The Heart of Marriage Chapter 8

“I made that precise query to you moments ago and you told me not to invite them,” she said, suspiciously. She looked past him to the letter on the desk that was heavily creased and she tried to recognize the handwriting of her husband’s most common correspondents. Mr. Bingley’s was easily seen, blotchy and short, but Mr. Bingley was in residence with his wife, and Elizabeth’s sister, Jane, and their twins. The letter was not from him. Lord Matlock wrote in a lofty, swooping hand, with at least a quarter of the page taken up by his signature and various seals of his titles. He was also at Pemberley and had not begun writing to his nephew within the same household.

This letter was the cramped, even hand that reminded Elizabeth of the missives from their solicitor in London, Longwell and Sons, that she had seen since early in their unorthodox courtship.

She pointed to the letter behind him. “Anything you’d like to unburden?”

Mr. Darcy raised his eyebrow, and she raised hers in direct response. She hoped he was not going to renew their most frequent argument of late, about the amount of stress she could endure.

“Are you certain you also wish to take this on? You have so much, already,” he said, gesturing to the ledgers and other papers for her perusal. The house was hiring more staff, another task under Mrs. Darcy’s purview that she did not need her husband’s assistance on. Or rather, the division of labor split differently between them.

When Mrs. Darcy asked Mr. Darcy for his input, he routinely deferred to his wife’s choice unless she specifically handed the task to him. Thus making his input moot. When Mr. Darcy needed to think on matters under his regulation, even he would confess that it was not natural to him to first inquire with Elizabeth. Therefore, he often forgot to seek her input at all, usually provoking his wife’s ire. But he remained committed to learning the new habit of including his wife.

Elizabeth tried to avoid another argument by avoiding his query. “We are agreed to invite the Gardiners. Come, we can agree on this as well,” she said, resuming her seat at her table and allowing him to do the same at the desk.

Mr. Darcy sighed. His wife was not going to give up until he relayed something to her.

“The special committee on the mining scandal and Mr. Wickham’s death is convening in January. Mr. Longwell strongly advises me to be in London for the negotiations.”

“Then we will go to London in January, then,” she said, believing the matter an easy one to decide. Certainly, the mess with the mining scandal and the late Mr. Wickham was not an easy problem to solve, but her husband should feel cheered that they would not separate again. At least, that is what she believed bothered him.

“Elizabeth,” he said, in a tone she recognized as the one he used when he expected to disappoint her. “I will travel to London, alone, and be as quick as I can. I will travel faster on my own.”

“Then I will follow in a carriage behind you, with my sister Mary, and you can travel at the speed you so desire.”

“The baby,” he began, and Elizabeth began to pace. Instinctively, she placed her hands to her abdomen.

“Is hearty, healthy, and hale, Fitzwilliam. I have more energy now than ever in our acquaintance, and look,” she said, pointing to the table of account books and letters. “Do you not think that after a month of orchestrating a ball, five families in residence, over sixty guests, and presiding over a holiday season that a trip to London might be a reprieve in my work?” she asked.

He scowled. “You are taking on too much, I shall ask Mother Bennet—”

“The only thing you’ll ask my mother is for her to watch over Pemberley for a month, perhaps two or three, under the strict guidance of Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth said.

Watching Fitzwilliam consider her words, she reached for the one argument she knew would win him over. “Dr. Sims is in London. While I would like our child born here at Pemberley, if there are complications,” she said, quietly, and Mr. Darcy sucked in his breath.

“You fear?”

“No,” she said, with a giggle. “But what is your worst fear? Parliament is not as efficient as you hope, and instead of writing long, loving letters to me about how you must remain in London, longer and longer, we stay together and meet this child in London. And then bring him home, here, to be Christened,” she reasoned.

Walking over to her husband, she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and he sighed. She knew she had won.

“Are we agreed?” she asked.

He nodded, but then continued to pester her with more questions.

“Why are we taking Mary? Surely Jane is the better suited candidate if you worry about birthing the child in London.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Jane will not leave her children, besides, I am not taking Mary for that reason.”

He blinked and waited for her to expand.

“We need to fix the townhouse from the effects of Georgiana’s reign, yes?” Her husband slowly nodded. “And Lord Matlock will be returning for Parliament, likely taking their whole brood with them, so we can all travel together.”

“And Mary . . .” Mr. Darcy’s voice trailed off as he was still flummoxed as to how Elizabeth’s sister with the least amount of experience of London will be an aid in any of what she had listed. But he was accustomed to his wife’s reasons coming about in a circular logic that he never considered.

“Mary will learn the most and help me find a parson for a living here at Pemberley.”

Mr. Darcy flinched. “I was supposed to seek out a candidate ages ago, Mrs. Reynolds asked me,” he said.

“Yes, well, we want to keep our staff and we do not need them trudging back and forth to Lambton and Kympton every week. Repairs are underway for the chapel, and our tenants may wish to have a parish here, on our lands.”

Darcy ruminated, drumming his fingers over his chin. “That will take a request of the Archbishop,” he said, muttering about insults to the Earl of Derby.

Elizabeth smirked. “How fortunate then that he is your godfather. But why will the Earl of Derby be cross?” she asked.

Her husband explained how the lands of Pemberley and Lathom House ran in most places along the River Derwent. Occasionally, though, both estates lay claim to parcels where the river does not neatly provide a dividing line.

“The properties go back centuries. Though my ancestors were not always the owners, and the Stanleys have an unbroken chain of possession, Derby expects me to bow. Installing a curate here will rob both Kympton and Lambton of some parishioners,” explaining how Pemberley staff that came from Lambton often went home to that village for services.

“I still believe we ought to have the Pemberley chapel back in use,” she said, and her husband waved his hand as though the trifling matter were settled.

“Indeed. Forgive me, my mind is elsewhere,” he said, returning his gaze to his solicitor’s letter. “Are you certain you cannot be persuaded to let me handle this mess in London? I do not wish you present if we are attacked again,” he said.

Elizabeth walked over to her husband and reached for his hand, to pull him to stand beside her. “When you went to London on your own, I was devastated. I cannot grow this child of ours and worry senseless about your safety,” she said, placing his hands on the small rise in her midsection.

“Nor I for yours.”

“Then,” she thought carefully, “what if you do not go back to London?” she asked. The wheels of thought in her mind spun and she stepped away from him, beginning to pace once more.

“Elizabeth, be reasonable—”

“No, Fitzwilliam, I am. I am!” she said, giddy. “My father taught me to ask myself what is the worst outcome. Tell me, what is the worst outcome?”

Darcy approached his wife and in a low voice, began to itemize everything that could go wrong with the inquest. “If they believe I was the chief agent, putting Wickham up to it, the Crown could seize everything we own. I could be charged with criminal acts.”

Elizabeth arched her eyebrow at her husband, finding his list of fears a touch on the melodramatic side. She had braved a discussion with the Matlocks about the prospect of the inquest, knowing it would not go away merely because the Darcys had retreated to Pemberley. Multiple witnesses linked the scheme to Lord Strange, too many for anyone to reasonably pay them all off.

Still, she allowed her husband to play into his greatest fears and reacted as frightened as he revealed himself to be. Gasping with shock, as though this was the first time she considered those consequences, she opened the door for him to be even more vulnerable. “Those are grave consequences, dearest,” she said, forcing herself to momentarily consider the fantastical vision of her husband placed in irons.

“I do not want you in danger in London,” he said, plainly.

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “but you will need me in London if you are speaking truth, Fitzwilliam, that the true highest risk is that my husband is to be arrested and our family ruined. I will be there, beside you, and will NOT remain here to learn all by letter as the Crown’s agents drive up to the doors of Pemberley,” she said, in her newly-minted Mistress of Pemberley voice.

Fitzwilliam Darcy’s mouth gaped in disbelief at the temerity of his small, diminutive wife. The spark of fiery resolve in her eyes touched his soul, and choking on his new words, he coughed and cleared his throat before trying once more to speak.

Gallantly, he walked slowly to his wife, giving her a taste of her own tactics of appearing of one opinion, only to swing strategically to the opposite belief. He watched closely as she held her posture rigidly, and only a small increase in her breathing could be observed. Lifting his hand to her face, she instinctively leaned into his touch.

“I am always humbled by your love and devotion. I do not want you to travel to London, but I must confess that you are correct, I need you in London.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and reached up with her arms as her husband bent his head to kiss her. Together, they stood embraced and the incredible tension of their circumstances made each begin to giggle nervously.

“Oh, Fitzwilliam, we will have friends and allies in London. You’ll see. First and foremost, you are innocent—”

He spun his wife around and interrupted her continued chatter on the matter. Nuzzling his neck into her, his breath was hot to her skin as he grumbled that innocence was not always enough protection.

“True, but how much money could Lord Strange truly owe? You told me he was paying previous investors with new investor’s money, so . . .” Her voice trailed off as the information she needed was purely speculation.

“We have no idea, not until the committee meets, and even then, it may not be clear.”

Elizabeth gulped, as she suddenly felt guilty that she wanted her husband home for Christmas and the ball. “Should we cancel the ball and go to London now?” she asked.

Fitzwilliam Darcy inhaled deeply and thought on her words. In the span of an hour, his wife had gone back and forth on him going to London with her, him staying home, and now asking if they ought to leave for London immediately. He chuckled at how many possibilities she proposed in stark contrast to how he liked to make decisions. He preferred to think on a subject and make one decision, not three and undo two.

“The Derbys are coming to the ball, yes?”

She nodded.

“And the Duke?”

Again, she nodded.

“Then no, as you say, I am innocent of the claims my enemies make against my family. Perhaps we can gain leverage or exert pressure from the opportunity.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I did not think my first Yuletide Ball would need battle plans drafted, but I’ll add that to my tasks.”

A knock on the door disturbed further deliberations, as a silver platter came in with a note upon it.

Mr. Darcy raised his hand to take the note, but the footman brought it to Mrs. Darcy, and the Master of the House pulled his arm back to smooth the errant curls at the nape of his neck. Elizabeth sighed and reached for the note.

“You taught my mother this tactic, you know,” she said, grinning. Reading the lines, she checked the watch fob chained to her gown and clucked her tongue. She folded the note and placed it back on the silver tray, instructing the footman to tell her mother she would down presently. 

“Also, send Higgins in, thank you.”

Elizabeth opened the door to her dressing room, while her husband sought an explanation as to what the note said.

“The baskets are almost ready and my mother and sisters are riding out to the farms for delivery,” she said, reminding her husband that she delegated many duties outside of his notice. “But I asked them to tell me before they do so,” she said, suddenly reappearing with a bundled collection of fabric from her newest wardrobe fittings. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, and her husband hurried to try to help her, but she placed the large parcel on her table before he could manage to interfere.

Higgins knocked and entered the room. 

“For the Holbeins,” Mrs. Darcy said, and Higgins nodded and called the footman in the hall to come fetch the parcel for delivery to the kitchens where each family’s basket was being assembled. “Please go and make sure my mother waits, I’ll be there momentarily,” Mrs. Darcy said, without looking at her maid. Her eyes scanned the table for the piece of correspondence she had worked on earlier, and finding it, she snatched it triumphantly from the shuffle. Rereading the lines quickly, she dipped her pen into her inkpot and began writing one more line, before signing her name.

“Is it wise to continue giving preferential treatment to the Holbeins?” Mr. Darcy asked, conveying his concern.

Elizabeth shook her head. “It’s not preferential. Each family’s basket has something special inside specifically needed for the family. Mrs. Holbein needs thick cloth to construct new outercoats for her family.”

“And how did you learn this?”

Elizabeth smiled and sealed the letter to her friend, Diana, who had once saved her during her cousin’s attack at Kent. “I have my ways, sir. Now,” she said, checking her fob, “I must check each basket before they leave and then I am to have tea with Lady Matlock, Lady Brahmington, and Jane.”

Elizabeth excused herself to refresh her appearance in her dressing room. 

Darcy sat at the desk in his wife’s sitting room, feeling out of place to continue working in her absence. Lifting the leather bag he used to ferry his work from room to room, he collected the various letters and notes on matters needing his consideration. He lifted a particular missive from Mr. Grant, the tenant farmer he had ridden out to visit over a week ago, and frowned as the man reported that the Early of Derby’s men continued to plow in the disputed lands between his farm and Lathom House. The tract of land, over a hundred acres, was the most contentious dispute between the two families, called Baslow Dale. He had meant to tell his wife about the situation, but it had slipped his mind in their discussion about traveling to London.

After collecting his things, he escaped to his suite and called for a bath. He would soak in the tub while his wife was engaged elsewhere and think of not only the Baslow dispute, but all of the new preparations he wanted his London residence to begin, most especially increasing security.