for the first time in her recollection he intimated that her wardrobe was deficient, by echoing Jane's suggestion for new gowns. Undoubtedly she had reacted with excessive indignation at his possibly well-meaning interference. She did not truly take offence, she simply was unhappy to have tangible indication of his notice of her physical deficiencies.

Hence she stole longing looks in her husband's direction, but loathed what visage he might observe in return. She pined not only for his touch, but yearned to stroke his manhood to arousal as well. (The single instance of intimacy had betided with such dispatch that they both had reached fulfillment before a caress was enjoyed.) Such ambitions were thwarted, however, by her own uncharacteristic reserve. Had the accusation of reticence been put to her, she would have categorically denied it. For her husband's virile figure inhabited all her dreams and most of her thoughts. She recalled the pleasures of marital rites past with imprudent constancy for a wife who meant not to engage in them. Indeed, so libidinously was she inclined, she could not sit two minutes in one place without leaping up on some pretext or another—not realizing what a state she was in even when the insides of her knees began to ache from pressing them together.

The belief she once held that having enjoyed relations once, further pleasures would be anticipated, did not come to pass. But she was far too tenacious and had far too much to lose not to ponder every possibility. There was but one ultimate goal—she wanted to make love to her husband and have his in return. Her secondary concern was to keep the extent of her figure's ravagement unexposed. If there was nothing she had learnt during marriage to a husband like Darcy, it was that there was more than one way to skin a cat. She knew that it was quite conceivable to have amorous connection
and
hide her figure. The more she thought of the notion, the more sensible it became. The possibilities were endless—be it in the dark, lifting her skirts in the parlour, or standing on her head.

But of course to exact any of these measures, she would have to have some part of cooperation from her partner. Regrettably, he remained present enough so as not to incite reproof, but entirely aloof.

The longer this deadlock persisted, the more earnestly she considered employing that blessed headstand.

Denial and Dedication

In the county of Derbyshire, the fortunes of several townships rose and fell with those of its largest landowner. Hence, the tidings that were learnt to have occurred within the walls of Pemberley (or at least upon the road thereto) piqued furious interest—and not just in those who resided within its dominion. Not surprisingly, when it came to pass that an heir to Pemberley finally (if somewhat tardily) was produced, it was heralded not just throughout the surrounding countryside, but parts beyond. Indubitably, however, the keenest interest was held by those whose very livelihood was contingent upon those of the Pemberley estate.

Owing to the very length of the wait, all and sundry within this fraternity were delighted to the brink of giddiness to have their anticipation rewarded by not one child, but twins. (By virtue that the first of the two born to Mr. Darcy was the all-important male-child, everyone had found pleasure in near-equal measure for the happy surprise of the new young master's sister.) Therefore, it was of no particular astonishment that the celebration rejoicing this double blessing all but eclipsed that which was held to honour Mr. Darcy's wedding some years past. To denote a milestone of such import, a repast of some extravagance had been furnished through the villages gratis by the family. As the repast was complemented with an abundance of ale, there was no prompting needed for more than a few glasses to be raised to the health of the newest members of the Darcy family circle.

No one, however, felt more happiness upon their behalf than those in the Darcys' immediate employ.

Pemberley was an estate of illustrious repute and despite Mr. Darcy's dour reputation, the couple was known to be very happily settled. More telling of their true nature than what country gossips prattled was that those retainers nearest to the Darcys were their most loyal defenders. The couple inspired a fond admiration in their personal servants—a highly uncommon sentiment for one who carries a chamber pot. But this partiality held true to all who were in their service. Therefore, when the Darcys' marriage was at last blessed with children, joviality and elation competed for expression not only from housekeeper and steward, but from scullery maids to stable hands.

Chief amongst those well-wishers was Mrs. Darcy's lady-maid, Hannah Moorhouse.

She was not the most senior servant at Pemberley—that distinction was held by the housekeeper. In her few short years with Mrs. Darcy, Hannah was certain that no one surpassed herself in devotion. Her office of lady-maid was held with the utmost diligence and utter dedication. Moreover, she had a further distinction—although she was far too modest to remind other maids of the fact. She, Hannah Moorhouse, had been the only member of the Pemberley staff chosen by Mrs. Darcy herself. Still kept safely hidden amongst her personal effects was the sheet of vellum affixed with the Darcy seal that had summoned her to come for that initial interview. It was folded thrice and secured at the bottom of the bijouterie that Mrs. Darcy had given her the first Christmas after her employment. Had there been any question before, that beautiful gift secured the maid's undying esteem for her mistress. It was a regard that had only strengthened over time—seasons of joy and seasons filled with heartbreak. Had her lady not been so admirable, Hannah was of a sort who would still have been dedicated to do her bidding, she just would not have done so with such a full heart.

Hannah was prouder of nothing more than how closely she guarded Mrs. Darcy's privacy. Other maids could find no greater diversion than to titter amongst themselves whilst betraying their mistresses' confidences. There were certainly confidences enough for a lady-maid to betray. For she was privy to her lady's most intimate concerns, be it in what bed she slept or what she did or did not wear whilst there. Hannah's office was simplified by her mistress's singular love life, but what occasioned within the confines of her marriage would have been fodder enough to suit any busybody. As an unmarried woman, Hannah was not so unschooled as to be unaware of the passionate nature of the Darcys' conjugal bed—or anywhere else they happened to engage in conjugal rites (and those places were legion).

It was Hannah who stood at her lady's door when Mr. Darcy made unexpected visits to her dressing-room. It was Hannah who saw to it that their soiled linens were not gossiped about either. She knew almost before Mrs. Darcy when she might be with child and despaired with her when the monthly evidence arrived, announcing that she was not. Hannah fancied she knew Mrs. Darcy well-nigh as well as Mr. Darcy did. Perhaps she did not love Mrs. Darcy as deeply as did he, but she cared for her just as truly. She did not suppose that Mrs. Darcy bestowed affection in the same fashion for her—that was not fitting. She was, after all, merely a maid. But she was certain that her lady harboured fondness for her. That was in Mrs. Darcy's nature. And as was in Hannah's nature, that small fondness was all she required.

***

There were but two small matters that worried her. Both involved persons of the opposite gender—one disturbance came about because of his being a man and the other despite it.

The first was not truly a romantic entanglement. As a lady-maid, it was not in her province either to marry or to entertain the notion of a lover. Yet she had harboured tender feelings towards Mr. Darcy's man-servant for some time. Not initially—it was an attraction that had taken hold of her over several years. She was well aware that it was an altogether odd business for her to be attracted to such a man as Harold Goodwin. For although he was not physically repellent, neither was he particularly well-favoured by nature—he was fine-boned as a maiden, and his countenance was troubled by narrow eyes and a thin mouth. His manners, however, were superb and his hair-tonic smelt like lavender—she could hardly be in his company without her heart skipping a beat. Moreover, the only thing that rivalled his devotion to his own toilette was his devotion to Mr. Darcy's privacy. As often Mr. Darcy's privacy and her mistresses' privacy were one in the same, this was not an unimportant leaning.

It was just as well that romance was denied them, for robust Hannah and the bird-breasted Goodwin would have made an unlikely pair—what with Goodwin's mincing walk and Hannah's earthy ways. That incongruity might have occurred to Hannah as well had she allowed herself to think of them as a couple. But she had not. For it was understood that even if she were willing to leave Mrs. Darcy's service, a gentleman's gentleman could never marry either. In the unlikelihood that he returned her affection, both could not lose their positions. In some houses even a hint of romance between servants was reason to be let go. Hannah wanted to believe that Mrs. Darcy would not be so unyielding, but it seemed unlikely that several hundred years of custom might be rent on her account. Hannah was far too happy in her situation to risk losing it over what was only a distant possibility.

And a “distant possibility” was most probably an overstatement. For Goodwin had not given her any indication that he returned her esteem. In fact, his behaviour towards her was that of compleat indifference—at least when he was not carping over some offence against propriety that he perceived she had committed. It had always been a bone of contention between the two—Goodwin's family had been in service of the Darcys for generations and he considered Hannah an upstart. Despite that, Hannah knew they were quite of the same mind. Both served the Darcys second only to God. It was most likely the prominence of loyalty in his character that Hannah found most endearing—that and his seeming dismissal of her. (Although it was a truism that few things piqued womanly interest in a man with greater regularity than inaccessibility, Hannah was not worldly enough to have learnt it.) Harold Goodwin most certainly was not in want of inaccessibility. Her unrequited yearning was quite all Hannah desired from him. He had been the perfect gentleman in his aloofness.

The single occasion on which she had dared breach his reserve, she had been rebuffed.

It had been upon the occasion of Mrs. Darcy's stillbirth. He had stood upon the landing, clearly as wretched as was she. She had looked to him for sympathy, but he had turned away. She ran instead into the arms of old Mrs. Reynolds and never erred in that fashion again. Nor did she once betray him to anyone when she learnt that he had repeatedly engaged in an unpardonable offence against his position.

There were others on the staff who would have delighted in disclosing his crime to his employer. But his employer had not been there to learn of it. Indeed, knowing that Mr. Darcy was abroad in peril without the services of his loyal manservant was what had initiated Goodwin's transgression. He hid it well, but it had not escaped Hannah's notice. Mr. Darcy's dressing-room and Mrs. Darcy's dressing-room were only steps apart. The paths of their respective servants crossed any number of times a day—even in Mr. Darcy's absence. When Mr. Darcy took his leave to the Continent, all notice was given to Mrs. Darcy's distress. Goodwin kept busy, but his doings were all but ignored—his chief office was that of keeping himself out of Mrs. Darcy's eye. He knew instinctively that for her to see him would only remind her that her husband was in the very bosom of danger and quite alone.

Because Mrs. Darcy kept closely to her room during that time, Hannah was often at her leisure to see the surreptitious activity that Goodwin had undertaken. Hannah saw the flask that he thought was well-hidden beneath his waistcoat. Had he not been quite so thin or quite so meticulous with his person, a bulge of that size might have been overlooked. Because Hannah's gaze often caressed Goodwin's figure when he passed her, she had noticed that discrepancy in his form first. It was only later that she happened to uncover what it was. She had seen the object before. It was a handsome silver flask that had once belonged to Mr. Darcy's father. It was not an item that Mr. Darcy found useful, but Goodwin polished it with no less regularity than if he had. It did not occur to Hannah that Goodwin had done anything other than borrow it. She knew, however, a less forgiving eye might think it looked uncommonly like theft.

Hannah was uncertain just what liquid the flask contained—gin was her best guess. Regardless of its specificity, she knew the signs, for her father had been fond of the drink. Goodwin was quite adept at keeping his imbibing unnoticed. She rarely saw the flask come to his lips. Even less frequently did she see him tottering unsteadily down the passageway. Everyone in the household was so out of sorts, what with Miss Georgiana's disappearance, Colonel Fitzwilliam's regiment in battle, Mr. Darcy scouring the battle-ravaged countryside in pursuit of his sister, and Mrs. Darcy, after all this time, finally with child, it was of no great surprise that the stalwart Harold Goodwin's need for liquid fortification went largely undiscovered.

When Lady Catherine de Bourgh came to Pemberley prophesying that Mr. Darcy would not survive his trip across the waters, Goodwin and Hannah shamelessly eavesdropped. Hannah had expressed her outrage by slinging silent curses behind that lady's back. Goodwin, however, guzzled the entire contents of a brandy decanter; thereby missing the exhilarating spectacle of Mrs. Darcy's having threatened her ladyship with gunfire. Thereafter, a drunken stupor was all that stood between him and unfettered terror—first for Mr. Darcy and next for Mrs. Darcy and her unborn child when she accompanied her father's corpse to Hertfordshire for burial. People were falling dead right and left, he knew not which way to turn; hence, first he tippled, and then he swilled. It had been Hannah who saw to it that he was put to bed, a kindness he was in no condition to recall.

“It is all too much to bear,” he whimpered.

“Shush. All will be well,” she intoned—not compleatly certain of that herself, but had it been her place, those were the words of comfort she would have liked to hear.

When Mr. Darcy did return upon the very heels of his wife's successful confinement, Hannah was so elated that she did not initially take notice that Goodwin stood upon the periphery of the activity. In his extended hands was a silver tray bearing a dusting brush, a clean linen cloth draped over one forearm. He was pale and a little wobbly, but he was absolutely sober. The flask was returned to the drawer from which it had been taken. After his return, Mr. Darcy appeared altogether unsuspecting that his own jeopardy had provoked poor Goodwin's falling afoul of the bottle.

Within a fortnight, save for the newborns, one would have thought nothing extraordinary had befallen the denizens of Pemberley. Soon, Goodwin had reclaimed himself sufficiently to begin to cavil over her every step. Rather than being annoyed, she rejoiced. That was proof positive that their lives had regained a sense of normalcy. Moreover, once the blessed event became evident, the disagreeable country gossip that had abounded was effectively squelched.

It had been long in coming. The foundations of country life—church, tavern, and mansion house (up to and including, regrettably, a number of rooms in Pemberley House itself)—had been abuzz for months with talk both high and low of what had and would come to pass within the walls of Pemberley. Hannah was not so far removed from her roots not to have learnt of the gossip. But the bewildering range of case and canard that had been bandied about was astonishing even to her tolerant disposition. People gossiped—Hannah knew that was the way of the world. But some of what she had heard was outright calumny and to her, lies were lies. Knowing that prattle was ignited by ignorance and fuelled by fear did not make it any less objectionable. Forthwith of Mr. Darcy's return and Mrs. Darcy's lying-in, the grumbling and sniggering citizens were finally and irrevocably hushed. The injurious accusation, which had been growing disturbingly urgent amongst its tenants and tradespeople suggesting that the House of Pemberley had fallen fallow, was finally put to rest. The little matter of primogeniture was at last settled. With the simple act of giving birth to a male child, Mrs. Darcy terminated the winds which had shaken the georgic grapevine into a malicious frenzy. To one and all, mistress and maid, it was a time of contentment. All was as it should be. And because it was as it should be, that it was a long time in coming was hardly mentioned.