Chapter 9 Relative Transition #5
Standing, she strolled the room from corner to corner.
Feeling sentimental, she brushed her fingertips across the worn furniture, stroked the dusty curtains, ran her palm down the faded wallpaper, and so on.
All the while she scanned the shadows along the floor just to be sure a precious object hadn’t fallen to the ground.
A small portion of hers and Jane’s personal belongings and clothing remained hanging inside the wardrobe, folded in the bureau drawers, and strewn atop the dressing table.
Lizzy was thankful for the clothing and toiletries yet in place as they provided a semblance of normalcy.
The contrast between their homey, lived-in abode and this far-too-clean, sparse room was stark, but if there were some personal effects, it wasn’t too jarring.
A pair of slender arms slipped around her waist, squeezing tight as a chin rested upon her shoulder.
As if reading her thoughts, a dulcet voice whispered near her ear, “There is no shame in shedding a tear, my Lizzy. I have shed my fair share, and I am not moving as far away. I can gradually adjust to being away from Longbourn. For you, the pain will be stronger, even with Mr. Darcy to comfort, as I am certain he will.”
Lizzy brushed a tear off her cheek and attempted to laugh at her childishness.
It came out as a choked squeak. Hugging Jane’s arms tighter about her, she confessed, “I vacillate between feeling an utter fool, to telling myself mourning is healthy. Oh, Jane! I want to marry William with all my soul. I can think of little else, to be honest. Deep into the marrow of my bones, I know he is the perfect man for me, gifted by God. I am confident Pemberley will become my home, but I cannot relinquish the melancholy either. How does that make sense?”
“It doesn’t make sense. How could it? Perhaps wise quotes of philosophy, the Bible, or a poet would instill some comfort. But, in the end, I believe we are normal soon-to-be-brides dealing with nervousness, as all brides have since the dawn of time. They survived, so I am sure we will too.”
Lizzy turned and embraced Jane, the sisters holding each other in silence. Then Lizzy pulled away to kiss her beloved sister on the cheek. “As always, dearest Jane, your serene soul soothes me. What will I ever do without you to tame my tumultuousness?”
“Once, I might have submitted that Mr. Darcy, being the epitome of calm, disciplined logic, would replace me and be superior. However, I am no longer sure, in light of your vivid descriptions of his wild, passionate personality. Thus, I can extend no hope for you in that area.”
“Then I am doomed,” Lizzy sighed dramatically.
“That I seriously doubt. Now, I came upstairs not with the intent to cheer you or depress further, but to inform that Mr. Darcy has arrived. He expressed his desire to personally oversee the loading of your possessions before they headed to Pemberley.”
And then it happened, as it always did—the mere mention of his name, particularly when said in conjunction with his physical person being nearby, was all she needed to zoom from sorrow to euphoria in seconds.
The tears dried in an instant, the sulk replaced by a gleeful grin.
Following Jane down the stairs, it was a challenge not to skip past her.
At the landing, she resisted the urge no longer, swerving around the snail-paced Jane and dashing toward the door.
“Lizzy! Come here! You have to see this!”
Kitty was in the parlor, standing by the bank of windows overlooking the front drive. She vigorously waved one arm in a come-here gesture, mirth lighting her face and deepening her dimples. Curiosity winning over her yearning to greet her fiancé, Lizzy diverted into the room with Jane at her heels.
“What is it? Oh!” She took one peek out the window and clamped a hand over her mouth to stay the giggles.
Mr. Darcy was outside on the gravel drive, dressed as he always was in an impeccable suit probably costing more money than half her wardrobe combined.
The surprise wasn’t in his pristine ensemble, the precise cravat loops, and his boots polished to a bright shine. Rather, it was in what he was doing.
Circling the wagon, he was tugging on the ropes, adjusting the thick canvas tarp, and testing the packed boxes and furniture for security.
One of the drivers followed alongside, repeating the same actions and responding to Mr. Darcy’s instructions to tighten this or add more padding there.
The second driver crouched in the bed of the wagon, doing much the same.
All the while, the three men were laughing and chatting as if old friends.
“A moment ago,” Kitty whispered, “I cracked the window wider and heard them talking about a sporting event in London. A pugilism match, I think. Mr. Darcy admitted to losing his bet on someone named Clubber Clyde. Then, that man”—Kitty indicated the lanky fellow trailing alongside Darcy—“his name is Mr. Hocking, or Tims, according to the other driver, who is Scotty, or Mr. Scott”—she pointed at a short man in the wagon bed—“told Mr. Darcy that he should never bet against Gentleman Joe. You should have seen the way Mr. Hocking was taunting Mr. Darcy. It was hilarious, but Mr. Darcy was giving it back good, which was even funnier!”
Lizzy’s smile grew as she listened to the snippets of conversation audible through the narrowly opened window.
The three men were discussing the laxity of police patrol at the docks, the topic itself not amusing, but the casual discourse and relaxed familiarity were fascinating.
Just a few weeks ago Lizzy would have stood there in absolute shock and amazement to witness prim, aristocratic Mr. Darcy hobnobbing with rough working men.
While still not the society he preferred to keep, Lizzy now knew the truth of why he could interact familiarly with such men, thanks to an enlightening conversation earlier that very week.
Since returning to the sedate country life of Hertfordshire—with birthday celebrating and successful shooting expeditions past—the engaged couples had greeted each day with nothing of import on the agenda.
The snowy cold spell had lifted, but the weather remained too chilly and unpredictable for extended outdoor activities.
Meaning, the bulk of the day for the past week had been spent lazing about the Longbourn parlor.
While it might seem a pathetically boring development, the lovers had discovered the inactivity to be advantageous.
They had hours to do little else but relax together and talk.
Even if playing a card or board game, or embarking on a short stroll about the garden, the pace was leisurely, and conversation was the highlight.
Mr. Darcy tended to prefer silence, unabashedly admitting to Lizzy that he often went days without saying more than a handful of words, and those only out of necessity to thank a servant or give a command of some sort.
While not nearly as reticent, Lizzy was not a chatterbox either.
Conversation came easily to her—a gift Darcy constantly marveled over—but she also craved solitude and tranquility.
They equally split their hours together between silence and casual communication.
Curiously, she learned as much about the man she was soon to marry in the nonverbal interludes as she did when they talked!
In small increments, he had begun to share more about his life at Pemberley.
He avoided the past, Lizzy sensing the pain of lost loved ones weighed heavy on his heart.
Instead, he spoke of his life as a landowner and horse breeder, Lizzy adoring how his eyes glowed and face relaxed.
Passion and pride imbued his entire being, giving her glimpses of the confident Master of Pemberley she would learn to greater appreciate as time moved forward.
Hearkening to his words, she began to grasp the scope of his duties, which were essentially the same as those at Longbourn.
Mr. Bennet was an indifferent estate manager, content to trust his steward and tenants.
Darcy, however, was an enthusiastic participant in his estate’s management, up to and including getting his hands dirty upon occasion.
While a slight surprise, this hadn’t shocked her all that much.
What had been a huge revelation was to learn of his other business dealings.
“At some point after we are married, I shall take you to Derby,” he had tossed out one afternoon while playing a game of backgammon.
“It is the largest city close to Pemberley, not as metropolitan as London, of course, but clean and modern, excellent stores and historical places of beauty as well. We both appreciate history, so visiting will be a pleasurable diversion. Also, you can see the mill where I send our wool. Not that touring a wool mill or my cotton mill is riveting entertainment, but your curious mind would be fascinated—”
“Wait a minute,” she had blurted, the badly lobbed dice scattering the flat discs across the board. “Did you say you own a wool mill and a cotton mill?”
“Not exactly. I invest in the wool mill and in a silk mill too, but those are merely financial deals. I have nothing to do with the running of them. The cotton mill I do own. Well, a third of it, that is.” He had said all of this in the most offhand manner, his attention on the disordered game pieces and the double sixes she had thrown.
“But, isn’t it…abnormal, even unacceptable, for a man of your station to be tied to such ventures?”