7. A Steadfast Bride
CHAPTER SEVEN
A STEADFAST brIDE
Darcy left the breakfast room to the sound of Georgiana explaining to Elizabeth that the east gallery received the best light in the morning, but the west gallery was superior for portraits.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, inquired about the library, and Georgiana’s response, which began with “Oh!” then expanded to the height and breadth of the shelves, and in answer to a question he did not catch, “I have heard my brother say there are well over fifteen thousand volumes, though I confess, I have never dared to count them. Some have been here since the library was first built, and others… well, I suspect Fitzwilliam adds to them every time he visits London.”
He closed the door behind him. A gentleman did not stand in his own corridor listening to his wife’s voice simply because it carried a warmth the house had not heard in years, and because the sound of Georgiana laughing—that startled brightness, not the polite laugh she had been taught but the real one she could not help—was nearly as unsettling as the impertinent tales his wife had conveyed about their imaginary courtship.
The rattle of hooves and wheels on the gravel drive brought him to the window. A footman handed Reverend Mr. Duntze from a donkey gig, and the elderly parson ambled up the front steps, making his round of pastoral calls without the need of formal invitations.
Darcy adjusted his cravat—an automatic gesture born of habit rather than vanity—before descending to meet his visitor. Mr. Duntze had held the Kympton living for well over thirty years, baptized both siblings, and had signed the register for Thomas’s christening.
“Mr. Darcy, I trust I do not intrude.” He tipped his hat. “I came to pay my respects to Mrs. Darcy and to discuss a small matter of parish business.”
“You are very welcome, Mr. Duntze. Mrs. Darcy is in the morning room with my sister.”
As they entered, Darcy found Elizabeth and Georgiana at the window seat, Jane Bennet’s letter open in Elizabeth’s lap, Georgiana leaning forward with evident interest and absolutely no conviction of privacy.
Both smiled as if caught in a secret, though Elizabeth’s expression shifted at their arrival.
She folded the letter discreetly, her smile settling into the demure, public version—head slightly lowered, close-lipped and so unlike the private one she had just bestowed on his sister.
“Mrs. Darcy, may I present the Reverend Mr. Duntze, rector of Kympton. Mr. Duntze, my wife, Elizabeth Darcy.”
“Mrs. Darcy.” Duntze bowed with measured courtesy. “I am delighted to welcome you to the parish, and I hope you will forgive my calling so soon after your arrival. We have heard much of you, and I confess my wife and daughter are eager to make your acquaintance.”
“And I shall be equally glad to know them, Mr. Duntze,” Elizabeth replied with her characteristic grace. “Though they might find me disappointing, discovering that I am merely a country gentleman’s daughter with very few accomplishments and a dangerous tendency to walk through mud a foot deep.”
“Then you will get on admirably with my daughter, Prudentia,” Duntze responded with a ghost of a smile.
“The roads, Mrs. Darcy, have never been a material impediment to my Prue, who regards mud as a personal challenge and dry weather as an affront to her determination. She wearies me just by watching her trudge with such great energy.”
Elizabeth offered a playful tilt of her head. “Pray, do not weary of your patience so quickly, Mr. Duntze. I suspect that your daughter and I shall find a great deal to discuss. I will, however, promise to keep my own pattens in reserve lest the clanking should spoil your peace.”
The rector chuckled, a genuine, warm sound. “You are a brave woman, Mrs. Darcy. Prudentia will be delighted to find someone who does not require a map to navigate her enthusiasm.”
The world of female art had always been foreign territory to Darcy, and yet here was his wife, first enchanting his sister with tales from Hertfordshire—embroidered, no doubt—and now charming the rector with equal ease.
He felt the same curious sensation that had assailed him when he first laid eyes on her in Meryton.
Her wit shone, sharp but never unkind, catching gentlemen off guard in the most delightful manner.
Quite unlike the Miss Bingleys of the world, who wielded their tongues only for advancement, Elizabeth used hers to bridge the distance between people with a warmth that reflected her character.
It was, he realized, a far more captivating way to manage the business of being Mrs. Darcy than he had ever imagined.
Meanwhile, Georgiana appeared delighted by the sudden turn of conversation toward mud and borders, quickly offering Mr. Duntze a tour of her recent improvements to the garden.
He accepted with a gracious bow, and soon the party proceeded through the garden door where Georgiana eagerly pointed out the primroses she had transplanted along the garden wall.
Duntze responded with good humor, but Darcy noticed that the sixty-year-old man drew back as they approached the sunny side near the stables.
He matched the older man’s pace, falling into step beside him as the parson wiped his perspiring forehead. “You mentioned parish business earlier.”
“I did,” Duntze said. “I do not mean to trouble you, but I received a letter last week from a solicitor in London—a Mr. Ferris, of Ferris and Caulfield. He wrote on behalf of a client he did not name, requesting a copy of the baptismal register entry for your nephew.”
Darcy maintained his unhurried stride, though his attention sharpened. Ahead of them, Elizabeth had stooped to examine whatever plant Georgiana was indicating in the border, half-hidden beneath the hedge.
“Did he offer a reason for this request?” Darcy asked.
“No, only that he required a certified copy. The register is a public document, and I am not at liberty to refuse. But I thought it proper to inform you.”
“You were right to do so.” Darcy let the intelligence settle. “I will write to my solicitor in case a response becomes necessary. I appreciate your diligence in this matter.”
The clergyman offered a simple nod of understanding without seeking further elaboration, a particular gift that had likely contributed to Darcy’s father granting him the Kympton living.
They returned to the house, and Duntze took his leave with a bow to Elizabeth that was markedly deeper than the one he had given upon arrival.
“I trust we shall see you at services on Sunday, Mrs. Darcy. My daughter will be most eager to make your acquaintance, and I suspect the two of you will find much to discuss regarding the state of the roads.”
“I shall look forward to it, Mr. Duntze. And I promise to arrive with muddy hems, so that Miss Duntze does not think I have misrepresented my character.”
The rector departed with another warm chuckle, and Georgiana excused herself to practice a new piece, leaving Elizabeth and Darcy standing over the entrance where sunlight pooled over the steps, watching the groom hitch Mr. Duntze’s gig.
“The day is fine,” Elizabeth said, glancing at the prospect of the wooded path leading to the gates. “I confess I am not yet ready to return indoors. Would you object to sitting outside for a moment? I find I think more clearly when I can see the sky.”
She crossed to the top step—rough stone, in full view of any passerby—and sat, her muslin skirts pooling in the dust as naturally as if she were perched on a stile in Hertfordshire.
Darcy doubted any mistress of Pemberley had ever done such a thing, and Mrs. Reynolds would surely have opinions, but Elizabeth sat as if the rules had never been written for her.
He considered his dignity, his breeches, and the relative value of both, and sat down beside her—outside the formal drawing rooms, the presence of servants and an overly inquisitive sister.
They had never sat together in such fashion before, and he found himself wondering if there was something she wished to say that required open sky and no witnesses, something close to her heart that the walls of Pemberley made difficult to speak.
Elizabeth looked after the departing parson, shielding her eyes from the slanted sunlight.
“Parish business must be a weighty matter indeed, to require such a private consultation between rector and master. I noticed you and Mr. Duntze found much to discuss while Georgiana and I were admiring the borders.”
So, she had caught the tension beneath that casual call, but Darcy was not prepared to speculate. The request coming from a solicitor meant only one thing—that Thomas’s maternal family had taken an interest in the child. This was not a matter to bring to his wife, not until he had more clarity.
“The matter was entirely routine, Mrs. Darcy,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Mr. Duntze merely wished to inform me of a piece of correspondence he had received.”
“Ah, I see,” she murmured, tilting her head as if what she saw was his evasion.
“I confess I had hoped to visit Thomas this afternoon. I found something in the mistress’s chamber that I thought he might like—an old wooden horse, rather battered, who looked as though he deserved another chance at being useful. ”
Captain. The name surfaced unbidden, and with it the memory of carrying that horse everywhere as a child—to meals, to bed, to the garden—gripping it with the ferocity of a boy who believed that letting go of a thing meant losing it forever.
He had not known that his mother had kept it, and with slight mortification, that the toy had been discovered by his new wife.
“I remember that horse. His name was Captain, though I cannot now recall what military distinction he had earned to deserve the rank. I took him everywhere—to dinner, to church, to places no sensible wooden horse had any business attending.”