Page 31 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry

It was early spring at Pemberley—a season so unlike the one at Longbourn.

Elizabeth remembered well the delight that spread through the house whenever one of them first discovered the tender buds upon the hedge before their door.

Yet here, amidst the vast domain, spring bore a different meaning altogether.

Even before the earth shewed signs of renewal, the house, the gardens, and the fields were alive with stir and business.

At dawn, her husband was already abroad, riding through the estate to give orders, to visit, to arrange the day’s labour.

The whole was in such commotion that she, at first, scarcely knew how to find her place in the tumult or to discern her proper part.

From the first days, she had accompanied Darcy on many of his rounds about the estate, and little by little she came to know all who laboured under their care.

Perhaps she did not yet remember every name among the grown folk, but the children she knew well, for no sooner did she appear than they gathered round her, bringing flowers or some small fruit offered with delight from a plump little hand which Elizabeth never failed to kiss.

Nor did she ever forget them in return, but carried with her small bags of sweets which she shared among all the children present.

She had learnt that the people about them often compared her to the late mistress, Lady Anne, who had known each woman and child upon the estate, and had given her care with both justice and tenderness to all who lived under that roof and within those lands.

As was their custom, Darcy found her that morning in the dining room, awaiting his return. She welcomed him with the same bright smile, no matter how long or short their separation had been.

“You have a letter from the colonel,” she said, her eyes quick with interest, showing him the letter that waited for him next to his plate.

There had been little word from their cousin of late. He endured a grievous season; yet as the concerns of the army could not be spoken of, they knew they knew only that he suffered from losing his love. Disappointments had fallen thick upon him, leaving him with a declared disdain for all women.

Mr and Mrs Henry had been arrested in London that same month, but long months passed before it was resolved whether he should stand trial. In the end, the judgment had been in his favour: he was hailed as a hero, and the Regent himself had extended his congratulations.

“And you?” Darcy asked, glancing at the little bundle of letters before her.

Elizabeth smiled and touched them lightly with her hand, the letters in front of her, “Mary, Jane, and Papa.”

He drew a chair beside her; he disliked taking his place at the farther end of the table.

He kissed her gently and whispered that she was beautiful.

Still, she blushed, hovering between shyness and pleasure.

Yet of late, Darcy believed it was pleasure that prevailed.

The innocent bride who had once yielded with reluctance had grown into a splendid woman, casting aside every restraint as one discards an outworn garment, and delighting in the ardours of their intimacy.

Elizabeth broke the seal of Mary’s letter, eager to know how her once timid sister fared in London. Lord and Lady Matlock had chosen to keep her always near them, and so she had removed to town. Each of her letters brought tidings of interest, for her life appeared to grow daily more agreeable.

They had but begun to read when, at once and almost together, they uttered an exclamation of amazement.

“What?” cried Darcy.

Elizabeth turned to him, perceiving plainly that they had lit upon the same passage.

“It cannot be! What does Mary say?”

“' Colonel Fitzwilliam has asked me to be his wife, and I have given him my consent .' His wife?” Elizabeth repeated with eager wonder. “Read, in the name of the Lord—read at once what the colonel says.” She tried to seize the letter, but Darcy caught her in his arms, and they wrestled and laughed together until she had placed herself upon his knee, that they might read in company. He wanted to read Mary’s letter first, but she insisted again, “His letter!

He held fast to his cousin’s letter. “This poor man that I became believes that marriage leaves him some privacy in his correspondence.”

“Fitzwilliam Darcy, if you do not read it aloud at once, I shall remove to my own chamber for a week.”

“I could—”

“With the doors shut!”

“You would not last a week,” he said, unfolding the paper with studied leisure.

“Try me!”

Dear cousin,

I trust my letter finds you and your wife in the same happiness in which I last saw you.

A week ago, our dreadful story came to a close, and to my relief, it has ended well for me.

I was awarded the Small Gold Medal for service of uncommon merit behind the lines.

The surprise was complete. I believe my father and my mother exerted their whole strength in my defence, and that medal is the proof that their labour has borne fruit.

I have also been appointed to a post at the War Office, with the prospect of further promotion in time.

Though I was thankful for this ending, I could not return to society with ease. I shunned the company of old friends, seeking solace only with Mr and Mrs Bingley, whose cheer never failed to lighten the gloom of my spirit.

How it came about, I cannot fully tell. Many dinners at home with my parents, and in their company, this little fairy who seemed to belong to our circle as by enchantment.

She is no airy creature, but when she speaks, she has the spirit of your wife, and when she smiles, she recalls Mrs Bingley.

Shyness, intelligence, good sense, simplicity—these are her ornaments.

My general urged me to marry quickly, so as to confirm the severance of my former connexion.

Add to this my weary disdain for London women, and the gentle importunity of my parents, who all but declared that Miss Mary was the only one for me.

And she is. From the moment I resolved upon it, a strange tranquillity settled upon me. She has consented, and we are to be married in May, when you, too, shall be in town. Thus, I shall wed an heiress, though her portion is not of coin but of gifts far dearer. Kiss your wife’s hands for me.

Yours ever,

Richard

“Incredible,” whispered Elizabeth.

“Now, your sister’s letter,” Darcy said, still half lost in wonder.

But Elizabeth had other thoughts. She laughed, sprang from his arms, and held the paper aloft.

“This is private correspondence, sir!”

It took just a moment to catch her and lay her down on the settee, his precious burden thoroughly enjoying the game.

It was well accepted that when the master and mistress took their meals alone, no servant was to enter the dining room unless they heard the bell. And that morning, it did not ring.

∞∞∞

The day of Mary’s marriage, all the family gathered before the church. The bride was to come with her father in a white chaise—a gift from Elizabeth and Darcy.

Elizabeth surveyed the company assembled for that unexpected yet joyful wedding. Among the guests of honour were those of her own family whose part in the colonel’s deliverance had been decisive—her mother, Mr and Mrs Phillips, and Mr Gardiner.

Yet in truth, they were not united as one big and harmonious family.

This occasion was perhaps one of the few on which the Matlocks would encounter her relations.

Courtesy prevailed, and at moments even kindness.

Still, it was gratitude for their son’s rescue that softened feelings which might otherwise have settled into disdain.

The most reserved were Viscount Beaumont and his lady, who addressed themselves solely to Darcy and Elizabeth, and held apart from the rest.

Nevertheless, Elizabeth’s heart swelled with pride.

Her mother appeared handsome and finely dressed; her uncles and aunts bore themselves as well as any she had seen in the drawing rooms of the ton.

Jane, with her hand upon her growing middle, was tenderly attended by her husband, who shadowed her with anxious devotion.

The Bingleys were, as ever, in their own sphere of happiness, a delight to all.

Darcy, in a coat of deep grey silk, stood before the church gate, observing the gathering with inquisitive eyes.

For a few moments, Elizabeth lost herself in a dreadful vision of what might have been.

She saw, as in a shadowed dream, the colonel taking that woman for his wife, while Darcy, with his hand so elegantly kept within his pocket, seemed on the point of drawing forth some hidden weapon, anything to prevent his cousin from binding himself to such a fate.

But the spectre dissolved, and she returned with grateful certainty to the present hour.

The young lady whom the colonel was to marry was none other than her dearly loved sister Mary, while the groom, bearing upon his breast the Gold Medal, walked with impatience in the little yard, waiting for his bride.

Though he might never feel again the passion he had once borne for Miss Henry, he looked with genuine regard upon the gentle and intelligent woman who was soon to be his wife.

But Elizabeth grew somewhat uneasy when she recalled how, months before, her husband had promised the colonel, half in jest and half in earnest, that he too would disturb his wedding, just as the colonel had cast the shadow of his adventures over the joy of the bridal pair at Pemberley.

At that time, no further marriage had been foreseen, and the colonel was far from thinking of matrimony.

Yet, here they were, awaiting him at the church.

Elizabeth wondered, with a touch of amused dread, what her husband’s hand, so elegantly kept in his pocket, might conceal.

She believed him capable of any contrivance, if only to keep a promise.

She drew near to him and, taking advantage of the commotion about them, slipped her hand discreetly into his pocket, finding there nothing more than a few coins which Darcy was preparing to scatter among the children after the wedding.

“You suspected me of some mischief,” he said, laughing.

“I feared you might ruin my sister’s wedding, only to keep the promise you once made to your cousin.”

“Do not be too certain that I shall not yet contrive something,” Darcy replied with playful humour.

She stayed close to him, resolved to prevent any untimely jest. By fortune, the ceremony passed with grace, uniting a virtuous and timid young woman with a man eager to rebuild his life.

When the vows were spoken and the couple emerged, joy rang through the air.

The chaise halted beneath two great chestnut trees, from which children showered rose petals until carriage, bride, and groom were veiled in fragrance and colour.

Laughter and applause followed as the colonel stood, smiling, and called out, “I challenge you, cousin, to see which of us shall hold the first christening.”

Darcy turned to Elizabeth, half suspecting that she had betrayed their secret. But she only smiled and shook her head.

“No, my love,” she whispered, “for today, our child belongs to us alone, and besides, it is you who have already won this challenge!”