Chapter Twenty-Three
Iought to have been ashamed of my appearance as we crept back to the house and entered my chamber by a rear door and a servant’s stair. I was too happy to feel much chagrin, I admit. However, I could also admit a longing for Clara when I saw myself in the looking glass. There was grass in my unmanageable hair to match the stains upon my gown—there would be no doubt in the mind of my aunt’s maid as to what excesses we had been indulging. I must have made some noise of dismay, for my husband appeared behind me in the glass.
“I suppose I must assume all responsibility for such dishevelment,” he said, smiling as he extracted a dead leaf from my hair.
“I ought to call Susan for help,” I sighed. “My aunt’s maid, that is. But she has known me since I was in the nursery, and she will not hesitate to say exactly what she suspects of the origins of such untidiness. Not that she would be so very far from the truth.”
But he was not paying overmuch attention to my predicament. Instead, he began removing the remaining pins from my hair, plucking them one by one as he rifled through its masses, his strong fingers searching and his expression, reflected in the mirror, intent. When he’d found them all, he took up my brush.
He had played the lady’s maid once before with my hair—although he’d mussed it far more than taming it. It reminded me of what he had said, then, of his attraction to me so long ago, at Netherfield Park. I had not known it, busy as I was hating him at the time—but in the newness of our marriage and intimacy, and the resolution of such an argument as we had been having prior to that moment, I had given little credence to his words.
But now, it seemed…important. I had tried to dismiss his reasons for seeking me out, for finding me at Rosings and then asking for my hand. Convenience, I had believed first. Responsibility, I had believed later. And perhaps it was those things, too. But not solely. Not only.
He wanted me again, though we had only just lost all sense and decorum in the orchard together. His passion for me, for what we had together, was as real as mine for him. It would be a long while before we were ready to make an appearance downstairs.
* * *
The children were somewhat in awe of Mr Darcy, for even in ruined neckcloth and wrinkled coat he was a figure of nearly overpowering distinction. His manners were of the most formal and grave sort, which was somewhat quelling to the natural exuberance of youth. However, my aunt—a superb hostess—was able to draw him out a bit, and an excellent meal further compelled the mood towards contentment. Mr Martin was my greatest surprise.
In my presence Mr Martin had always shown himself to be quiet, courteous in manner, and completely unruffled by any problem, no matter what it was. If the cow went off its feed or the well smelled sour or the boys were bickering, he simply…fixed things. My uncle had been a gregarious man, a handsome, generous and intelligent man. He was adored by all who knew him, and his family most of all. But he was not the person whom one might have called upon to restore an aging house to sturdiness, or to show a rambunctious eleven-year-old how to whittle a boat from a stick. I had grown much impressed by Mr Martin’s calm, steady manner.
He was different in company with Mr Darcy. With twinkling eyes, he made much of my husband’s presence at the table with a sort of exaggerated respect, mostly ruined by his occasional aside regarding the gentry’s ability to misplace their wives. To my astonishment, Mr Darcy ignored this as if such teasing were a commonplace. The boys finally made so bold as to question Mr Darcy regarding his mount—evidently a horse with a distinguished lineage, about which Mr Martin and my husband found a great deal to say, and as if they had shared many such discussions over the years upon any number of similar topics.
After dinner, Ellen played for us quite prettily, and I told her of Mrs Bingley’s prowess at the instrument and the duets we had been practising. We tried one of them for which Ellen possessed the music, and we laughed together over mistakes—usually mine—but were encored by our audience.
Finally, however, only the four adults remained in the cosy parlour and I grew aware of a tension building within my husband, a certain restlessness within his usual restraint. I was not left long to wonder at its meaning.
“Martin, what do you hear from your nephew? Regarding the current disposition of the villagers?”
Mr Martin sighed. “Better than it once was, but not as good as it should be. I do not think the mistress’s absence is helping much. Folks think you chased her away.”
“And so he did,” I piped in. “And I still have questions as to why!”
Mr Darcy grimaced, but Mr Martin nodded. “In a word, ‘Peterloo’,” he said.
“Peterloo?” I questioned. “But…but what has that to do with poor Miss Bingley?” Last August, England’s calvary had stormed into a crowd of sixty thousand citizens peacefully gathering in St Peter’s Field near Manchester to demand political reform and representation in Parliament. Hundreds were injured and more than a dozen died. The papers referred to it as the ‘Peterloo Massacre’, while I called it horrific no matter its title.
Mr Martin glanced at my husband to see whether he would answer my question, but Mr Darcy’s face had turned to stone. “Aye, ’twas a nasty business, and a shameful one as well. In trying to stifle rebellious voices, they only shouted their cause to the world. More than ever, folks want change.”
“Change is all well and good,” Mr Darcy spoke sternly at last, “but too many are too willing to tear down the old order without reason and stability, using violence to do it. Change takes time, lest more innocents suffer.”
“Ah, but time is a luxury when the world is burning,” Mr Martin replied. “Ye must convince more of those high and mighty grey heads to listen to ye.”
Mr Darcy’s grimace tightened. “More would listen, perhaps, if their properties were only fifty miles of good road from Manchester.”
Mr Martin nodded. “The fact is, not all the owners of great estates are as benevolent and virtuous as our Mr Darcy here.”
“Perhaps I am thick-skulled, but I still do not understand how this relates to Miss Bingley’s death,” I put in.
“Nor I,” my aunt murmured.
Mr Darcy remained silent.
“’Twas the first Mrs Darcy,” Mr Martin snapped, showing an annoyance at complete odds with his usual calm demeanour. “Never did think much of her, despite her being so popular with all. That woman cared most about the face in the mirror. I thought it from the first time I saw her and never found any reason to change my mind. Then, just as the papers are full of this Peterloo madness and hatred towards anyone with a bit of blue blood—however benevolent—she up and decides to die, all mysterious-like. Folks are heaping flowers on her grave and crying and carrying on, blaming her husband for her death, even though they’ve known him all his life and he’s never shown aught but kindness towards the lot of them. And Himself, here, refuses to tell a blessed soul how she managed it, instead breeding suspicion and resentment as if such were prized bulls.”
Mr Darcy looked away from him, stubbornly, I thought, and Mr Martin sighed and stood. “But here, I’m naught but an old farmer, awake long past my bedtime. Thank you once again, Mrs Gardiner, for your excellent hospitality. Mrs Darcy, Mr Darcy.” He bowed in a genteel manner that would have served well at court, and took himself off.
After he left, an awkward silence followed. Mr Darcy was either distracted or brooding, it was impossible to tell which. My aunt and I exchanged looks, and then she said, “I find I am rather tired myself. I shall see you both at breakfast tomorrow?”