Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (13 page)

Reed raised his nose and took an uncannily feral whiff as if to sniff out the scent of quimsy. Thereupon, head low, he strove on against the underbrush. His quarry was not difficult to locate. Although they were laughing and talking in low tones, they lay in a small glade in perfect view if someone chose to pry.

If given the choice of peeping or participating, Reed would have chosen the latter. As this ruling was not in his hands, he snooped.

The particular delectation of this pursuit had only come to him as recently as his employment on the Darcy coach. More precisely, it overcame him on his ensuing journey to Netherfield in the soon-to-be nuptial coach. There were a fair number of unplucked damsels about that Longbourn house, but none so succulent of plump dairies as was the dark-haired Miss Bennet.

Reed spent the entire return trip to London daydreaming of that alabaster damsel’s pretty, harrumping like a lord that he would not be the one to dock her.

Like many a man of mean understanding, Reed had always held the opinion that most rich men were not much more than eunuchs or else they foined their servants, with nothing left for their wives. As for the rich men’s wives, why would anyone want to diddle such harping shrews? The new Mrs. Darcy, however, was an entirely different matter. He would happily have his way with her if Mr. Darcy chose not.

This was not an entirely outrageous notion. For tall and handsome as they often were, it was not unknown for footmen to gratify an occasional gentlewoman. Reed had heard such stories, and now knew himself a footman. But his considerable conceit had not allowed him to consider that he could not, even by the most generous opinion, be called handsome. Never one to give up a notion on the merit of absurdity, he harboured the exceedingly improbable hope that Mrs. Darcy might some day favour him with her attentions.

At least he harboured it until he had heard from the other servants in the London house of what bechanced at some length in the Darcy bedchamber. Well, perhaps that comely minx would tire of Mr. Darcy and him of her. Patience has its rewards. Reed would wait.

Await he did, silently, upon the grounds of Pemberley.

* * *

Fortune had veiled the wildlife from the poacher within the slight canopy of leaves still clinging to the trees. The slow dance of foliage, brought from their limbs by the light breeze, that shrouded Reed then, also obscured his view.

Reed strained to see that which was concealed to him. The obfuscated scene he could make out did not quench his thirst for scrutiny. However, the twigs beneath his feet were already dry enough to crackle. Reed knew his quarry was already aware of intrusion and he was afraid to venture closer. He simply sat in silence, implying to his imagination what his eyes could not reveal and found lascivious pleasure enough in what he heard.

Notwithstanding her methodical commitment to collecting dirty mugs in the far corner of the tavern, the unexpected ingress of two gentlemen stole Abigail’s attention.

By virtue of the nature of its business, the place was dim. The only light was a blinding glare from the doorway behind them. Hence, other than ascertaining that neither was a habitué of their low establishment, immediate identification of the duo was not forthcoming. She continued to eye the pair long enough to eliminate constable and debt-collector from the possibilities. Her interest was piqued, however, by the deference shown them by Turnpenny and his companions.

Once they escaped the harsh back-light of the doorway, she could see the man who led the way was middle-aged, plump, and a bit rumpled. The other stood slightly aloof, unsuccessfully masking a look of extreme repugnance at the fetor emanating from his malodorous surroundings. The disdainful gentleman was younger than the first, tall, immaculately tailored, and of exceedingly handsome figure.

Indeed, maturity had strengthened his jaw and broadened his chest, but he had altered but little. Had she not recognised his countenance, Abigail would not have mistaken the hauteur.

She had known it was possible that Darcy would come personally to settle his bill. Yet, to see him actually standing so before her in the shabby tavern took her aback. She, however, was the only ruffled party.

Not unexpectedly, he looked neither right nor left. He kept his imperious gaze upon the business at hand. Had he glanced in her direction, instinct would have bid her turn away. If there was any chance that he remembered her at all, she wanted it to be as a pretty sylph of a girl, not the daggle-tailed slattern she had become.

Abigail had traded upon the prestige of her long past employment at Pemberley to obtain a situation with the Fox and Hogget (albeit she had abused a portion of that goodwill by boasting about her past connexion with that estate). As talk was prolific at any tavern, case and canard were tossed about indiscriminately. Hence, Abigail found ample audience for her oft-repeated rendering of her tenure in that grand house. Although she omitted her dalliance with Wickham (for he was regarded as a truckling toff), her intrigue with Master Darcy had prospered with numerous retellings from tryst to affaire d’amour.

Interest was keen, for until Abigail volunteered her recollections, there had been a veritable dearth of information about young Mr. Darcy’s amours. His comportment, as far as anyone could fathom, was entirely circumspect. He was known as a kindly landlord, but no one thought him a hail-fellow-well-met sort of likeness of his father. Although there was a consensus that a man of his obvious vigour must have succumbed upon occasion, not a single soul could cite an instance of indiscretion.

As nothing sends female hearts aflutter and tongues a-wagging quite so readily as a handsome yet distant countenance, that bailiwick was a hotbed of speculation about young Mr. Darcy by the time he finally became engaged. Talk blazed furiously, expanding into an absolute maelstrom by the time he arrived in Derbyshire with his new wife. She was known to be quite pretty, in a fresh-faced wholesome kind of way, not at all the sophisticate that would have been expected to become the Mistress of Pemberley. In light of her family’s questionable connexions and Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s displeasure at the match, the cauldron of local gossip had very nearly burbled over by epiphany. For what else are country-folk to do in the idleness of winter but smoke pork, stoke a pipe, and chew upon the doings of the rich?

* * *

Betwixt the initiation of Mr. Darcy’s engagement and the culmination of his wedding, Abigail arrived at Kympton sans husband, sans two of her children, and very pregnant. As was her plan, she had fled back to her home county from London abandoning the bantlings begat of an extended left-handed alliance with a seaman named Archibald Arbuthnot.

No mother discards her offspring without remorse. Nevertheless, that regret was somewhat mitigated due to the nature of the older girl.

Poor Sally Frances had been a bit of a beleaguerment, having the misfortune to bear a striking resemblance to her father (red face and large ears) and an inexplicably obstinate nature. Indeed, when expatriated from her mother’s milk upon the appearance of another babe, the lass had stubbornly refused to speak. From age two years to four and a half, she was silent. Abigail was flummoxed at this bit of intractability. It was obvious to everyone but Sally Frances that although her mother had two teats, she had but one lap. Abigail held steadfastly to the position that a child had to learn sometime that there was a time to stand one’s ground and a time to accept defeat.

Owing to her mother’s unrelenting disapproval, Sally sucked her thumb and clung to her half-brother, John, who dandled her about whenever he thought his mother did not see him.

“Belay that! Yer turnin’ that gerl into a pampered little cosset, boy. Leave ’er be!”

Abigail’s compunction over having forsaken her daughters was not overly employed in that she had wiped their faces and left them upon the stoop of Archie’s mother’s house. Mrs. Arbuthnot had a tedious but steady mending business. She would not forsake her grandchildren. John, however, was Abigail’s alone and would have been consigned to the workhouse. That would be a waste, for at thirteen, he was a strong and able boy. Was he to labour, Abigail did not want it to be for naught.

The entire contretemps of decampment came about by virtue of a nautical calamity that did not occur. For although Cape Horn was an unforgiving promontory, the ship that boasted Seaman Third Class Arbuthnot had rounded it without incident. Abigail learned the Galatea was due back upon the upcoming Friday. She and John shed London Wednesday morn.

Although Archie was a bit dim, Abigail did not doubt that even he would determine that a year at sea and a wife half-term with child did not add up to marital devotion. Retribution by strop would be swift. Such was his history.

John was nimble enough to stay out of Archie’s reach before his liberated pants worked their way down about his knees, thus restricting his manoeuvrability. However, Abigail knew herself to be not so quick. The only possible positive of the situation was that Archie and her bed-mate of late, Tom Reed, might draw the iron to each other and both end up dead. That outcome, however, was indefensibly optimistic. Hence, she took what she believed was her only recourse—to flee.

Indeed, it was with a bitter laugh that she realised she was returning to Kympton in the precise condition in which she had left.

Unfortunately, few of her relations were about to appreciate the irony. She had hoped to find her sister, for she had married a farmer and had her own house. However, it had been five years since poor Fanny was taken by childbirth fever. (Truth be told, it was a minor comfort that none of her true family was about to see she had lost her struggle with a tendency to lowness.)

Still yet in the county was Abigail’s impoverished ex-brother-in-law, but his present wife and their eight collective children did not look favourably upon taking in two penniless relatives. Abigail could not fault them, but still cursed her dearth of luck. Alas, fortune worked to her disadvantage at every turn.

Had she not once been a fetching little hoyden? Yet she had the dismal luck to find a situation in one of the few illustrious houses where servicing the male members of the household was not considered a part of one’s duties. Indeed, she learnt that, although intrigues abounded, getting one’s mutton at Pemberley was a furtive business. This scrupulous adherence to morality had been set by old Mr. Darcy and was enforced with relish by that cursed Mrs. Reynolds—that woman could ferret out a dust-ball beneath a bed without once looking.

That old hag chose to cast Abigail out with only three months wages and the admonition to be gone. Until then, Abigail’s scheme had appeared infallible. For however jealously he guarded his son’s virtue, Mr. Darcy was a kind man. A gentleman such as he would never have callously expelled a woman with child, particularly when he knew her to be coupling with his beloved son.

Why, was the matter explored diligently enough, it might have been concluded that young Darcy had compromised her. He was young master of the household. Is not the girl always the victim of vile intentions? Regardless of the circumstances, if she and the indefatigable young Darcy engaged in voluptuous combat, a swelling belly should have put her to pecuniary advantage.

The singular mystery of the entire flap had been just who had exposed her condition. Was it that vile Mrs. Reynolds? Or did Mr. Darcy uncover it himself? If any money were put down, Abigail’s wager would have been put upon Wickham as the cad.

Damn that Wickham and his jaundiced nature. Upon her presumptuous dismissal, she had gone to that blackguard hoping that he would intercede on her behalf. It galled her yet that he had the considerable brass cheek to snort a laugh at her dilemma. He offered his assistance only if she would split the proceeds. At the time, she scoffed at his offer. A misjudgement, that. If she just could have bade her time at Pemberley, belly under her chin and pointing a finger at his son, surely old Mr. Darcy would have coughed up some sovereigns. Bloody luck.

These disappointments much on her mind, she kept Mr. Darcy in her eye whilst he took care of his business. All the while, she scrubbed diligently, throwing sudsy water across the wooden plank tables, prodding the drunks awake. As he stood upon the threshold, she drew quiet and dared a glance his way. It did not escape her notice that he quite clearly took measure of his nuptial bedcloth hanging to the left of the door.

There was little doubt he recognised it. Fervently, she prayed he would somehow come to know who had pilfered it. If he did, accident could only uncover it, for it would not come from her. Tom Reed was a bastardly snake, and although he did not deserve employment upon such a fine estate, she held her tongue, fearing his retaliation. Old scores would have to remain unsettled.

It was just the night before when that muckheap of a man had appeared at the door of the Fox and Hogget clutching the silk sheet in his fist. Abigail had very nearly leapt at the spectre. She had been happy to believe she had left that miscreant in London.

With adolescent bravado, young John had hastily dropped his swill bucket and rushed to his mother’s side, shooting menacing looks at Reed. Wearily, she shooed the boy away. She had dealt with Reed and his ilk before. She would again.

Moreover, it was most likely that Reed was the blighter who knapped her. (A clear determination of the perpetrator of her condition took deep study and was compromised not only by immoderate consumption of drink, but by the sheer number of -possibilities.) Whilst still in London, it had been briefly under consideration to announce to him that he was the father of her unborn. The only reason for that proclamation was the unlikely hope he would give her a few shillings or take her in when her husband inevitably threw her out. That the first was a barmy notion, and the second not an improvement of circumstances, kept Abigail from breathing a word of it to him.

She should not have had to say a thing.

One of the multitudes of unwritten precepts amongst their society was that if one cohabits with an impregnated female and there is no one else to blame, that man is the father of record. Reed, however, was of the opinion that pintling a woman in kindle is gratis, as a slice or two off a cut loaf was unlikely to be missed. Therefore, the grounds of discord had been laid for some time before Reed showed up in Derbyshire.

The word that free food and drink would be availed at the Kympton tavern in honour of the Darcys’ wedding had emptied the countryside. It was not surprising there had been nary room for another person in the inn when Reed, dragging an ever--reluctant Frank behind him, pushed into the place. Immediately he relinquished his hold upon his brother and scattered patrons by climbing atop one of the trestle tables. Issuing a curse decrying a serious a lack of creativity, he demanded the floor.

“Shut the bloody ’ell up!”

Gradually, the din abated. With a flourish worthy of a St. James courtier, he unfurled the silk and, pointing to the blood and stains, pronounced gleefully, “It seems the new Lady of Pemberley got herself busted! No hedge-docked wench she!”

He, commencing to count the seminal splotches, added, “Looks like she got pricked more than was she peddlin’ ’er arse on Drury Lane!”

Exacting a little burlesque, he enumerated them, and the crowd burst into raucous laughter. Then, as the tally mounted, more than a few cheers erupted. In a stage whisper, Abigail conjectured to the barmaid next to her that if there were fewer than ten splotches, at least Reed would not have to remove his boots to number them all. Fortunately for the patrons, they were not subjected to the abuse of the exposure of Reed’s stinking feet, because the bedcloth’s jubilant emancipation was exacted by the crowd, resulting in its travel about the room.

When the sheet passed to Abigail for admiration, she held it up and winked knowingly, “You can bet the Lady wakes up smilin’. I’ve never seen a man nature hung better.”

Dolly Turnpenny snorted, “What would ye know ’bout such things, Abbie? He wasn’t more than a pup when you worked in that house.”

“Boy he may’ve been, but his pillicock weren’t.”

She held her hands up and apart in demonstration of his approximate length, the generosity of which displayed a moderately inflationary memory. The women present, however, were in no mood to quibble preciseness in the face of such a possibility and nodded appreciatively. This allocution alerted Reed to Abigail’s presence for the first time. He walked over and slapped her possessively upon the buttocks before plopping down in a chair next to her.

Thereupon, he turned back to his cohorts and guffawed, “Well, Abbie should know. That whore’s been laid on every flat rock from Derbyshire to Kent.”

Exacting her own little revenge (and cautiously behind his back) Abigail pointed to Reed and held up her little finger, her thumb touching halfway up. A burst of bawdy laughter, however, caused Reed to catch her announcement of the limited length of his carnal stump. The invidious contortion that overspread his visage was not felicitous. Inwardly wincing, Abigail laughed it off but kept a close eye upon him the rest of the evening. Because so much drink passed over, under and through Reed, she began to hope he would disremember a little jest at his expense.