A/N: A big thanks to everyone who has Followed/Favorited/Reviewed so far. You keep me writing, even when I should be doing the washing instead.
My biggest thanks to Lenniee who makes me and the story so much better.
Hope you like the new chapter. And if you do, don't forget to leave a review.
Darcy furiously sorted the papers on his desk. To a uniformed onlooker he would appear the very picture of industrious energy, but in reality he was creating aberrant chaos, randomly dismantling the structure he had taken great pains to organise prior to dinner yesterday evening and again this morning.
He braced his hands on the desk, quaking with a heady combination of emotion and suppressed desire. It was that girl that had brought chaos into his life! He wondered how he could have forgotten everything he had ever learnt of scheming females.
Elizabeth, he tasted the seductive syllables of her Christian name in his thoughts as he recalled their wedding night.
There was not a doubt in his mind that his wife had come to him unspoiled as he had both felt and seen the evidence of her broken maidenhead. Aside from that, she had been as ripe as a cherry in July, ready to be plucked from the tree and devoured.
His wife had met each of his advances with an untutored passion so overwhelming he had unravelled much too early on that first pass. During the second congress he had given her the lead, and had watched her ride him with a raw sensuous joy that had veritably singed his blood.
Her body, while a bit short and a mite too spare for fashion, was nevertheless Darcy's idea of perfection: fine elegant lines complemented by a soft and welcoming swell of hips and crowned by that peerless pert bosom. What would such a creature be like once she had learnt the skills to match her innate enthusiasm? The thought had stirred him into a repetition of their amorous activities.
Taking his leisure, Darcy had explored her complete topography front and back, noting the firm musculature under the petal soft skin and womanly curves. He had provoked her, teased her, drawing her out and then backing away, until she had been completely ruled by her fledgling amative instincts.
Exhausted by their exploits, she had snuggled into him with the innocent pleasure of a sleepy kitten, but looking upon her exposed form and remembering all they had enjoyed thus far, sleep was a quarry that had persistently eluded him. Rather he had lain there, in a state of painful arousal, waiting for her to stir.
His desire, subdued but not defeated, had surged again when she had awoken and stretched in languorous splendour. The quick study had run her fingers over him in a blatantly suggestive manner, and Darcy had been mesmerised by the sight of her eyes peeking through her tangled hair. They were casually seductive, begging him to make love yet again, an entreaty he had been only too happy to fulfil. But on the edge of his mind had hovered a memory, tickling his senses, like the unease one felt when standing too close to a precipice. Another pair of eyes, grey, not dark, which had mimicked such an expression for their own gain, rather than in the innocent pursuit of gratification.
When Elizabeth had leant over him, her bosom swaying intoxicatingly, he had found himself transported to that house in Chelsea, where he had been caught completely unawares. The fear had crystallised with choking clarity when his wife, the bold seductress, had hinted that her favours were dependant on the procurement of a new wardrobe.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why had he let his guard down?
Why had he been foolish enough to trust another conniving woman?
He had instinctively fled her influence and his own naïve folly. After quitting her room he had spent what seemed a lifetime pacing, thinking and pacing.
Although Elizabeth could not abandon him in the manner his mistress had, her charms could still cause irreparable damage to his life, to his standing and to his very sanity. He would not be controlled, led by his urgings like some callow youth.
When she did not come down for an early breakfast as he had specifically instructed, he had known that he would have to be firm. He would show her that he was master of himself, and without any doubt the dictator in this union.
His resolve had been imminently and thoroughly tested when he'd pulled her from the bath tub just a few minutes before, her slick, beautiful body squirming in his grasp.
What had she been doing? She'd seemed simultaneously vulnerable and utterly seductive. He had wanted to cradle her, protect her and spend the next week ravishing her over and over again.
He suspected the incitement of such warring emotions had been her design, but reining in his baser impulses, he had countered as coolly as he was able. Judging by her own sharp reaction, she had been convinced and offended by his indifference, but by God, the restraint had cost him dearly, continued to cost him dearly…..
Darcy slammed his fist down on the table in a hammer motion, watching the papers jump in a most satisfying manner. A loud gasp caused him to look up. His wife stood framed in the open doorway.
Her still damp hair was tied back from her face, a face that was alert, wary and lovely. He impatiently waved at her to enter. She advanced slowly into the room, like a cautious doe, ready to take flight at the least disturbance.
He circled around the desk to pull out a chair for her. As his proximity increased, so did her apprehension; she even flinched when he indicated where she ought to be seated.
"I would rather stand, thank you," she said, clinging to a contrary stance despite her evident fear.
"Would it cost you anything to take a seat?" he retorted.
"Would it cost you anything to let me stand?" was her crisp reply. In increments she seemed to regain her confidence with each word spoken. She pulled back her shoulders and raised a dark eyebrow in challenge.
"Perhaps," he replied enigmatically.
Reaching behind him, Darcy picked up the clipped papers pertaining to the marriage settlement betwixt the two of them. When she reached her hand out he held them aloft, just beyond reach, before relinquishing them to her grasp.
He surreptitiously watched her quickly peruse the figures on each page, weighing her reactions. Darcy was caught off guard when she merely raised her eyebrows at the paltry sum that had been settled upon her. He had anticipated with dastardly satisfaction the tears and recriminations that would greet his fairly miserly allocation of a mere £3,000 settlement and a pathetic jointure of £200 per annum to be paid to her in the event of his death until her own demise or her remarrying. Her split-second expression of surprise actually made him feel a tiny bit ashamed of his pettiness.
"Please, what is this last page?" she said.
Darcy was astonished at the speed with which she had consumed the legal document, but perhaps she had been merely skimming. "It is a clause that was requested by your uncle, stating that all outside assets and income that come into your name during the term of our marriage remain your exclusive property both during the marriage and after it."
"I have never seen such a provision before. Is it a common inclusion in marriage contracts?"
"Do you read contracts for fun then? Most women prefer novels," he said, faintly mocking.
A gentle furrow appeared between her graceful brows as she looked down at the sheet again in uncertainty. He gave a huff. "Don't worry; I am sure it is iron clad. Your uncle is a shrewd man, and more than a little bit pushy. The paltry £50 a year from your father will be safe from me."
She pursed her lips, looking at him levelly. Searching for the meaning of that look, his gaze sought her oft times expressive eyes and to his disbelief found pity in them. She was gazing upon him with pity! He crossed his arms defensively.
She began to voice another question uncertainly. "You mentioned a schedule of events?"
"Oh, yes of course." He handed her the two-page list of social engagements, written in a neat close hand. She efficiently cross referenced the events against her allocation of pin money, flinching, then she consulted both sheets again. His wife bit her lip and looked up at him; her face now instead of radiating pity seemed configured to inspire it.
Pre-empting her entreaty Darcy said, "You will have to hope your father is prompt with his payment of your annuity."
"Papa is never prompt in settling accounts, and some he forgets altogether."
"That is a rather disrespectful thing to say about your father."
"Perhaps it is, but I assure you it is accurate."
Darcy edged a little closer to Elizabeth, flaring his nostrils to take in the delicate honeysuckle scent of her. "Ask me for more money and you shall have it, just this once, mind."
"No, thank you. I will make do with the funds allocated. I do have some clothing."
He looked over her gown critically. It was a pretty dress, the subdued yellow suited her colouring, but there was no getting around the fact that it was a simple gown. It lacked the adornment one would expect of the Mistress of Pemberley, and within the upper crust everything rode on appearances. "I apologise for my harsh words yesterday. You must have known that your dresses, even if you had kept them, would not have been suitable for your new station, and you must also know that your monthly £30 is barely sufficient to cover a quarter of what you shall require. Allow me to supplement it."
"If you knew the amount to be insufficient, why did you nominate such a sum? Are we in financial trouble?"
"No," he responded, "We are quite well to grass."
That pity was back in her eyes again, with a measure of disappointment written like a footnote across her features. He felt increasingly shabby about the way he had handled the marriage settlement. He could have easily settled ten times as much upon her without even missing it, but he'd prevaricated that as she brought nothing she ought to expect nothing. While he had been angry at the time, these sums represented her infinitesimally small measure of independence while married and the very bedrock of her security should she be widowed.
He pattered around the large desk once more, avoiding her eyes while putting the coins representing her pin money into a plain leather pouch.
Darcy was totally affronted when upon handing her the pouch she stepped forward and upended the coins onto his desk. He could not believe she was going to be so vulgar as to count the money in his very presence.
She rapidly sifted out fifteen gold guineas and a silver crown, and stacked them into a precise little pile before sliding the miniature tower toward him. It represented the extra funds he'd tried to covertly slip in with the rest, trusting in a feminine aversion to figures to temporarily disguise the increase, and in her greed to overcome her pride when the excess funds were discovered at some later time.
That she had reckoned the surplus amount right to the penny and so quickly was impressive, but he had little patience for her continued resistance. He leant over the wide desk and determinedly pushed the coins back in her direction with a toss of his head.
She capitulated elegantly, picking the coins up one by one. They clinked within her hands as she arranged them again into a perfectly aligned roll with her deft little fingers. But instead of adding them to the hoard in her pouch, his wife moved to pick up his other hand from where it rested upon the table, gently brushing the backs of his fingers with her nails.
The sensation was exquisite. Who knew digits were so sensitive and that the touch of a hand could be so…. erotic? She took a step closer to him and he could feel the soft brush of her breath on his neck. He shut his eyes but opened his hand to her ghost of a touch moving from the back to the palm of his hand.
Swiftly the warmth of her fingertips was replaced by the cold hard coins. He looked down into her eyes to find them equally hard and cold. She closed his hand around the money. Her refusal of his peace offering could not have been communicated any clearer with words.
"Do you need me to sign something, a receipt perhaps?" she enquired. Darcy shook his head, still bewildered by her very distracting proximity.
"Very well," she snapped, the harsh rap of her voice pulling him out of his trance. It mattered not, as there was no time for him to respond, no time for him to react. In barely the blink of an eye she had escaped into the hall on a confident, energetic stride, the swirl of her skirts slipping around the corner.
Darcy jingled the gold briefly before securing it within the lockable top drawer of his desk. Had she been playing him? And to what end? He was astonished that she had refused the money. Surely she had discerned that for that brief moment he had been completely in her power, and yet she had not pushed her advantage. Rather, his wife had further locked herself into a financially untenable position.
Sufficiently self-aware to recognise his preoccupation, even if not disciplined enough to overcome it, Darcy elected to walk rather than ride the short distance to Matlock House for the long overdue meeting with his uncle. A wise choice, as he continued to ponder the mystery that was Elizabeth right up to the moment he was announced to his uncle. It was perhaps less than wise to allow his distraction to accompany him to such an interview, which was bound to be fraught. But the thoughts of his wife were like barnacles on his mind, unable to be dislodged without considerable effort.
He expected the Earl to be greatly disappointed in his choice of a bride, angry even, especially once the full extent of her unsuitability was comprehended.
The way Darcy had gone about the marriage was also likely to incite censure, for rather than consult his uncle or even inform him of the impending nuptials he had stood before the altar like a thief in the night, with none of his family and connections around him. Certainly the Earl would have received his brief note before the announcement of his marriage appeared in the papers, but realistically the Earl of Matlock's foreknowledge would have only been of a few hours' duration; no doubt being behind the pace of events was a novel and frustrating experience for a man renowned for his great influence.
Darcy followed the butler closely into the familiar tastefully adorned study, almost cringing in anticipation of the guillotine about to drop.
His uncle, tall like all the Fitzwilliams even if not as tall as Darcy himself, stood slowly from his deep blue chesterfield placed in front of the fire. An empty glass sat on a small round table adjacent to his vacated seat. A generally sober man drinking so early in the day was not a promising sign. No further clues could be extracted from Lord Matlock's expression as he advanced across the room in a steady gait.
Perhaps presenting the marriage as fait accompli had not been the best of ideas, but Darcy had been under sufficient strain simply trying to do what was gentlemanly and right. He did not need the added furore created by well-meaning relations assiduously trying to dissuade him from what must be done. Squaring his shoulders, Darcy resolved to take his punishment like a man.
Darcy reached out to initiate his Uncle's preferred familial greeting, a distant handshake, but to his astonishment, Lord Matlock took his hand and pulled him forward into a hug. Darcy stood bewildered. He could not remember the last time he had been embraced thus; certainly never by Lord Matlock before. Likewise, his father, while warm with praise, had never been an overly demonstrative man past Darcy's childhood, and had strictly adhered to an increasing formality in the years of his decline. Strangely, the last man to hold him in such a manner had been Sir Lewis De Bourgh on the day his excellent father, George Darcy, was laid to rest. Sir Lewis had been a great comfort in the weeks following his father's passing; it had been a double blow when his uncle by marriage trailed the Darcy patriarch to the grave not four months later.
The embrace while unexpected was very comforting, if a little awkward. It took a few moments for Darcy to think to return the gesture, lifting his arms, at which his Uncle gave a gruff cough before disengaging. He clumsily patted Darcy on the back and invited him to take a seat in front of the fire.
"Brandy or whisky?" asked Lord Matlock making his way over to the elaborate oriental drink trolley, obviously the one concession the Countess had made to the trademark Fitzwilliam gaudiness in the otherwise stately room.
"Do you not think the hour a bit young for heavy liquor?"
Lord Matlock grimaced but said good naturedly, "Maybe so, but when a man my age offers an apology it must be lubricated by strong spirits."
"An apology?"
Lord Matlock's halting but heartfelt speech touched Darcy. He almost confessed the truth of his marriage, the disclosure sitting tantalising on his tongue. Would it be better to be honest rather than adhere to the story conveyed in the cleverly temporised words in his missive? Darcy had spent an inordinate amount of time on his correspondence over the past week, especially in his letters to family. In each he had intentionally arranged his phrases in such a fashion as to give the impression of a love match, without explicitly dealing in untruths.
"After so many failed seasons, when I met Miss Bennet I saw no other option but marriage," stated Darcy in another cleverly worded disclosure, skirting the edges of falsehood.
"I am glad that things have turned out for the best, but I still cannot absolve myself so freely. I own that I was worried that you would never settle down, that you had developed some misguided notions on love, but in my indolence, or perhaps my innate discomfort with the subject, I put off the duty of counselling you. Despite this now happy outcome, I cannot help but think my reticence has caused you much avoidable unhappiness."
Darcy brought the glass to his lips, taking a small sip, but mostly he found himself evaluating the meaning of his Uncle's words rather than the quality of the libation. "I never thought you put much confidence in the idea of love."
"That is not precisely true, I have always admired the steadfastness of Darcy matches, I daresay the tradition has added much prosperity to your family. Contrast this against the previous generation of Fitzwilliams: more bitter foes you could never find, and each of my parents determined to live in independent establishments more elaborate than the other. It took me many years to undo the damage such a hostile and ruinously expensive relationship did to the estate.
"Now, having enjoyed an arranged marriage myself that led to contentment, if not great passion, I saw no great evil in the old method itself, if the parents choose carefully with an eye to the compatibility of their children's spouses. And yet we have been saddled with another matrimonial disaster. I did not count on deception, foolish of me, I know. You must apprehend that Lady Cynthia shed all semblance of the sweet docility I had admired with the ease of a snake shedding its skin. I swear the ink was not even dry upon the register before she unleashed her viscous nature. I know you broke with your cousin James over his behaviour since the match, but having lived with that viper, I cannot grudge him his vices. He deserves our sympathy, not our scorn. Since the children arrived he has sobered somewhat and I think he could benefit from admittance back into your society."
Lord Matlock paused, looking at Darcy significantly, who could only reluctantly nod in reply. Certainly the quarrels of the late Earl and his wife had become the stuff of legend both within the family and without. As to his cousin James and his infamous behaviour following his indisputably miserable marriage, Darcy could forgive the gaming and such he had pulled back once the stakes came close to threatening the estate, but the young Lord had made a mockery of the whole family with his love affairs. And yet, could Darcy in good conscience ask the Earl and Countess for help while he continued to spurn their first born son? Moreover should the truth of his marriage get out, softening his attitude towards his wild cousin may gain him more allies willing to stand by him, should Darcy be declared a rake and a hypocrite.
"Will you permit Richard to choose his own marriage partner?"
"Yes, I dare not intrude into matters of the heart again, although with his current prospects his choices will be limited." Lord Matlock paused, rubbing his chin. "When the time comes I will advise him in the way I ought to have advised you. Love is an act of faith, seeing the best in someone and continuing to see the best of your partner even in the face of the less than desirable traits they have….. Not knowing the young lady you have now settled upon, I still find myself entitled to say that you had entirely too much choice on the marriage mart. I am sure you were introduced to many workable matches each year, but you found fault with each."
"Or with their mercenary tactics," muttered Darcy.
"Do not think of women so harshly. Their whole future life is determined by their marriage partner."
"And mine is not?"
Lord Matlock raised his eyebrows in surprise at the bitter question voiced by his nephew.
"We are getting off topic. You remember my sister as the exemplary woman who was your mother, but I can tell you that as a young woman she was not very promising. I thought your father, my friend at the time, was barking mad when he appealed to the Earl to court Anne. Beautiful she was, but a prouder and more unpleasant girl you could not imagine, and yet your father was desperate to have her; quite irrational. By that time, Father's health was failing and I despaired of taking over the management of Catherine and Anne, both budding termagants."
Darcy bristled at hearing his mother spoken of in such a fashion, but the Earl, seeing his agitation, shook his head to forestall his objections until he had finished saying his own piece.
"George Darcy was utterly devoted to your mother. Little by little, bit by bit, she became…. I know not how to describe it. Under his love she became the woman he loved. I do not know if the kindness and sweetness had always been there, buried under her caprice, and we as a family had missed it, or if she became so to please your father." He paused, frowning. "The years of trying to have a child further softened your mother's harsher edges. Failing in this area humbled her in a way I could not have foreseen. It was as if by receiving the generous compassion of others, her improper pride melted by increments. By the time you arrived she was a lady without peer. Following your father's example I tried to get to know my own wife better. Though she had not been my choice, I found much to admire in her, and the more I admired her, the more admirable she became. I think it is the love we lavish on our partners that makes us happy, more so than the raw bones of what each brings to the match."
Uncomfortable with the conversation for obvious reasons and others not so tangible, Darcy responded "So if James loves Lady Cynthia enough she may become kind?"
The Earl snorted. "That creature is not a woman but a goblin who has pulled the hide of a girl over herself to conceal her rotten core. There is no redemption for one such as she." He waved off the thought of Lady Cynthia, wrinkling his nose as if his cup held pig swill rather than the finest whisky money could buy.
"… So when are we to meet the new addition to the family?"
Darcy sighed, sitting forward to rest his elbows upon his knees. "She is not of our sphere. I expect she will find our set quite intimidating. Two weeks alone together, mayhap three, cannot help but build her confidence. Then I think a family dinner to introduce her to you all before she begins her public season would be most appropriate."
The Earl smiled, thinking those two weeks alone with his bride had naught to do with sparing her the rigours of socialising. "Well you can count upon our support, but you cannot count on the Countess staying away for a full three weeks. I will stay her as long as possible, but I think you should expect a call from your Aunt next week, if not sooner."
"Very well."
"And Darcy, I'd appreciate it if an invitation was extended to James for the forthcoming family dinner."
"Very well," replied Darcy again, resigned but relieved, before taking his leave. On the walk home he wondered if the interview had been a success. He had not been scolded. Certainly the Earl would support his wife, searching within her for qualities to love and draw out through familial support.
He pondered the disclosures about his own mother. Now engaged in the business of getting an heir, he hoped that they would not suffer similar difficulties to those his own parents had endured. For although the Darcys married years ahead of the Earl of Matlock, the Earl had his heir, spare and another daughter to marry off for political gain by the time the Darcys produced their first issue. He suspected that his mother had continued to hope for a child for many years after he was born. Now that he was more worldly, he could recognise that the spate of illnesses, hushed and furtive, were likely the result of lost children, something he had been unable to understand as a child.
That she had been able to bring Georgiana safely into the world at such an advanced age seemed a miracle, but shortly after his sister's birth Lady Anne's health had begun to fail. She valiantly lingered for a twelve month before succumbing to her ailments. With her she took the light from his father's soul. Darcy mourned for Georgiana nearly as much as he did for his departed mother, for the little girl would never know the easy familial happiness that had been his during his youth. Without Lady Anne his father became a shell of a man.
Long before his mother's decline he had witnessed the lessening of intimacy between Anne Darcy and Lady Catherine De Bourgh. Was it because of the great distance between their estates or the widening chasm in their personalities?
Inexplicably the vision of Elizabeth at the bottom of the tub invaded his mind. What could she have been doing? He clearly saw her eyes through the wall of water but they had been so distant… The churning and bubbles had hidden her face as he pulled her out, then she had been spitting mad. An heir was essential, but to continue in their intimacy as they had the night before was out of the question: he would not leave himself so vulnerable. He liked children, they were so refreshingly honest, and his wife had clearly declared she would very much wish to have one, but the question was: how to go about the mechanics of the thing without losing control? His mind traitorously whispered that losing control would have its own rewards, but he tamped down hard on that line of thought.
He had much to ponder, most of it concerning his marriage partner, and deciding he wanted his thoughts in order before next encountering the girl, he took a detour, a stroll through the park to wander through his thoughts unimpeded by her presence.
…..
Meanwhile Elizabeth was having her own difficult conversation, although it was grounded in mundane practicality rather than the elevated theory of love.
"I fully comprehend your objections, but I do not see that you have much of a choice."
The diminutive figure sitting across from Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and fiddled with the end of the measuring tape she wore around her neck. The woman was more than six years older than Elizabeth, not that any unacquainted individual could have possibly picked her as being the more advanced in age. She was even tinier in stature than Mrs. Darcy, which was quite a feat in itself, but her skin showed not a single blemish, luminous as a magnolia petal in its youthful sheen. Her eyes, coal dark and slanted, betrayed her foreign pedigree, as did her lovely black hair. It was raven black, straight as an arrow and with streaks of shimmering blue when the light hit it just so.
Yes, Elizabeth's modiste of choice was a young woman of Japanese descent.
It was an unfortunate heritage: the prevalent xenophobia of the English could bend so far as to elevate French fashions and madams of the thread, but though they dabbled in foreign trends, the Ladies of high society would not bring their custom to an unknown seamstress from the very eastern of kingdoms.
Her genius would remain undiscovered. She could spend her life in this dim little shop front on the edge of Cheapside if she did not accept Elizabeth's help and offer her own help in return, taking a gamble on her ascending star.
"Madame Miura, this plan will work to your advantage as well as mine. Your designs will be paraded in front of the very circles you wish to penetrate."
She wrinkled her tiny nose. "I will not affect French names or manners." Her soft voice, distinctively English in accent, was quite a deviation from her exceedingly exotic appearance. It was not a perfect diction though: in every tenth or twelfth word there was a flavour of otherness to her speech. "We came here to escape the spread of French ideals. I will not ape them, no matter the pecuniary gain."
"Very well Miss Miura. Now about my proposal….."
Miss Miura, rubbed her temples and muttered something in Dutch before switching back to English. "Your Uncle has always dealt with us fairly, but the man who took over his business has offered us but a third of the established price for our printed fabrics. He thinks he can cheat a woman, and may the Lord help me, he might be right. How am I to support the girls and Ojiisan on such a pittance? But if I do not take it we will lose the shop, and then it is but a few steps closer to starvation."
Elizabeth did not miss the plaintive tone in the woman's voice, Miss Miura's trials put her own suffering into humbling perspective. The waste of the previous evening's dinner pinched her mind anew; that they should have sent so many dishes back to kitchen barely touched while Miss Miura stressed over her ability to fill the bellies of her orphaned siblings and aging grandfather seemed sinful. Granted, Elizabeth anticipated a great deal of agitation and conflict in her marriage, but she could rest assured that she would never starve. Nor could she imagine her husband ever letting a child of his want for anything, even though her basis for this conviction was murky. Mr. Darcy had even offered her some extra funds for her wardrobe, perhaps as a peace offering, perhaps to prevent being embarrassed should she appear in less than appropriate dress, but she had been too proud take the olive branch.
Would it always be this way between them? Attack and retreat, snaps and apologies? It was perhaps pessimistic to envision a lifetime of swiping at each other based on only a single day's tally of interactions. A tide of pink suffused her features when she thought about the method in which she had refused his largesse initiating that touch to his very masculine hands, the hands that had been deeply intimate with her body just hours before. Perhaps the touch would have been innocent in concept, although to her it had felt anything but.
Now her stubbornness was affecting this honest seamstress. If she had just swallowed her pride and accepted his offer, her own offer would have more appeal. Certainly it would still be risky, but it would be a risk of not turning an optimum profit rather than flirting with poverty. She looked around the tiny dark shop front. Light it lacked, cleanliness it had in abundance. The dark slate floors gleamed in the dim light, every tile, every line of grout as pristine as the day they were laid. The windows were small but so perfectly clear you could see every bubbled imperfection in their manufacture.
"If we can pull it off, you need not worry about your future," Elizabeth said, feeling all the inadequacy of the remark.
Elizabeth had been provided an abridged history of Miura Akiko and the rest of the Miura family by her Aunt Gardiner when she had taken her niece to the small shop to get her fitted for a selection of clothing for the upcoming winter over a year ago.
Elizabeth had been firmly against receiving new clothing, knowing that the cost of educating and providing future prospects for his three young boys weighed heavily upon her uncle's mind. But as Aunt Gardiner had pointed out, the clothing commissioned by Mrs. Bennet on the basis of an understanding between Elizabeth and Mr. Collins was universally vulgar in design and now, to add insult to injury, it had become quite shabby after nearly three years of vigorous wear at school.
Amused by her niece's stubborn opposition to a small indulgence in finery, Madeline Gardiner had advanced the argument that for Elizabeth to appear in anything less than well-crafted and tasteful attire would reflect poorly upon the Gardiner family, and that, unlike a gentleman's family, there would be more at stake than gossip. Should Edward Gardiner be perceived to be in straitened circumstances due to Elizabeth's shabby attire, it may affect his contracts or ability to attract investors.
Upon observing a few hairline cracks in Elizabeth's resolve, Madeline Gardiner, consummate negotiator that she was, had pushed her advantage by sharing the tale of woe of the Miura family.
Exhausted by the peril and secrecy of living as clandestine Christians in Nagasaki, Japan, the Miura family consisting of the expecting Kohana, her devoted husband and her doting father had convinced a reluctant Dutch captain to smuggle them out of the country. The Captain likely would have continued to turn a deaf ear to their entreaties -despite the considerable amount of gold offered- but the shrewd trader who accompanied the vessel had evaluated the highly marketable fabrics produced by the family. He had considered the endeavour worth the risk, likening taking the family to stealing the goose that laid the gold eggs, and used his considerable influence to sway the captain to his thinking.
After a long but thankfully uneventful journey to Europe, the family settled in Amsterdam. Dealing principally with the trader who had been the means of their salvation, fabric print and decoration allowed the family to attain a moderate prosperity.
The first of the new generation of Miuras was born at sea, seemingly healthy, but sadly the baby did not live to see his first birthday. As if to make up for this disappointing beginning, the Gods saw fit to bless Kohana with a beautiful baby girl in the first year of the family's residence in Amsterdam. She did not increase again for half a decade but once she blossomed into motherhood, she had produced a child every year from that point onward, moreover each infant entered the world healthy, giving Kohana little trouble in the childbed. By the time the rumblings of revolution were heard, the family had grown to eight in number.
But after ten years of peace it seemed that the family's run of luck had come to an end. The trader who had provided them with such steady orders and income went missing under mysterious circumstances. Strange men were seen to be hanging around their work studio and the neighbouring print shop, and a miasma of fear all too familiar had begun to infiltrate their existence again.
In an unrelated dose of tragedy, Kohana's last pregnancy, that had thereto progressed without any notable fanfare, had ended abruptly and early, taking both mother and child in a matter of hours.
Feeling that all-pervading sense of unease, compounded by sorrow, the widowed Rento convinced the equally uneasy head of the family that it was time to move on from Amsterdam. Utilising the last of their hoarded savings they emigrated to the comparatively more stable regime of England and started the arduous process of establishing a business in the fiercely nationalistic marketplace.
As they attained a sufficient age, the children had all been obliged to work in varying degrees on the production. This is where the naturally creative Akiko had proven her worth. At the age of eight she was very slight and not suited to the heavier work of dyeing, but what she would always lack in brute strength she more than made up for in her artistic sensibilities.
Growing up in the rich cultural melting pot that was Amsterdam prior to the turn of the century, she had been exposed to a great number of ideas and arts, all of which subtly influenced her inquisitive young mind. Although her parents and grandfather had struggled greatly with the integration regime, she found herself effortlessly accepted by the other immigrants in their artisan district. She wandered in and out of other workshops and in and out of the various homes that surrounded her. In many ways it was harder for her to relate to her own family, they often found her challenging of their ideas and traditions disrespectful and improper.
She developed a restrained ascetic and gentle sense of pattern; she strongly believed in letting the patterns breathe. Once in England, she experimented with the subtle use of very monochromatic schemes, she found they supported rich detail without the pattern becoming tiresome or gaudy. Ever aware of the labour and materials involved in printing, and to a greater degree embroidery, she trialled asymmetrical prints and the use of targeted patterns to accentuate certain parts of a dress, coat or underlying figure.
On a routine visit to their workshop, Edward Gardiner had happened to see some of Akiko's distinct yet formative designs not yet stowed away before the start of business. He had enquired after the new craftsman and was surprised to see the young girl come boldly forward to explain her perspective. Mr. Gardiner subsequently placed the largest order they had received to date, commissioning a series of patterns in this new restrained print style. Unable to reject the promised income due to the father's declining health, the family had thrown their combined efforts into the new designs.
The business arrangement progressed well to the benefit of both parties for a number of years, especially when shipments of imported fabrics fell through. Though the continuing war continued to affect textile prices, the demand and prices fluctuated wildly, making it difficult to plan and difficult to save. After her father's passing, Miss Miura often sought Mr. Gardiner's opinion on matters of business. He advocated diversification: selling printed fabrics was certainly more straightforward but depended greatly on regular orders as the margins were not excessively high. The young businesswoman branched into clothing, her first commission a set of silk waistcoats for Mr. Gardiner.
Miss Miura was commissioned to design and create the bulk of Mrs. Gardiner's wardrobe in the year nine and was introduced to Elizabeth Bennet not long after, when Miss Miura was asked to dress the cost adverse young woman for her stay in town.
Although every apparel customer came away uniformly satisfied with the craftsmanship and design of her unique creations, business was nevertheless desultory. The Gardiners were eager to promote the Muira workshop to all of their acquaintances, but their friends mostly circulated within a pool of well-to-do families in trade. While these families did not need to economise per se, they knew enough of the uncertainties of business to appreciate frugality. In addition, the pattern of their daily lives simply did not require such an extensive wardrobe as society ladies and gentlemen: a soiree here a dinner party there, but the bulk of their evenings were spent at home or with family. What they chose to wear rarely needed to dazzle, moreover in some cases appearing better dressed than one's patrons could cause problems. They did not want or need high fashion, they were mostly happy to ape their social betters in a subdued but well-crafted manner.
What the Miura family venture really needed was to intrude upon the notice of the Ton: to become the latest sensation to ladies who wanted to turn heads, to get their bold designs into the heads of London's menagerie of fops and dandies, all so eager to outdo each other and willing to spend hard coin in pursuit of fashion superiority.
This was exactly what Elizabeth had to offer today: a chance to parade their banner at the very best events of the upper ten thousand.
Yet Elizabeth's funds were limited: £55 all told, the amount provided by her husband and another £25 slipped into her hands by her apologetic uncle after supper on the eve of her wedding. Elizabeth had tried to refuse the money, but her red-faced Uncle had shaken the notes at her saying, "Just take it, let an old man assuage his conscience." She had looked at him, puzzlement scribbled across her countenance. He had then given a deep sigh, that for perhaps the only time in Elizabeth's memory smelt of spirits. "Your marriage settlement… it is a disgrace – I tried to argue, but I was hampered by your father who saw fit to capitulate on every point of importance. The only protection I was able to achieve was because the men of your life did not perceive its significance."
"Uncle, you are talking in circles. I am merely travelling to London while you are bound for India with most of your assets preceding you; surely you need all the funds at your disposal."
"Take this toward your wardrobe, heaven knows your pin money will not even begin to cover it; I will worry otherwise. Please do me this service my girl, and do not argue further." She had nodded most reluctantly, at that time more concerned about her Uncle's distress than her appearance in London.
"I accept!" declared Miss Miura, breaking into Elizabeth's thoughts. Elizabeth felt a thrill of excitement, the satisfaction of doing the impossible.
"But only on the following terms."
Elizabeth nodded leaning forward in her seat, listening intently.
"I have the final call on your entire wardrobe, I will determine the dress design without argument from you and I also reserve the right to dictate which gowns are worn to key events."
Miss Miura looked to be suffering some anxiety over the novel demand, but having lived most her life in hand me downs, Elizabeth was not prone to vanity or used to having much control over her wardrobe. Oh, she had ideas, but was neither confident nor knowledgeable enough to consider pressing her preferences at the cost of losing her modiste's goodwill. Except for on one point: "No turbans."
Miss Miura snorted, "You need not fear. Neither turbans nor feathers will ever form a part of any design of mine." She wrinkled her little nose in delicate disgust, then turned serious again, almost regretful. "It will all be for naught if you appear in shabby accessories, so I will take £15 for materials and complete the dresses on terms. The rest of your ready money must be reserved for purchasing accompaniments. I will attend you at the milliner's and at the boot maker's, and I will take you to a local warehouse to select matching gloves and flattering under things."
Elizabeth hardly knew how to respond to this little speech. She was amused at the militant way Miss Miura had planned the campaign of shopping, reserving all the decisions, even those of under clothes, unto herself. But the small amount she reserved for herself was insupportable: she had six mouths to feed. Elizabeth cursed herself again for spurning the additional funds offered by her husband.
"You must take more, I am sure we can economise on some things like basic bonnets. I shall have a rummage around the attic, see if I can find some furs there."
Miss Miura shook her head emphatically. "No, in for a penny in for a pound. I will take this risk only if we do it correctly. Head to toe, you must be perfection. We have some savings, they would run out anyway if I cannot make this venture work. The girls will embroider until their fingers bleed, but our success will keep them under my care and out of service."
Elizabeth held out her hand sombrely. Miss Miura shook it once, eyes shining with determination. "Then let us begin."
Wish I could have included more about the Christians in Japan and the amazing cultural diversity that flourished in Amsterdam in this period, but alas these side notes could have turned into a book in themselves.
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