Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A CURIOUS FACT
I stared out the window at the scene spread quilt-like before my eyes. Pemberley already seemed painted in shades of gold, crimson, ochre, amber, and hunter’s green though it was still early autumn.
I heard—then felt—my husband approach to stand quite close behind me. “What is it you are watching so intently?”
“I was observing this scene as Mary might see it. Is that not a picture crying out for painting? Is it always so beautiful?”
“Not always. There are blustery days in winter in which this view is quite stark.”
“But I would wager it is still beautiful.”
“To me it is, yes.” We turned and made our way to the table.
“After so many weeks,” I said as I placed my napkin on my lap, “I wonder that we still sit down to breakfast and search each other’s eyes as if to find proof we were not dreaming. ”
“I look for no proof,” he said upon his dignity. “And if you wake me, I shall be greatly annoyed with you. Would you like to invite Mary to come to paint the scenery at Pemberley?”
The notion pleased me very much, but a mischievous thought then arose, and I asked what seemed an irrelevant question.
“Will we always make love to one another over breakfast, Mr Darcy?”
“I certainly hope so,” he said. “But we digress. Should I send a coach for Mary or not?”
“ I do not digress. My mother and father had fallen into the awkward habit of flirting with one another with their daughters round the table as mortified and unwilling witnesses. I hope my sisters—and your own—are not made to suffer a similar fate.”
He looked appraisingly at me for a moment before replying with a smug little smile that travelled upward to his eyes.
“It is well that I know you as I do, Elizabeth, for you have a habit of saying precisely what you do not mean.”
“Which is what?”
“You are hoping they will have to endure our very public love making in perpetuity.”
I laughed. “I confess I do! Yes, I would dearly love to invite Mary. Perhaps she could come with Georgiana? I do not like your poor sister marooned in London if she would rather be home, solely to allow us time alone. Do you mind terribly if we have company, Mr Darcy?”
“It is a curious fact, dear heart, that you and I exist almost as if we are always alone with one another, even when we are in a crowd,” he said. “By all means invite whoever you would like. Besides, I have also invited someone to visit us next month.”
No amount of wheedling could dislodge the mystery of just who my husband had invited to visit us. All he would do is reply in the negative to my repeated guessing.
It was not Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was set to escort Georgiana and Mary to Pemberley anyway. No, Mr and Mrs Gardiner had already been invited for Christmas, as had every other member of my family.
He only chuckled when I suddenly blurted out “Lady Catherine!” over tea one day, and wearily shook his head at my notion I might receive a belated bride visit from his exalted relations.
Meanwhile, my curiosity was blunted by Mary’s arrival. She looked surprisingly pretty, having been the beneficiary of my mother’s excesses at the drapers for my wedding. Both she and Kitty had been newly fitted out with the remains of half a dozen bolts of velvets, fine wool, faille and muslins, and my first thought was that time spent in Georgiana’s company had seemed to have influenced her to adopt a slightly more elegant style. But upon noticing a modish curl hanging down by my sister’s ear, I suspected the answer was that Georgiana’s lady’s maid had performed her magic on the long road north. Either way, I fell upon my sister with gleeful kisses, and not wishing her to be left out, treated Georgiana to an equally shocking welcome.
Mary was understandably enchanted with Pemberley, and on fine days, I walked out with her to find places and vistas she particularly wished to sketch. Because my situation afforded such smothering attentions, one footman trailed behind us with her paint box and easel, while two more brought petite chairs and a hamper for our comfort .
To this excess of convenience, I could only laugh and wonder with the ironic scepticism which came naturally to me, how soon I would grow too weak to lift my hand to ring the bell.
Georgiana and Mrs Annesley joined us often, for both ladies were also quite good at drawing. Nevertheless, they sometimes stayed home to allow Mary and me time together. And on one beautiful, dry day, we sat on a blanket nibbling biscuits, cheese, and candied apricots, and I suddenly felt equal to bringing up a subject upon which I did not often dwell.
“How is Kitty progressing with her driving?”
“Well, I believe. Papa takes her out every Monday without fail.”
“Does he? I am surprised.”
“I think,” she said as she took up her pencil and squinted objectively at the horizon line, “he misses you, Lizzy. Teaching Kitty to drive must remind him of doing the same for you.”
“I am glad to believe he remembers me whether or not in fact he actually does,” I said with more lightness than I felt. “But I should hush now so you can concentrate.”
As promised, I pulled a small book out of my pocket and pretended to read. In truth, I fell to thinking wistfully of my ponies.
Mr Darcy had made a point of promising my father he would not prohibit my driving, but in the end, I had not the heart to relocate my girls. They had grown so comfortable at Longbourn, and to be led on a long journey north and relinquished to the care of strangers after many hours on unfamiliar roads struck me as inhumane. My Zephyr, too, had been left behind, for even I knew that such a long, rattling journey must strain its delicate joinery.
“Are you certain?” Mr Darcy had asked me when I explained how I had come to the realisation I must leave my curricle and team behind.
“Do not look at me so pityingly! I am not going to cry, you know. I do not wish to receive my Zephyr as a creaking wreck. I wish only to remember my little winged friend and I plunging down the lane between the great trees of Lindbury.”
“We could at least bring your horses?—”
“But at Longbourn they are the principal horses. Mr Hill has come to care for them like his children. Poor old Nellie seems lost for even the short spells they are out driving, and even Charlie has become reasonably attentive to their particularities. At Pemberley, they would exist in a stable of how many surrounded by great huffing stallions, and hunters, and brood mares, and I know not what else. No, do not seek to reassure me. I know their care would be meticulous, but it would also be, by necessity, impersonal.”
Though, upon our arrival at Pemberley, Mr Darcy had many times over offered one or other of his curricles, gigs, or phaetons for my use, I had politely declined. Much as a person whose pet dog has died of old age does not instantly wish for a new pet, I preferred to miss the Zephyr and fondly remember my horses and the hours of delight we shared, and I did so freely on long walks through an astonishingly vast and graceful park.
Michaelmas came and went. Then one ordinary autumnal day as I sat in the music room next to Mary as Georgiana practised her scales, Parker arrived with a calling card on a silver tray .
“Mr Tomlinson!” I cried aloud, causing Georgiana to abruptly stop mid-measure.
“Pardon me, dearest, I was only surprised. I must step out to see a caller. Do continue.”
I ran down the stairs in a girlish haste unbecoming of Mrs Darcy and burst into the drawing room. There, next to Mr Darcy stood a jolly, round man with thinning hair.
“Delighted, madam!” he cried upon introduction, then in a gesture reminiscent of a circus master, he waved his hand grandly towards the window.
There in the drive sat a curricle!
“I give you the Derbyshire Swift, Mrs Darcy,” he said proudly, “designed and commissioned specifically for your pleasure and to the specifications of your husband who required her to have a certain elegant line and a petite structure fitting for a lady such as yourself. She will never be reproduced, for that was also Mr Darcy’s request.”
“But—but how?” I asked stupidly.
“Mr Darcy’s carpenters and I have been working these past few weeks, madam. Might I show off her features?”