Chapter 17

When they enter the house they once again run into Mrs Reynolds, who very politely requests Mrs Darcy to come with her for a few moments. Fitzwilliam kisses Elizabeth again, a bit less passionate under Mrs Reynold's direct eye, but not exactly chaste either. Then he says: 'Meet you in the library in half an hour, for our big search?'

His eyes twinkle, he is looking forward to what they may find, and though Elizabeth doesn't want to read any more of those demeaning stories, she does like the information her beloved manages to distil from them.

Mrs Reynolds takes her to the servants' part of the house, to the large storage space Elizabeth visited days earlier. Going straight for one of the shelves, the housekeeper removes a package wrapped in paper, puts it on a narrow table in the middle of the room and unwraps it. There is fabric in it, pristine white, a whole stack of it, and the housekeeper takes one piece from the stack, unfolding it for Elizabeth and saying: 'I don't know how Mr Darcy convinced you to straddle a horse, but it is clear he is over the moon and you certainly don't seem to mind. You might want to wear this until you've had some nice blouses made.'

And she holds up a beautiful blouse with frills and tucks that looks vaguely familiar somehow. It will do much better than Fitzwilliam's shirts, though Elizabeth indeed wants to have some blouses with a little more colour made as soon as she can have a seamstress over. Without hesitation she takes off the oversized shirt and puts on the blouse, it is a perfect fit and probably looks very good on her.

'It's part of the livery the servants wear,' Mrs Reynolds observes, 'but no-one will notice with your posture and the rest of your attire. You look surprisingly regal in those whatchamacallits, like the old Mrs Darcy, she could wear anything and look like a queen.'

She is clearly lost for words over the skirt, no, trousers, that her new mistress is wearing, though Elizabeth finds them very comfortable.

Mrs Reynolds takes out two more blouses and puts them on the table, probably the same size, then re-wraps the rest and lays the package back on the shelf. And she is not done, she takes out another package, even larger, and heavy, Elizabeth helps her to lift it to the table. As Mrs Reynolds unwraps it, she says: 'This is my emergency store of fabrics, usually we order fabrics from the seamstress along with taking measurements and choosing a pattern, but I'm guessing that whoever developed that riding attire will not share the pattern with our regular seamstress. Am I right in supposing it to be Peter's missus?'

At Elizabeth's fond nod, the housekeeper observes: 'I thought so, he's always telling us about her exploits on her father's horses, I didn't think she was doing that ladies' style, for her father has a reputation for breeding the best hunters within a day's ride. They don't usually teach those to bear a lady's saddle, you know, hunters are pretty high-strung.

Is he any good teaching?'

Mrs Reynolds likes Peter too!

Elizabeth honestly replies: 'He is very good, he can explain things so clearly. Even Fitzwilliam was impressed, he merely stood back and watched. He asked to join the lesson tomorrow.'

'Did he now, our master? Good, I did think that Peter fellow had a way with horses. And with ladies, the maids all adore him, though his missus has him well-trained.' Suddenly realising how funny that sounds, considering the lady in question's profession, Mrs Reynolds laughs merrily, showing a very pleasant human side, and she adds: 'And since Peter's missus is sitting at home without anything to do, waiting for her baby to be born, I beg you to choose several suitable pieces from this stack to have her make you some of these skirts of your own. The fabric of this one undoubtedly wears well and is very sturdy, but she will be back on a horse as soon as the babe is born, so she will need it back, and you ride for leisure, not for profession, so you can wear a more lady-like quality and colour.'

If that is all the criticism Elizabeth will get from Mrs Reynolds, she is very happy to get off so lightly. To Elizabeth, whatever the good lady is really thinking is of no moment, as long as she keeps her censure to herself. It is clear the housekeeper blames her beloved master for having his wife straddle a horse, and Mrs Reynolds' only concern strong enough to risk Mr Darcy's displeasure for interfering with his wishes over, is apparently that the lady of the house must wear colours and fabrics suitable for a lady.

No problem for Elizabeth, she browses through the stack of fabrics to find three pieces pretty enough for a lady, but sturdy enough for riding, and in a colour she likes. Mrs Reynolds clearly approves of her choices, and says: 'A fine collection, Mrs Darcy, sturdy enough to resist constant wear, colours suitable to a lady but not likely to show staining, and fabric pliable enough to give the skirt a bit more flow to it. It actually suits you quite well, that riding skirt, it was a bit disconcerting at first when you moved, but I'm getting used to it. Master Fitzwilliam so loves to ride, even as a small child he did already.'

That is endearing, the elder lady using his first name when remembering Fitzwilliam as a boy. Elizabeth finds she is settling in quite readily with such friendly people around her.

Mrs Reynolds asks: 'I will notify the seamstress, will it suit you to have measurements taken tomorrow? And choose patterns and fabrics of course?'

Elizabeth affirms that is fine, she likes the blouses she has just gotten from the housekeeper rather well, but white is not a colour to wear around horses.

'And I suppose I'll just hand these to Peter, to give to his wife? And settle with him for the cost of the making? How is it for size, does it need adjusting?' Mrs Reynolds is very good at her job, she doesn't forget any detail.

Elizabeth raises her arms to let Mrs Reynolds check the skirt, which the lady does without hesitation. 'It is a tiny bit too wide, and you're not likely to gain any weight with the master wanting you to ride all over the place once you're used to the horse. Better make it a tiny bit narrower, do you agree?'

'I do, Mrs Reynolds, and thank you for your kindness,' Elizabeth spontaneously says.

'It is my pleasure, mistress,' the elderly lady retorts, 'you've made the master very happy, which makes me very happy. I've never seen him smile and laugh so much, and he is positively lively these days, kissing you wherever it pleases him, living his own life and not being a gentleman to the exclusion of all else.'

Elizabeth feels obliged to mention: 'Fitzwilliam did say he planned to visit Peter's missus himself, but if Peter takes the fabrics home she has something to relieve her boredom straight away.'

After one last approving look of Mrs Reynolds, apparently she doesn't object to the master being familiar with the servants, Elizabeth takes the blouses to their bedroom, washes her face and hands quite thoroughly at the washstand and changes into a dress.

Then she goes to the library, where she receives a hearty welcome from her ardent lover. He invites her on his lap and wants to know: 'Did Mrs Reynolds give you an earful over straddling a horse?'

'Actually,' Elizabeth replies perkily, 'she blames you. She merely tried to save what was left of my reputation by giving me three beautiful blouses to wear with the skirt, as she has decided to call it. I agreed to have my measurements taken by the seamstress for more suitable blouses tomorrow, the ones she gave me are part of your servants' liveries. She also made me pick fabrics for skirts of my own, from the emergency stash. Did you know you had an emergency stash of fabrics in your storage chamber?'

'I did not,' Fitzwilliam replies, and a bit concerned, 'but Peter counts on his missus making the skirts, did you tell her that?'

'No need to,' Elizabeth says soothingly, 'she already suspected, said Peter's missus probably wouldn't give out the pattern for the skirt. Mrs Reynolds will give the fabrics I chose to Peter, apparently that is what the stash is for, when the seamstress comes over it is customary to choose the fabrics for what she will be making then and there. She will come for blouses only.

Mrs Reynolds was very pleased with my indulging you in your love for riding. Though I do want a bath tonight, love, I'm stiffening up already, and it's only noon.'

'Maybe you'd better take that bath straight after lunch, I'll order it, and spoil you a lot for suffering for my pleasure. Of course I want you back in shape for your next lesson as well.'

That cheeky face needs kissing, is this the same man who stood off to the side in a ballroom, watching in disdain how the Hertfordshire people danced? Elizabeth cannot believe it.

'I was planning to write my sister this afternoon, do you think we should offer her your special book to prepare for their wedding-night?'

But Fitzwilliam is not falling for her joke: 'I thought it better to write my own personal account, Elizabeth, and send it to Bingley as well as your cousin. They might be shocked by the lewd language in the book.'

He is truly learning to give as good as he gets.

As they cuddle closer, Elizabeth starts to feel her abused muscles, and a little sound of distress escapes her.

Her sweet lover looks at her in concern and bows his head: 'Is it that bad already? I'm so sorry, I feel really guilty for putting you through this.'

'Don't, beloved,' Elizabeth says very softly, stroking his hair, and taking his hand and kissing it, 'I enjoyed myself hugely. I know it's just muscle-ache, it will pass. I'm looking forward to riding out with you very much.'

And soon she forgets her aching muscles in the heat of their search for explicit books. Of course Fitzwilliam knows the most likely hiding-places, but Elizabeth manages to find the first stash. It consists of five magazines with very naughty pictures, drawn very graphically in a certain order, forming an entire story with very few words needed to tell it. The pictures say plenty.

Though the story is as unflattering to women as the written one was, the graphic images and the lack of text make it quite interesting, and they put it away on a shelf in plain sight for further study. Then they search on.

When it is time for lunch, Fitzwilliam has found another book, this one written by a travelling artist, relating his escapades with noble ladies of all ages, matrons, virgin daughters, very stimulating and somehow much more respectful, though clearly a scoundrel this writer knows how to please a woman and he writes about it very graphically, leaving as little to the imagination as the pictures of the other books. The introduction promises everything in the book has truly happened, which is rather hard to believe after glancing over a few pages.

After supporting Elizabeth to the dining-room, Darcy takes the book to their bedroom, to read to each other. When he returns he says: 'I've ordered the bath filled right after lunch, if you don't soak those muscles, you will not be able to move tomorrow.'

'I thought I was rather strong, being able to walk half a day without feeling tired. I'm a bit put out with myself.' Elizabeth is not taking this well.

He explains: 'Never mind, love, remember how much trouble I had climbing a simple hill? I can sit on a horse all day and not feel a thing. It's the same body, but totally different muscles.'

They eat quickly, then retreat to the room next to their bedroom, and Darcy indeed slowly undresses Elizabeth, then lifts her and gently lowers her into the hot water.

'That's too hot!' she exclaims as her foot touches the water, and he keeps her above the surface with just her feet touching the water to get used to the heat, until his arms tire and he cannot lift her anymore. Then he gently sets her on her feet, and slowly she gets used to the temperature, immersing herself deeper and deeper, until she lies in the bath altogether.

Darcy removes his own shirt and kneels next to the bath, kneading her warm muscles until they are supple again, starting with her legs of course, they have suffered the most, but slowly moving up towards her thighs, buttocks and stomach. Elizabeth merely feels the cramps grow less, but Darcy feels something else entirely, touching his beloved this intimately cannot but excite him.

He massages her neck and shoulders, and her back, and then turns his attentions to other parts of her body, parts that have no muscles but only sweet, pliant flesh and skin. With the water cooling, and their mood heating, Elizabeth comes out of the bath and Darcy dries every inch of her gently and thoroughly.

She can step out of the bath easily, it has worked, hopefully she will not stiffen up again so they can ride tomorrow. But now they walk to the bed, kissing all the time, Elizabeth removing his trousers and grabbing between his legs, very indecent, but very stimulating.

'Read the book,' she says, 'and we'll just touch for a while.'

That is not what Darcy wants, he wants to bury his face in her breasts, and in other places, tasting her most intimate parts. But it is a good challenge, sticking to just touching for a while, whilst reading a very titillating story out loud.

The story starts with the youth of the author, that would supposedly ruin the mood they are in with a dry description of his early ambitions to paint the landscapes of the world, but in fact is isn't like that at all. The boy Pierre, an outlandish name because his mother was French, grew up with an upper class father on the family estate in plain old England, and did indeed at that age set his first steps on his way to being a painter.

Except he didn't paint landscapes, but portraits, and as a young child he already had an eye for a face, and a nose for scandal. For apparently a lot of fooling around was going on in the rooms and the gardens of the old manor, and he saw and remembered them all, to describe them into the tiniest detail in his memoires, decades later, if indeed this all really happened.

Fitzwilliam has a magnificent reading voice, and he knows how to make the most of it by not trying to give each character a mimicked voice, he only changes the inflection with a different character, and the effect is astounding. The story comes to life before Elizabeth's mind's-eye, and when the first piquant scene announces itself with a crawl through the brush to get a prime view of Pierre's mother with a family friend, Elizabeth is totally taken up by what she hears, transferring her growing ardour to the superb performer she would never have believed had such acting in him.

He doesn't falter or get distracted when the action starts to unfold, he doesn't comment, he doesn't give a sign that her ministrations affect him, except sporting a towering erection of course, but nothing else, no shudders, no moans, nothing.

Just his sedate voice describing fabulous love-making, with the lady getting as good as she gives, and every word, every detail read perfectly, without an error, and without losing the character of a fifteen year old aspiring artist describing the whole.

Holding the book and concentrating on reading, Fitzwilliam cannot reciprocate her arousing caresses, but Elizabeth's ardour is stimulated quite enough by what she practically sees happening before her, and the resonant voice making it come to life.

The love-making in the ornamental garden of Pierre's father comes to a height without the boy experiencing any ardour himself, he is a neutral observer, not even judging his mother for making love with a man not her husband.

When the two adults in the book experience a towering climax and crash on top of each other, spent, Fitzwilliam has clearly reached his own limit, his last sentence sounds a bit choked. Hearing that sound Elizabeth looks at him and she sees him put away the book, then come towards her with abandonment, he is beyond excited, he is lost in lust. Immediately Elizabeth realises, that what the lewd book described might happen if one drives a man past his control, is now going to happen to her.

A bit disconcerted to see self-possessed Fitzwilliam totally lose control and just jump her, she is nonetheless very stimulated by the gorgeous male specimen coming towards her fast. Within a second she feels his full weight land on her and his manhood enter her at the very same time. As the very breath is pushed out of her lungs by his greater weight, she finds she trusts him even more than she thought, for she experiences nothing but elation. This is the essence of the man, her husband, a part of Fitzwilliam no-one has ever seen, not even himself.

Soon, there is no time for contemplations of what is happening, he has lifted his weight off her chest and is pumping frantically, she can breathe again, but at the same time she is gasping for air with ecstasy, every thrust is sending a flash of lightning through her entire body, every push forces a tiny cry out of her as she feels herself get totally lost in her fervour.

Though they have both gained quite a lot of experience the last few days, and are more or less in a constant state of being sexually drained by indulging whenever they feel like it, which is often, this is so intense it cannot last long, and it doesn't.

As her beloved shudders in a towering climax, Elizabeth feels a similar high on the verge of breaking over her, just as he slows down. She pants: 'Not yet, just a tiny bit more!' and he manages to give her just enough, two times, three times, he is done for, chest heaving, his stomach must give him hell, but he thrusts a last few times, as firm as before, and the wave of ecstasy comes crashing over Elizabeth, causing her to moan in total release.

Fitzwilliam cannot even move to the side anymore, he lands right on top of her, again, but it doesn't matter, she wants him close, she wants to feel his sweaty body, taste the salt on it, feel his hair wet with the exertion, never in his life has he let go like that, Elizabeth has never been as sure of anything. She is actually very proud of her beautiful, admirable husband.

But the fabulous husband himself is not so pleased, even when he is still heaving for breath his face shows something is bothering him, a lot. Did he hurt himself? He cannot speak a word yet, he has gone very deep indeed, but he tries to, to no avail, nothing comes out that makes sense even vaguely.

This needs a woman's touch, and Elizabeth strokes him very gently, and kisses him softly, hoping to calm him down a little. This was so intense, how can he not be totally sated, as usual? She has never heard such reading, never saw such ardour.

Her loving touch does calm him down a lot, and that helps to get his breath back of course. But instead of asking her whether he didn't squash her, or whether her muscles didn't suffer, he uses his first extra breath to plead: 'Can you ever forgive me for doing that to you?'

As she stares at him without a hint of understanding, he decides he knows enough: 'I knew it, you cannot, and you're right, it is unforgivable, I'm so sorry. I never thought I could lose control like that, you must have been so frightened. I was so sure I would never hurt you, and now I've done it, and we've only been married for a week.'

Slowly, comprehension dawns on Elizabeth, and she wants to tell Fitzwilliam there is nothing to forgive, he let go and it was wonderful, he did look a bit scary there but she trusts him with all her heart, and indeed he didn't hurt her or force her. He even went beyond himself to satisfy her desire.

But she cannot reach him to tell him that, his shame has taken over completely, he is unable to face her, has buried his face in a pillow, why? What is so terrible about losing control? That he is not perfect? He knew that already, didn't she tell him once, at length? Didn't she tell him she hated him?

After losing himself totally in heat, and assaulting his beloved in a fit of blind passion, Darcy cannot think of anything to say to his Elizabeth than to beg for mercy. It was all too good to be true anyway, a classic case of hubris, everything went too well, he was too happy.

She must rue the very day she married him, just another brute like all other men, she must think he sees her as his property, bought with the promise of riches and a secure future, to be used as he sees fit...

'Mr Darcy!'

He doesn't even manage to attach a meaning to her using his last name, he automatically looks up at the pert tone and sits up, facing the woman of his dreams.

'Good!' Elizabeth says, face serious and quite put out, 'something can still penetrate your wallow in self-pity.'

She strokes his hair, and takes hold of his chin and kisses him on his mouth, a lot gentler than her face looks and her voice sounds. 'Hmm, you smell nice, you always do after making love. Why do you think I always have a bit of heat left after making love? You never seem to.'

She is stroking his neck, his shoulders, his chest, all with quite a bit of heat. Then she looks him in the eye and says very gently: 'Sorry for being bossy, but you were beyond reason, I needed something to call you back to this reality. And it worked perfectly. What is your problem, Fitzwilliam? I promised to tell you everything, but I did expect you to do me the same courtesy. So talk.'

For a moment, Darcy is stunned. She is the same as always after making love, touching him, smelling him with some desire. He can see no reproach in her, no hurt. After some time he finds his voice, and he says: 'I lost control, I grabbed you and took you, like those rough men in those lewd books.'

'So I pushed you a little too far,' she says, gently now, 'having you read stimulating stories to me with no outlet for the lust they worked up. And causing you even more lust by touching you in intimate places. You lost it, became your base self for a few minutes. I kind of liked it. And you can read so well, it was as if I was really there, why have I never heard you do that before?'

What? She liked it? She compliments his reading? Did nothing bad happen?

'Would you have liked me better if I had read to you when your sister was sick at Netherfield?'

She smiles at the memory, who would have thought it would end in their marriage.

'I suppose I would have, yes. Unless you had read this particular story. But seriously, who could do anything but admire someone who reads so well?'

There is but one question to ask: 'So you're not mad at me?'

'No I'm not.'

'And you forgive me for what I did to you?'

'Mr Darcy.' Oh, she did it again, he can't help it, he must throw himself at her feet.

'Yes ma'am?'

'Stop feeling sorry for yourself. There is absolutely nothing to forgive. I made an error of judgement, you didn't notice until it was too late. The result was incredible. I found out I trust you even when you come at me like a a wild creature. Your stomach must still hurt from your last efforts to satisfy my needs. Nothing changed between us. Well, except for the reading. I want you to read that whole book to me, and if that means you'll grab me again and take me again, I'm looking forward to it. Now take back your dignity and hold me.'

He does. She wants him to do it again. Except for the shame, it did feel good, and his stomach does hurt. If it makes the gods angry so be it, he is the happiest man in the world.