Page 52 of The Talented Daughters of Longbourn

Fitzwilliam Darcy rolled over in bed and reached a questing hand toward his wife’s side of the bed, only to be disappointed to find it empty.

He groaned and opened a sliver of an eye.

The curtains were still drawn, but there was enough light filtering around the edges to show that the sun was above the horizon. Where was Elizabeth?

He squinted as his eyes adjusted, and he noted that the door to the adjacent sitting room was open. Ah. He rolled out of bed, donned a warm robe, and sauntered into the sitting room where, as expected, he found his dear wife.

She was curled cat-like on a burgundy sofa of the latest style, between a sunlight-wreathed window and the busily burning grate.

Her pencil moved steadily across a landscape, a graceful hill presiding above a serene lake taking shape under her skillful hand.

Even as he watched, she paused to tug the hem of her nightdress down further over one shapely foot.

“Good morning, darling,” she said, looking up with her bright smile.

“Good morning,” he replied, leaning over and planting a kiss on her rosy lips, and then straightening. “I hope you slept well?”

“I did. It is a most comfortable bed. By the way, a letter from Georgiana arrived.”

“I hope she is well and in good spirits?” he asked, aware of a stir of unease. For the first time since the disastrous affair at Ramsgate, Georgiana was living apart from her brother, and he worried about her .

“She is happy and healthy,” Elizabeth said reassuringly. “She and Anne are enjoying one another’s company, and Mary is in residence at Rosings as well. It is a blessing that our brother-in-law Isaac’s parish is only fifteen miles from Hunsford.”

He relaxed at these words and turned his attention to her sketch. “That is lovely, my dear.”

“I think Uncle Josiah will like it,” she replied, setting the sketch pad aside and swinging her feet over the side of the settee. Darcy held out a hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet. She gazed again at the picture and said, “He will be able to paint a landscape from it, I believe.”

“It is beautiful, though not as lovely as you are.”

She chuckled and said, even as she caressed her swollen form, “Thank you, my love. I have never felt so ungainly.”

“You look glorious,” he murmured, and he spoke the truth. He had never, in all his life, observed anything so beautiful as his wife carrying their first child.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “I do hope that you feel equally enthusiastic about my bulbous nature if you end up carrying me down a hill later today.”

Darcy blinked and cast an uneasy look out the window.

The view was exceptional, with a lake stretching out a quarter of a mile, ringed by green hills, which in turn were set off at this hour by the rising sun in a haze of pinks and oranges.

His darling wife was a great walker, but given that she was seven months into her pregnancy, he was not at peace with her marching miles and miles.

At this moment, Elizabeth laughed, her eyes dancing, and he realized that she was teasing him. He grinned back, even as his heart lifted within him. This was what he had been missing for so many years – laughter and the companionship of a woman who loved him, teased him, and advised him.

“So, you do not, in fact, intend to climb a mountain today?” he asked, pulling her into his arms.

“No,” his wife said, leaning her head against his chest. “I truly do not feel up to it, and nor does Jane.”

“I would not imagine that Jane would actually wish to climb a mountain,” her husband mused. “I could see her sculpting a mountain, but not scaling it.”

“You are quite right,” his wife replied.

For a minute, they merely enjoyed one another’s company, their closeness, and then Elizabeth pulled back reluctantly and said, “Are you willing to walk the streets of Grasmere today? It should be level, and if Jane or I grow tired, we can return here by carriage. ”

Darcy relaxed and kissed her head. “Yes, my dear, that seems an excellent plan.”

“Perhaps you should send a note to Jane and Richard, and then…”

“Yes?”

“I believe that I wish to return to my bed for a short time. With you.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

/

The Fitzwilliams’ Sitting Room

The Swan

“Jane?”

“Hmm?”

“Darcy just sent a note that Elizabeth wishes to walk the streets of Grasmere today. Does that sound pleasant?”

Jane looked up from her book and said, “Yes, I would enjoy that. When do they wish to leave? ”

“Darcy suggests after noon.”

“Very well.”

“What are you reading?” Richard inquired, wandering over to peer down at his wife, whose beauty was only accentuated by the obvious signs of new life in her slightly rotund form.

Jane lifted the book to show the cover, and her husband read aloud, “ A Guide through the District of the Lakes by Reverend Joseph Wilkinson. Is it good?”

Jane wrinkled her nose and said, “Much of it is composed of engravings, and they are done very poorly, but the text is marvelously poetic. I am impressed.”

Richard sank down onto the couch next to his wife and planted a kiss on her neck, causing her to shiver. “Are you planning to add poetry to your creative endeavors, dear one?”

She laughed and shook her head. “No, I would do a very poor job at it. But I do enjoy poetry.”

“But perhaps there is something you might enjoy even more for the next hour?” he asked slyly.

Jane carefully set aside the guide and lurched to her feet. “Yes, definitely!”

/

His Majesty’s Ship Reliance

In the Caribbean Sea

“Up there, Sawyer, Wickham! Jump to it, men!”

George Wickham suppressed a groan and obediently launched himself up the rough wood of the mast, which dug painfully into his callused hands.

The main sail was hideously tall, and he was afraid of heights, but better to do his job than to be flogged to the bone, or cast into the hold and put into irons.

It had seemed such an excellent decision three months ago.

Richard Fitzwilliam and Darcy had appeared at Marshalsea Prison with an offer to release Wickham from his debt if, in turn, Wickham agreed to sign on as a hand on one of the British naval ships.

The war against Napoleon continued to rage on the seas, and the navy was desperate for warm bodies to fill her ships.

He had leaped at the opportunity, of course. Marshalsea was dismal, dank, dark, and dreary. Anything had to be better! Furthermore, there was always the chance of prize money at sea, and when they were in port – well, he could always slip away if he found life too unpleasant.

He quickly discovered that he had absolutely no concept of how difficult life was on a naval vessel, especially for a man with no experience. He had been seasick, he had been repulsed at the food, and disgusted with living in close quarters with dozens of filthy sailors.

He had considered deserting within a week of boarding the Reliance , but the master of the ship, a tall, broad-shouldered individual by the name of Captain Stokes, was no greenhorn; he had ordered Reliance moved a mile off shore within a day of Wickham boarding, and he and his compatriots, none of them excellent swimmers, would not dare desert under such circumstances.

Furthermore, the penalty for desertion was death, and unlike the militia, there was every chance that Wickham would, in fact, end up dangling at the end of a rope if he tried to jump ship.

So he was trapped now, on board a ship which reeked of tar and smelly bodies, with slimy water to drink, weevily bread to eat, and the reasonable expectation that if the ship actually engaged in a fight with the French, he would end up dead or maimed.

And even if some day he did manage to escape life on a naval ship – well, he was no longer handsome, charming, suave George Wickham.

His arms were rough and tan from exposure to the sun, his eyes were lined from squinting during the brightness of full noon, and his formerly neat hair was long and dirty.

No woman of wealth would ever look upon him again with admiration.

Marshalsea had been better.