Chapter 8 A Suspicion of Doom #2
My sight drifted to the small curls at Elizabeth’s nape which escaped any attempt at confinement; they never failed to entice me.
“I do not doubt Gibbs’s skill, but your hair is beautiful no matter how it is displayed.
Your lustrous tresses are but one of your many distinguishing qualities that I appreciate. ”
The muscles surrounding Gibbs’s mouth tightened as though she held back a smile. With a final pin placed in Elizabeth’s hair, she stepped away and departed through the servant’s door.
“There you go again, exaggerating my good qualities.” Elizabeth moved from her seat at the vanity.
I began to rise, but she pushed my shoulders down and sat sideways on my lap.
My arms secured her as she wrapped hers around my neck and placed soft kisses on the side of my face.
She halted near my ear. “You, my love, are an excellent husband.”
I glanced at the bracket clock. Dash it.
Our guests may already be waiting in the drawing-room.
With effort, I resisted the desire to place my hands in her hair and unbutton her dress.
Elizabeth took my earlobe between her lips, and I groaned.
When I regained enough presence of mind for movement, I captured her mouth in a fervent kiss.
In time, I managed to pull back. “I dearly wish we did not have guests.”
She released a theatrical sigh. “I echo your sentiments, but we must not arrive late for dinner…again.” She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head in that alluring way of hers. “Although, perhaps we shall profess to be fatigued and retire early.”
My thumb caressed her lower lip. “An excellent thought.” The earlier the better.
We joined the others at a respectable time, yet Lady Catherine greeted us with an expression one might display after sucking on a lemon. In any event, I should not waste time deliberating upon my perpetually disapproving aunt’s mercurial moods.
Still, I struggled to steer my ruminations away from the prospect of my possible impending death. It occurred to me that my sustained resentment towards Graham for forcing his presence on myself and my family made little sense—if not for him, I should already be dead.
During the main course, Graham paused his avid consumption of food long enough to ask Elizabeth to play the pianoforte for us after the meal.
“Yes, of course.” My wife glanced at him. “And perhaps you will sing for us.”
Graham’s overly laden fork hovered near his mouth. “I should be delighted to do so if you would select a duet for us.”
“Very well.”
My aunt stirred from her silent brooding to glance between the two of them. “I am eager to hear this dual performance.”
In the music room, I settled in a comfortable chair with a clear view of my wife. The sweet arioso sounds she generated in accompaniment to Graham’s able voice assuaged my troubled mind.
“Do you not think that Mr. Graham’s voice blends exceedingly well with Elizabeth’s?”
I spared a quick look to Lady Catherine. She displayed a benign smile, but I did not miss the mischievous cast to her eyes. “Yes, that is true.”
At the ballad’s conclusion, my aunt clapped with enthusiasm and suggested several more titles for them to perform—all love songs.
When their voices filled the room with the romantic lyrics, my aunt sneaked repeated glances at me. If she expected the performance to incite my jealousy, she would be disappointed.
I held a comfortable position and devoted my attention to Elizabeth. If Lady Catherine paid more attention to my wife, she would observe that while enunciating the lyrics that spoke of amour, Elizabeth’s sight remained upon me in a compelling conveyance of passion.
Tuesday, 19 September
Elizabeth
Fitzwilliam and I stopped at the nursery to collect Bennet.
This morning, he would meet his birthday present—the new Welsh pony.
Our son responded with his usual eagerness at his father’s suggestion of a visit to the stables.
He fidgeted and specified the horses he most wanted to see whilst we awaited our footman, Sam, who had gone to fetch a bag of carrot and apple slices from the kitchen.
On the way to the stables, Bennet ran alongside Fitzwilliam and me to keep pace with our walking tread, but he stopped and reached his arms up to Fitzwilliam at the entrance to the stables. With a grin, my husband lifted Bennet into his arms.
With my son well occupied, I slipped away to the paddock. A stable boy waited there with the pony, equipped with a child’s saddle. Earlier, Fitzwilliam had assured me that the groom assigned to the pony had described the animal as “gentle and obedient.” I took the pony and led him to the stables.
Fitzwilliam turned with our son in his arms as I approached them. Bennet’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the unfamiliar animal.
“This pony is for you.” My husband indicated the animal. “He is your birthday present. Does he please you?”
“Yes, Papa!” My son’s head bobbed several times. With his attention upon the pony, he patted Fitzwilliam’s shoulder—a signal to be let down. My husband set him upon the ground. Bennet went to the pony’s side and stroked the animal’s sleek fur.
I bent down to meet my son’s gaze. “Would you like to sit upon your pony’s back?”
Bennet nodded, but his broad smile receded and his forehead creased. He leaned against me, wrapping his arm around my leg.
He wants to ride the pony, but he is scared. It is a long way for him to fall. I met Fitzwilliam’s eyes with an intent stare as I addressed my son. “You need not be concerned. Papa will hold you, and he will not let you go.”
“Indeed, I shall ensure you are safe the entire time.” Fitzwilliam held his arms out to Bennet. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
With the utmost care, my husband lifted Bennet and set him on the pony’s back, keeping his arm around Bennet’s waist. Our son grasped the saddle’s pommel to maintain his balance.
I led the pony out into the stable yard at a sedate pace and took frequent glances at Bennet.
His beaming countenance attested to his joy for the novel experience of sitting upon a moving pony.
In his enthusiasm, he bounced or kicked his feet a couple of times, as though to urge the animal to move faster.
Each time, Fitzwilliam cautioned Bennet to cease, and he did so.
We strolled around the barn area with Bennet extending the ride twice with a gleeful yell of, “Again!” before we returned the pony to the stables. Bennet leaned forwards reaching to the pony’s neck to bestow a makeshift hug before Fitzwilliam lifted our son into his arms.
On our way to the garden where Miss Hunter awaited us, Bennet maintained a merry stream of praise for his pony and expressed his desire to ride again.
When we embraced him and placed him in the care of Miss Hunter, Bennet jabbered on to his nurse, his brown eyes sparkling, telling her of his pony and his first ride.
Darcy
When Bennet padded away towards the house with his nurse, I turned to Elizabeth. “Our son is happy with his gift. I hope you are not still doubtful about my purchase.”
She grinned at me. “You could not have chosen better. Bennet is delighted with the pony. I predict he will be asking to ride him every day.”
I took her hand and directed her back towards the stables. “Bennet’s new friend will need a name. Shall we come up with suggestions for him?”
“Hmm.” She drew her lower lip between her teeth. “We ought to choose names that will be easy for him to pronounce, and it would be best to avoid any in common with our servants. For instance, Danny, Simon, or Harry.”
My brows shot upwards. “Harry? Our son is certain to fumble that name."
She giggled, and her cheeks grew pink. “On second thoughts, Danny, Simon, or Owen may be better.”
“Yes, any of those would work well.”
Her mouth flattened. “Why are we going back to the stables? Are we not taking a walk?”
“When Mr. Cross rode Samson the other day, he noticed a slight limp. I shall take a quick look at him to ensure he has improved.” I supposed I should be forgiven for this white lie.
Her forehead furrowed. “Samson? Do you mean the dear old bay gelding who belonged to your father? I thought you had decided months ago to retire him to pasture.”
“Yes, but I had not yet given the instructions to the grooms.”
“Oh, that is unfortunate.”
We reached Samson’s stall, and Elizabeth released a soft gasp.
Instead of the aged bay horse with a mottling of grey hairs surrounding his eyes, the stunning reddish-brown mare with a flashy white blaze down her forehead came to greet us.
My wife stepped forwards to meet the horse and brushed her hand along the animal’s neck.
“Fitzwilliam, where did this beautiful horse come from?”
Standing behind her, I rested my hands on her shoulders, giving them a soft rub. I angled my head to obtain a view of her beaming profile. “Do you approve?”
My wife moved her hand to stroke the horse’s soft nose. “He is magnificent.”
“She is a mare.”
“Then she is magnificent. How could I not approve?” She traced her delicate fingers down the length of the mare’s forehead. “Based upon the curve in her profile, I should say she is Arabian. Am I correct?” She gave me a sidelong glance.
“Indeed, you are. I am happy you approve, because she is your birthday present.”
“Oh my.” Her hand rose to her chest. She spun to face me and threw her arms around my middle. Her fingers traced vague circles on my back. “Thank you. I love her!” She thrust upwards until her lips met mine.
My eyes closed, and I revelled in her passionate touch and the exquisite suppleness of her body against mine.
That familiar rush of sensation kindled just beneath my skin, increasing my hunger for her.
Moments later, her delightful warmth departed as she pulled away.
I met her gaze, and her beatific smile helped to fill the void created at the loss of her closeness.