Page 17 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

ELIZABETH DARCY

Mrs Reynolds came tiptoeing into my room in the late afternoon. She seemed visibly shaken upon hearing Wilson’s whispered description of what had been done to Mrs Darcy.

“But why did you not insist Mr Johnson turn back after the first hour, ma’am?” she asked, struggling to both pardon her colleague and defend me—her mistress—at the same time.

“I should have, Mrs Reynolds. Only I wanted to make a good impression on everyone, and I suppose I did not wish to grovel for mercy to Mr Darcy’s steward. I can only blame my stupid pride,” I said with a rueful chuckle.

Mrs Reynolds accepted this. She, too, seemed to have a good deal of pride and perhaps understood. She demonstrated her commiseration by taking my urgent letter for the post to Mr Harrison, returning with a salve and willow bark tea, and checked on me twice thereafter.

Some hours later, I was lying on my stomach staring at the pattern of the wallpaper in the dancing light of the fading sun.

I had slept to be sure, but fitfully. Mostly I had reflected on a host of pains I suffered other than those caused by my saddle.

The sharp, breath-stealing pain of separation from my home and family came full force, as did the dull throb of anxiety over my shameful marriage to a man who seemed increasingly to hate the sight of me.

Added to this mix was the frisson of fear.

I was so young, so inexperienced! I felt utterly cast-out, a friendless apostate, and beyond that, I felt I now had, if not enemies, antagonists, of which the chief among them was certainly my husband’s steward.

I turned my head as Mrs Reynolds approached my bed and spoke in a low murmur.

“Forgive me for intruding ma’am. Mr Darcy has asked for you to join him in his study. I explained you were unwell, and—well, he pressed me as to the cause of your ailment but I?—”

“Oh dear. I hope you did not tell him of my mortification.”

“No, ma’am. I did not feel equal to doing so. If you would like, I can tell him that you really cannot go to him.”

I sighed and considered.

Mrs Reynolds sheepishly added, “Mr Darcy did say that he would not importune you if the matter were not important.”

Good God! What had I done now? “Tell him I will be down directly, although I might need both you and Wilson to help me manage the stairs.”

Mrs Reynolds clucked in dismay as she stepped out, and Wilson helped me stand to be dressed.

Tears sprouted, and I bit my lip to keep from gasping aloud, but eventually, Mrs Darcy stood ready to be taken to the bear’s den to be mauled for sport.

Wilson was too well trained to scowl outright, but her expression was one of restrained thunder.

She dressed my hair in a low, loose chignon and chose the darkest dress I owned.

This must have been a strategy because upon seeing my reflection in the mirror, I looked terribly young, deathly pale, and fragile enough to break.

The housekeeper returned, and we left the room.

“Pray do not let me be seen by the footmen in this hobbled condition if we can help it, Mrs Reynolds,” I whispered.

“No, ma’am. Take my arm, just there.”

My pride sustained me. Before the end of the stairs, I released my attendants and went directly to my husband’s study under my own power.

I knocked, was bade to enter, and upon doing so, Mr Darcy and Mr Johnson stood and saluted me formally. I only nodded my head; a curtsey would have caused me to cry aloud.

“Mrs Darcy,” my husband said, gravely scouring my person with his steel-coloured eyes. “Pray be seated.”

“I would prefer to stand, sir.”

“Are we to have a standing conference?” he asked brusquely.

“I believe so.” I looked pointedly—directly and with unvarnished dislike—at Mr Johnson, who had the good grace to look abashed.

“Very well. I will not demur if that is your wish. Johnson tells me that in the course of your tenant visits you dismissed him to speak privately with Mrs Travers.”

“I did.”

“And what precisely was said in this private conference?”

I staggered and stared at him, wide-eyed with disbelief. “Forgive me,” I said, stepping forward to grip the back of an upholstered chair for support. Once feeling more stable, I looked at my husband and said, “She spoke to me of a personal matter. I cannot disclose it.”

“I applaud your scruples, but in this case, I am afraid I cannot indulge you. What was said, madam? ”

“I cannot and will not disclose anything that Mrs Travers divulged to me in confidence,” I replied coldly.

“And why not?”

I let out an involuntary gasp of exasperation. “Because she spoke to me of a womanly complaint!”

This seemed to cause all the power in the room to shift from him to me.

He paced towards the window and looked abstractedly out at the garden while Mr Johnson stared at his well-worn boots.

I faced them both with my head thrown back and what was surely a look of fiery defiance burning in my eyes. How dare they!

“Are you certain?” Mr Darcy finally asked, turning to look at me.

“Certain? Of course I am certain ! If I did not believe I would die of mortification to do so, I would stand here now and recite the particulars since you seem to question my understanding. Perhaps then you would be ashamed to have pressed me to know what you would rather not know anything about.”

“But why would she consult you ?” he asked.

“I suppose because I am Mrs Darcy! I do not rightly know. I believe she thought I might have some resources with which to help her.”

“Resources! But why did she not consult the doctor, Mr Waverley?”

“She did.”

“And?”

“He patted her on the head and said she was indulging a flight of fancy, I am led to believe.”

“Perhaps she was.”

“And perhaps she was not! She says she has no confidence in that man and that he has dismissed her symptoms for weeks in a row. She is desperate in fact, Mr Darcy.”

“And what can you do for her?” he asked with a sneer.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked coldly.

“Forgive me. What do you propose to do for Mrs Travers?”

“I have written to my aunt in London, asking her to deliver a private letter to my uncle’s acquaintance, who is a physician. I solicited another opinion on the matter, sir.”

“And what did you intend to do with this new opinion, madam?”

“Mr Darcy,” I said while glaring at Mr Johnson, “I am not averse to speaking of this in detail with you, but I would much rather not do so as though I am being questioned by committee.”

“Leave us,” Mr Darcy barked at his steward.

“Before you go,” I said coldly, “perhaps you might explain to my husband why I must conduct this interview while standing.”

“That was badly done of me, Mrs Darcy. I beg your pardon.”

“Indeed, it was badly done. Perhaps in a day or two I might be in a humour to laugh at it.”

“Of what are you speaking?” my husband demanded.

“As I have said, Mr Johnson should account for himself—perhaps when we are done discussing the current difficulty.”

“I will be in my office, if you will send for me, sir,” the steward said, then he excused himself.

As soon as we were alone, Mr Darcy spoke. “What is this contretemps with Johnson?”

“I believe we were speaking about the advice of the London doctor. When it arrived, I had thought to consult you. And that, sir, is the end of the matter. ”

He seemed to deflate a little. “Is her complaint really so bad?”

“I thought it sounded dreadful. I never heard the like of it.”

“And you are sure you are not equal to telling me? Mr and Mrs Travers have been on this estate all their lives. Theirs is one of our principal farms. I will own I am concerned.”

I also deflated a little at the less confrontational tone he used.

“Perhaps you should be aware, but you must treat this matter as utterly confidential. I would be too embarrassed to tell you directly, but if you ring for Harrison, I will break the seal on my letter to the doctor and you may read it.”

He pledged to keep the matter confidential but seemed to suffer genuine reluctance once he had got his way.

Perhaps he was acutely aware how intrusive he was to demand to know my private business.

After a heavy pause, he sighed, rang the bell, and asked for my outgoing letters.

While we waited, he said, “Are you sure you would not rather sit?”

“I am certain.”

“Precisely what did Johnson do to you?”

“You know I am only just learning to ride. Mr Johnson took me to meet the tenants—all the way to the Travers’s cottage—and insinuated that if I did not go mounted, I would be despised by all your people.”

“I see. I will speak to him.”

“I wish you would not. Let him confess the matter to you, and let that be the end of it. I have learnt he is not someone I can readily trust.” I sniffed.

“Johnson is trustworthy, I assure you.”

“To you, I am sure he is.”

“It was foolhardy of you to go so far. Surely you must share some responsibility for your current ailment. ”

“I would agree with you if not for the fact that I did not truly understand the consequences. I expected to be a little stiff, not incapacitated. I had heard of the term ‘saddle sore’, but I did not know the condition involves…wounds. Mr Johnson scored his point because of my naiveté.”

“What point do you think he was possibly attempting to make?” he asked coldly.

“I believe he intends to punish me.”

“Punish you! For what?”

“For marrying you, for the pheasants, for not being someone else. I do not know, and perhaps he does not either. I came to Pemberley believing the only person with the right to punish me was my husband, but apparently, that, too, was na?ve.” I spoke with quiet indignation, which I expressed through the raising of my brows and the waving of my hands.

Mr Darcy looked quite uncomfortable then and seemed to struggle for something to say but was interrupted when Harrison knocked and handed me the letter I had written to my aunt.

I broke the seal and retrieved the smaller letter enclosed inside.

This, too, I opened and handed to Mr Darcy.

He took it and retreated to his desk where he laid it down and stood over it with both hands flat beside it, his head bent in concentration.

He looked up briefly at me and then finished the letter.

“I see,” he said soberly.

“I am glad one of us does,” I crisply replied.

He drummed his fingers on the desk and did not speak for a full minute as he stared again at the page. “I am by no means an expert,” he murmured. “But,” he said at last, “these symptoms seem to be—well, I hardly know how to couch it.”

“Then pray do not couch it. I hope I am not a complete idiot and will be able to comprehend whatever you tell me bluntly.”

“Mrs Travers may have a venereal complaint.”

My hand went involuntarily to my forehead. “Good God,” I whispered.

“I will send to London for my own physician,” he said at last.

“That you will not, sir. Mrs Travers consulted me privately. She expects me to act privately. The arrival of your physician to see her will be much remarked upon by everyone, and she will rightly accuse me of sharing her distress with the world!”

“But what are you to know about these things?” he asked in exasperation. “Your father’s solicitor assured me that you were?—”

“Chaste. Yes, Mr Darcy, I am. But I am now a married woman and Mistress of Pemberley besides. I am expected to manage this delicate matter, and I intend to do so.”

“How precisely can you do so if you are as you say?”

“I may be inexperienced, but I am not ignorant,” I said stiffly.

“Since we apparently no longer need the opinion of my uncle’s friend as to the nature of her complaint, I intend to find a doctor from Manchester or Sheffield or somewhere we can find a reliable man.

This Mr Waverley—what can he be thinking to shush her complaints? ”

“He has served the estate for thirty years.”

“Perhaps he has, but in this instance, he seems to be serving only her husband by protecting his secrets. Forgive me if this is a cynical view, but what else should I think if he is not to be accused of outright quackery?”

“He will not take the arrival of a newcomer very well.”

“Then I rely on you to make him reasonable or to determine it is time for him to retire. I can only do so much in this case, and I intend to be useful to Mrs Travers, even if it costs me this—this doctor ’ s good opinion. How will I find someone to consult?”

“I will make enquiries.”

“Very well. I thank you. May I be excused?” I took up my letters and did not wait for an answer.

I felt cross, sore, and horribly ill-used.

A venereal complaint! Lord help me!