Mr Darcy's Bed
By S. Faith, © 2012, 2013
Words: 30,808 in six chapters
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: Waking up in a strange bed is more than a little disorienting…
Disclaimer: Bridget and Mark aren't mine; you know to whom the others belong. In this work of extreme fiction, certain other characters are assumed to have been based on actual living human beings, and certain places are assumed to have been (and still be) real. Suspend your disbelief just a little bit more.
Notes: In commemoration of the 200th anniversary of the publication of Pride and Prejudice.
Chapter 1.
A Friday evening, late summer / early autumn
Absolute perfection.
The surprise, the drive north, the gasp in awe as the car rounded the corner and the estate came into view, the timeless stone façades bathed in the golden light and long shadows of the setting sun… all were absolute perfection.
"You know where we are?" he asked, the smug expression telling her that he knew the answer already.
"Oh my God," she said as she took it all in, her hand covering her gaping mouth. She then looked to him. "And we're having a minibreak here."
"We are." He glanced to her, the smirk still upon his lips. "Though I almost didn't get a booking. I think they quite thought I was taking the mickey when I gave them my name for the room reservation."
She laughed, then reached over, pushing aside her seat belt, and tried to kiss him.
"Bridget, I'm driving," he said sternly, gently pushing her back into her seat.
"Don't care," she said. "I could die right now and I'd be happy."
"Would rather not, if it's all the same," he said, humour back in his voice as they drove the final curve and approached the front of the estate.
Pemberley.
She still remembered the expression on his face, humouring her with a cocked brow as she'd explained to him once that yes, there really was an estate in Derbyshire, there had been a family called Darcy—"Maybe they're even your relations, Mark!" she'd added.
"I think not," he'd said quite curtly, and that had been the end of the conversation… or so she had thought. How on earth would she have ever guessed he'd carried that nugget of info away and booked a room for the weekend to celebrate their engagement? It was too good for words.
"You know," she said as the car came to a halt at the main entrance, "you are a hopeless romantic, as much as you may deny it."
"I don't deny it," he said, "if making you happy makes me a 'romantic.'" The way he said the last word—as if it were foreign to his tongue or had a funny taste—made her chuckle again. She slipped off the seatbelt and leaned over to kiss him again.
This was interrupted by the appearance at Mark's door of a young man fitted out with the livery of a Regency footman. She turned and found another at her own. "Suppose we ought to get checked in," she said with a grin.
She was filled with the same sort of glee she'd once reserved, as a child, waiting for Christmas morning and bags filled with presents at the foot of the bed. The actual estate, the grounds of which the actual dark and brooding master himself had walked, surveying his domain, barking crisp orders, hunted for fowl with his friends, hosted balls…
"Bridget." It was Mark. "You're off in your own world." His voice was firm, but he was smiling. He extended his elbow to escort her in, which she accepted.
"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "It's such a dream come true."
He leaned and kissed her on the temple. "You do realise that actor fellow of yours is not going to be here, don't you?" he teased quietly as they began the ascent.
"Oh, hush," she said, holding her head high with the regal bearing she imagined a lady of the Regency period would have had.
Within short order they were checked in, then led through the positively cavernous halls lined with gilt-framed portraits and pillared statuary to a glorious suite, resplendent with authentic period furnishings. She noticed that there was the occasional item that was fixed behind a glass display case. "Those are originals, miss," said the footman. "We have them behind glass to discourage their being touched."
"Oh, wow," she said breathlessly.
When they were shown their room, she was so in awe of it that she hardly noticed the footman had gone, and only did when she gasped to see that there was a pitcher and wash basin on the bureau, also in a glass case and fixed down for its own protection. "It's beautiful," she said reverently, peering down at the delicate Dutch blue flowers on the side of the pitcher. "I can't believe they have these things in the rooms! Antiques! Imagine!"
Mark chuckled. "You sound a little like your mother there," he explained, setting the bags on a chair next to the bureau.
"Hmm," she said; she was not truly annoyed at the comment, but felt as if he should pay for it: "Perhaps I should heed her advice, then. After all, it doesn't feel right to shag in a Regency bed."
He chuckled again. "Sorry to laugh, darling. It's just… there's no way you'll not have sex all weekend in the biggest suite in the place… just to spite me."
She pursed her lips, pulled the corner of her mouth up. He was right.
"The sun's already going down," he said, deftly changing the subject as he went to the broad expanse of window. She joined him; he slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his embrace. It was an astonishing view, marred only by the occasional reminder of the modern world: the motor of an auto driving by, lights flickering on to illuminate the grounds, the sound of conversation carrying on the wind from the outdoor tables from the restaurant downstairs. "Perhaps we can wait to have a tour of the grounds tomorrow when it's daytime," he went on. "Maybe tonight we can just have dinner and retire early. It's been a long drive."
"Okay," she said, putting her own arm around his waist, skimming her fingernails along the fabric of his shirt.
"In fact, if you like, we can have our dinner en suite."
"Actually, no, I'd like to see a bit of the place. Let's go downstairs."
"I was hoping you'd say so," he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. "I rather like the idea of showing you off."
She made a dismissive sound, though blushed furiously. "Oh! I feel like I should put on a proper frock."
"This is not to my knowledge a period weekend," he teased. He released her, then stepped away. "Come on, let's have dinner. I'm suddenly famished."
"I need to freshen up a bit. Change into a pretty dress."
"Five minutes, no more," he said. "As if you need more than that."
Twenty minutes later, as he escorted her on his arm down towards the restaurant, Bridget was again agog at the simple splendour of the place. She felt like a miniature in comparison to the grand, arching ceilings, which, if not for the electric lighting, might have disappeared upward into shadow.
A sign outside of the restaurant declared that at one time, the room was the great ballroom. Massive electric chandeliers and candelabra made to look like real candles sat within their limbs; multiple fireplaces adorned with statuary; gilt decoration on the cornices and in the coffers on the ceiling; enormous paintings gracing every wall. "And to think they've kept everything authentic to the era," she said. "Positively cavernous! Can you imagine having dinner in a room like this one every night?" She was aware that once again she sounded like her mother.
"I can't, to be honest," he said. "I prefer something a bit more cosy." He seemed to notice just then that she'd changed into a loose, flowing, white cotton summer dress. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you," she said with a smile. "You don't look half-bad yourself."
They were greeted by a maître d', who led them to a table near to one of the lit fireplaces. It may have still technically been summer, but they were almost to September and the night was growing cool already. "Do you think they'll light the fireplace in our room?" she asked excitedly as he pushed her chair in for her.
"The fireplaces are gas, darling. Look." As he took his own seat she saw that indeed, it was a gas fireplace, though it had quite a convincing façade of wood behind the open-mesh screen to complete the illusion.
The restaurant menu was limited to one or two options for dinner, recipes from the period augmented for the modern palate; Bridget was actually quite grateful because it meant there was less of a crisis in making a decision. She swore Mark was relieved for the same reason.
"I want to start with some Negus, and a bowl of white soup," she said decidedly.
"Oh," said Mark. "Is that what you were trying to make on your birthday?"
"You're trying to get yourself banished to the—" She broke off abruptly; she was about to say 'sofa,' except that at that moment, her gaze fixed on a portrait that was so uncanny as to be eerie.
"What is it?" Mark said, alarm in his tone.
"Look at that painting!" she said, and he turned to follow her gaze. "That man looks just like you!"
"He does not," Mark said, turning back to face her.
"You can't tell me this isn't part of your—oh my God!" she exclaimed, interrupting herself, noticing the prominent sign beside the portrait. She could only imagine what it said… that it was the very man from Austen's work, himself. "I wonder if he's your ancestor!"
"Bridget, I've told you," he said. "He's not. We're not related. Now decide on what you're having for a main course."
She was doubtful that two men could look so similar, have the same name, and not be related, but she let the matter drop, and it was for the best she did, because the server came around to take down their order. Instead of opting for Negus and white soup, Mark went with red wine and brown onion soup.
"And for your main course, sir, ma'am?"
Mark smirked. "It would behove me, I think, to try Mr Darcy's Favourite Beef-Steak Dinner."
"Oh, yes, I'll have that too," Bridget said with a wide grin.
The drinks and soup arrived very quickly; Bridget looked to Mark to see the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"What's so amusing?" she asked.
"You," he said. "I'll never understand your fascination with that book."
"'That book'?" she repeated, affronted. "Mark Darcy, it is much more than just 'that book.' There's so much detail of everyday life, especially the lives of women, that you hardly know you're getting a great history lesson until you're done with it! Plus it's a great love story and a testament to holding out for the right person—I mean, they were hardly each other's first choice, were they?" At his amused expression, she added, "And don't look so patronising."
"I'm not at all," he said, holding up his hands in an 'I surrender' posture. "I'm simply considering how many times I've heard this impassioned speech, and how many more times I'll hear it during the course of our married life together." He then reached across the table to take her hand. "I'll probably never properly understand, but I find you adorable about it all the same."
"It is not 'adorable' to appreciate literature—"
"I suppose 'adorable' is not the best word," he interrupted before she could build up a full head of steam about it. "I'm happy that it makes you happy, darling."
"I enjoy it, but it doesn't make me happy," she said, turning her hand to hold his. "You do, you daft cow."
Again Mark chuckled; they had done a lot of laughing at dinner, and she loved it. "In case you haven't noticed by now, darling," he said, "I can hardly be considered a 'cow.'"
The Apple Snow dessert on the menu proved too great a temptation despite being devoid of chocolate, and proved itself worthy of ordering. By the time they left the restaurant, Bridget felt pleasantly squiffy from the alcohol, and totally, happily full from the meal. "It's a good thing we only planned to go back upstairs tonight," Mark said, a little squiffy himself as they walked with his arm around her shoulders.
"Good thing."
Still in that happy mood, they lit the fireplace (gas, as predicted). Mark insisted on doing it, "Lest you light the suite on fire, darling"—then proceeded to drop the still-glowing match onto the floor. Thankfully it fell on the stones, missing the carpet, but not by much. Bridget began laughing so hard she collapsed and fell sideways upon the bed.
The bed sank beside her; one hand reached for her waist, and the other, her thigh; she shrieked at the light tickle just under her ribcage. "Darling, darling, shhh," whispered Mark as he pushed the hem up and slid his hand along her smooth skin. "They're going to think I'm murdering you in here, when nothing could be further from the truth."
She didn't shriek anymore, but still had plenty of cause to hope the neighbours could not hear. Everything about the evening—the food, the décor, the flicker of the fireplace in an otherwise unlit room—was utter perfection, and they still had the whole of the weekend in front of them.
She sighed and turned over to push herself up, in order to brush her fingertips along Mark's brow, then kissed the tip of his nose. A low rumble of laughter came from him as he pulled her close and kissed her again.
"Can you imagine?" she said with a sigh, feeling her lids droop with sleepiness.
"Imagine what, darling," he said, close to her ear.
"What it might have been like to live in this house, all the time, in the height of its splendour in Jane Austen's day… oh, it must have been heaven…"
With that, secure in Mark's warm embrace, she drifted into slumber; the last thing she remembered was feeling a tender kiss in the centre of her forehead.
…
It seemed only the matter of a moment until it was morning, which was heralded abruptly by the sound of a man's voice, sharp and shocked, awakening her from sleep:
"What the deuce?!"
She squinted, hardly unable to believe her eyes: standing there at the side of the bed, hands on hips, Mark had somehow acquired the most ridiculous sideburns, and was dressed in what looked like an old-fashioned chemise and… breeches? It was then that it dawned on her what he must have done and burst out laughing. "Did the hotel people lend you that getup? Do they keep fake sideburns around for just such an occasion?"
Mark looked perplexed. "I do not know what you mean by all of this, madam, but I demand you explain your presence in my bed at once."
She laughed again. "Stop being silly and come back to bed."
"I will do no such thing," he said sternly, his brows furrowed.
Bridget couldn't help her continued laughter. "You're not doing very well at the impersonation, you know."
"Madam," he said darkly. "You are seriously trying my patience. If you do not explain yourself at once—"
He stopped speaking when she pushed the bed covers back and rose, then approached him. He seemed speechless, staring at the cotton dress she still wore from the night before.
She swore she saw a blush tint his cheek; he also averted his gaze away from her. "For God's sake, cover yourself. You are attired most indecently."
Blimey, she thought. He's taking this very seriously.
At that moment something in the periphery of her vision caught her eye. It was the pitcher and washbasin on the bureau. It was still blue and white, still beautiful, but no longer covered by a protective case. Without thinking she went directly to it and picked it up in her hands.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"How on earth did you get them to take off the cover?" she asked, setting the pitcher carefully back into place, then looking to him. He was still focused on a point downward, and not at her. "This is an awfully good prank, love, but you can drop it now."
"If anyone should be accused of perpetrating a prank, it is you, madam," he said. "You have somehow managed to slip unnoticed into the house and into my bed chamber—and now you are referring to me in a way that is far too familiar. You also have yet to explain your presence, and I suggest you do so at once, or as magistrate I shall be forced to take action."
"Oh, 'action,' eh?" she said. "Enough is enough, really. Let's just go back to bed and pretend…" She trailed off as her eyes caught a glimpse out of the window. She walked even closer to it.
"I implore that you stay away from the window," he commanded.
She paid him no heed and pushed aside the curtain enough to look outside. She drew her brows together as she gazed out the window. It was a beautiful day outside; blue sky, sunny, dotted with cotton clouds… and not a vehicle to be seen.
Or another human being. Or nothing but rolling green landscape as far as the eye could see: the gift shop was gone, the fences were gone, the car park was gone and the road was no longer paved.
She felt her hands begin to tremble of their own accord. It was one thing to dress in funny clothes, put on false sideburns and get the staff to remove the protective case from the washing pitcher. It was altogether different to have reset the very roads, removed all the autos and…
"Oh, crikey," she muttered as an old-fashioned horse-drawn carriage appeared from around the bend. She turned away from the window to see he'd come very close, and with no hesitation she reached up and tugged at the sideburn, expecting it to pull off, possibly with a little resistance.
Not only did it not come off, but it was very clear they were all too real.
"What is the meaning of this?" he said in his alarm, taking a step back, his hand raising to cover the offended cheek.
The sideburns are not false at all, she thought again; How had he managed to grow a full set of sideburns overnight? But no, that's not possible. They must be really good fakes—because otherwise it means—
"I'd really like to know myself," she said, looking up into his eyes, which she realised were not the warm brown of Mark's, but more of a sort of speckled hazel; her vision went blotchy then the world went swirly as she fell forward in a faint.
…
He caught the lady as she collapsed. It would not have done for her to hit the floor and injure herself, further necessitating that the doctor be called out to the estate…
He still had no real notion of what had happened. He knew only that there had been a strange woman beside him in bed this morning, that he had believed himself dreaming until he realised she was all too real. He had quickly vacated and dressed without the assistance of even the valet before attempting to wake her, because he did not want anyone to find her in there with him.
He laid her on the bed, pulling the blankets back over her. He then rationalised what must have happened: during the night a carriage must have come requesting assistance for this obviously unwell lady, who did seem a bit disorientated just then and was speaking in riddles. She must have been placed in a nearby room, and in her fever had wandered out and into his own room by accident.
Maybe he had been too harsh with her, especially if she were ill.
Right now, he reasoned the best thing to do was to leave her to sleep.
Not two paces from his room he encountered his valet. The man looked horrified, not at his master's appearance, but that he had not been present to attend to him. "Sir, if I had known you had risen—"
"It is quite all right, Cooper," he said quietly. "Tell me. Did we have a carriage stop here during the night?"
"A carriage?" Cooper repeated. "No, sir, we did not. If we had you would have been awakened."
"Of course," he said, walking on towards the stairs to the main floor, his thoughts again in a whirl: from where did the young woman come? He did not recognise her as being from the village; surely he would have recalled seeing someone with such bright flaxen hair and blue eyes.
He stopped walking again. What if—against his character, against all good judgment and sense, given the presence of his younger sister—his cousin had brought this attractive young woman into the house for carnal pleasures? He would need to find his cousin at once.
As he descended the grand staircase, the object of his search passed through the foyer and they saw one another at approximately the same instant. "Darcy, there you are," said his cousin. "I need very much to speak with you privately."
"And I, with you, Fitzwilliam," he said. "Let us go into the billiards room—we are sure not to be disturbed there."
The room was indeed empty and, most importantly, free from the presence of Darcy's younger sister. "So who is she?" Fitzwilliam asked, a slight grin adorning his features.
This question caught him by surprise. "What do you mean?"
"I rose early for a turn about the garden and upon my approach back to the house I saw a blonde lady peering out what I know to be your bedchamber window."
Darcy was nonplussed, eventually saying, "I thought she was there at your behest."
Fitzwilliam laughed. "You thought I obtained a young lady for you?"
"No, I thought you had secreted her into the house for your own… pleasure."
"Darcy, you wound me," he said, placing his hand to his chest, over his heart. "I would never do such a thing, particularly with Georgiana present."
Darcy sighed in his relief, though was no closer to solving this mystery.
"So where did she come from?" asked Fitzwilliam.
"That," said Darcy, "is an excellent question." He ran his hand down over his face. "I should at least have a maid look in on her—we can say we found her wandering on the grounds. Bring her a proper set of clothes and some food. Maybe she will be more coherent then."
With this agreement in place, the two of them exited the billiards room; Darcy turned at the sound of his valet's voice. "Sir," he said. "I have been looking in earnest for you. I went into your chamber and…" His expression said it all: confusion, surprise, shock.
"I found her wandering on the grounds early this morning," said Fitzwilliam quickly. "We put her into Master Darcy's room until we decided what we should do."
"Oh, oh, certainly sir."
"Will you have Mrs Perkins bring a little something for her to eat, and perhaps one of the maids can procure a dress for her? I believe she's about the same size as my sister. One of her dresses will do."
"Yes, sir. I shall take care of this myself with utmost priority."
After Cooper had departed, Darcy suggested they have some breakfast, too, so they went to the drawing room, where an assortment awaited them. Darcy partook of some tea, toast and pound cake, while Fitzwilliam helped himself to the ginger cake. As they began to eat, and after assuring they were alone, Darcy said to Fitzwilliam, "I wonder if she requires medical attention. She spoke most oddly before she fainted. I placed her back on the bed and that was when I came to find you."
"I think we should wait and see what the outcome is once she has dressed and had something to eat."
Darcy nodded. "I agree." He sipped at the tea, then added thoughtfully, "Whoever she is, she is not of low birth."
"How do you know this?"
"I had occasion to see her hands closely," Darcy said, thinking back to when she had tugged on his facial hair. "She is wearing what appears to be a very expensive ring and an unusually fine chain around her neck. Also, her hands do not show the signs of someone who works with them in a field or a kitchen; she has a lady's hands and an excellent complexion, fair and unblemished, so she is not one who toils under the sun. She also possesses a fine, full set of very good teeth."
"Very good teeth," repeated Fitzwilliam with a smile, then a light laugh. "You sound as if you are describing the purchase of a horse."
Darcy laughed too. "What I mean to say is that she clearly has the means to care for them." He also thought about her assertiveness in addressing him, and that she went so far as to touch him. "She was also not intimidated by me, as a country girl often is."
At this Fitzwilliam hooted a laugh. "Yes, they are usually terrified of you, Darcy."
…
At the sound of the door opening, Bridget roused to wakefulness to see the room bathed in sunlight. Remembering the earlier encounter—Dream, she thought; must have been a dream—she sat up quickly. Instead of Mark coming in the room, however, it was a maid done up in traditional servant attire, and she bore a tray of simple, period-looking breakfast food. She wondered if her comment to Mark the night before in addition to all of the liveried servants and maids was what had triggered her dream—it would certainly explain it, anyway. "Good morning, ma'am," said the maid with a smile and a nod of her head.
"Good morning," Bridget said hesitantly. Where was Mark?
The maid set the tray down and left the room.
"Thank you," Bridget called belatedly, then looked at the tray. She guessed it was supposed to be period in state and presentation, which she appreciated—ginger cake that was delightfully spicy; milky, sweet tea; and a rich, perfectly done slice of buttered toast that looked like it was made from homemade bread. She didn't know where Mark had gone off to, but she hoped his breakfast was just as good.
She was just taking in the last of her tea when the door opened again. Once more, it was not Mark; it was another maid, carrying—
"What is this?" she asked. It was a beautiful dress in the style of the period.
"Mr Darcy asked this be brought to you, ma'am," said the maid.
She said nothing because she was speechless. Mark had gotten her a fancy period dress? Was today a 'spend the day in period garb' or something, and she'd missed the sign? The maid remained, though she said nothing more; Bridget wondered if she expected some kind of gratuity.
"I'm sorry; was there something else?" Bridget asked.
The maid looked uncomfortable. "I was waiting to see if I was needed, ma'am, regarding the fit of the dress."
"Oh, I'm sorry." She set the tray aside and pushed back the blankets, padding over to the maid. "Shall I just take this into the loo, then?"
"The… the what, ma'am?"
"You know, the toilet."
The maid continued to look at Bridget in a stupefied manner before she said, "I can just help you right here, ma'am, since you have no maid at present."
"Right here, in the room?" Bridget was shocked that the hotel maid would be offering to do this. She looked around for her bag, but didn't see it. "I don't even have pants on!"
"Pardon?"
"You know, knickers." No recognition from the maid. "Underwear. Undergarments."
"Oh, yes," said the maid. "I can find something suitable."
"Please do… what's your name?" asked Bridget.
"Edith, ma'am."
"Please do, Edith."
As Edith left, Bridget stripped hurriedly out of her own dress and slipped into the period one. It seemed so authentic yet so new and fit wonderfully.
Edith returned and seemed surprised that she was dressed. She had a pair of what looked like pyjama bottoms, another dress and a corset. "Ma'am," she said. "You'll want to put these on first."
With a sigh, she realised there was no getting around needing the maid's assistance so she took the dress back off, eliciting unusually confused looks at the sight of her Wonderbra; the corset (or 'stays' as the maid called them) alone needed a second pair of hands. What is Mark's game with this weird dressing-up business? she thought. What is with this creepy maid that insists on helping me dress? And what in hell did he do with my bag?
"What are those things?"
"Pantalets, ma'am." Edith handed them to her, and she held them up for inspection. She thought, at first, that the pantalets were just like pantaloons as they were similar in design, but she quickly realised there was one important difference: they were in two pieces, open up the middle much (but not exactly) like cowboy chaps. She smirked a little. I'm sure these are eminently practical in period, she thought, but Mark's a naughty, naughty man.
She felt like she was an onion by the time it was all said and done: chemise, stays, pantalets, petticoats… and all of it before the actual dress was on.
"Shall I pin up your hair, ma'am? Oh." Edith glanced to the side. "I am sorry. I thought you had already washed up."
"I don't know where my bag is," she said. "I haven't been to the loo."
The expression on Edith's face reminded Bridget of the sort one would see when speaking to someone who spoke no English. "I brought you some hot water." She pointed to the bureau.
To the pitcher and the basin, which was not covered by its protective case.
Bridget felt her head go swirly again, and she sat on the bed. Not possible, not possible that this is real, she thought. That I can be in Regency England. "Yes," she said quietly.
"Ma'am?"
She looked to Edith. "Yes, you can pin my hair up."
Edith smiled. "Then you can join Mr Darcy downstairs."
Mr Darcy? thought Bridget, starting to feel a bit panicky. Mr Darcy?! If not Mark, then the sideburns guy… the Mr Darcy?