Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (28 page)

Casting the whip to the ground, Darcy turned his back upon the man and walked over to the still quivering horse. He raised his hand and spoke soothingly to the animal, which steadied but slightly, excitedly still attempting to back away. Taking hold of the bridle, he stroked the horse’s nose and neck, talking softly to it. Gradually the horse was becalmed. When Darcy called for a groom to unharness it, several men jumped, and one came forward to take the poor, shivering, lashed horse to his stall.

Darcy turned back to the horse flagellant. Indeed, all eyes fell upon him. Tom Reed was standing glaring at the Master of Pemberley with fists clenched, his body recoiled into a near crouch. Curiously, as Darcy approached him, the man’s eyes first darted to Elizabeth before returning to his advancing adversary with considerable malevolence. As Darcy advanced, Reed, who was quite as tall as Darcy and a stone heavier, backed up a full step.

Darcy said, “You have been warned before. Begone from this property and do not return.”

As a man used to having his instructions obeyed, he turned his back and looked not back.

To the other footman who was better known to him, he said, “Stay if you wish, but your brother will not step upon my soil again.”

When Mr. Darcy spoke to him, Reed’s brother, Frank, was making a great point of inspecting his boots. He did not look up at Darcy, but nodded an acknowledgement before sneaking a pusillanimous glance at his brother.

Tom Reed spit upon the ground in Darcy’s direction, then looked again directly at Elizabeth before he stomped away.

Shaken, Elizabeth stood in abject stupefaction. Sheltered as she had been, she had never witnessed an act of brutality or such a confrontation as had just played out before her. Rather than frightening her, however, the sight of her husband, in his shirtsleeves and riding boots, standing up to a larger man and facing him down, bestirred her blood in what she knew was a decidedly unseemly fashion.

Once reclaiming his equanimity, Darcy seemed to remember himself. Addressing Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, he murmured numerous apologies for his eruption. Trailed by John Christie, they walked back to the courtyard. Elizabeth took her husband’s hand. It was an instinctual gesture of reassurance. Nevertheless, it was apparent it was she, not he, who needed restoration, for his grip was steady. Hers was the one that trembled.

The mare stood peacefully where her lead rope had dropped. John ran ahead of the others, sheepishly taking it in hand, realising that in all the excitement he had done the unthinkable of forsaking his post. He looked at Darcy fearfully, expecting a reproof. If Mr. Darcy intended one, he was deflected.

For just then, Elizabeth turned to Fitzwilliam (who looked a little shaken himself) and asked, far too merrily, “Has Darcy told you what I am to call my horse? He has not spoken of it to me.”

Not able to rescue good humour in so swift a fashion as Elizabeth, Fitzwilliam looked at her a little dumbly, and then to Darcy, then back to Elizabeth.

“He said you were to name her yourself.”

“Then she shall be called ‘Boots,’” she announced with finality.

This garnered both Darcy and Fitzwilliam’s attention, both making a point of not looking at each other in mutual disregard of Elizabeth’s whimsical choice of appellation for such a fine specimen of a mare.

For both men believed that the horse was named but for her two stockinged feet.

* * *

The trio turned their thoughts toward supper, which was to be capped by champagne (from France—there was a war, but Portuguese wine was indefensible) and cake in honour of Elizabeth’s twenty-first birthday. Because of the company and cake, their retirement was later than usual. Due to an imprudent enthusiasm for toasting, Fitzwilliam found himself a little in his cups. Darcy steered him up the stairs, insisting he stay the night.

There was little more that could be done with Fitzwilliam than to remove his boots and roll him face down onto the bed. That accomplished with bleary, if inept, co-operation from Fitzwilliam, Darcy returned to his dressing room to see to himself.

Expecting Elizabeth already to be asleep (unused to champagne as she was), he tiptoed into their room in want of not disturbing her. Elizabeth’s eyes, however, had not found sleep. Be-gowned, she sat cross-legged upon the bed. It was well apparent that champagne was more an aphrodisiac than a sleep inducer to her. Never one to question, he immediately drew off his night-shirt and joined her upon the bed, happy to re-toast her birthday in any manner she chose. She chose something surprising. “Husband, I wonder if you might indulge me in a whim?”

He assured her that he would.

“I wonder if you would…pull on your boots?”

His countenance bore a quizzical expression.

“My boots?” he repeated.

“Yes, your tall boots.”

“Now?”

She nodded her head emphatically. Looking a little bewildered, he did not question her more and went back to his dressing room. It was but when he closed the door that a flicker of understanding overspread his face.

He reopened the door, stuck his head around the corner and asked in reassurance he had heard her correctly, “My boots alone?”

“Perhaps those breeches you wore today, as well.”

When he came to her clad but in his breeches and boots, she was looking out the door of the balcony onto the moonlit lawn. However, when she felt his presence, she turned to him and ran her hands across his bare chest, an invitation he would not ignore.

If this perpendicular embrace had not the heat of the one previous, no hesitation was brooked. Moreover, if their passion was birthed standing up, it did not expire that way, for this time their bed bade them come. The night might not have been particularly young, but there were many hours until dawn. And boots did give better traction.

* * *

When they had been gratified, Elizabeth rose and returned to the balcony door. The air was cold, hence he came up behind her, putting his arms around and beneath hers. Both gazed out at the moonlight.

Nestling his face against her hair, he asked, “Are you actually going to call that mare ‘Boots’?”

“Certainly.”

“’Tis a better name for a cat.”

“I like it for my horse.”

“I am not certain my countenance will not betray me each time I hear you say it.”

“Why, Mr. Darcy, whatever do you mean?…”

When the moon drifted behind a cloud, the stone of the balcony reflected an odd glow. Elizabeth looked at it curiously, but before she could ask Darcy what it meant, he startled her by abruptly pushing her away and heading for the door.

He bellowed, “Make haste! Rouse Fitzwilliam! The stables are on fire!”

Fortunately, he had on his boots and breeches and needed but to grab a jacket as he raced for the stairs. Elizabeth ran the length of the corridor to Fitzwilliam’s room and pounded both fists against his door. The shouted word, “Fire!” rendered him both awake and sober. Running back to their room, she grabbed Darcy’s long coat, and, unable to find her shoes at all this time, gave up the search and ran back to the stairs just behind Fitzwilliam.

When they reached the esplanade the sharp rocks slowed her bare feet, hence, Fitzwilliam immediately out-distanced her. By the time she got to the first barn, flames were already licking at the roof from the hayloft. Swirling smoke and cinders filled the air. A dozen people had converged upon the site, the distant sound of neighing, frightened horses accentuating the shouts and confusion.

The immediate plan was to get the horses out before the ceiling caved, but that could not be initiated until the barrels blocking the main door were rolled away.

Darcy and Fitzwilliam alone dared enter the burning building to open stall doors for the horses nearest, slapping them upon the rump to encourage them out. The barn had filled with smoke, but no fire was yet in sight inside and the horses pounded out, greeting Elizabeth’s tardy appearance. She had to leap aside lest she be trampled. When the loft burnt through, lumber and burning hay fell to the floor with a hissing crash, thereby alighting new fire along the floor betwixt Darcy and Fitzwilliam. When Elizabeth was able to enter, she could see but Fitzwilliam for the smoke.

He called out that the fire lay between Darcy and their exit.

Running back to the throng of people who had already initiated a water brigade, Elizabeth screamed to the men they must open the doors at the other end of the building. Several ran for them, Elizabeth in pursuit, the tail of Darcy’s coat dragging upon the ground behind her. The weight of the coat and the stones upon her bare feet allowed Fitzwilliam to overtake her lead. By the time she got to the doors, the barrels that blocked them had already been rolled away.

When the doors were thrown back, they were greeted by a spewing cloud of smoke and five more freed horses galloping by. Not seeing Darcy, Elizabeth attempted to run in, but Fitzwilliam grabbed her arms and held her back. Hardly impeded, she hastily yanked her arms from the sleeves of the coat to free herself and started into the smoke again, screaming her husband’s name.

Fitzwilliam knew well if Darcy survived but to learn that he had allowed Elizabeth to enter the flaming stable, he would never be forgiven. Hence, he ran and caught her again, this time by her night-gown, and held her fiercely to him. Impatiently, he shouted to her if she would just stay he could go, but, in hysteria, the reasonableness of this was lost upon her. She was still struggling thusly when Darcy emerged from the smoke. He had a rag over Boots’ eyes, the singular way he could get the terrified mare through the fire. Smoke curled up from his figure and, thinking it was his hair, Elizabeth ran to him. As it was just his jacket that smouldered, she and Fitzwilliam both beat it out, Elizabeth with her bare hands, Fitzwilliam using the coat Elizabeth had escaped.

It was but when she clutched herself to him in relief that Darcy realised she was there.

“Elizabeth! What are you doing out here? You should have stayed! Fitzwilliam, how could you have allowed her to come?”

Wrenching the greatcoat from his cousin’s hands, Darcy wrapped Elizabeth in it. Fitzwilliam gifted him with a look of confounded exasperation. Thereupon, with a shake of the head, Darcy withdrew the reproach, both understanding the difficulty of thwarting Elizabeth. (If she was chagrined at being the culprit in this vexation, contrition did not visit her until later.)

The large stable in irreversible ruin, they re-routed the bucket brigade to wet down the roofs of the other buildings. Blessedly, dawn brought a soft shower of rain. It smothered the smouldering timbers, and the family sought refuge in the house.

* * *

Sitting in smut-stained faces around the informality of the big wooden kitchen table, they took assessment. It appeared just three horses were lost, one, the horse that Reed had beaten. Those three and Elizabeth’s horse had been deliberately tied in their stalls. Darcy had but time to untie Boots. Such were the circumstances, all were convinced the fire had been set intentionally. Moreover, no one doubted that it was at Reed’s hand. Elizabeth found it difficult to conceive of a heart so hard, even in a horse-beater. Could any man do such an inhuman thing? Certainly, someone had done it. She had to admit one thing to herself. In the face of the facts, although she might not be as naïve as was Jane, unquestionably, she would have to readjust her notion as to just what some individuals were capable of.

The certainty of Reed’s guilt could not be proved, for eventual interviews with the servants and grooms could not place him upon the estate after he was dismissed. Nevertheless, when the sheriff set out to question Reed that next day, he would find no trace of him. That would be further reason to believe him the arsonist. However, in the early hours after the fire, all could see that nothing could be accomplished just then and returned upstairs to beg at least a few hours rest. Darcy and Elizabeth fell into the deep, black sleep of exhaustion.

* * *

If Darcy and Elizabeth found easy sleep, Fitzwilliam did not. He lay there for some time, tossing restlessly. Initially, he told himself his insomnia stemmed from extreme fatigue, the excitement of the fire, or a combination of the two.

Fitzwilliam had witnessed, although he knew Darcy did not, Reed’s look as he directed it upon Elizabeth. Fitzwilliam had taken a step forward in her defence at such an ominous provocation, but in light of the man’s banishment from Pemberley by Darcy, he had held his counterstroke to that single step. He did not then report to Darcy Reed’s perceived insult, if not outright threat, to Elizabeth. For at the time, his cousin was labouriously trying to reclaim his thoroughly ruptured temper. Nor did Fitzwilliam think it wise to bring up such a minor affront in the light of the contemptuous crime perpetuated upon the stables.

It was a vile end to what had begun as a delightful diversion.

* * *

Fitzwilliam had happily accompanied Darcy upon his search for the perfect horse for his wife. As it happened, he held no little conceit of the fact of how well he knew horseflesh. His own horses numbered twelve, and he was happy to lend his animals and advise those favoured among his fellow officers. It was the single judgement Fitzwilliam would not find modesty to disclaim. He knew horses. It was perhaps a family trait, for Darcy’s eye was thus discerning as well. Old Mr. Darcy did not have this virtue, for he thought if a horse had a high stepping gait and a nice coat it made him as much a horse as a man might want to draw his coach. Darcy’s mother was the horse fancier of that couple. She was a prodigious rider and could recite the bloodlines of any horse in their stable.

Hence, it was reasonable that her brother, Fitzwilliam’s father, had harboured the same love. Darcy inherited it from his mother, Fitzwilliam from his father. When Darcy went on a quest for a horse for Elizabeth, he trusted his own horse judgement, but did hesitate not at all to have Fitzwilliam’s opinion as well. Betwixt the two of them, it would be impossible not to obtain the finest horse with which to gift Darcy’s wife.

The dusky horse they chose was named Dulcinea. Fitzwilliam and Darcy thought that a coy enough name and in no need of changing. They asked Elizabeth’s opinion but as a courtesy. That she named her new horse Boots had seemed rather odd to Fitzwilliam, expecting, if not something more sophisticated, at least a little more…more…horsy. Initially, Darcy had seemed puzzled by her choice, thereupon simply embarrassed that his wife had named her exceedingly well-bred horse something so “precious.”