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  ———

  All the rooms of Pemberley were handsome beyond measure. The Darcys’ bedchamber was sumptuous above all others. Time did not make Elizabeth invulnerable to its august and uncompromising façade. This particular stirring owed less to its magnificent furnishings than the slight scent of her husband’s masculinity that clung to the bedcovers. Despite being the mistress of the house for any number of revolving frosts and summer reveries, she had made very few alterations to its décor. The only change of any importance was compleatly hidden from view.

  At one time a large pier glass hung on the wall opposite their bed. Now it lay beneath it—concealed from prying eyes, yet at the ready to be brought forth to bear witness to their connubial pleasures. When once it was a nightly voyeur of their intimate embraces, of late it had been gathering dust. That alteration alone should have alerted husband that something was amiss. It had been her design to leave any declarations to the gods. No doubt he would have soon discovered the happy news himself (he was nothing if not a very thorough lover).

  Now the pleasure of that special moment—when his hand would cup her abdomen in wonder—was lost. This due all through the auspices of an over-eagre wet-nurse. Elizabeth had done no more than made inquiries as to her availability, not invited her to come. No doubt half the countryside was awaiting a formal proclamation of another child to be born of Pemberley. Once Mrs. Littlepage was announced, there was no call to turn her away. The cat was out of that particular bag. Elizabeth knew the fault was hers. She had procrastinated in hopes of finding the perfect moment; now it had found her.

  Her hesitation was with just cause.

  She had been taken to the straw three times, each fraught with crises. The first two pregnancies were grave disappointments—one a miscarriage, the second, a still birth. Whilst the third ended quite happily, the delivery took place in a chaise and four on the road between Wigston and Fleckney. Not only was Darcy not at her side, he had been quarantined abroad and she feared he was dead.

  Their first two losses grieved him deeply. Whilst the first two were not his to make right, he never quite forgave himself for not being by her side for the last.

  Although another birth should have daunted her, her real trepidation was in disquieting her husband. That, however, was inescapable. Launching a wet-nurse at him as an opening salvo did not bode well for the remainder of her watch over his sensibilities. Sitting in a tufted chair next to the balcony, she was lost in that thought when the sound of the door gave her a start. He made his way into the room silently and found his ground midmost of it.

  Whereas he did not come to wither she sat, she stood and took a few steps in his direction. When they were perhaps ten paces apart, she stopped and dropped her hands and held them as if in supplication. Then, slowly, she turned a full revolution, allowing him to appraise her figure fully. The cut of her gown made that a useless exercise. His brow furrowed. By virtue of the otherwise slightly dumbstruck expression he bore, she walked to him.

  “You must manage your affairs ever more closely,” she said.

  When she was a step away, she took his hand and held it against her cheek.

  Said he, “Indeed?”

  “I had hoped to make a grand announcement at a more fitting time,” she said. “I apologise that my condition was exposed most importunely.”

  In a move both swift and tender, he turned her about and held her against him. His breath against her neck was steady. As she sank back against him, a small convulsion of relief overcame her.

  “You are my sheltering oak,” she whispered.

  As her head fell to the side, she languorously enjoyed the kisses he gifted her neck.

  She wanted to speak reassuringly, but a catch in the back of her throat betrayed her. She turned about and buried her face in the fabric of his waistcoat. After a moment, she looked up at him. His burnished cheeks and adoring eyes compleatly countermanded the unease she had felt not a moment before.

  Pushing a curl aside, he whispered in her ear, “Speak to me, Lizzy.”

  Wishing the moment could last a lifetime, she willed herself not to lose her countenance. Indeed, her voice was artificially light.

  “I advise you that you must be ever vigilant of your business affairs lest you be unable to support your ever-growing family.”

  A smile erupted when she thought of the expression just then.

  Embracing her once again, his hands began a slow caress of every hill and valley of her body. She was not in the smallest way fooled by this manoeuvre. He meant to sketch her shape, of course. It pleased her that he was in want of finding the first trace of the coming child on his own. (Moreover, his roving touch was never a burden.) When one large hand paused at her abdomen, she held her breath. The small swell it contained was a surprise to no one at that point. However, when he cupped his hand upon it, she slid her hand to cover his. In concert, they sighed. As they did, it was as if she could detect his worriment burgeoning.

  Then he stepped back and bestowed a sweeping bow.

  “My fruitful wife,” said he.

  She curtsied.

  In a small, and very unsuccessful attempt at jollity, he bid, “Might you have just one this time?”

  “Of course,” she replied, curious if he was altogether serious.

  “Mrs. Littlepage,” he said cryptically.

  As Darcy was a veteran of what was known as the “nursing wars” between Elizabeth and her mother, he knew that Mrs. Littlepage had only been employed owing to the problem of nursing twins.

  Unwilling to enter into a conversation just then to explain the intricacies of mother’s milk, she only said, “One must be prepared for all occurrences. Moreover, the blame of twins falls solely on you, sir!”

  “My doing? You are the one who produced them”

  “I could not have done so without furtherance from their father.”

  “I fancy,” he conceded. “We acted in that together.”

  “Well said,” she agreed.

  When she placed her hand against his cheek, everything—the air in the room, the sunlight flooding onto the rug and, most important, his countenance—altered. His brows knitted. When she spoke again, her voice was immoderately confident.

  “All shall be well,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Promise me this,” she whispered urgently. His expression told her that were the moon his to give, she should have it. “I only bid this—stay with me, do not leave my side again.”

  He drew her so hastily and tightly to his breast that she left her breath behind.

  He vowed, “This I do promise.”

  She, however, would not allow such a happy moment to be discoloured by those dismaying remembrances. She turned and her hands slid up his lapels and clasped them. At first all she felt was the slight susurration of his breath on her hair. It was unclear who first sought the other’s lips. It really didn’t matter. The kiss they shared was as deep as any she could ever recall.

  In one commanding move, he clasped a wrist in each of his hands and tucked them behind the small of her back. Knowing what was to come, she held her breath lest it scatter away. His lips found her neck, her ear, her shoulders, then forsaking her wrists, he began an undulating exploration beneath her skirts. His long, lithe fingers gently probed her.

  As she lost command of her knees, he caught her.

  “My limbs have no will. They are limp with want....”

  As she clung to him, her hands discovered that he was not.

  In a manner more given to lust than love, they slid to the floor.

  “Give care!” he urged.

  “I shall take great care,” she laughed, drawing herself atop him.

  Huddling her hips atop his, she whispered, “What, pray tell, is that I feel?”

  There was no denying that a very generous concomitant of desire had raised its head—so to speak.

  Regardless of the conspicuousness of his tumid member, he said, “I can not imagine to what you r
efer.”

  Nestling more firmly, she gasped playfully, “Upon my word, it grows even as we speak!”

  “I am free to confess you are right. Another of your doings I would guess.”

  “In concert, I should think.”

  With that, she threw back her head and laughed. As she did, the huge door to their bedchamber burst open. Fast behind came their children. Seeing their parents on the floor next to the bed, they shrieked with laughter.

  “Mama, what are you doing there?

  Without time to think, all Elizabeth could answer was, “Looking for my shoes.”

  Always inquisitive, Janie asked, “What is Papa doing?”

  “Helping me,” she answered feebly.

  Geoff was suspicious, pointing out, “But you have your shoes.”

  “Is Papa not a good helper?”

  The children agreed just as nurse arrived. Understanding the situation, and the part she played in it by losing her charges, she did a fine job of containing them without any show of knowing something was amiss. Therefore, Elizabeth was spared having to round them up herself and possibly exposing her poor husband to further humiliation.

  As the door closed soundly, their ardour remained uncooled. And as they were on the floor next to it, they retrieved the long forgotten looking-glass and put it to good use. Franny Tupin was employed as second nurse by the end of the week.

  Chapter 5

  Golden Eggs

  The year ’15 had become known as the Season of Waterloo. Although Napoleon was vanquished, that did not put an end to strife in England. The war had a near cataclysmic effect on its economy.

  In the following years, vast hordes of the wageless and the famished ran amok in the cobbled streets of London prompting all good society to draw their drapes and think kindly on their country estates. Secret meetings were beginning to be held in Methodist houses and songs of social disorder were wafting up from within them.

  ———

  As had been then their habit, the Darcys did not season in London. Indeed, they came to town but seldom. Some believed that, like others of his station, Mr. Darcy abhorred the disruption in the theatre district. Those who were better acquainted with the man knew that to be untrue. His dislike of the ton was rivalled only by his dislike of the people who inhabited it.

  Once his sister Georgiana was honourably married, they kept to Derbyshire. That county, and therefore Pemberley, had vexation and rioters of their own. Only the direst of events would bring them thither. Hence, when word made its way round the first circles that Charles Bingley was near ruin and Mr. Darcy hied to London to forestall it, the story was widely admired. As he was known to be of above moderate taciturnity, no one dared ask Mr. Darcy to either concede or disclaim the rumour.

  In truth, there was another, far more scandalous reason for him to be in town that week. He would have come too his friend’s rescue regardless, but the other motive was of such detestable urgency that Mr. Darcy risked life and limb to keep it a private matter. Saving Lydia Bennet-Wickham-Kneebone from herself was hardly a singular event. He undertook that office with no small reluctance, determined to untangle his family from George Wickham’s clutches once and for all.

  Through considerable monetary compensation, Wickham was persuaded to forgo his undying love and devotion for his child bride and give her up to her second husband, Major Kneebone. As Wickham had charges of murder and desertion from duty filed against him, he had reason and means to make his escape. Whether he did or not remained unknown. Darcy had left Wickham that day alive and well (albeit with a line of vengeance-seekers forming at his door), reported his whereabouts to the magistrate, and wiped his hands of the matter.

  After everyone that was in his power to be put to right had been redressed, the Darcys left town and sallied forth unto Pemberley, content to abide there into peaceful eternity.

  Their serenity had been shattered ere they gained the portico steps.

  They were met not only by their children, nurse, and Mrs. Bennet, but two hand-wringing servitors as well. (Obvious in his absence was their steward, which foreshadowed news of the most disturbing sort.) Having never seen either of these specific servants in such a pother at the same time—at least over events unfamiliar to him—Mr. Darcy was of a mind to take an audience with them directly. There were far higher priorities for Mrs. Darcy. She was quite happy to leave such bad business to her husband and hurried off to fuss over their twins and to submit to her mother’s aggravations and spleen.

  Neither envied the others’ task.

  Whilst Mrs. Bennet caterwauled about the impudence of Sir Morland to Elizabeth, Darcy was apprised of the unhappy news that whilst they had been in town, the very privacy Mr. Darcy had striven to protect with his every word and deed, had been lacerated. All the worse, the party guilty of this breach was not a stranger. Nay, the culprit was the man whose very life had been sworn to uphold that privacy.

  Advising Mr. Darcy of misconduct within his house should have fallen to the errant Cyril Smeads, Mr. Darcy’s steward. As Mr. Smeads himself was the malefactor, there had been a passing (but very contentious) rhubarb between the butler, Mr. Howard; Mrs. Darcy’s maid, Hannah; and Mr. Darcy’s long time dresser, Goodwin; as to which of them would have the pleasure of tattling first. Mr. Howard held the senior position, Goodwin, trumped them both in longevity. Hannah, however, was both outraged and loquacious. She elbowed passed both men and the story began tumbling from her lips ere either of them gathered their thoughts.

  “Smeads, sir—he done sold viewings of our dear babies! People gave him two pennies a head to come to the door of the nursery—,” her voice trembled with anger and she was unable to carry on. Instead, she held out her hand. In it was the money Smeads had collected. “Poor Margaret didn’t know what to do!”

  Mr. Darcy’s grasp of the situation was remarkable in its rapidity. In the wake of that understanding, his state of mind swerved from well-above angry to just shy of apoplectic. This rage was betrayed only by the barest flicker of his nostrils.

  “Where is Mr. Smeads at this time?” he bid mildly.

  His economy of language and evenness of his tone did not in any way suggest that his interest in the whereabouts of his steward was casual.

  “Gone, sir,” sputtered Mr. Howard. “Stole away in the dark of night like the dog he is!”

  “He got his comeuppance, I promise that!” interrupted Hannah. “Hit his head and lost a tooth or two!”

  Under Mr. Darcy’s eye, Hannah’s ejaculations wound down, “Fell down the stairs. Tripped over the dog, you see....”

  Directly, she hushed herself, curtsied and left the particulars to the men. Tiptoeing out of the room, she hurried away. There was further information that needed to be shared with Mrs. Darcy. Neither Howard nor Goodwin would have a part in that. Although he did not dismiss her, Mr. Darcy did not appear to be offended that Hannah had taken her leave. He was bent upon speaking with Mr. Howard.

  “Is there word of Smeads destination?” Mr. Darcy inquired.

  “I cannot say, sir,” said he.

  Here Goodwin felt compelled to interject what he knew.

  “It was said that he made for Rosings Park, but was turned away.”

  “I see,” replied Mr. Darcy.

  Several weeks would pass before all would be revealed of what became known as “the incident.” No criminal charges were sought. Giving leave to sightseers to gawk at their children at a tuppence a head was not, strictly speaking, illegal. (Visitors were admitted regularly.) It was, however, an unpardonable offence against them personally. Had he discovered it for himself, Darcy may have beaten Smeads from the house—Mr. Smeads had to have known that. It seemed remarkable that he would risk all for a few pennies. Something else was afoot.

  Although the essential actors were known, aims, schemes, and significations remained muddled. Why Smeads repaired directly to Rosings Park was merely speculation. No one knew absolutely that Lady Catherine or her own butler had any sort of re
lationship with him. And if Smeads indeed had a second calling of selling information of their household to Lady Catherine, no one could prove it absolutely. Not that Darcy would think his aunt above such chicanery. The single reason he did not seek a confrontation on the matter was her bereavement. Moreover, Georgiana and her child remained under her care. Nothing would induce him to compromise their convalescence.

  He was not disposed to share all the gossip with Elizabeth. What she soon learnt was troubling enough.

  “How could we have misplaced our trust so willingly?” she exclaimed. “Why would a man risk his position for so little? This is was all quite vexing.”