Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2004 by Linda Berdoll

  Cover and internal design © 2004 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover photo © Simon Carter Gallery, Woodbridge, Suffolk, UK/Bridgeman Art Library

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  FAX: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Berdoll, Linda.

  Mr. Darcy takes a wife : Pride and prejudice continues / by Linda Berdoll.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-4022-0273-3 (alk. paper)

  1. Darcy, Fitzwilliam (Fictitious character)— Fiction. 2. Bennet, Elizabeth (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Married people—Fiction. 4. England—Fiction. I. Austen, Jane, 1775-1817. Pride and prejudice. II. Title.

  PS3552.E6945M7 2004

  813’.54—dc22

  2003027655

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  BG 20

  Dedication

  For Phil

  Preface

  The renowned (if occasionally peevish) lady of letters, Charlotte Brontë, once carped of fellow authoress Jane Austen’s work, “…she ruffles her reader by nothing vehement, disturbs him by nothing profound: the Passions are perfectly unknown to her…what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of Life and the sentient target of death—this Miss Austen ignores.”

  It is forever lost what Jane Austen might have made of Jane Eyre, hence we shan’t dally with such a conjecture. And however we are moved to defend Miss Austen’s unparalleled literary gift, we cannot totally disregard Miss Brontë’s observation, for it was quite on the money. Jane Austen wrote of what she knew. Miss Austen never married, it appears her own life passed with only the barest hint of romance. Hence, one must presume she went to her great reward virga intacta.

  As befitting a maiden’s sensibilities, her novels all end with the wedding ceremony. What throbs fast and full, what the blood rushes through, is denied her unforgettable characters and, therefore, us. Dash it all!

  We endeavour to right this wrong by compleating at least one of her stories, beginning whence hers leaves off. Our lovers have wed. But the throbbing that we first encounter is not the cry of a passionate heart. Another part of her anatomy is grieving Elizabeth Bennet Darcy.

  PART ONE

  1

  As plush a coach as it was, recent rains tried even its heavy springs. Hence, the road to Derbyshire was betimes a bit jarring. Mr. Darcy, with all gentlemanly solicitousness, offered the new Mrs. Darcy a pillow upon which to sit to cushion the ride.

  It was a plump tasselled affair, not at all discreet. His making an issue of her sore nether-end was a mortification in and of itself. But, as Elizabeth harboured the conviction that she had adopted a peculiar gait as a result of her most recent (by reason of matrimony) pursuits, her much abused dignity forbade her to accept such a blatant admission of conjugal congress. Thus, the cushion was refused.

  Dignity notwithstanding, the unrelenting jiggle of the carriage demanded by the puddles bade her eye that same pillow wistfully as its soft comfort lay wasted upon the empty seat opposite them. As she clung to the handgrip, she knew it was indefensibly foolish not to admit to her husband that he was justified in suspecting that she needed it. But at that moment, not making a concession to him was a matter of principle.

  Suffering both from the road and from knowing herself unreasonably miffed, she submitted to the silent chastisement that she must learn to accept the perversely quixotic turns of her new husband.

  *

  As each and every muddy mile they travelled diminished the distance betwixt Elizabeth and the awesome duty that awaited her as mistress of such a vast estate as Pemberley, she became ever more uneasy. It was not that she had only then fully comprehended what awaited her, for she had. At least as comprehensibly as it was possible.

  Hitherto, there had been the excitement of the wedding, and moreover, the anticipation of connubial pleasures with Mr. Darcy that buffered her from the daunting devoir that lay ahead. In soothing her newly appreciated trepidation, her husband was of no help whatsoever. Indeed, they had no more than stepped from their matrimonial bedchamber before he had reclaimed his recently relinquished mask of reticence. And with it, that maddening hauteur. One peculiar only to him.

  It was only subsequent to their engagement that he had ceased addressing her as “Miss Bennet” in lieu of her Christian name. Delightful as that transfiguration was, her previous understanding in regards to her name was usurped in the throes of passion. For in the considerable heat generated the previous evening, he had repeatedly murmured “Lizzy” in her ear.

  To her dismay, their re-emergence into company bade the Master of Pemberley serve compunction by abandoning that much-appreciated endearment. This disappointment would have been less egregious had he not insisted upon addressing her as “Mrs. Darcy” not only to the help, but privately as well. Her alteration from Lizzy to Mrs. Darcy had been vexatiously abrupt. Therefore, Mrs. Darcy was profoundly aggrieved and sat in petulant silence much of their trip.

  This lack of conversation he did nothing to mitigate.

  Indeed, it was a repetition of the ride from their wedding to their London honeymoon nest the day before. She had convinced herself hitherto that his quiet could be attributed to nerves (owing to the compleat lack of reserve that night). Presently, she had not a clue.

  Upon thinking of that lack of reserve and the resultant kindness done upon her person, it bade her not to think so meanly upon her husband, silent or no. If he had truly been disquieted in apprehension of their wedding-night, might not his present reticence come from unease? It occurred to her that the more firmly he seemed in his own charge, the greater was his perceived threat to it. Hence, his wall of defence. At one time, she might have been amused to think herself such a disconcertion to the arrogant Mr. Darcy. But no more.

  Impetuously, she took his hand. In no manner did she want him to believe her a peril to his well-being.

  The carriage, evidently unhindered by the weightiness of her ruminations, endeavoured on. Hence, she wrested her attention from them and peered out the window as they ambled down the fashionable avenues of Mayfair. There, even so fine a carriage as theirs excited few heads to turn and watch as they passed.

  But once upon the road north, a legion of staring eyes could be detected through the obfuscatory yellow fog that clung persistently to the streets. Unaccustomed as she was to being the occupant of such an elegant coach, Elizabeth was a little off-put to be the object of such general scrutiny. Mr. Darcy, however, as was his habit, practised an impervious gaze just at the horizon, reflecting neither distaste nor notice of the gawking.

  *

  They broke their journey for a spare midday meal at a plain but tidy inn. This rest occasioned the innkeeper and his wife into whimpering subservience, thus enlightening Elizabeth to the extreme deference she must weather as Mr. Darcy’s wife.

  The b
revity of their stop was in all probability ultimately a good thing, blessedly truncating as it did the publican couple’s display. The next fit of veneration from a person of lesser birth than the Darcys (i.e., just about everyone) would not be so unexpected. Elizabeth promised herself that she would practise Darcy’s patrician inscrutability and elude the urge to tell those servile persons they had undoubtedly mistaken her for someone else.

  Whilst still partaking of their meal, Darcy apologised unnecessarily upon the austere winter dressing of his county.

  He said, “I am happy, Elizabeth, that you have seen Derbyshire in the summer. I fear the gloom of winter does not show it at its best.”

  Such was his formality, she could not help but respond in kind, dipping her head and smiling as if she was responding to a stranger at a dinner party.

  Small consolation, but at the very least he was calling her “Elizabeth” once more.

  Whereupon she endeavoured in her thoughts to retrace their steps that forenoon, wondering what, if anything at all, she could have done to cause his emotional retreat from her. For had they not parted from each other’s arms reluctantly and in all good humour?

  The single unseemliness bechanced in her dressing room. He was compleatly unaware of it. And as this impropriety was of an extremely personal nature, it was absolutely unobserved.

  Her bath had been drawn before she appeared. When she saw it there, hot and inviting, she was struck by an odd caprice. With little contemplation, she took the bar of soap and dropped it in the tub, allowing it to sink to the bottom and melt. Thereupon, she wrapped herself in a towel and let the steam curl her hair into an untidy frowse. In time, a waiting woman appeared to help her dress and curl her hair into a reasonably fashionable design. Elizabeth allowed the maid to believe her bath had been compleated. All this subterfuge was to a single end. She did not want to wash her husband from her body.

  It was not premeditated. The decision was not made until she looked into the clear, hot water. She did not want to be daintied. She wanted to be able to smell his aroma emanating from her own body. If it was common to want to do such a thing, so be it. She deliberated the possible unbecomingness of her conduct no further.

  The second half of their journey proved vastly more rewarding than the first.

  Once the impenetrable noise and slush of London had been shed, the wintry countryside for which he apologised was quite inviting. And, their re-entry into the coach allowed her to claim the pillow she had earlier refused. She attempted to place it under herself with as little notice as possible. But once the coach door had been slammed shut, Darcy made a point of helping her to situate it. As to why she was utterly mortified at his chivalry, she could only guess. For was it not his doing that she needed the pillow in the first place?

  It may have been that unspoken thought that passed betwixt them when they exchanged an exceedingly explicit gaze, but it was broken as the horses lurched forward.

  The team strove on. And sitting shoulder to shoulder with her new husband in the bright, very public daylight, she was visited with an unshakeable, if indecorous, recollection. As much as she endeavoured (and mightily she did endeavour), Elizabeth could not displace the image from her mind of her husband’s body. Naked as God made him. And aroused.

  With all her being, she wished she had some cold water to flick upon her face, for she could feel the rush of heat building from her bosom. Her flush was so pronounced, she hypothesised that the bumping of the carriage was making her ill.

  “Yes, I am feeling ill. ’Tis not my husband’s nearness. ’Tis not the thought of him naked and flesh proud. I am feeling ill. It must have been the blood-pudding.”

  Silently, she fretted that the relentless throbbing in her chest might cause her permanent affliction. She did so not want to be a sickly wife. But in her heart, she knew herself not truly ill. Would she want so very much to leap into his arms had she been afflicted? As she lay her head back against the seat, quite unknowingly, she emitted a deep sigh. Regrettably, she thereby gifted herself further disconcertion by reason of his hand alighting upon her knee.

  Uneasily, he queried, “Pray, are you unwell?”

  It occurred to her to tell him that if he kept his hand upon her knee, he was in imminent danger of learning just how well she was, but she quashed the notion.

  “I am quite well, I thank you,” she said.

  That assurance evidently did not persuade him of the felicity of her health, for his hand began a small, reassuring caress. This manipulation was unsuccessfully ignored by Elizabeth. For as he gazed impassively out the window at the passing countryside, the seemingly independent action of his hand expanded to an outright stroking of the inside of her thigh.

  Soundly, she clamped her hand down atop his, certain that if she did not stop him, her eyes might actually roll back in her head. This constraining grasp was largely ignored. His fingertips continued their caress. In time, the rocking of the carriage and his rhythmic stroke influenced her own hand to relinquish its grip. Lulled into a nearly trance-like state, she almost gave a start when he spoke.

  “Indubitably, it will take a period of adjustment to become accustomed to each other’s all and sundry personal habits.”

  “Yes.”

  She steeled herself for a reproach upon any of her more prevalent personal shortcomings. As punctilious as she knew he could be, she was determined to weather any criticism with forbearance.

  “My own routine is thoroughly entrenched.”

  She nodded in acceptance of this irrefutable likelihood.

  “Yet, I have an admission.”

  “Have you?”

  “This morning, I could not bring myself to bathe. I could not bear to wash your scent from me, Lizzy.”

  2

  It had been a heady two months’ engagement. Indeed, with two promised daughters in close company with their betrotheds, one might have expected Mrs. Bennet to have been beside herself with vigilance of chastity. But she was not. The exceedingly advantageous marriages were set. The only insult that she imagined could now befall them was for either of the intended bridegrooms to drop dead before the wedding.

  Hence, when both couples had sought the outdoors and, therefore, separate paths for some time alone, her primary concern was that neither of the gentlemen in question caught cold.

  Notwithstanding their mother’s peculiar inattention to virginal honour, Jane and Elizabeth Bennet endeavoured to comport themselves during their periods of betrothal with a politesse so precise as to demand society overlook their sister Lydia’s decidedly divergent road to matrimony. Entering into this delicate balance of love and propriety, however, obtruded the very weighty matter of immoderately aroused libido.

  The entire quandary might have been circumvented had Elizabeth not allowed (welcomed, invited, summoned) a kiss from Mr. Darcy. For a union that had not been christened by greater affection than the holding of a gloved hand, that was a moment of considerable excitation.

  First, one must understand that the distance between Mr. Bingley’s estate of Netherfield and the Bennets’ house of Longbourn was traversed with the regularity and certainty of the sunrise in the short months of the Bennet sisters’ engagements. Upon fine days, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley travelled the three miles upon horseback; upon foul they came by coach. Upon fair days, Bingley and Jane, followed by Elizabeth and Darcy at a discreet distance, walked out to stroll.

  It was upon one of those perambulations that this kissing business was initiated.

  And, thereupon, temporarily terminated. For Miss Bennet’s and Mr. Darcy’s tender moment came coincident to an extended rainstorm. Hence, all subsequent visits with Elizabeth’s intended were relegated to Longbourn House and the company of assorted sisters, parents, and servants. Mrs. Bennet might turn a blind eye to affection betwixt them, but it was quite unlikely that all would. This was a considerable vexation, in that after that first kiss, Elizabeth thought of little except the anticipation of the next.

  T
hat interim was appropriated by a second hazard. The first, being housebound by reason of inclement weather, was quite beyond anyone’s control. The second, no less so. For when she received the letter from Elizabeth advising her of the impending marriages, Lydia Bennet Wickham did not offer her nuptial congratulations by post. She came herself. Lydia had written to her mother to expect her, but such was her haste, she arrived only hours behind her missive.

  *

  Regrettably, the Wickhams’ marital bliss had lasted little longer than it took the rector to pronounce them husband and wife. Howbeit, in the excitement of parading about as Mrs. Wickham, Lydia did not detect this for several months. Indeed, understanding the youngest Bennet sister’s nature (shallow, fickle, and dim), it would not be unreasonable to assume that had the Wickhams remained in London, the abundance of shops there might have kept her insensible of it for years.

  But in the gloom of Newcastle, household felicity was not abundant. And, not introspective by nature, Lydia was unable to enjoy the single thing Newcastle did offer in abundance (besides coal), that of quiet (if sooty) solitude.

  Reading bored her, sewing was a chore, and walks were, to Lydia, only a means to cover the ground between where she was and where she wanted to be. Activity lay by way of engagement balls and wedding breakfasts. Citing her extreme affection for her sisters (dubious) and homesickness for Longbourn (unquestionable), she applied to her husband to return home.

  Lydia two hundred miles away? Happy thought for Wickham. (“Yes, dearest Lydia, you must be with your sisters, but I am not certain my heart will bear your absence. Do not tarry longer than you must and then hurry home to me!”)

  Lydia thought she might well tarry as long as possible. For while being ensconced in north England may initially have been regarded as an adventure, its allure waned more precipitously than did her husband’s. The shops were sparse, her friends were even fewer. Those she had soon wearied of hearing how she, the youngest of five sisters, had usurped the title of ranking daughter by becoming the first wed. Her own consideration of that coup paled when she read the letter telling of the engagements of both Jane and Elizabeth, for she had only bested them by six months.