The Journey (41 page)

And then Lady Catherine de Bourgh died.

Although she named her daughter, Anne, as heir, she had appointed my husband and Colonel Fitzwilliam coexecutors of her will. Both men, of course, were called to Rosings at the news of her death, and because of the extensive property holdings and various sources of income that comprised his aunt’s fortune, my husband was forced to remain there much longer than he had foreseen.

My dearest Elizabeth,
he wrote,
I shall most likely remain in Kent for four to six weeks. Anne is quite helpless, and Richard and I are compelled to see that our cousin’s interests are provided for and ensured.

I greeted the news of my husband’s absence from Pemberley with regret, but soon resolved to put our time apart to good use. Mr. Bingley had recently employed the services of an accomplished portrait artist, a Mr. Dupuis from Bath. He painted an enchanting portrayal of Jane, capturing her ethereal beauty with each talented brushstroke.

Since Fitzwilliam’s birthday was but two months away, I determined to have Mr. Dupuis paint a grouping of my three sons and myself as a surprise for my husband upon his return from Rosings Park. Thus, I sat for the artist daily during the six weeks Fitzwilliam was away.

Mr. Dupuis suggested I wear a ball gown and I, naturally, selected my husband’s favourite — a soft rose silk. The nanny, with the help of other servants, managed to dress my three wriggling boys in matching navy suits, which was no small feat in anyone’s estimation.

The next difficulty arose in persuading three active young men to sit still for any length of time. Mr. Dupuis directed me to recline on a cream-coloured velvet chaise and then attempted to place the boys around me. Seven-year-old Will stood at my head, five-year-old Edward perched near my feet, and Henry, who was three, reclined upon my bosom.

Georgiana clapped her hands with delight when the artist completed placing the boys exactly as he desired. He then took three steps back, picked up his easel and brush, and the perfect pose fell apart. Edward pinched Henry, who put up a squall, causing Will to race to the opposite side of the chaise and thump Edward.

“Boys! Boys!” Georgiana cried to no avail.

It took their nanny, their aunt, and myself to restore a moment’s peace, and then promises of iced raspberry sorbets before the children returned to their places and then for only the briefest of time. After three days of such insanity, I wondered why I had ever thought the idea feasible. Mr. Dupuis, however, assured me that by then he had outlines of each of the boys’ positions, a favourable sign.

“From now on, I shall only require the presence of one child at a time,” he said, “and, of course, you must sit for me each day, Mrs. Darcy. That should ensure a more peaceable hour, should it not?”

His solution pleased me, for I knew I could control one son at a time. Georgiana, of course, attended me each day, bringing her needlework or a favourite book belonging to the child required to pose. I was grateful that she was willing to read, sing or do whatever it took to help me keep the little one in the proper location.

Mr. Dupuis, himself, proved entertaining to the children. A striking man, he was tall and blonde with hair that hung below his shoulders. Most days he secured it at his neck in a
queue
, but at times he allowed it to hang loose, wild and unruly. It provided a constant source of curiosity to Edward, for he had never seen a man wear his hair in such a style.

“Mum, does Mr. D. not look like the bogey-man?” he asked one night.

“Why, Edward, what makes you say such a thing?” I replied.

“When his hair is all bushy, he scares me.”

I hugged him before I sent him to bed, reassuring him that the artist was not a man to fear. In truth, I found Mr. Dupuis an attractive man in an uninhibited, artistic manner. I could picture him quite at home in bohemian circles within London, and Georgiana and I spent many an evening wondering at his background. Eventually, when the boys’ pictures were completed and I was the only subject remaining, my sister and I ventured to question the artist.

He was open and forthcoming, and to our disappointment, sadly lacking in mystery. He had not lived a romantic, fanciful life as we had imagined, but had grown up outside Bath, the son of a seaman. His mother was terrified he might lose his life at sea, and thus, she had encouraged his artistic talent. She proved successful in persuading him not to follow his father’s profession.

And so I passed the days, waiting for Fitzwilliam to come home. His most recent letter indicated he would return on Saturday next, and I entreated Mr. Dupuis to complete the portrait two days before.

“Yes, Mrs. Darcy,” he assured me. “In truth, if I can capture but two or three final details, I shall finish today.”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” I replied, smiling.

He approached me and pulled a long tendril of my hair forward so that it trailed over my shoulder. “There, that is exactly as it was the previous day — perfect,” he murmured, stepping backward.

Unbeknownst to either Georgiana or me and quite unexpectedly, at that very moment, Fitzwilliam walked into the room.

“You have described my wife correctly, sir,” he said, his voice hard and angry, “but by what means do you presume you have the right to touch her?”

Before I could say anything, with one rough, swift move, Fitzwilliam grabbed Mr. Dupuis by the arm and pushed him away from me, causing him to fall over a table filled with various paints, thinners, brushes and scrapers. Georgiana and I both cried out, fearful that he would advance further and strike the young man.

It took some doing and much explanation before we successfully convinced my husband that the scene he had walked in upon was innocent and that Mr. Dupuis had done nothing improper. Naturally, Fitzwilliam’s birthday surprise was spoiled, but that was of little consequence. I was simply relieved to see his good humour return and the artist accept his apologies.

That night in the seclusion of his bedchamber, I attempted to make up to my husband for his unfortunate homecoming. He made love to me, however, with a desperate need, as though he still could not erase the fear that had overtaken him upon finding me with another man.

Afterwards, I held him in my arms, his head upon my breast, until his breathing stilled, and he appeared at rest. I thought he had fallen asleep when his voice proved him awake.

“Elizabeth, have you forgiven me?”

“Of what should I forgive you?” I murmured, my body and mind consumed by a delicious lethargy.

“My behaviour earlier was that of a brute. I do not know why I reacted with such little control. I saw that blur of blonde hair, and when the man touched you, all I could think was — Morgan!”

I caught my breath.
The highwayman!
We had not spoken of him in over nine years. I could not recall when I had last thought of him. And still he haunted my husband? I could not believe it.

“Oh, my dearest, my darling,” was all that I could say. Repeatedly, I murmured words of love and reassurance, kissing his hair and his forehead until he raised his head and his lips met mine. That night our last child was conceived.

* * *

She was born on the occasion of my thirtieth birthday. We named her Elizabeth Jane Anna, but she was Beth from the first time her father took her in his arms. He adored her, as did I, and she grew up the spoiled pet of the entire household. Even her brothers, who could find countless ways to disagree among themselves, doted on their little sister. In their eyes or in the eyes of her father, she could do no wrong.

Consequently, by the time Beth was sixteen, she was a handful. Fitzwilliam had taught her to ride when little more than a toddler. Unfortunately, she now terrorized him by racing about the grounds at a speed we both feared might easily break her neck.

By that time, Edward took his place in the Navy, and Will had completed his education at Cambridge. Our oldest son spent much of his time in Town, establishing his presence as the heir apparent to Pemberley. He was a fine young man, however, and did nothing to sully the Darcy name, or at least nothing of which his father and I learned. Henry was another matter.

At twenty, our youngest son, a desultory student at best, announced that he was leaving his studies and wished to travel. His father, naturally, disapproved and ordered him to return to Cambridge. He hoped Henry would make the church his profession, but I knew my son was not made for the clergy, not with the desire that bedevilled him to see more of the world.

Countless arguments ensued between father and son until the entire house was beset with gloom. Each time I took Henry’s side, Fitzwilliam accused me of still coddling the boy. When he insisted his will be obeyed or the boy disinherited, I accused him of harshness and rigidity.

At length, when neither side would give in, Beth intervened with her father and convinced him to permit her brother two years’ leave from school, wherein he might satisfy his longing if Henry promised to return at the end of that time and complete his education in a satisfactory manner. I was surprised at my daughter’s sensible solution but not at her ability to convince her father. She could have made him think black was white if she so desired.

Thus, Henry set off for America in 1836. Even though I had argued his case with Fitzwilliam, still I dreaded to see him go. A heavy heart beat in my chest as we stood outside Pemberley, bidding him safe passage. Not even seeing Edward off to the Navy had filled me with as much foreboding as watching Henry leave for parts unknown.

I stood waving my handkerchief as long as I could see the barest outline of the carriage hurtling down the roadway. Suddenly, an image of my mother flashed across my vision. How many times had she stood outside Longbourn and waved farewell to one of her daughters? Until that moment, I never understood what she must have felt.

Those two years passed slowly for me. Henry was an infrequent correspondent. I could count on one hand the number of letters I received. Whilst he was away, however, the time was not uneventful for us.

* * *

Will married a lovely young woman from a good family of whom his father and I approved. They took a house in Town but visited us often. Edward advanced in his career and sent colourful missives from various ports. Beth was presented at court, an exciting event for her, but one that filled her father with anxiety. From then on, he was forced to endure a houseful of young men far more frequently than he wished, for she not only was pretty but would enter marriage well dowered.

At last the day arrived when Henry returned to us unannounced.

I sat in the garden at Pemberley, watching Fitzwilliam and Beth train a young mare my husband had recently acquired. Although the riding grounds were some distance from where I sat, I could watch their progress with pleasure, safely ensconced among my roses and hydrangeas, marguerites and daisies. I had never come to share my husband’s love of horses, just as he did not share my passion for gardening.

I heard footsteps approaching from behind my chair, but I assumed it to be a servant with the pot of tea I had ordered. How thrilled I was to find, instead, my youngest son kneeling beside my chair and whispering, “Mother?”

We embraced for a long time, and when he released me, my face was damp with tears of joy. I began to call for Fitzwilliam and Beth, but Henry restrained me.

“Pray, Mother, let it be just the two of us for a few moments. I have so much to tell you.”

“Will you not have to repeat it for your father and sister?” I asked, but he just laughed and said he did not mind.

He began to tell me of his adventures in that strange, new land called America — how he had disembarked at Virginia and explored the towns and villages up and down the eastern seaboard for much of the first year. Within months, however, he grew restless and pushed on into what he called the wilderness, eventually making his way to the southern border and a city called New Orleans.

“You cannot envision the great spaces in that country, Mother. There is land enough for the entire world and much of it still inhabited by savages.”

Naturally, that alarmed me, and he spent no little time assuring me he had not so much as glimpsed an unfriendly Indian.

He then began to describe the city where he spent the second year of his visit — New Orleans — a mixture of French, Spaniard, English, and Negro. He spoke of great houses called plantations and fields of white cotton maintained by slaves. I was glad to see the institution troubled him, but his eyes still filled with delight when he described the port city itself and its exciting manner of life.

As he took a moment to catch his breath, I asked if he had made friends. “I met a girl,” he responded softly, looking away.

“Ah, and is she someone special?”

“She is beautiful. She has long dark curls and her eyes — Mother, I have never seen eyes like hers — they are the bluest blue one can imagine. Her name is Elizabeth.” He looked up and smiled. “With that name, how could she not please me?”

I sighed and began to chew my lip before I asked if she came from a good family. His response was less than satisfactory, somewhat evasive. He said her mother had died in childbirth. Her father and an aunt, who was now well up in years, had raised her. When I questioned Henry as to her father’s status, he grew somewhat defensive.