Chapter 3
Slowly the pastures and woods grudgingly gave way to a smattering of dwellings that increased in proportion with the decreased speed of their team of four. Traffic, hawkers and all manner of hubbub slowed their progress, and the characteristic bustle of the great city, separated by just an inch of timber and leather, seeped into the carriage.
Although the occupants of the Darcy carriage were undoubtedly united in the opinion that the uncomfortable journey could not end soon enough, Elizabeth could not be sure she was not leaping from the frying pan directly into the fire. She fervently hoped that a measure of time and space might temper her husband's ill humour; but there lurked the possibility that it was a fixed feature of his character, what an unhappy thought!
As they pulled up to the imposing residence, she mused that if sullenness was Mr. Darcy's wont, she would not lack for ready hiding places. The townhouse could easily fit Longbourn within its walls twice over and have room to spare.
A smart looking young footman promptly stepped down to open the conveyance door, sporting an open umbrella in his other hand. It was barely spitting but she appreciated the gesture, offering him a beatific but brief smile.
As the steel grey haired butler made a stately bow, taking their outerwear with an aura of practised efficiency, Elizabeth gained her first look at her new home. She gazed around in wide mouthed wonder; it was not awe, but a state of complete stupefaction. Her first thought was that it was exactly how she had imagined Rosings park to be, owing to Mr. Collins' excessively fulsome descriptions.
A plethora of gilt furniture from different eras and conflicting styles crowded all available spaces; the only uniting theme was in the cost of the pieces. There were all lined, one next to the other, against the walls of the foyer. The walls were painfully ostentatious too, covered as they were in a richly patterned paper and crowded with detailed artworks in equally rich gilt frames. Even the cornicing was aureate. She peeked through the doorway nearest, only to be assaulted again by the overzealous decorating. A bemused smile slid across her face, clearly money does not equate to good taste.
Aside from one truly heinous painting and the gaudy cloak stand, there was no evil in any of the items in and of themselves. It was the haphazard combination, the sheer volume of detail and pretentiousness that overwhelmed the senses. Like an orchestra comprised completely of soloists there was no cohesion, nowhere for the eyes to take a rest.
The décor was in stark contrast to the attire of her companion, which in some way astounded her. Not backward to give credit where it was due, Elizabeth conceded that her husband's clothing was both impeccable and understated. With a rueful glance at her own rather creased dress she wondered how he had maintained such a crisp aspect throughout their journey.
The staff stood in a v shape, awaiting the attention of their new mistress. She did not need to count their number, nineteen, the figure leapt into her head like a flash of lightening. Mr. Darcy, starting with the kitchen assistants, went on to introduce all the individuals within his employ by name and duty. She could not help but be impressed with his knowledge; yes the retainers before her were not excessive in number, even if you included the others seeing to the horses and luggage, but there would be perhaps three times this number engaged at his estate in Derbyshire and a moderate staff in his other northern estate besides. She had no doubt the fastidious man knew them all, by sight and by name.
Towards the outer edge of the formation her husband gave a warm smile before formally introducing the Darcy House Butler: Soames. Soames appeared simultaneously kind and stern, but it was her husband's mien that froze the obligatory greeting upon her lips. The grin he allowed to creep across his visage had the effect of transforming his face completely. The noble features she had found so forbidding thus far, were rendered exceedingly handsome by the hereto unseen smile: perfect white teeth, a dimple in his right cheek and a full lower lip set above a strong chin abutted by a chiselled jaw. Would that lip be firm or soft and sensuous when he kissed her? If he kissed her, she bit her lip in uncertainty.
The austere veil fell over his features once again, making her feel somewhat foolish for her momentary interlude of absurd fancy. Her husband gestured formally to a woman; Elizabeth estimated her to be somewhere in her mid or late thirties, although she could not be sure. The woman's thick chestnut hair and strong upright bearing were at odds with her heavily lined face. The placement of said lines favoured a frowning countenance: deeply etched wrinkles cut a line between her brows, and many furrows strove to make a connection between her downturned mouth and her thick chin.
Elizabeth conceived an immediate and overwhelming distaste for the woman. It was not in Elizabeth's character to condemn another before a word was even spoken, but there was something about this woman that made her hackles rise.
"This is Mrs. White; engaged to act as your personal maid", said Mr. Darcy. Oh botheration, thought Elizabeth, her senses in revolt at the idea of this disconcerting woman fulfilling such an intimate role. The maid offered a curtsy to Elizabeth that was just a shade too shallow, but greeted Mr. Darcy with a decorous smile; the maid obviously knew which side her bread was buttered on. After making the obligatory how do you do, they moved onto the very last person, as yet unknown.
"And finally I present Mrs. Pearce, housekeeper here at Darcy house for over 32 years, she has been here even longer than I have and I warrant that she will have much to teach you." In a proper world it would be the mistress who did the teaching, but Elizabeth let the comment pass.
The woman bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. White but was clearly many years older and a great deal crankier. While she gave a suitably servile smile to Mr. Darcy, as soon as his back was turned the look she bestowed upon her new mistress was little better than a thinly veiled sneer. Elizabeth was on the edge of reprimanding the unwarranted display of insolence when Mrs. White said: "If you please Ma'am, we've a bath prepared for you."
Elizabeth turned warily from the hostile housekeeper, "Thank you White, a bath would be just the thing."
"We will dine in an hour," said Mr. Darcy striding toward the opposite hall.
As Mrs. White led Elizabeth up a stately flight of stairs, through a long gallery and into the family wing, she observed that the gaudy adornment persisted throughout the rest of the house. It was so at odds with the little she knew of the man himself: her husband was not only subtle in dress, but he seemed the type of man who would go to great pains to ensure all within his domain would be arranged in keeping with his exacting standards. She wondered who had decorated the residence. His sister perhaps? No, unlikely: the accessories favoured the Rococo movement which would be well before the girl's time. Perhaps his mother was still living? With another start she comprehended just how little she knew both of her husband and her new situation.
Stepping over the threshold to her chamber, Elizabeth realised immediately that it was testaments to the skills (or lack thereof) of the decorator, how could one take such a cavernous space and make it feel positively claustrophobic? The room favoured bold colours: the purple wallpaper, so dark as to be almost black, was superimposed with a pastoral pattern in gold and was further set off by royal blue panelling. On the floor, deep blood red wool formed the carpet. It was an awkward combination, repeated throughout the suite.
Elizabeth counted no less than eight mirrors, ranging in size from small plate sized circular looking glasses, arranged in vignettes, to an implausibly large expanse of glass panelling situated between the room's two bay windows. The scale was simply astonishing: easily five foot wide and more than double in height, and once one included the elaborate gild frame it almost reached the ceiling, stopping less than an inch from the cornicing. Elizabeth wondered what its use could be; surely it did nothing to lighten the heavy looking room. The bountiful mirrors were generously interspersed with baroque style paintings of Greek gods getting up to all sorts of mischief, that made Elizabeth's eyebrows rise.
But as she slowly turned her head, her eyes fell on the crowning glory, the very monument to bad taste: the bed. It was a monstrous thing, easily a room within itself, once the gold velvet curtains were drawn. The top front panel of the canopy depicted an eagle with colossal wings spread wide, while the lower footboard was a relief of a terrified wildebeest, presumably about to be devoured by the absurdly large eagle. Naturally the whole thing was covered in gilt: right down to every last feather on the carnivorous bird and the eyelashes of the poor terrified cattle creature. It was a decadently masculine theme, hardly conducive to a good night's rest.
Were it not for the hasty nature of their nuptials she'd be inclined to think the room a great big joke; yet an installation of such magnitude could not possibly be realised in just a few days.
It was only a few minutes past the hour when Elizabeth slipped out of her grandiose suite; she hoped that her husband would be similarly delayed and thus not vexed by her tardiness.
The bath had been a balm to her battered spirits and she had soaked overlong. This would not have been a fatal error, had not Mrs. White insisted on going through the entirety of Elizabeth's wardrobe. She seemed to take the lack of fashionable dresses in which to outfit her mistress as a personal affront. And despite Elizabeth's clear statement that, after her wedding gown, the reworked yellow silk was her best dress, Mrs. White would rummage through her luggage like a pirate looking for treasure, turning sour as a crab-apple when she comprehended the limited resources she had to work with.
Then the brass-faced woman would argue that Mrs. Darcy should have her hair done to a certain style; one that Elizabeth knew to be very unbecoming on her. "But it is the latest fashion Ma'am," White said mutinously.
Elizabeth counselled herself to patience, she took the comb from her maid's hand and speaking in a firm, but not unfriendly manner, said: "It is a fashion both uncomfortable and ridiculous; let us have less of fashion and more of style in the future."
White pursed her lips, "I would prefer to produce a hairstyle to please your husband on your first night within his home."
"What a kind thought," replied Elizabeth sweetly, "but I will have my hair done according to my wishes, within my home."
Mr. Darcy was waiting for her in the hall, and judging by the way he jigged his left leg and the fluttering twitch in his handsome jaw she supposed she was even later than she had initially thought. Elizabeth opened her mouth to apologize but as he turned to regard her, she found herself overwhelmed by this wall of a man. Dressed in his evening attire, he was far superior to any padded dandy who had ever graced a fashion plate. Bracing his broad shoulders, he looked down upon her. It was largely a matter of proportions: the top of her coiffure did not even reach his chin, how could he help looking down his nose at her? Though she suspected there was a measure of disdain thrown in moreover. "Shall we?" he said and offered his arm stiffly.
She'd had unsettling visions of them each eating at the far end of an austere table designed to seat forty, she'd self-consciously cut her meat and the clink of cutlery would echo around the vaulted ceilings, like a scene lifted from a gothic novel. Thus Elizabeth was pleasantly surprised when he led her to an intimate family dining room. The oval dining table looked to accommodate eight comfortably and maybe ten in a pinch. He led her to the first seat on the right of the head of the table before relinquishing her arm to pull out her chair, he then sedately seated himself opposite her, rather than taking the usual master's position.
If the room itself was subdued, the meal certainly was not: four footmen carried in a parade of dishes, each one more flamboyantly presented than the last. Although the final tally on the table was perhaps eight sumptuous dishes, no-one seemed particularly astonished at the excess. Mr. Darcy merely gave a masterly nod, at which two of the footmen positioned themselves on the wings of the room while the others departed forthwith.
Elizabeth looked over the dishes wrinkling her nose at the oysters; she reached for a soup but was anticipated by the impeccably mannered footman closest to her. He stepped in to serve her a bowl, more generous than she would have thought to apportion herself. The red soup was spiced so heavily that she found herself unable to taste any of the original ingredients, and with each mouthful the flavour became increasingly cloying and unpleasant; she pushed the bowl away. She next extended her hand towards the fish, but the footman behind her husband, the very same dark haired man who had held out the umbrella on her arrival, gave a slight shake of his head. He gazed directly and pointedly at a vegetable dish, the least ornamental on the table. Elizabeth found it to be a trio of root vegetables, seasoned with a deft hand, and quite delicious in its simplicity.
Sampling a selection of the other offerings she suspected that the cook had given more attention to the appearance of the fare than to the actual taste. She noted that her husband ate sparingly also, neither touching the soup or the fish and placing but one of the dozen oysters on his plate.
When she put down her fork the footmen veritably sprang into action. A bell was rung, calling the other servants from whence they had gone. Their numbers restored, the team of four footmen nimbly proceeded to take away the barely touched dishes, replace the table cloth and lay out fresh china, serving ware, cutlery, glasses and even an alternate centrepiece; before bringing in a new array of dishes. Not as plentiful in variety as the last but nevertheless generous in helping size.
Elizabeth put a gloved hand to her mouth to hide an irreverent smile but her eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement; how ridiculous to go to all this pomp and ceremony for a meal for just two. Perhaps her life henceforth was to be characterised more as a comedy, a testament to the absurdities of the wealthy; it was less than a heady tale of romance but more than a trite penny dreadful mystery.
The kindly footman from earlier seemed to deliberately place before her a comparatively humble bowl of steamed greens and a stuffed chicken cut into neat slices. She allowed that maybe the cook was making an attempt to please the mistress; but the meal was still excessively pretentious, even for such an aim.
After her husband dined heartily on the roast beef, potatoes and glazed onions; another remove brought out an assortment of fruits, jellies and cheeses. At an inclination of Mr. Darcy's head the remaining footmen departed, leaving the couple alone in the dining room.
The serious business of eating over, her husband finally addressed her: "I have prepared a summary of the events I have accepted invitations to. I have kept to the larger soirées, at homes and balls principally. I think the scrutiny over your origins will be somewhat ameliorated by the excitement of the larger crowd; thereby giving you the opportunity to acquit yourself sufficiently well until you understand your position better." The speech was delivered with no malice in his tone despite the offense inherent in the message.
"Key amongst these is Lady Matlock's ball, she may even declare the ball given in honour of our marriage; and yet the importance of the Killcott's ball and Lady Jersey's at home should not be underestimated. The knocker will remain off the door for the time being. We will spend the next two weeks here alone, ostensibly on our honeymoon, but in truth I will be training you vigorously with regards to the proper comportment expected of Mrs. Darcy. My family will be invited here for a private dinner so that you might meet them prior to your public debut." His eyes roved over her, his look flat. "I think a curtailed season will be sufficient this year, we will away to Pemberley before the typical London exodus. Once there we will engage in a more comprehensive training schedule to prepare you for Georgiana's debut. If I were to engage a governess come companion for you it would occasion too much talk, so we'll have to muddle through together; I expect you to apply yourself diligently."
He looked at her as if expecting an answer, though no question was asked. What a pompous overbearing man! He had not troubled himself to ask anything about her past, but here he was: pronouncing her unsuitable to be unleashed on his social scene, like some half savage beast. Her breath came fast and erratic as she looked down at the table.
The bated pause continued until he said: "Well?"
Elizabeth lifted her head to fix her gaze onto her husband's stern face, doing her best to hold onto to her temper. She was not completely successful, as her voice trembled slightly with anger when she replied. "My apologies, I thought you would supply me with the desired response. Since you seem to have planned my life out for me in advance, I am sure you will provide me with an almanac detailing every reaction I should have to situations in the future. Pray sir, will you tell me how long I should spend at my toilette tomorrow, what is your prescribed method for donning my pelisse and would you clarify: am I to give birth to our first child on a Thursday preferably after luncheon or would a Monday evening be more to your liking?"
A wave of crimson made its way up her husband's face, while he digested her severe words, "Madam you forget yourself."
"No, you forget yourself, I am your wife not your chattel. You cannot order me about, ride me like you would a horse." At this rather unfortunate simile, she stuttered herself to a blushing stop.
"Yes you are my wife, and unlike my belongings, horses or even servants you cannot be dismissed. But I belong to you also; therefore your behaviour reflects on me and mine. It may even have the power to ruin the reputation of my family name." He stood up rather abruptly, "You will meet me immediately after breakfast tomorrow to collect your pin money and discuss your wardrobe."
During his speech Elizabeth was looking everywhere but at her irate husband. She had promised her aunt (most faithfully) that she would try to be understanding of her husband's difficult position and yet here she was giving saucy speeches not eight hours later.
"Why not now?" asked she, in a much milder tone. The severe provocation notwithstanding, she was a lady and would act thus.
"We have marital business to attend to." – here he paused. "Would an hour be sufficient time for you to prepare, that is - if I may come to you tonight," he had added the request albeit belatedly. Embarrassed at her earlier outburst, she agreed, without joy but with grim resolve, that she would see him in an hour.
….
Darcy retreated to his new bedchamber. Up until this point he had not seen much sense in occupying the master's chambers and instead had kept to the generous suite allocated to him in his youth, refurbished to his tastes upon his graduation.
But by the Lord; his mother's decorating was gaudy, thank goodness Pemberley had been left largely as it was, during her time as mistress. The few improvements she had made were selected with a view to pleasing his father and his penchant for elegant simplicity, rather than gratifying her own rather splashy style.
Darcy had hoped that the new Mrs. Darcy, when he found her, would be able to take the decorating in hand; so he did nothing beyond maintenance for many years. Now he would have to cease procrastinating and tackle the furniture emporium his house had become: it must be prepared for the increased entertaining commensurate with Georgiana's launch into society.
He could not trust the chit to do it! He threw his cravat onto the bed and slumped into a rock hard and ugly armchair. What could he trust her with? It forcefully struck him that he now had a wife. A wife! Residing in the mistress's chambers, waiting for him to come and claim his marital rights. He stalked over to his bedside table to pour himself another brandy, knocking it back with nary a though to savouring such a fine vintage in his desperation to fortify himself for the looming decision.
He returned to the question he had pondered during much of the journey from Longbourn to London. Who is the new Mrs. Darcy and what the devil am I to do with her?
He mentally catalogued the few facts he had of her, woefully few in number and bleak in picture. Her age: somewhere in the region of nineteen to one and twenty. From the horses own mouth he had learnt how she had spurned her cousin's addresses; and judging by Mr. Collins' vitriol, her refusal had been vehement.
It was always said that the Bennets were blessed (or cursed, depending on the perspective) with five beautiful daughters. Yet after two months in the small neighbourhood attending many events to which the Bennet family were also guests, Darcy had never laid eyes upon the mysterious fifth sister.
Miss Mary Bennet had mentioned her just the once during their sojourn at Netherfield. That he remembered the incident at all was a testament to the unusual reaction of the guests. After supper, Caroline Bingley had derided Mary Bennet her choice of reading over joining the table for a game of whist. Miss Mary had replied with a thin smile "Although I read more than some, I would not call myself a great reader, unlike my Papa or my Sister Elizabeth. Mama always used to say that Lizzie's appetite for books would send us all to the poor house". It was an improper disclosure, to be sure, but said with such a sense of longing that had Darcy found himself intrigued. Despite his usual reticence he had asked "And has your sister long to wait to be introduced to society?"
Miss Mary favoured him with an odd look before dropping her gaze back to her book. "She is already out." Miss Bingley ever alert to anything that might discredit the Bennet family as a means to cooling her brothers ardour for Miss Jane Bennet; glanced up from her card game, fixing her scrutiny on the girl, but a series of probing questions produced only monosyllabic and vague answers; before Miss Mary declared she would retire early to check on Jane's wellbeing.
Expecting Jane to be a much easier mark, Miss Bingley brought the topic up when she ventured down from the sick room for breakfast. The sweet Miss Bennet, even weakened by illness, was still remarkably tight lipped, admitting only that her next younger sister had been from home for some time, and that she missed her greatly. Although tickled by the local mystery; no doubt due to the absence of other entertainment, neither Darcy himself nor Caroline Bingley were curious enough to overcome their distaste of associating with the members of the Bennet family who could be more easily pumped for information, like the shrill Mrs. Bennet or the rowdy Lydia Bennet.
The carriage ride had offered nothing to challenge his preconceived, if limited, notions of his wife. Her enquiries regarding town and his estate evinced her mercenary nature. Bingley, bless his naïve soul, had supposed it all to be just a terrible mistake in the fall out of the ball. But Darcy knew better: it was just all too neatly done to be happenstance.
Furthermore, her pithy retort at dinner had been troubling, it demonstrated an unstable temper. Darcy could own that his handling of the luggage issue had been less than diplomatic and despite having upwards of three hours in which to make his apologies he had stubbornly held his tongue.
So what did he know about the girl? The answer of was course, nothing really. What should he do about her? He fancied that he could hear her breathing through the wall, but it was an asinine notion: their chambers were separated by a thick walled and generously proportioned sitting room. Darcy clasped his hands behind his neck and slanted his head up to stare pensively at the ceiling: would it be wise to get a child on her when she was such an unknown quantity?
How much of a child was a product of his parents and how much his upbringing? Georgiana was the very image of his mother in looks but with her shy demeanour she was the antithesis of Anne Darcy's confident and sometimes brash personality. George Wickham had been educated alongside Darcy and yet the high spirited youth had grown into an unqualified reprobate. Darcy had also witnessed many of his contemporaries, even those from eminently respectable families, slip into lives of dissipation.
The pin prick of guilt at his own amorous pursuits assailed him, but he reasoned that while he had engaged in relations outside the sacred bonds of wedlock, he had seduced no innocents, nor made a cuckold of any man. He had confined his attentions to merry widows and a well-compensated professional inamorata.
The conclusion was that life was not perfect; there were no guarantees to be found in it either. He expeditiously striped off his clothing, throwing a banyan over his nakedness. If they were blessed with a babe he would simply do his best to raise the child right; for what man could do more?
Darcy strode through the vast shared sitting room, his momentum carrying him right up to her bedchamber door. Lifting his curled fist to rap on the door, he stalled, shaking his head. Instead of knocking, his hand descended to the handle, silently slipping the door open.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lower light, and what he saw caused a small band of pity to constrict his heart. On the far side of the room she sat, barely illuminated by the fire and the shy glow of one tiny candle. Feet up on the window seat, her head lay forlornly on her knees, her bare arms hung crossed over her shins and the little hands attached rested limp on her ankles.
The poise was agonizingly elegant to look upon, had it been captured in charcoal or on canvas he had no doubt it would be proclaimed a masterpiece, every line of her daintily boned figure dripped with melancholy. It would be the type of study more suited to be displayed in a gallery than a home, for who would willingly invite such a spectre of despair across their threshold? Not him certainly: marriage was a life-long business and he would do well to consider what he would reap in the future should due care not be taken this night.
It struck Darcy that she was so very young. Her curtail of long hair flowed down her back in a mass of curls, and he could see her little toes peeping out from under her dress. He suspected she may have been crying, but her body was eerily still, with her face turned towards the gauzy curtain.
Darcy was positive he had made no sound, but her head turned slowly to regard him. Even from ten paces he could see those fine eyes brimming with regret and sadness; though curiously no tears.
His resolve was no match for that soulful stare, he started to bow, intending to make his apologies and beat a hasty retreat to his own chambers, when in a fluid motion she leapt up from her perch on the window seat, walking to stand halfway betwixt him and the bed.
His mouth went completely dry. Rooted to the spot he stared in complete rapture at her figure, barely concealed by the sheer garment. Perfect, perfect, perfect; his mind chanted but he did not, could not, utter a word. After what felt like hours but was in all probability seconds, his legs seemed to re-discover the power of movement and he began to edge back through the doorway.
In her magnificence she glided further, closing the distance between them. The light and pull of the fabric played on her gentle curves, sending his senses reeling. Seeing the direction of his hungry gaze, she looked down at her own form and gave a self-conscious blush. Darcy saw her body tremble and he imagined her nipples hardened when caressed by his intent scrutiny.
He looked over her head, trying to regain his customary self-possession; but in an unanticipated move of boldness she touched his cheek, drawing his regard to back down to her own countenance. He found it to be devoid of emotion, those occasionally candid eyes resuming their guard over her inner thoughts, but the slight tremor in her hand belied her otherwise flawless display of confidence.
"One of the few joys we can derive from this union is in the making of a child." She said solemnly, her lambent eyes gripping his attention.
Darcy shook his head, trying to find the words to express the tangle of emotions and sensations that plagued him: the rising and subsiding anger, the stab of pity, his well-earned wariness and most of all the overwhelming dangerous desire that raged within his breast. It was a hopeless endeavour, how could he communicate what he wanted, when he was not even certain himself of his course of action?
His wife's lips tugged up at the corner and the corresponding eyebrow rose in an endearingly arch manner: "Besides, I hear it is the one thing us country girls excel at… a good roll in the hay."
When her tongue peeked out to wet her pouty pink lips he was undone. He would be gentle, he would be kind, but he would have her! He swept the impertinent girl up into his arms, making a beeline for the bed, where he anticipated to spend some hours.