Mr. Darcy's Secret (19 page)

"Indeed, I have rarely seen such beauty," answered her husband, gazing into her eyes and planting another kiss on her lips.

"I am talking of the view," she protested half-heartedly with a laugh as he pulled her yet closer.

"Oh, so am I, Mrs Darcy, so am I."

A fortnight of sweet felicity soon passed in the company of those Elizabeth loved best. She was feeling strong, energetic, and in blooming good health. The walks around Winandermere exhilarated her, with every day bringing fresh discoveries. The problems and anxieties that she had encountered at Pemberley seemed to belong to a different world, as if none of it had happened. She had never felt so close to Fitzwilliam before and she refused to dwell on any unpleasant recollections that sometimes threatened to overwhelm her. Even Georgiana's spirits seemed lifted. To hear her laugh again was a joy to both Elizabeth and Mr Darcy.

"I wonder if I was not a little quick to decide that my plans for Georgiana were flawed," he said as they prepared to go down for breakfast one morning. "I think perhaps a little holiday was all that was required to put the spring back into her step. No doubt she has Hugh Calladine painted as a romantic hero in her mind's eye and sees his handsome face in every rock and twisted tree. There is nothing like absence to swell the pangs of love, or a romantic landscape to inspire affection, especially for a swain across the miles."

"I do not know about all that. Like you, I am pleased to see Georgiana in better spirits, but I am not convinced of it having to do with any romantic notions about her fiance. I have to admit that you have me completely intrigued by what you say about absence swelling love's pangs. You sound quite the expert, Fitzwilliam," said Elizabeth, trying not to laugh at him but failing to do so. "Am I to believe that you have suffered such agonies of affliction yourself?"

"Mock me, Mrs Darcy, all you choose, but I will admit to having suffered love's pains when we were apart. For four months I did not see you after Bingley and I left Netherfield for town. I am not ashamed to tell you that you were never far from my thoughts."

"Ah, yes, but your pain was quite of your own making, was it not? And I am certain your suffering was more to do with the agony of acknowledging that you had feelings for me than to do with being apart. I believe you were vexed with yourself for falling in love with me; cross and quite angry that despite all your efforts to despise me, you could not help yourself."

"Mrs Darcy, you have a very cruel streak. Do not remind me of the man I was then. But you will not have it all your own way. Whatever may have been my misguided thoughts about the situation, I knew I was in love with you."

"Did you?"

"You know as much. I have told you before."

"Well, Mr Darcy, I wish to hear it again. When did you first realise that you were in love with me?"

"I cannot fix on the hour or the spot or the look or the words which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."

"Yes, you have said all that before... but there must have been a moment when you knew there was no escape from my allurements, that, as your aunt would say, I had drawn you in."

Mr Darcy laughed. "I always knew your abuse of me was by design, that you drew me in by pretending to be as unflattering and critical of me as you dared. You thought you could not win me by your form, wit, and fine eyes alone, so you resorted to pretending to dislike me in an effort to gain my attention."

"By design, how can you say so, you incorrigible, infuriating, provoking man? Indeed, Mr Darcy, no deception was necessary, I assure you." Elizabeth took his arm in hers before stating, "I hated you then as much as I love you now."

Fitzwilliam put his hand over hers. "Do you love me, Elizabeth?"

"You know I do, darling."

"Well, Mrs Darcy, I wish to hear it again."

"I love you," she whispered, pulling him toward the door and, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in her eye, added, "but only on days with a 'y' in them."

Almost everyone was seated at the breakfast table when the Darcys made an appearance. No one batted an eyelid at them; they were quite used to the couple being last to sit down, each privately assessing the reasons for their perpetual lateness. But this morning they were not the last to arrive for breakfast.

"Where is Miss Georgiana?" asked Mr Darcy as he helped himself from the platters of ham, eggs, and soft rolls upon the table.

Jane spoke. "She has gone out to the village to collect the post."

"There is no need for her to do that. One of the servants can go. I am not sure she should be wandering around on her own."

"It is but a short walk, Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth said. "She likes to go out walking by herself. I am sure she will be here in a moment."

At these words Georgiana came flying into the room clutching a handful of letters, her cheeks flushed by the exercise and with an air of animation and high spirits. "I have letters for you all!" she exclaimed. "Mrs Biddle in the village says she has never been so busy with so much correspondence. Mrs Gardiner, I think you have the most, seven letters in all."

"Oh, they will be from the children, I daresay," said Mrs Gardiner, "full of news of London."

The letters were handed out and a few minutes passed where silence reigned as the missives were read.

"Well, I never," said Mr Bingley at last. "I cannot quite believe it, but I have it in writing here that my sisters are leaving London and Mr Hurst behind, as I speak, to head north to the Lakes."

"Caroline is leaving London and all its entertainments to come up to the North?" asked Jane, who sounded as astonished at this piece of news as she looked disappointed.

"It seems Caroline has been finding society very dull of late. But listen to this... perhaps the inducement to travel lies in other directions. Not all society is so very tedious to my sister Caroline, it appears."

"Whatever do you mean, Charles?" asked Jane, whose heart was sinking at the prospect of spending any time with her sister-in-law.

Charles Bingley cleared his throat and read out loud.

"At one of Lady Metcalfe's drawing rooms, Louisa and I were introduced to a fellow by the name of Dalton. He is a painter, an advocate for the picturesque, of which he is a great exponent. Lord Dalton prefers not to be known by his title, and indeed, I have only just discovered that he has one, that he is not only of noble ancestry, but also that he is one of the richest men in Westmorland. This gentleman's work and his philosophy is all the rage in London, and he is feted wherever he goes. His talks on the simple pleasures of life in the Lakes, where he was born, have moved me to the extent that I shall not rest until I have experienced it for myself: nature in all its sublimity. As Dalton says, truth and refined taste can only grow from studying nature. To be at one with nature, to define and experience the picturesque can only be truly appreciated from close observance of the landscape. I am, therefore, following him to the Lakes and will reside in a cottage near Hawkside to live as simply as I can. Society holds no attraction for me anymore. Dearest Charles, I have cast off the shackles of a civilisation that no longer has any charms for me. I believe there will be several disciples following in his wake, but I do not think I exaggerate when I say that Lord Dalton and I have become particular friends. I shall write to let you know when Louisa and I arrive at Robin Cot, Hawkside."

During this speech Elizabeth had found it increasingly difficult not to laugh out loud, especially when she happened to catch Jane's eye from across the table. The thought that Caroline Bingley with all her pretensions to grandeur could swap the high life for a humbler existence in a cottage was extraordinarily comic. She could not resist saying, "Do you think there may be more than an appreciation of nature at work here, Mr Bingley? Is there some love in the case?"

"My goodness," said Bingley, "I am beginning to wonder."

"Has Miss Bingley always enjoyed such an appreciation of nature?" Elizabeth continued, ignoring the nudge of her husband's foot under the table.

"I can't say I ever noticed it before," Bingley muttered, scratching his head. "It doesn't make sense. I can no more see Caro in a cottage than I can myself. What the deuce has happened to her, do you suppose?"

"Love does many strange things, and the most unlikely pairings take place in springtime," answered Mrs Darcy, gazing into her husband's eyes with a wink and a smirk.

However, Mr Darcy was not to be diverted from Charles's conversation or from the perusal of his own letter, in which he had suddenly become most engrossed. "Good God!" he exclaimed in an agitated voice.

"My love, whatever is wrong?" cried Elizabeth, feeling quite alarmed at the flush spreading over her husband's face. Everyone's eyes turned toward him in concern.

"It seems this Dalton fellow has been creating havoc wherever he goes," he said, re-examining the letter he held in his hand. "My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, informs me that she is taking a house further along the shore here at Winandermere on the recommendation of her friend Lady Metcalfe. She is bringing a party from London immediately, including not only the painter and poet, Lord Henry Dalton, but also her friends, Lord and Lady Metcalfe, Lord Featherstone, the Miss Winns, Mr and Mrs Collins, and one or two others I have never heard of before... literary types, poets, I believe. She claims that this Dalton fellow is not only a painter of the highest order, but that he is a great orator and has charmed London society as no other has done before him. Her soiree is postponed until they arrive as she is anxious for us all to meet him."

"And how many more will follow in their wake?" cried Elizabeth, quite unable to hide her disapprobation for the scheme. "I do not think I am ready for the whole of London to arrive in smart barouches clogging up the lanes and throwing balls and parties every night."

The table fell silent as each person reflected on their own misgivings.

"Well, I expect they will be far too busy running around the countryside with easels and writing books to do much entertaining," said Mr Darcy perusing the letter once more. "I confess, even my aunt seems to be given over with scribbling verses. Ah, here it is, she says... 'there are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of art and literature than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever had the benefit of Georgiana's masters or the luxury of time spent away from an ailing child, I should have been prolific. As it is, I must content myself with the fact that Lord Dalton says he has rarely witnessed such superb enjambment as he finds in my work.'"

"Forgive my ignorance," said Mrs Gardiner as both she and Mrs Butler looked on with a mixture of puzzlement and incredulity, "could you please enlighten me?"

"Enjambment comes from a French word meaning to put one's leg across or to step over," answered Elizabeth mischievously, "but, in this case, I imagine that Lady Catherine is referring to the running over of a sentence from one verse or couplet into another so that closely related words fall in different lines."

"Here we are," continued Mr Darcy, "my aunt has been kind enough to include one of her verses for illustration with the note that she has recited the very same before Lord Dalton's friends with the most flattering success.

"Not far from Ambleside's banks and bay

An humble dwelling rose;

Around its walls the woodbine twin'd,

Encircled with the rose.

The purple violet at their feet,

Perfum'd the ambient air,

And those who view'd the lovely cot,

Thought it--a shield from care!

"There is more, but I am sure you get the picture."

"Oh, I like the part about the perfumed violets," cried Georgiana. "Fancy my aunt a poetess!"

For Elizabeth, now close to exploding with mirth for the image conjured in her mind of Lady Catherine reciting her poetry before an audience all trying to outdo one another with romantic idylls, tempests, and spontaneous lines addressed to nature, it was all too much. "Oh dear," she could not resist adding, "do you suppose we shall have to communicate in verse when we meet?"

"Lord, help us all," muttered Mr Darcy under his breath, but not so quietly that the whole company could not hear him. "Bingley, I hope you know the difference between an epic and an epigram, or I fear you'll be cut and snubbed by all of new Lake society! Mrs Bingley, be most careful when you are out walking this afternoon in case you feel a sonnet coming on, and Mrs Gardiner, Mrs Butler, beware the ballad and the ode!"

The tension was broken at last and everybody laughed.

Georgiana excused herself when she could to escape to her room in order that she could read her letters. It was no accident that she volunteered daily to fetch the post, disappearing before anyone else had risen, to go down to the village further along the shore. Her personal correspondence over the last fortnight had been a source of constant delight. She had kept her promise to Mr Butler and had written to him, but far from writing only once, she had corresponded whenever she could, letters to entertain with snippets of her daily routine accompanied by notes and drawings on the landscape, which by all accounts he was enjoying very much. To her enormous excitement, Tom had written back just as much telling her of his escapades in London. His patron, Lord Featherstone, was there for the season and, besides attending to the work Tom had to do, he had been invited to stay with the old bachelor who had taken him under his wing. Having no wife or children, Lord Featherstone enjoyed the young man's companionship and was invited everywhere with him.

Georgiana tore open her letters with impatience. Firstly, one from a friend in London was read, followed by one from Mrs Annesley, who was enjoying her stay in Weymouth with her sister. The third she saved until last and with a mixture of excitement and elation opened the seal with trembling fingers.

Dearest Georgiana,

I hope this letter finds you as well as I am. Thank you for your last--I loved the drawing of a sunset over Winandermere--it was so good I could smell the air moving over the water stirring the lake into ruffles of crimson sateen. How I wish I could be there to see such a sight with you, to sit at your side, each with a pencil in hand to draw the beauty around us.