All the Pleasures Prove
Chapter VI
"Very pleasant dreams, dear children," Georgiana cooed as she tucked the covers snugly beneath the wee chin of darling Prudence.
The Mistress of Smythdon Manor beheld such a sight as to delight her heart to no end. Four pairs of guileless eyes peeped from behind the soft blankets of two very sizable beds, eyes that very much resembled those of a flock of wood owls hiding in their artful roosts. Mr. Hart held a silver candlestick in his hand to illuminate the large room, although the flickering light of it barely lit the way for his wife.
Georgiana turned to blow a kiss toward all of the cloaked little faces. "Sleep well and stay warm in your beds," she told them. "Your uncle and I shall be in the very next room, and if you have no other need of us now, we shall see you first thing in the morning."
"First thing?" Mr. Hart was quick to grouse. "That is quite a liberty, my dear. Do you not think so?"
Georgiana shrugged, wishing to make happy all sides concerned. "Not very early then," she concluded with a satisfied smile, and Brit Hart appeared at ease with that at least.
He held open the bedchamber door for his wife, yet before Georgiana left the room, she turned to take one more glance at such an endearing picture. The image of four sleepy children snuggled within down, quite overcame her maternal passions. Fervent feelings coursed through her body, warming her wholly, and Georgiana beamed, now quite certain of what it was to envelope a motherly bond within.
The feeling was foreign to a woman just recently comfortable at being a wife, yet nonetheless the sway of emotions was swiftly becoming a reality. It sparked her senses to a very different kind of love, and she gently cradled the palms of her hands over the place where she was convinced that a new life inhered in secret.
Once out in the hallway Brit Hart hedged the door shut with barely a creak. When it was secure, the flame of the candle that he held within the grasp of his strong hand flickered again as he heaved out a sigh of overwhelming agitation.
"I am for my study," he pronounce in discordance, "perhaps peace and quiet will mend this ill ache in my head, and if that does not do the trick, there is always my meerschaum..."
He crossly grimaced on remembering the light clay fragments of his beloved pipe dotting the polished wood floor of the room where the children now slept. His brows furrowed to the point of angst, and his sideburns seemed to bristle as he clipped the words with an errant flare, "Never mind the latter."
He reached atop the sideboard in the hallway and took another candlestick, lighting it deftly, and then passed it to Georgiana. She grasped at the handle poised within his manly hand, and in the dim candlelight Georgiana stood before him while taking it.
She did not intend to stare at her husband's face so boldly, yet she hoped to discover him in a far better countenance for her own satisfaction of mind. What she saw distressed her, for Brit Hart did not resemble the benevolent and easy husband that she had known, but his lips were ever pinched with censure, and his brows remained furrowed out of his own growing regret.
"This occupation of fatherhood," he sighed out adamantly bothered. "I am no good at it at all."
"That is not true," Georgiana replied in haste.
"It is true," Brit Hart insisted. "I had wanted children of my own, and when we married, Georgiana, the prospect of one day being a father delighted me to no end. Now I am not so sure that it is the thing to do."
Georgiana gasped, and her eyes sought his instantly in a confidential plea. "Please do not say such things, Ethan. It would be different if we were to go about it from the beginning--I know!"
"It was simple to taunt Darcy," Mr. Hart admitted, without truly hearing his wife. "It was even enjoyable. When I did see him struggle as a father, I honestly believed that when given the opportunity that I could do far better--yet now I find that I am sadly lacking in any skill whatsoever as a parent, and Darcy is to be highly commended for possessing more patience than I would ever have given him credit for."
"My brother is to be admired," Georgiana retorted in her sweet and flattering manner. "He was very good to me when I was a girl, and he is an excellent man to his own children. I have never thought him to be otherwise."
Brit Hart's cheeks flushed with shame. "Every man likes to think himself grand, Georgiana," he boasted with awkward sincerity. "I suppose I thought myself far too fine--and why should I ever have given myself such credit, without ever having had the experience?"
Georgiana's complexion imitated that of her husband standing before her, though instead of shame, she felt only disappointment. "But I think you very fine, Mr. Hart," she tried to bolster his spirit.
Brit Hart was grateful for the dutiful encouragement Georgiana had shown him. In truth, it was just shy of two months since she had become a very fine wife to him, and he demonstrated his esteem with an adoring smile and a kind kiss upon her forehead. Yet he shook his head once again a moment later when reality took a hold of his common sense.
"I have lived alone for a very long time, my dear. A house full of people seems a difficult thing to bear at present," he stopped to consider his earlier mischief with a haughty grin, "and I am cross, for it vexes me to think that I shall have to apologize to your brother."
"But the two of you are good friends," Georgiana contested, not comprehending a gentleman's way of looking at things.
"Indeed we are," Brit Hart lifted a brow musingly, "yet throughout such an affable acquaintance we have always been rivals, in one fashion or another. Your brother thinking that I would solicit away his tenants is proof of that."
Georgiana's eyes flashed in revolutionary disapproval. How could she be assured that her husband would not entice Pemberley's tenants away? He had told her recently that Smythdon Manor was in need of permanent tenants for its farmlands, and that the employment of them would be difficult to procure after the estate had stood vacant for so long.
Georgiana had no desire to enter into the politics of either her brother or her husband. She had other things to occupy her time these days and farmland and tenants did not generally enter into a young wife's thoughts.
She proclaimed as diplomatically as she could, "I do not believe in rivalry between family, Ethan."
"Well then, my dear--there shall be none to be found here," her husband assured her. "I can admit to my failing before I fall into it. I shall leave parenthood to Fitzwilliam Darcy and I shall content myself with the raising of sheep or perhaps training a new puppy to become a fine bird dog."
Brit Hart chuckled and shook his head at his own folly, and then turned on his heel, anxious to seek out a sanctuary of privacy. Georgiana watched him leave--her own disillusionment severe.
She had thought when he had come to court her that Mr. Hart would one day make a very fine father for any children they may beget from their love. She still believed that to be true, yet upon the one experience with children in his house, he believed something altogether different, and it seemed to Georgiana that Mr. Hart took no pleasure in the prospect of children.
Georgiana's designs of happiness were vanishing before her, and she could not fathom the reasons for such a tainted attitude in the man to whom she now belonged. For the first time since marrying, Georgiana felt forlorn and aggrieved--and for the second time in her young life, she felt as if she were a woman helplessly cast into a dreadful and disparaging state at the hands of a man whom she thought she loved, and whom she thought loved her.
Georgiana made haste to her bedchamber, and closed the door behind her. Her still petite body leaned back against it, as if to keep the troubles of womanhood from entering her life. She had no idea what she was to do--no one had ever told her what was now to be expected of her. It was not long until Georgiana began to cry. She sobbed for the sake of her baby, and she wept for her own simple life lost.
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Fitzwilliam Darcy awoke to find himself filled with a peace, a serenity that he had not known in many a day and night. He blinked his eyes against the dim glow of the firelight in the hearth, though it was fading with the passing hours of the night. When he rolled his body over, he saw that his wife was fast asleep beside him, the bedcovers drawn closely beneath her chin, neatly framing a passive and perfect face.
Darcy found the greatest pleasure in studying the image before him. How comely Elizabeth looked to him. He marveled at how she had been apt to keep her skin so smooth, and pink and pretty, precisely the same in his opinion as the young woman with whom he had fallen so hopelessly in love.
In his deep-rooted bliss, Darcy smiled easily, for by her love and devotion Elizabeth had again made him feel like that novel husband he had once been--happy and free from all care, except for those concerns solely for her happiness. Darcy was altogether indebted to that happenstance which had blessed him with the companionship of such a faithful woman, and along with feeling so giddy about it; he even felt a momentary fondness for the silliness of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet.
Elizabeth's dark eyelashes fluttered lightly against her cheeks in her comfortable repose, and on the bridge of her nose was the palest existence of freckles, an aspect of her person that Darcy loved so very dearly. Elizabeth had always objected that freckles were not fashionable in the least, but Darcy would hear nothing of her complaints for he saw the beloved similarity on each and every one of his children, and it pleased him.
His fingers feathered through the ends of Elizabeth's unruly hair as it lay tossed against the pillow, and he gave a tender tug on the blanket tucked beneath her chin. Elizabeth stirred, and Darcy grinned at his accomplishment. It had been a very long time since he had come by so much pleasure from teasing her, and he thought now to be as good a time as any to take the amusement up again.
His lips brushed against the curve of her cheek as he whispered blissfully to persuade her, "A belt of straw, and ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs, and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me, and be my love."
Elizabeth sighed though her eyes remained closed. She was then inclined to reach out for him, lovingly pinching his coarsened chin between her thumb and forefinger.
"A man who speaks of love," she whispered in sincere liking. "A man who quotes Shakespeare so eloquently shall never be denied my attentions--rough beard or not."
Darcy laughed, for it would always be Elizabeth's lot in their marriage to gainsay anything he were to utter. "Christopher Marlowe," he breathily corrected, another murmur in Elizabeth's ear to make her writhe with the pleasure of his rich and adoring voice. "Not Shakespeare, lovely Elizabeth."
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Christian sat up in his bed. "I am hungry," he announced into the silence of the room.
"Go back to sleep," Andrew moaned at the interruption and reached a hand out from beneath the covers to tug on his brother's nightshirt.
"No, Andrew," Christian implored, "I can smell bread baking, and I am very hungry."
"What is the matter?" Hannah asked from the other bed, annoyed out of sleep. "Mind yourself and go to bed, Christian."
"Can you smell it, Hannah?"
"What?"
"The bread!" Christian prodded, a hand over his midsection as his stomach made a deep, growling sound, something akin to rumbling thunder, or that curious noise made by red deer.
"Go to sleep!" Christian's elder siblings wailed in harmony.
Ignoring such sound advice, Christian threw back the covers and slipped from the bed to the floor below. It was cold, and he shivered, although the lure of the aroma of the early morning bread baking in a stone hearth somewhere below his room kept him from returning to the warmth of the down ticking and a spot next to his brother.
He tiptoed past a window, and although he was somewhat frightened to do so, he brushed back the drapery to see if it was late enough for first light. He was greatly vexed to see that the horizon was still very dark, and when the sky framed within the pane of the window illuminated with a flash of distant lightning, Christian swiftly let go of the drapery cloth and wheeled about to survey the unfamiliar room, eyes widened with fast mounting panic at the prospect of seeing a big hart, or worse, the apparition of old Sir Walter himself.
"Andrew," the boy whimpered loudly, "Andrew! Come with me, please!"
"You would not be hungry," Andrew snarled, "had you eaten your supper."
"I could not," came another whine from Christian.
"Why not?"
"Because we had that meat! I know it was that big, proud deer from Uncle Brit's study--it made my stomach do loops just to think of it!"
"Oh blast," Andrew groaned in frustration, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands, "It was not the very one, silly."
"Yes it was!"
"Both of you hush!" Hannah whispered sternly. "Prudence will wake up, and then we shall all be in terrible trouble!"
"I am not in any trouble--but I am hungry," Christian repeated adamantly, "and I can't sleep in this strange house." He sniffled and twisted his fists over his eyes, "...and I miss my Mama!"
"So do I," Hannah whispered sadly as she sat up to pout, then pulled her rag dog closer to her chest. "And I miss Papa."
Christian frowned, "Me too."
By now Andrew was wide-awake. He sat up in bed as well; his dark, curly hair standing up in all the wrong places, and his fingers fidgeted with the hem of the soft blankets before him. A murky frown overtook the boy's face as he thought of his dear parents. He pined for his mother most desperately although he would never admit it to Christian and Hannah, and even though his father had punished him only that morning, Andrew's love for Darcy was unswerving, and he wanted ever so much to be back by his father's side.
Andrew cast a hard glare at his brother and sister. His nose wrinkled up, the faint boyish freckles across the bridge of it stretching with his skin much resembling his mother, and the dimples within each of his cheeks deepened when he grinned, just like every fine boy to come from the Darcy line in all those generations, and he said; "Now you have done it Christian--you have made me hungry."
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"Georgiana," Brit Hart whispered into the darkness to stir her. "My love?"
No response was forthcoming, and Ethan Bristoe-Hart was left to stare blankly at the canopy of his bed while running a hand through his disheveled hair, his temperament chagrined to comprehend that he was deserving of no decent reply. Georgiana had not waited for him to come to bed, which was unusual, he thought, to say the least. Nor had she come down to his study to sit with him, as was her practice these past weeks.
He had considered that perhaps she was vexed with him, although he could not imagine why. Perhaps it had something to do with what he had said about his relationship with her brother and about their rivalry, though he had only spoken the truth.
Over the years family ties had meant to Brit Hart only a fond handshake with his father, and a peck on his mother's cheek as he headed for some endeavor to suit his latest fancy. It was clear to him now that marriage had changed his life forever. He was settled and bound to a land and to a wife, and Georgiana would certainly wish for a family. Unfortunately for his poor, rattled mind, Brit Hart had not calculated the consequences involved in having children, until his nephews and nieces had come to stay, and the proof so they say, was in the pudding.
"Georgiana," he spoke again in the stillness of the night. At once he felt lonesome, and in need of the companionship to be found in the arms of a loving wife. "Dearest?"
Georgiana had been awake all along, and upon her husband's application, she sat up next to him, and he leaned over and nimbly lit the candle upon the nightstand. Ethan Bristoe-Hart reached out to touch the loving hand of his wife, but to his utter astonishment Georgiana pulled away.
"What is this now?" he asked in a wretched voice of rejection.
"How can I trust you?" Georgiana replied, more determined, and more like the woman that her sister was. "By agreeing to marry you I have placed my faith in you, Mr. Hart."
"And what trust have I been known to break as your husband?" he questioned with incredulity, "And for that matter, why would you regard me so ill?"
Georgiana worried the lace cuff of her nightgown. "I should have taken better care," she announced in teary-eyed regret. "I should have listened to my brother's objections."
"What?" Brit Hart applied in earnest, his gall mounting as he pointed to his chest, inquiring next, "Are you saying that you are not happy being married to me?"
Before he could ask another question, or discover the root of Georgiana's discontent, a loud clamor rang through the house and Brit Hart launched from his bed with nerve-wracking fright.
"What the devil was that?" he spoke in haste as he fitted himself with a dressing robe in the manner of an anxious bullfighter, waving cape through the air. He pointed at his wife, and in fact, he shook his finger at her as if to chastise an unruly child.
"Keep to this room, Georgiana," he spoke with manly authority. "I should insist that we take this up again when I return, for there is no possibility of me sleeping at all this night, knowing that you do not trust me a jot."
Still grumbling, Mr. Hart lit another candlestick, took it, and left the room.
Georgiana was incensed at such an attitude, although her first inclination was to do as her husband had told her. She realized that in knowing Elizabeth as she did, that her sister would have tolerated none of such behavior from her own husband. Georgiana slipped from the bed, found her own wrap and cast it about her shoulders. She would certainly not be told what to do in such a manner, even if Ethan Bristoe-Hart was her husband and Lord of the Manor.
Georgiana left the room and followed Brit Hart down the stairway, through the dark halls to the floor below. She could hear him breathing in front of her in the darkness, a long inhale followed by a short, quick exhale as though his heart raced with the stir of a great chase. Soon Georgiana realized her own ragged breaths of fright and vexation, and she crept closer to the commanding figure of her man to sate her own feelings lacking in any confidence.
She labored well at composing the commotion within her, which she believed would do her, or her baby, no good at all. Georgiana reached out and grasped the sleeve of her husband's robe with her trembling fingertips, and poor Brit Hart jumped and abruptly glanced behind him.
"Good god, woman!" he exclaimed. "You gave me quite a fright!"
"I am sorry," she whispered
"I believe the sound came from the study," he said, his hand upon the latch of the door and the other holding the candlestick steady before him. He opened the door of the study swiftly and called out, "I say, what do you do in here!"
The flickering flame from the candlestick illuminated the room enough to bear witness to three pair of round, terrified eyes. Georgiana yelled out upon seeing the whites of them, and on hearing the frightening cry of their aunt, the Darcy children let out shouts of terror.
"What in blazes are you three doing in here?" Brit Hart inquired angrily.
"Christian was hungry!" Andrew howled out in reply. "But we cannot find the way to the kitchen--sir!"
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It was nearing dawn as Brit Hart found himself in the kitchen of Smythdon Manor. He sat in a hard wooden chair, alongside his nephews and niece, and Georgiana; his head propped against the unforgiving chair back, his eyes trying to concentrate on a chandelier above while the room seemed as though it had begun to spin.
"Do you want some of this bread?" Georgiana asked him, her attitude toward him oddly different.
He tilted his head forward, to see the blurry images of three children and his wife eagerly sopping up warm milk with chunks of bread. "Lord no," he replied, a hand clasping his forehead, "but I would like to go back to my bed."
"There is no need for that, Uncle Brit," Christian answered brightly, having satisfied his hunger. "It will not be long now until Prudence wakes up!"
Chapter VII
Elizabeth Darcy gazed out of her bedchamber window with a gloomy air to her countenance. Her interest was arrested by nothing more than the misty dawn beyond the sanctuary of the heavily painted sill; a windowsill adorned with coat after coat, the testimony of many long years of operation. In her soul she did repine for the closeness of her dear children, and on her cheeks she sported a tinge of regret for having betrayed the trust of her husband.
She knew that Darcy abhorred ignorance, but mostly he found it insufferable in himself. He was careful to always remain a man of sense, a man of good knowledge of what he regarded as matters of his concern. He had placed his confidence, and most of all his heart, in the palms of Elizabeth's hands during their marriage; something in the past he had been careful not to do with any other being. Elizabeth had truly been the only one to know him as vulnerable; particularly last night, and now she had seen to it that essential news had not reached him.
Although she had derived every sublime sentiment from their intimacy, and she had thought Darcy had as well, Elizabeth was positive that he would be vexed with her when he learned she had once again meddled in his affairs. She wondered what word it was that Mr. Rawlings had felt such an urgency to disclose--even if the Master of Pemberley had been otherwise engaged.
Elizabeth did have her regrets, yet she told herself that what she had done had been for Darcy's own good. It had all been done for Darcy's sake, and a little for her own.
"Have I told you of late how ardently I adore you?" Darcy sighed.
He had stolen up from behind Elizabeth, slipping his loving arms about her waist, tickling her ear with the closeness of his words. Elizabeth startled at this intrusion of her private musings with regard to him.
"No my love," she endeavored to smile warmly, overcoming her reservations in a moment of true attachment, "not in some time, and not in those very words."
With a decadent kiss, which he sited squarely on Elizabeth's lips, and an avid glimmer affixed in his eyes, Darcy replied, "Then I shall make it a point to say it more often."
Darcy was truly fascinated by the enchantments of his wife. He had come by all that he had desired to ease his worried mind, in the solace of Elizabeth's tender arms. It never failed to astound him how such simple pleasures could wash away the strain of the more complicated things in life, yet Elizabeth's effortless love did just that.
It has been said by a very wise person that a true and honest marriage is one that outlasts the hour of breakfast. Even two lovers as proficient in forgiveness as the Darcys were bound to suffer a trying time or two in all the mornings of wedlock. Elizabeth evaded Darcy's grasp enough to twist within the circle of his arms and face him.
"How I do love you, dearest," she said, the sentiment emanating truly from deep within her soul, though shame still marked her countenance. Her delicate hands worried his neckcloth, in want of an occupation to relieve her mind from her torture. Her fingers poked at the ends of the cloth to tuck them beneath the folds, and when she was satisfied with the look of it, she lifted her eyes upward to behold a husband's complimentary smile.
Elizabeth returned Darcy's kind gesture and said without pause, "It was divine to be alone with you."
"You talk as if our happiness shall end, my beautiful wife," he laughed softly.
"I fear that it will."
With a shake of his head, Darcy disputed her melancholy, "I have never had occasion to stop loving you."
"Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth sighed, "I must tell you..."
"No," he decreed resolutely, a finger pressed to her lips to quiet her, "tell me after."
The tip of his finger caressed the curve of her lips, and then he slowly swept the back of his hand against the softness of her cheek. Again, his touch made Elizabeth tremble, and her own fingers reached up to clutch his hand within her own.
"After what?" she was able to ask.
"After breakfast."
They took refreshments in their apartments, a tray of airy wiggs and a tart quiddany of plums set out alongside a hot morning brew to take the edge off of Darcy's hunger. He sat down and helped himself to one of the pastries, broke it in two, and spread the fruit generously on top.
Elizabeth poured him his tea after setting a slice of lemon in the bottom of the cup. She humbly handed Darcy the saucer, her eyes cast away, discouraging her lover, for she knew she must soon reveal her conjugal perfidy no matter what the effect.
"I miss our children," Darcy said slyly, believing that to be the cause of Elizabeth's gloomy mien, "and I am sure that you do as well."
"Oh, Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth sighed, careful not to frown, "I do long for them to come home."
Darcy's smile broadened. It was their disposition in marriage to give pleasure to one another and to take it, and it was clear to Darcy that it was in his power to bestow a favor in return for the compassion that Elizabeth had shown him.
"I shall send for the carriage directly, and you and I shall go and fetch them home."
Elizabeth smiled her overwhelming relief and approval. Her mood brightened, as did the light from outside the painted windowsill at the emergence of a ray of sun through the murky clouds and mist.
"I am always astonished that you can take your tea in such a way," she felt easy enough to tease her husband. "Does it not upset you so early in the morning?"
Darcy shook his head, and grinned with confidence, "Nothing would trouble me on the occasion of this morning."
Elizabeth's smile instantly faded, and she had quite made up her mind at that moment to tell him of her interference in his business when Mrs. Reynolds tapped on the door and Darcy bade her enter. The faithful housekeeper cast a glance toward her mistress before she spoke, and Elizabeth was compelled to bow her head in particular mortification.
"May I say, sir," Mrs. Reynolds addressed Darcy genuinely, "that you look very well this morning."
Darcy chuckled with pleasure, still engaged with his repast. "I take it, Mrs. Reynolds that I have not in the past few weeks--but do rest assured," he lifted his cup in a parodied toast, "Mrs. Darcy has found the remedy for my recovery."
Mrs. Reynolds blushed at the Master's impertinence, yet continued, as was her duty. "Mr. Rawlings is awaiting you in the hallway, sir. He says it is urgent."
Darcy arched a curious brow, for in truth he had forgotten about his steward, his tenants, and the tedious business of settling Pemberley's accounts. He swallowed what was left of the pastry and flung his napkin to the table, and it was apparent that he spoke to himself when he muttered, "I had thought perhaps that Rawlings would have had some news for me last night."
"He did have news," Elizabeth heaved a resounding sigh, happy to at last have the information set out in the open, yet growing anxious of Darcy's reply.
Darcy spun about to gape at her, as he tried to comprehend Elizabeth's meaning. One could see his good humor turn quite sour, although the slice of lemon in his tea had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
"Mr. Rawlings did come to call last night," Elizabeth reconfirmed. This confession was provocation enough for Darcy to turn swiftly and glare at the housekeeper, incredulous in his thoughts that she had concealed serious information from him.
"It is not what you believe, sir," Elizabeth gave a hasty retort, tugging gently on his shirtsleeve to bring his ill attention back in the deserving direction. "Good Mrs. Reynolds did bring you the news of it, but it was I who kept it from you."
Darcy was astonished at first, and then he was appalled. A terrible grimace settled on his face and he promptly dismissed the housekeeper with a wave of his hand and a promise that he would attend to the caller directly.
His menacing stare chilled Elizabeth to the bone, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, waiting for him to speak a word. "Then I am to understand," Darcy hoarsely choked out in shock, "that it was you who sent Rawlings away?"
"I did," Elizabeth respectfully submitted.
It hurt Elizabeth deeply to see her beloved husband so befuddled. It pained her more to see the strife return to the curve of his lips and the creases of worry deepen at the corners of his eyes and on the arch of his brow.
"I am the spitting image of a fool," Darcy spoke with certainty, and poor Elizabeth cringed at the severity of the words. "Why would you do such a thing, Elizabeth? Why--when I had told you how I felt--when I told you of the significance this news means to the state of Pemberley?"
"There is nothing more dear to me than you--and your health, sir. I did what was necessary."
"We did not do the right thing!" Darcy fumed.
"You did what you felt in your heart," Elizabeth defied him, though her arms were open to an embrace, "and I desired it of you. I longed for every touch, and every loving word from you--and neither of us wanted the interruption."
Darcy paid her no heed as he paced across the room. "I let desire govern me," he angrily replied, chastising merely himself. "Only a lustful youth would do that, and I am far enough removed from that age to forsake my good sense!"
"You let yourself be happy, for one night," Elizabeth rejoined while keeping pace with him. "You acted as any man would, and there is not one among you who would see it differently. The good people of your employ will understand!"
Darcy came to a standstill, and his lips tightened in affront, "I am not just any man, Elizabeth. I am, for now, the Master of this place--and there is no pity for a man in my situation."
Elizabeth was benumbed. She had no other argument to offer, in her defense or in Darcy's, and an apology seemed contemptible. Darcy left her in silence, and all the pleasures proven between two desperate lovers faded away to obligations required by obedience and duty.
Regret made Elizabeth follow Darcy hastily down the corridor, until he stopped his purposeful momentum long enough for his manservant to throw a greatcoat over his shoulders. From the top of the staircase Elizabeth watched her husband step lively down to the lower level, the woolen fabric of the greatcoat made airborne behind him by the authority of his vigorous gate.
Mr. Rawlings awaited his employer at the foot of the stairs. "Sir," he called out, "I tried to bring you news of this last night..."
"Never mind that," Darcy brusquely silenced the man, "last night was an unfortunate mistake. Let us hope that it is not too late for amends."
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Brit Hart awoke far too early that morning for his own liking, yet that manifestation which seemed to follow him about in the last day or so, was clearly present in his bedchamber. He abruptly sat up in his discomfort to look around the room.
"Prudence," he sighed out, seeing the youngster perched next to his bed, standing on a chair and twirling a lock of her hair, round and round her tiny finger as she surveyed her insentient aunt and uncle. "It is very bad form to watch people as they sleep."
Prudence simply stared at him, her little round eyes and inert pout indicative of her artlessness. Brit Hart reached over to the other side of his bed and upon finding the charming curve of his wife's hips, gave her a nudge.
Georgiana moaned and turned in his direction, then sat up when she realized that the nudge was more than playful in spirit. "What is the matter?" she asked, and then hastily held her hand to her midsection as she began to feel the ill effects of morning sickness, and indulging in a midnight buffet besides.
"We have a mole in our midst," Mr. Hart whispered, keeping an unyielding eye bent on Prudence.
"Dear," Georgiana moaned, "bring her up and hand her to me."
Brit Hart grasped the child beneath the arms and hoisted her into their bed. She scrambled over to her aunt, and wriggled herself beneath the warmth of the covers. Georgiana laid a hand upon the girl to steady her wiggling.
"Lay very still, Prudence," she whispered. "Pray, mind you--very, very still."
Barely being accustomed to sharing a bed with anyone, Brit Hart grimaced with embarrassment. He felt as if it would be an impropriety to remain, so he slid himself out of bed, and scoured the room in the darkness for his dressing robe.
He quietly stoked the fire in the hearth, so that when they did arise, Georgiana and Prudence would not have cause to shiver, and then he made his way, a coverlet in hand, down to his study and tried to find a comfortable enough repose on a creaky and unforgiving leather chair.
Within an hour however, he heard the stirring of domestics making ready for their duties of the day, and he simply could not rest. Brit Hart opened the door to his study, and stepped out into the hallway.
In this day and age it was not customary to pause and gape at one's employer, however most of the good, yet novel servants to Smythdon Manor had never witnessed their celebrated Master standing in the hallway, robed and slippered, unkempt hair tousled to and fro and chin rough and unshaven. It was indeed the stuff of which gossip was made, and Brit Hart bit down on his lower lip realizing his lordly blunder.
"Are you in need of something, sir?" a cockney expression-ed footman asked of him.
"No," he chortled awkwardly. "Do I look as though I do?"
"Begging your pardon, gov'nor," the man replied. "You look a bit lost as it were."
Brit Hart shook his head. "No," he said, "not at all. How can one be lost in their own house?" He grinned in his usual easy manner, and clasped his hands together before him. "Well, I am sure that you all have better things to do. Do not let me keep you, eh?"
With that being said, the servants dutifully disappeared.
When he was far more presentable, Mr. Hart took up his place at his breakfast table, not unlike every other morning he had spent in his own house. His newspaper was ceremoniously brought in to him, and his coffee cup filled as usual. He folded open the paper and read a title or two, then took a sip from his cup, and sighed.
None of the measures common to his routine gave him any comfort that morning, and Brit Hart fretfully drummed his fingers on the table, hoping his bride would join him directly. Nothing that had been crossly said between them had been settled last night, and Brit Hart was loath to recall any of it. He failed to believe it possible that Georgiana had tired of him already. That, he supposed, was to come much later in marriage--if his wounded heart dared suppose it at all.
Georgiana did enter the room after a time, looking ghostly pale, with four children in tow. Mr. Darcy's children took their seats, and quietly folded their hands before them, like the perfect angels that they were.
"Good morning," Mr. Hart said, quite indolently.
Georgiana swallowed and dabbed at her nose with her napkin. "Mr. Hart," she greeted him.
He nodded, not knowing what else to do, and then he said, a little merrier, to all in the room, "We have every good thing here, sausages, cheese, cakes, marmalade--whatever is to your liking."
"None of it, sir," Georgiana replied, though in her most respectful comportment. She struggled to her feet and begged of him, "Would you be so kind as to entertain my brother's children?"
Brit Hart stood up as well, in part out of chivalry, and somewhat out of concern for the alarming appearance of his wife. "Of course," was all of a reply that would suffice, before sweet Georgiana was compelled to bolt from the room.
Chapter VIII
Ethan Bristoe-Hart sat in the morning room of his manor, staring wretchedly at the bountiful spread before him. He had hoped to partake of a leisurely breakfast, although this morning not a morsel had been touched, and Mr. Hart's plan was not to be so. His young wife, upon the instant that he spoke had made haste from the room, leaving the poor man wordless and cross from that point on for the deed.
From this display he determined that Georgiana was more vexed with him than he had discerned. He had never truly considered himself so foolish in the notions of relations between a man and a woman having had some former knowledge of such a bond, yet Brit Hart could draw no sensible conclusions on where he had gone amiss as a husband. He was apt to believe, deep within a conscience now raw, that the whole neighborhood no doubt knew the answers to his troubles and would not tell him of such a mystery simply for the sport of watching a decent man suffer. No doubt Darcy knew the answer, for he had a familiarity of this particular thing, or so he had said.
Although they had not yet been married for a quarter of a year, Brit Hart's soul belonged completely to the fair Georgiana. The man had lost all sense of his own troubled lonesomeness upon falling in love with her, though now a different sort of woe plagued him gravely, and he came to wonder that perhaps Georgiana cared less for him than he had yearned for. How wretched it would be for one wife to have left him so suddenly and then to have another not love him at all. Brit Hart would think his life a dismal failure indeed, if this were true.
Now, four pairs of eyes assembled before him, watching his every move for a sign of strength. Nieces and nephews awaited a word from their uncle that all was well, and Brit Hart was reluctant to give it, though he knew that he must.
Blast that Darcy for having told him that this day would come, he thought vehemently while glimpsing the chaste faces of youth. Ignorance in such matters was preferable, if it meant that a heart would not stumble upon pain. Blast that Darcy, indeed!
Brit Hart stood up from his chair, scratching the whiskered part of his cheek with the tip of a finger, an anxious habit that he had always had since he had been old enough to sprout a man's beard. "Do have your breakfast, children," he benevolently advised the gallery of innocents, being man enough to know that they were in no way to blame. "I will return shortly, and we will have a go at something useful."
The gentleman made for the doorway, coming upon a smartly dressed footman at the threshold of it. Brit Hart paused to address him. "Do you have experience in minding children?" he inquired doubtingly for he was of late under the impression that very few of his acquaintance had.
"I do, sir," the peruked servant replied. "I have six of me own."
To this astonishment, Brit Hart leaned closer to the man, delighted in the confidence. "Marvelous," he whispered and patted the back of the servant's blue coat, "mind them well for a time good fellow, and there will be a half crown more in your pocket book upon the next occasion that you look."
In a moment Mr. Hart stood within the margins of the private apartment that he shared with Georgiana, pausing directly before the door of his wife's dressing chamber. "Mrs. Hart," he spoke in his distinctive clip, his ample hand gripping the knob of the door, eager to turn it.
He swallowed hard in his torment, hoping to hear happy words from his wife's handsome lips--words that would ease his mind. Being unconvinced of that however, he whispered to lend his tongue a more politic air, "Georgiana--pray let me inside and we shall talk this over."
The doorknob turned within his hand, and Brit Hart let go, heaving a sigh and feeling quite relieved that his dear, sweet Georgiana would show him the respect that a good wife did bestow on an esteemed husband. He grinned giddily for the very thought of his success, yet his curious joy gave way when he was conscious that it was not Georgiana at all who answered his plea, but her personal maidservant.
"Where is my wife?" he tried his best to catch a glimpse of the surroundings over the obdurate shoulder of the woman blocking the entry.
"Indisposed to see you, sir," the servant rejoined.
This sort of address made Brit Hart seethe red, for every time that he opened his mouth of late, Georgiana was not keen to listen and now she had sent her biddy to entirely dismiss him. "Then tell her," he forgot himself wholly, lapsing back to his indigenous inflection and the manners learnt from being raised in a house full of men, "to will her wounded little figure into the commons so that we might have this out--here and now!"
"Sir!" the maidservant admonished him. "It cannot be done! It may only be a matter of hours before the lady is able to take on such distress--then again," she sighed, "it may be months."
"Months?" Brit Hart was incredulous as was evident by the exceptional storm swirling theoretically within his sea-green eyes. "I shall be deuced that it would take months! She is my wife," he called out, rising above the woman to make his meaning clear to her and anyone else who may be peering from behind.
Georgiana's maidservant was appalled by such manners imparting from a gentleman and master of such a fine place, yet she knew it was not proper to make note of it. She remained unruffled, yet resolved as she told her lady's master, "Give the missus some time, sir."
In the very next moment, Brit Hart came to stare blankly at the back of a mahogany door, locked again from the inside. "Well strike me down woman," he groused and tugged on his waistcoat defensively.
The poor, misguided man turned about, looked round his bedchamber, and ran the back of his hand across his nose and lips, which had all of a sudden gone numb for having been kept so tightly drawn in displeasure. "Right," he muttered out, having nothing more profound to exclaim.
As he did tread from the room he stumbled over a fine Persian tied rug, the fringe of which had caught on the heels of the mucking boots that he wore. "You are very well right!" he regained his footing then turned back to give the offending rug a final childish stomp.
"I have my duties--well enough," he then proclaimed with a swagger of self-importance, "I have flocks to tend to, and I have an estate to administer--and let us not forget that I have children to mind!"
Behind the mahogany door of the dressing chamber Georgiana's maidservant tended to her charge. She knelt down next to the rumpled rise that were the hips and skirts of the mistress, and brushed back the wisps of hair come loose about Georgiana's pallid face.
"You will be no worse for it, ma'am," the kind woman said. "It is natural to feel this way, as disagreeable as it may seem."
Georgiana gasped, "I feel so dreadful--and my husband surely despises me! I should have said--perhaps I should have said--what ails me."
"There now, he cannot scorn you, like all men, he cannot understand, my lady," the servant made clear her skeptical view on the conception of behavior betwixt and between husbands and wives. "The master cannot blame you, for the joy that he will feel. Think of it--he will have himself an heir."
Georgiana sobbed, shaking her head, endeavoring to catch her breath before she made herself sick once again. "He does not want it," she bawled, "he told me so." Her attempts at ease were to no avail and she clutched at the chamber pot before her, though she retched up nothing for trying.
"No, no," the woman stroked her mistress's back to soothe her. "It cannot be so. A man does not know what he feels, before he knows the truth."
Georgiana had not the strength to lift her body higher, and she slid her weary head onto the skirted lap of her consoling maid. "Were it so that I had a mother to turn to, to hear my woes," the tears of exhaustion and misery rolled from Georgiana's eyes. "Were it that I had a father to comfort me. Even Mrs. Annesley could tell me what to do, were she here to condole with."
The maidservant sighed for the troubles of her mistress, "Oh my lady, take heart. These things happen to every young wife and mother. Let me tell the master if you like. It would be better than leaving him to his ignorance and you to such melancholy."
"No!" Georgiana struggled for a breath. "No."
"Then what may I do, dear Mrs. Hart?"
"Send me away, Mary," Georgiana moaned, "Elizabeth, my dear sister will know. I want to go back--to Pemberley."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Elizabeth Darcy felt dreadful. Not since she had first been acquainted to the man who was now her husband had she been so injured by hasty words that he had uttered. His anger with her at the moment was justified, it was true and she knew it for having interfered, and yet in all of the years of their marriage, Darcy had still not learned to hear the kindness of his own heart and ignore his mind's treatise. Firstly, he was rash if news disappointed him, and his fine and peerage breeding allowed him an excuse to say exactly those things he thought, good, or bad, or very often hurtful.
There were times when Elizabeth was convinced that her love, in her husband's estimation, was hollow. She had longed to be a wife; the sort of wife who was a confidant, not just a ready tumble, or a woman built of good stock to provide him with an heir. So many times she had felt as though she was his friend, and then so often did she feel that perhaps he was never in need of such a person at all.
She knew that he could not forgive for being crossed, if anything, by his own admission, for he could not see beyond his own comfort that which was good for others. Pemberley, and his idea of it always came first, for its very continuation was all the pleasures that Mr. Darcy needed be proved.
Elizabeth Darcy was indeed a wife, a very good woman first and foremost to one man alone, no matter how he treated her. She was also a mistress to many a dependant, and if Darcy were to campaign against those people who relied on his good opinion and generosity, Elizabeth would always be there to make the peace. If Darcy could not, would not settle things with the good people who worked the lands of Pemberley, there would be very little for Elizabeth to do, other than to demonstrate that one with the name of Darcy at least was fashioned of good will.
"Mrs. Reynolds," Elizabeth spoke up. "Tell Mrs. Beal to pack the gammons and puddings for the tenants of Potts Shrigley, the fresh cream and barrels of ale, and all the small curios for their children. I believe I shall go calling this morning."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Come along now," Brit Hart coaxed the Darcy children to keep pace with his long strides through the muddy yard. Prudence, however, he was compelled to carry in his arms for they probably would have lost her completely in the mire.
His mind was bent on a mission--a mission to meet the drover at the farmstead who was bringing a curly horned ram and ten fine ewes of the breed Leicester Longwool to Smythdon this very day. Brit Hart had until now been no gentleman farmer, but he had made his inquiries, and if the Leicester Longwools had been the favorite choice of even a parvenu the likes of General Washington of the Colony of Virginia, or rather of America, then they were indeed good enough for the prosperity of the interests of the Harts of Derbyshire.
Hannah ran along side her uncle to inquire, and then fell back to a brisk walk on doing so, "Is something the matter with Aunt Georgiana?"
"No," Brit Hart clipped the defensive lie, his true feelings on the subject hidden from the view of children's tender attitudes as he continued his jaunt. "No."
"She looked very poorly to me," Andrew joined the conversation from behind. "All white and ghostly-like."
"Perhaps Sir Walter gave her a fright!" Christian shivered.
"La!" Andrew boxed Christian on the forehead with the palm of his hand. "Go on! What nonsense do you dream up?"
"I do not think she is ill," Brit Hart dispelled while slowing his stride, though he at last wondered at the chance of it. He stopped abruptly and waited for the children to catch up to him. "I had not thought your Aunt Georgiana very frail, though perhaps I do not know for sure," he surmised before them. "Was she ill very often when she lived at Pemberley?"
"Not a day," Christian proclaimed, and Brit Hart shrugged his shoulders for having wondered at all.
Mr. Hart turned and again strode toward the object now occupying his mind. There was something in all of this mess of which he knew he could make work, and if it could not be his marriage, then it would have to be farming.
"Papa will not be very happy if Aunt Georgiana is not well cared for," Christian felt it his duty to declare.
"Christian," Brit Hart stopped, turned round and looked menacingly down on the boy, quite on the verge of batting the child himself. "I have been made to suffer the reprimand of a maidservant and the curtain-lecture of a wife within the span of a day. I have not had much sleep, nor have I had much to eat, and I have not the comfort of even a good smoke to appease me. Have some pity on me, lad," he mourned, "I beg of you!"
The children stood awed before him, having had some good knowledge from their father in just how far a man could be pushed. Hannah pouted, "You have been very cross Uncle--not at all like the jolly fellow that we love. Is it our fault?"
Brit Hart glanced at the muddy ground, ashamed of his conduct over the last day. His face alit with a curious smile, one not false or curt. "I wanted our time together to be good--to be merry," he said as his eyes peered sheepishly from beneath the auburn-hued locks of his hair. "There are instances when things weigh heavy on a man. I suppose this is one--though that is a very feeble excuse for being unkind. Do forgive me. I have not the patience that your father has."
The children all giggled at the odd manner in which their uncle used the words father and patience in the same sentence. Hannah smiled, happy to see her beloved uncle cheerful again. She gave him a kiss on the cheek after motioning for him to come down to meet her, and Prudence clasped her arms about his neck and laughed in his ear. Christian was apt to give him a hug, and Andrew gave him a manly pat on the back to buck up his spirits.
This indeed was Brit Hart's idea of family, the family that he had not had since boyhood, and his heart softened for the demonstration. For all of the bother children were apt to give a man, they gave their love and devotion to him with much the same ease. Brit Hart was beginning to have a notion of what Darcy had meant. That for all the freedom a man did surrender to have a family of his own, he learned categorically not to pine for it.
"Well now," Brit Hart stood up and grinned, "we have those sheep to inspect."
The troop marched down the path, coming within sight of the farmyard. The drover from Leicester had arrived and the sheep were safely in refuge in a circular fenced paddock. Brit Hart looked them over, a spectator held fascinated by the instructions of the more experienced drover. Prudence clung to him as he waded about in the muck of the farmyard, though Hannah and her brothers remained behind the fence, reaching through the planks to pet the dark head of a woolly ewe.
Brit Hart was learning many things, and he kept one eye on the children, assuring himself that they were safe, and more importantly than that, that they remained quite out of trouble. "Keep away from the gate, Christian!" he bellowed out good-naturedly.
"Why are they in the pen, Uncle?" Andrew asked. "The sheep at Pemberley roam free on the hillsides."
"They will ramble about soon enough," Brit Hart answered, still giddy with the quality of his purchase. "They have not the good fortune of knowing where their home is as yet. They will soon enough, when they are fed and know of their keeper's generosity. To let them out now would be foolish, for they would be halfway back to Leicester before we could herd them up."
"Ah," the drover said, "you have been minding your lessons in shepherding, sir."
"Indeed I have," Brit Hart chuckled. "I am anxious to see how fine a stock comes from a cross of these Longwools and a Wiltshire Horn."
"Sir," the drover said, a quick gesture toward the far side of the paddock.
In his eagerness, Brit Hart paid him no heed. "Or perhaps even a cross with a Derbyshire Gritstone," he nodded enthusiastically, "now that might produce quite a handful of wool."
"Sir," the drover pointed behind Mr. Hart, "Your children sir!"
Brit Hart turned about quickly and gasped. Christian hung upon the planks of a swinging gate, and a line of Leicester Longwools bleated favorably for the freedom as they filed past the paddock opening.
The color drained from Mr. Hart's face in his fury. "So help me, Christian--what the devil have you done?" he bellowed forth at a run, with tiny Prudence holding on to his neck for dear life.
Brit Hart floundered far to quickly through a patch of slippery mud, and his legs flew out from beneath him, and he landed upon his backside in the mire. Prudence was unharmed; coming to rest upon the poor man's stomach, although she wailed at such a shock, and the visiting drover plucked her from the gentleman's middle allowing Mr. Hart to breathe and wallow his way out of the mud.
He made progress toward the gate, followed by the drover and Prudence, as the last of the fattened sheep trotted merrily out. The drover set Prudence down on the ground as he helplessly watched the happy sheep kicking up their black heels and making haste in a southerly direction, somewhere for the neighborhood of Leicester.
"Good god," Brit Hart breathed out in disbelieving contempt. He grimaced at Christian, who still clung by his britches to the swinging gate. "Have I to wallop you boy, before you mind what you are told?"
The child quaked at the thought, for Christian certainly did not care to be punished by his own father, let alone the threat of such humiliation being served up by the uncle whom he adored. Andrew pulled him down from the gate and gave him a little reprimanding shove. Christian fell backward in the mud, wishing he could blackout his face with it and make himself blend with the landscape.
"I am sorry, Uncle! Truly!"
"Go back to the house--every one of you!" Brit Hart spat out. "Hannah--you will watch your sister, and your brothers. Be positive that not another disaster does happen to you along the way!"
Hannah fretted at the wild sight of him. "Are you not coming, Uncle?" she dared ask.
"I cannot," he grumbled out loudly. "I shall be all day chasing these sheep. All the blasted, blasted..." he kicked at the fence, "...day!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Mrs. Darcy!" a yeoman's wife uttered upon seeing Pemberley's mistress on her doorstep.
"Good day, Mrs. Mayhew," Elizabeth Darcy replied. "I have been meaning to come by. I am sorry to come unannounced and I hope that it is not a bad time?"
"Oh no, quite the contrary ma'am."
Elizabeth entered the humble house, and shyly curious children poked their heads from behind tables and chairs to catch a glimpse of the grand lady who lived in the large house at the foot of the fells. She smiled at them, and they giggled for being shown such condescension.
More often they had seen the mister, who was handsome, tall and dark, and stoic. His clothes were finely made and free of dust, and his gloves and boots always looked new. He came to talk with their father, and the sound of his voice resonated throughout the humble house, his speech being precise and perfect, and directly to his point. He was so much taller than the rest of the men in or around the village that this alone put fear in the hearts of impressionable youngsters. Rarely if ever did they come out upon seeing him enter their house, for if their father kowtowed to him as he did, they surely would never be presentable company.
The lady was different, although her clothes were just as fine and clean. She was pretty, yet she smiled a lot, and her voice was kind. She did not come to talk of business as the gentleman did, but she came to pass an hour with their mother, and oftentimes accepted the invitation to have some tea and biscuits. Even the children were allowed to partake of biscuits with her, as she insisted, and then she would show them what she had brought. It was always something good to eat, something that their family did not generally have, and they were very grateful for such generosity of spirit.
They knew that the gifts had come from both the master and the mistress, in appreciation for the job well done by their father. Their parents often talked of the good Mr. Darcy, and his kind wife, although just from appearances the children were compelled to believe that the bounty came solely from the missus.
Once they had seen two boys accompany the gentleman, two boys smartly dressed and their hair trimmed and neatly combed. The older boy had manners much like his father, while the younger boy was apt to wear a grin upon his face, even when the tall gentleman looked down on him with lips pressed together to imply that a grin was not proper etiquette. Still the boy looked happy for being the issue of such a daunting man, and the yeoman's children thought that perhaps living in the big house did have its privileges, especially upon having such an agreeable mama.
Elizabeth found it difficult to begin a conversation. She knew that Darcy had no doubt been calling at the house before her, and although she had not known what to expect, she thought it only right that Mrs. Mayhew might have some reservations about accepting her call. For all Elizabeth knew, Mrs. Mayhew was to look to Georgiana Hart for favor now.
"How good it is to see you Mrs. Darcy," the woman hurried to remove her dirtied apron. "We have only just seen your husband."
"Oh," Elizabeth soughed lowly, unable to say more.
"He came to speak to Mr. Mayhew."
Elizabeth's brows furrowed, assuring herself of Darcy's grievous offense. At any moment Mrs. Mayhew would tell her that her husband and the Master of Pemberley had not come to an agreeable fee, and that it would not be necessary for the Master's wife to make any further visits.
"I never realized the sort of man that Mr. Darcy is," the woman bowed her head to glance ill at ease at her dusty shoes.
Elizabeth felt her heart sink, for even though she knew of Darcy's principles, she had still held on to some hope that he could somehow be reasonable to all parties concerned. She looked at her hands within her lap, and instead of removing her gloves in evidence that she would stay for tea, she worried her fingers nervously together, and whispered, "I understand."
"I am sure you do," the woman replied, "you must--for having the good fortune to marry such a gentleman. He is as kind and as agreeable as any man--high or low."
Elizabeth hastily lifted her eyes forward to view the woman upon hearing her last words. She was perplexed, that Mrs. Mayhew should use the word 'agreeable' at all.
"He is what--did you say?"
"Oh so agreeable ma'am," Mrs. Mayhew confirmed.
"How so?" Elizabeth choked out.
"Why in his generosity, of course. He came with his steward this morning, and we thought surely that after Mr. Mayhew and the others had made such demands last night and when Mr. Rawlings did not appear that Mr. Darcy had flatly refused to settle at such a price."
"But," Elizabeth swallowed back her growing astonishment, "you thought him--agreeable?"
"Oh, Mrs. Darcy, he was more than agreeable and did give his tenants everything of which they asked. Not a complaint uttered or bargain struck from him--other than his word to pay more than we have ever known." Mrs. Mayhew giggled in jubilation. "Surely you knew of his plan, ma'am for a man such as he must take you into his confidence. Your Mr. Darcy is a man to be admired--by his tenants and, as expected, by his own wife indeed!"
Chapter IX(Conclusion)
It would be a long ride home for Mr. Darcy, as it was late in the day by the time that he had settled his affairs with all parties concerned in the hamlet of Potts Shrigley. Mr. Rawlings was pleased with the outcome of things; in as much as he would now hold some popularity with the tenants of Pemberley for being a negotiating sort of man, even though he assumed his own profits would dwindle somewhat as a result. Even so, he had never known the Master of Pemberley to be so easy. He had never known the gentleman to behave so readily reasonable in fact when it came to a matter of business--and it was an uplifting alteration in the man, to be sure.
"Would you care to have me ride along with you, sir?" he asked of Mr. Darcy as both men guided their mounts westward toward the gates of the gentleman's great estate.
"No," Darcy replied with a relegating sigh. "Go home to your own family, Rawlings. Your efforts have been much appreciated. Come round for your compensation two days hence. That should give me sufficient time to finish the books and draw out your earnings."
"You are very kind, sir. I am much obliged," Mr. Rawlings dipped his chin before he rode away.
Darcy traversed on, although after a time he brought his horse to a halt along the well-traveled way. He longed for a chance to have a thought in peace, an opportunity to mull over exactly what it was that he had done.
The good horse was patient with its master, although in want of the comfort of its stable and a flake of satisfying hay, it remained still and calm. Darcy was indeed relieved that this day the groom had outfitted the gray dappled gelding, for the ride was far more agreeable. The black stallion that Darcy made a habit of riding was indeed a spirited animal, yet if it be known, Darcy did not much care to pacify anything more this day than he had already.
The Master of Pemberley looked to the distance, able to glimpse the pinnacles of the Cage, an edifice greeting anyone entering Pemberley's finely groomed park. The structure seemed as old as time itself, a worn stone keep, a device of a Norman triumph in a land inherent to Saxons. If one looked far enough back, they would see that Darcy was bred of both, in heritage and in consequence. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a man of traditions in a time that could not help but be removed from the past.
Darcy lived in an age different from that of those far forgotten relations, singular even from that in which his own father had dwelled. Certainly alterations were an effect of the times, a consequence of novel ideas styling a land still reaping the benefits that the ages had proven. Yet some of this had come about directly by Darcy's own doing, from Fitzwilliam Darcy's own choosing of a friend--a trusted companion whom he loved dearly enough to call his wife.
Be true to your work, your word, and your friend, it had been said, and Darcy had hoped that by some palpable design, he had managed to respect that wisdom.
He wondered at Elizabeth's take on it. Had she seen herself as simply a mate these years of their union, or did she know how a husband's feelings on the subject did tend. Darcy questioned whether Elizabeth did love Pemberley as much as he did. The place would be the legacy of her own children, even if at first she had found the mere sight of it daunting, but Pemberley had been graced by the hands of those far forgotten fellows who were building their dreams. By this, Darcy was sure that Pemberley would always be here, tucked back against the vastness of the foggy Pennine Fells.
"Why can you not be easy?"
Elizabeth's words echoed through his brain as he whispered them aloud. He then remembered his own hasty utterance, with much regret.
"Last night was an unfortunate mistake."
This was not true--not in his marriage, for there were no mistaking Darcy's feelings. Elizabeth's demonstration of love was never unfortunate, nor unwanted--and it had been Darcy who had made a terrible mistake by his insensitive calculations.
What a notion it would have been to those far forgotten fathers, when all the pleasures between two people proved that a man could think of a wife as a friend, and that a marriage contract could give such pleasant refuge to both a husband and a wife. That a man and a woman could be lovers, and friends, was indeed a thing to marvel, and something Darcy was now sure should not be taken for granted, neither by that husband nor that wife.
Darcy dug his boot heels into the sides of his mount, and the proud animal lurched forward in a hurry, just as Darcy had commanded. There were things that Darcy felt he must say, and he could not wait another moment to do so. With newly found exhilaration and a rather cheery outlook on things, the wind whipped against the breast of Darcy's coat and past his cheeks, as the horse climbed the hill toward the gates of Pemberley.
Once in the courtyard, Darcy slid off to the ground and hastily passed the reins to an awaiting groom. He rushed up the stairs to the platform of the house itself, his boots resounding with each step he took in the hush of the square. He bounded into his house, tossing his gloves and hat to an attending footman, and with more hope than he had possessed in some time, he made his way through the house to find his lovely Elizabeth.
"Papa!" the voices of children screeched through the hallway, and four familiar and wanted faces anxiously ran to greet him.
Darcy hoisted Prudence into the air and tickled her with kisses on the back of her neck. Hannah and Christian held onto him from each side and he brought Prudence safely to her feet on the floor and embraced his other children, ever so delighted to see them. Only Andrew waited before his father without gleefully waylaying the man at first, until Darcy gave him that loving and proud smile and nodded his pleasure, and the boy flung himself into the arms of the father that he adored.
"How happy I am to see you!" Darcy was genuinely overjoyed.
Christian's smile did radiate from beneath his rosy cheeks. "We are very happy to see you, Papa," he sighed, "and Mama, and particularly the cook."
Darcy nodded agreeably, for it was indeed good to be missed. "Did your Mama come and fetch you from Smythdon?"
"Not exactly," Hannah had to reply. "We were brought back."
Darcy's brows furrowed deeply with wonder. "By Mr. Hart?"
"By Aunt Georgiana," confirmed Andrew.
As their father knelt before them, the delight on the faces of Darcy's children diminished. At first a sternness associated with fatherhood crossed Darcy's countenance, evident by the somber reflected in the prudent eyes of his children, and then Darcy's cross demeanor quite left him, and he asked in all sincerity in a readiness to sympathize, "Dear me--but why?"
"We were not so very bad," Hannah had to speculate, "although Christian did let out every Longwool whatever they were, and Mr. Hart was very cross about it."
Christian took the defensive. "I was not the one to break his smoking pipe, though!"
"You broke his meerschaum?" Darcy gasped.
"If that is the one that Uncle Brit got from the decreased apothecary," Hannah wriggled in her place, "then I suppose so."
A curious groan escaped Darcy's lips upon hearing such an odd rejoinder, and he glanced again at the four faces--the faces of children awaiting a lecture they were sure would come forthwith. Darcy still grimaced in pity for his unfortunate brother-in-law.
"You made good work of your time away, then?" he had to jest, though he felt the fault all his. "Why should it be any different there than here? You are who you are, and though you are mischievous, you are Darcys--and I love you all no matter what."
Four more relieved children there had never been; yet as the youngsters began to feel themselves far too fortunate, Darcy cut short their revelry.
"There is one thing," he spoke in seriousness, "that must be said, and it will be done by you all from here on in. There is a time when children must learn responsibility--and we shall say that this is the time for you all. Hannah, you are to look after Christian, and Christian, you are to look after Prudence."
Hannah and Christian did frown together at such a heavy responsibility. They felt barely able to cope with looking after themselves, let alone more mischief as one went down the infamous Darcy line.
"And you son," Darcy looked to his eldest, "will watch out for the lot of them."
"Papa," Andrew complained.
"No," Darcy shook his head once, "such a duty need not always be observed, but when your mother and I are engaged, it shall be your responsibility--without the need to impose on us for every little thing that should happen to go wrong."
"But what if it is serious, Papa?" Hannah gasped.
"Do you know what is serious?" Darcy did ask.
Andrew pursed his lips in thought. "If Prudence should get ill, or take a fall?"
"That is fundamental," replied Darcy, "for any of you."
"If something were to be on fire," Christian tried not to smirk.
Darcy frowned, "That is indeed, most serious."
"If Christian were to throw Polly Beagle into a tree!" Hannah squealed, willing to add her impressions of what might befall a much loved rag dog.
"That," Darcy established faithfully, "is not so serious. Do you understand?"
"How shall we know if you and Mama are engaged?" Andrew posed the operative question.
Darcy grinned, "You will know, or I shall tell you, straight away." He stood up, believing that he had made his point clear, and he waggled a finger toward the grand staircase. "Go and unpack your things and then you may play in the nursery until supper. Go on," he said, and his children were obediently gone.
Darcy heard voices coming from the drawing room, and without knocking he entered the room. Elizabeth had been kneeling beside Georgiana, though when Darcy did, she backed up onto her feet and gave him a tight and formal curtsey.
"Mr. Darcy," she bent her head in a manner as though they were barely acquainted, and Darcy flinched at the formality, taking it as a sign of Elizabeth's vexation with him.
"My dear," he responded evenly, and then grinned to tease, "and dear sister. I see that you have brought back my children, no doubt not a moment too soon for the preservation of my poor brother-in-law's nerves."
Georgiana sniffled into a lace handkerchief at Darcy's assumption.
"And where is Mr. Hart?" Darcy continued unknowingly, "Still chasing Longwool whatever-they-call-them and looking for a new meerschaum to purchase from a very small apothecary?"
"Small apothecary?" Elizabeth grimaced upon hearing such nonsense.
Darcy nodded with a trifling chuckle, "Indeed--Hannah said something about the apothecary being decreased."
Georgiana dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief as her voice sputtered out, "deceased, brother--the apothecary is departed!"
Although Darcy tried not to laugh, he did a poor job in concealing it, and Georgiana began to cry. "Sister," Darcy sat down in a chair across from her, concerned that his joke should cause such an effect, "Forgive me. I do not mean to laugh at the deprivation of your fine husband's belongings."
"That is not why I am tormented!" Georgiana managed to breath in.
"Then what?" Darcy implored, then upon receiving no answer looked to his own wife.
Elizabeth shook her head, placing a tender palm on her sister's shoulder, "I do not know. She will not say--other than she wishes to remain at Pemberley than go back to her husband's house."
"We had a terrible row," Georgiana finally admitted with a shuddering sob. "He does not want children!"
Darcy sat back in his chair, a little more comfortable in posture as he indifferently swung one leg over the other. "Of course he does not. Georgiana," he tried to speak plainly and firmly, as a father might, "it was not kind of me to pass off my children onto Brit Hart--he is simply not prepared for such an advanced state of fatherhood--whatever it is that he thinks. I will apologize to him, and to you, post haste."
"That will not change his mind."
Darcy groaned at his lack of success. "How do you know of his precise feelings--did he tell you of it--in so many words?"
"Not really," Georgiana took in a deep breath.
"Georgiana," Darcy began to lose his good humor. He did finally realize that his sister was no longer a child, and he was certainly not to interfere in the state of another man's marriage, "honestly--has Brit Hart been unkind to you?"
He waited until Georgiana shook her head to the contrary.
"He does treat you as you wish to be treated, does he not?"
Georgiana had no grounds to blame him, and so she nodded her head.
"Then I do not see what is so terrible that you should wish to move back to Pemberley?"
"He said that he was grateful not be a father and that he did not think that he possessed such a talent--and then I believe he flattered you with a compliment, brother."
"Indeed he should, sister," Darcy stifled a grin, and Elizabeth shot him a mindful look. "It is often that men say things that they do not mean--necessarily." Darcy caught Elizabeth's eye and he frowned in hopes of showing her his own shame. "Go back and make up with your husband. When the time comes and you present him with a child, he will change his mind--I know."
Georgiana was unconvinced, and she grasped Elizabeth's hand upon her shoulder, squeezing it within her own. Georgiana began to weep once again and Elizabeth came around before her and again knelt down. She whispered something to her sister that eluded Darcy's ears and then Georgiana nodded, and Elizabeth sat back in the posture of a woman's revelation.
"Of course you are," Elizabeth said with assurance, goading Darcy's curiosity.
"Are what?" Darcy pleaded for a sensible answer.
Elizabeth arched a brow at the witlessness of most men. "With child," she whispered and such news bowled Darcy over, for never having considered it in the first place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Darcy leaned against the adamantine stone of Pemberley's gatepost, his arms folded cross his chest as he espied a figure walking up the drive. It was not a leisurely stroll in which the individual before him undertook, but this was a man with a purpose.
"Darcy," Brit Hart acknowledged his brother in rather a perturbed manner, as he drew in a sharp breath from the exercise of his jaunt.
"Hart," Darcy replied, ever so easily. "Do you come all this way--on foot?"
"I do," Brit Hart said in cross rejoinder. "I thought that a walk might serve to cool my temper--and besides my wife has brought out the deuced carriage."
Darcy pondered such a shortcoming of his sex. "Yes," he admitted in a shrewdly conceived humor, "why is it that a husband must suffer the inconvenience of a row. It is so that on such occasions I am usually the one to have to leave my own house. It really is not right--is it?"
Brit Hart had not the patience for Darcy's levity. "Is my wife inside?" he nodded toward the grand house.
"She is indeed," Darcy, confirmed. "Though I told her that she could not stay."
Brit Hart was floored upon hearing such a response. "You told her what?" he asked incredulously.
"I told her to go home to you," Darcy reiterated his ploy.
"You are not to take her side on this--whatever it is that her side may be, for I have not the foggiest clue?" Brit Hart huffed in the manner of a spurned and ingenuous man.
"One moment," he continued to rant, "we are insanely happy, and then in the next she is sitting in my bed telling me that she should have listened to her brother before having the bad sense to marry me! When I try to ask her to explain the very notion, she has her servant tell me to shove off like I was some fleeting tumble in any old seaport, and I end up spending the rest of the day rounding up sheep that your son let loose only moments after I swear I told him not to. I then go home to a deserted house, tired, mud stained, and hungry to find that everyone in the neighborhood has come over here with their baggage beneath their arm!"
"Are you finished?" Darcy questioned.
Brit Hart rubbed a hand across his dewy face. "I am," he replied, out of breath and out of sorts. "Quite."
"Brit," Darcy began, "I am sincerely sorry--that is, I am sorry for what I have done to you."
"How so?"
"I should never have thought it wise for you to play father to my children. That is not the way that you and Georgiana should have come by parenthood, or by a first argument. That is between the both of you, and I have no business being in the middle."
"You said that it would happen, Darcy--the quarrel that is. Are you not to say 'I told you so'?"
Darcy shook his head adamantly, "No."
"Well," Brit Hart could see some light to this day, "that is a query. Having your children in my house did make me think, Darcy--and at first I was not sure that I was cut of the stuff it takes to be a father."
"And now?" Darcy's mind hung on the very question.
"And now, the more I think of it, it would not seem such a bad prospect. I can see how a man would have pride in his children, vexation or no. They do love unconditionally, as you said, and I find that I was very fond of having them around--as long as they come one at a time, that is."
Darcy chuckled, "take my word for it that they often come in twos."
It was odd, but Brit Hart did laugh at that. "No Darcy, I do not think I shall take your word for anything for a while--and I think that would please us both."
"It would," Darcy agreed. "I am sorry about the meerschaum--the children told me."
"Forget it."
"I was actually quite grieved to hear about the apothecary as well," Darcy said uncomfortably, and Brit Hart cocked his head to the side, in modest agreement.
Both men stood at the gate in momentary discomfort, having nothing more to say, and then Darcy looked up from his awkward inspection of his boots and uttered, "You shall make a fine father, Brit."
"I hope," Brit Hart sighed.
"You shall--and when you see your child for the very first time, you will wonder why it was that you ever had any doubts at all."
Brit Hart glanced at his friend to notice the peculiar way in which Darcy did grin at him, and within his head, the gentleman began to have a clue. It was not always a husband's lot to be that dim, though husbands did rest easier for having been told of all truths by their wives. However, Brit Hart dismissed it with a shake of his head, and made for the house.
"Georgiana," his voice broke the silence at the threshold of the drawing room.
Georgiana turned toward the sound of a familiar and beloved timbre. "Ethan," she replied in a whisper, still worrying the handkerchief between her fingers.
"Tell me that I am not so terrible a husband to you," Mr. Hart beseeched.
"Tell me why do you not want to have a child, Ethan?"
Brit Hart heard the thing that he wished he had never said. "Oh my love," he sighed, "those were very hasty words. A man does sometimes say those things that he should never have uttered--those things he never really meant at all."
Georgiana smiled a little and replied, "That is what my brother had said."
"Your brother is at times a very wise man, though I shall try to never let him know it," Brit Hart rolled his eyes round. "He would be insufferable about it, at best."
"Oh, Ethan."
Brit Hart grinned, yet his amusement took a turn back to all seriousness. "Those things I did say, I do sincerely regret. What is more is that it was simply not true, and I know it. Can you forgive me?"
It was barely a difficulty for Georgiana to nod her head in enlightenment, and she swiftly found herself in the arms of her husband, a peace restored to her values, and a hope that they would never argue again. Yet she realized that she had not told him one particular thing, and she reserved her happiness until Mr. Ethan Bristoe-Hart was to hear the truth of things.
"We are to have a child, Ethan," she spoke shyly.
"Yes," he smiled and kissed her forehead, happy simply to be in her favor once again, "one day soon, of course we shall."
Georgiana's eyes lifted toward her husband's face and she wondered that he still did not understand. "It was not a question, Mr. Hart," she whispered.
It is a queer thing when a man finally grasps the notion of what will become of him as a father, and Ethan Bristoe-Hart was no exception to it. His brain temporarily goes numb, and then a flood of feelings rushes through it, as if someone has opened the sluice gate of all the worlds' sensibilities. The acknowledgement first appears as a tentative and crooked grin, and then speech forms upon his lips in the one short phrase that he is able to utter somewhat intelligently.
"That was very easy."
"Yes," Georgiana had to giggle at the sight of him, "You will be a father by midsummer."
"I never thought," The odd grin on Brit Hart's face became a full-fledged smile of joy, and he kissed his dear wife tenderly, as his hands cradled what he knew was the face of an angel. "I never thought that I would...I simply had never thought it!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By Darcy's calculations there was only one more thing to solve that day, and perhaps that would be the highest hurdle of all. The fine gravel that lined the promenade crunched under the weight of Darcy's boots as he strode by the orangery, and he glanced through the windows to see if his wife was to be found within. Indeed she was.
"May I join you, or do I intrude on your privacy?" Darcy asked of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth nodded her consent and Darcy sat down beside her on a finely carved wooden bench. He folded his hands before him and did not attempt to conceal his sigh.
"Do you ever get the feeling as though we have lived this scene before?" Elizabeth inquired. "What does one call that?"
Darcy pinched his lips together, feeling awkward at not having an answer. "I do not think that there is a word for it, precisely," he replied. "Why not make one up yourself?"
Elizabeth did smile at that. "I shall ponder it, and let you know what I come up with."
Darcy leaned back against the bench and began to speak, as Elizabeth had quite made up her mind to speak to Darcy, no doubt on the very same subject. An awkward pause overtook them both.
"You first," Elizabeth gave way in favor of Darcy's intended discourse.
Darcy thought a moment, and then he asked of her, "Do you still feel small next to this place?"
Elizabeth exhaled a small laugh of discomfort. "I do not know. Why do you ask?"
"You mean everything, Elizabeth," Darcy wasted no time in expressing what he felt. "You are everything to this place, and you are everything to me, and how you could feel small beside that, I can not say."
It did Elizabeth's heart good to hear it, yet she was inclined not to believe it so readily. She was not willing to give her heart so freely, for the whim of Mr. Darcy to break.
"This place is not so grand," Darcy continued, "for it is here that I learned to hear my heart, though I would never have done so, had you not come to make me listen to it."
"I hear from some in Potts Shrigley this day that you are a very agreeable man, Mr. Darcy."
Darcy pinched a frown, "And you are inclined not to believe it?"
"I do believe it," Elizabeth answered, "yet why did you settle so readily?"
For the first time, Darcy looked Elizabeth straight on. "As proof to you--that you should think me easy--that I should be the sort of husband that you have always wanted."
"You are that sort of husband."
"Well then," Darcy was unconvinced, "that I should be that sort of friend. I do hope that I can be both. You are both to me, you know."
Elizabeth choked back her emotions, "No, I did not know."
Somehow Darcy felt anxious. He reached out a tentative palm to place against her cheek, and then pulled his hand back in abhorrence of himself. "You are both, oh, how you are Elizabeth. We have never had trouble being lovers," he scowled at his faults, "Why I never told you what a friend you are, I cannot say. I had always thought that you knew, for I believed that all the pleasures did prove it."
"I believe they did, Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth concurred.
"Then friends we shall remain?"
"Friends we remain," Elizabeth agreed. "It is a pleasure to be your friend, Mr. Darcy, and a joy to be your wife."
Elizabeth leaned toward Darcy and he toward her, and as their bodies came together in an embrace as constant friends and as steadfast lovers there was a hush to fall across their minds and a peace that such pleasures always did prove. To this feeling, one did hang a label describing it as love, and love it truly was.
"Papa!" the excitable voice of a child broke the bond.
This time Darcy's enthusiasm to cut short the intrusion did not wane, and he scrambled to his feet and met the child at the doorway of the orangery. "Christian!"
The boy studied the brusqueness spread across his father's face, and he glanced at the modest bashfulness on the cheeks of his mother. A realization came to him, quite out of nowhere.
"Oh," he whispered, as if divinely enlightened, "is this one of those times?"
"Yes," Darcy endeavored to conjure up that fatherly endurance.
Christian shrugged and before he ran back toward the house to tell his brother and sisters that the momentous occasion had occurred, he said most matter-of-factly, "Then never mind."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a joyous Christmas that year, and Mr. Hart's parents did make the long journey from Cornwall to Derbyshire for a visit. So overjoyed were they upon the news that they were to be grandparents that Mr. Hart's mother did cast her petite arms about her daughter-in-law and kiss her son repeatedly for having made her happiness complete. Mr. Hart's father did not extend his son a hearty handshake as usual, but embraced him the likes of which he had not done since Ethan Bristoe-Hart had been a small boy.
Mr. Hart did not quite know what to make of it, although suffice it to say that it made him feel quite proud. He now looked on the prospect of fatherhood in a different light, and as time passed he found it quite difficult to wait for the occasion.
Midsummer did bring the day that Brit Hart was to become a father. Darcy thought the poor fellow to be worse than anyone for having to pass the time in patience and prudence, and it was not all that simple for Darcy either. This time, instead of having the agony of counting the carpet squares to while away the hours, Darcy had the silent heads of red deer to examine while promising himself never to have the notion to allow one to grace the tasteful walls of his own study at Pemberley.
He was very relieved when his brother-in-law was called away to set eyes upon his first born son, and when Darcy himself was allowed to see his sister and to take a look at his nephew, there in the thick of it was Brit Hart. The gentle man gazed at the face of an infant, his own, within the circle of his sturdy and protective arms. The child was a miracle beyond a father's power of description and Mr. Hart did only have to grin at Mr. Darcy to prove it.
Mr. Darcy did smile and scratch at his neatly trimmed sideburn to ponder such a proud sight, and feeling himself ever so victorious, he did proclaim honorably to his dear friend, "I told you so."
Finis
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