The Rich Are Always Respectable, 4-6
‘I, Charles, take thee, Jane, to my wedded wife . . .’
Rosemary sniffled. She scarcely knew the radiant woman smiling sweetly up at Mr Bingley, but they were charming, handsome, and very much in love. The shy sweet smiles on their faces could not but remind her of her own past, when she and James had become engaged. She had been deliriously happy for those months, very like Miss Bennet, now Mrs Bingley. Rosemary blinked rapidly - she had not cried over James for years - and smiled at her husband. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth were best man and maid of honour to the newly-married couple, and had performed their services efficiently and amicably.
After a few days Rosemary felt no more sense of belonging than she had at first, despite Mrs Bingley’s kindness. Even Darcy and Georgiana seemed more at ease, and she could not think of why she felt so terribly awkward here. They certainly were not the sort she typically associated with, and yet it was more than that, there’d been no great difficulty with the Gardiners.
Now, Darcy and Bingley were shaking hands, Miss Bennet - Mrs Bingley - and Miss Elizabeth (Miss Bennet!) were embracing each other, both crying. Mrs Bennet was trying very hard to cry, Mr Bennet was trying not to cry, the younger girls were a little bored - all in all, it was a very normal wedding.
The Bingleys were going to Yorkshire, Mr Bingley’s native country, for their honeymoon. Mrs Bingley and Miss Bennet cried some more after the breakfast. ‘You will write to me, Elizabeth?’ Mrs Bingley asked anxiously.
‘So is Baildon west of Sheffield?’ Bingley said to Darcy, who - Rosemary could not keep from smiling in amusement - was suffering a case of nerves to rival Mrs Bennet’s. She did not think he would appreciate being informed of his resemblance to a mother hen just then, even if only she could see it. Bingley had expressed a certain eagerness to return to Yorkshire at some point in the future, and Darcy knew of an estate that might fit his needs.
‘Yes, of course,’ Miss Bennet said, kissing her sister again. ‘Shall you have time for writing, now that you are a married woman?’
This was apparently some sort of joke between the two of them, for both laughed and kissed each other again.
‘No, no, it’s north - for heavens’ sake, Bingley, just ask directions - ’
‘What a lovely bride,’ Mrs Long said simperingly to Mrs Bennet, who beamed. Overflowing with the milk of human kindness, she was delighted with the world and everyone in it, and complimented everyone from Mrs Goulding to Mr Darcy (the latter of whom looked utterly astonished but graciously extended best wishes for the couple and congratulations on the fine breakfast).
‘I hope you will take good care of my friend, Mrs Bingley,’ Darcy said, his look rather anxious beneath the polite detachment. Miss Bennet smiled warmly then bit her lip. The two men shook hands one last time, and Mr Bingley turned to his wife and helped her into the carriage. Amid much tears and laughter, the Bingleys set off. As soon as they could with propriety do so, the three Darcys followed suit and left for London.
-----
Rosemary was not fond of society and longed for the day when they could leave London. She had little enough to be glad of. The Duke was in town and when separated from her husband, she could not keep herself from jumping at small sounds and looking over her shoulder. Morever after frequent visits to Gracechurch-street she grew more and more dissatisfied with the great contrast between the opulence of their lives and the misery of those they could do nothing for. After snapping at an astonished Georgiana she forced herself to explain, she was not easy here, she could not pretend she was, and from then on either brother or sister remained in perpetual attendance. She felt rather silly until the day she caught the Duke’s eye from across the room. If Darcy had not been there, stepping close to her and placing one hand on her back, she might very well have fainted on the spot.
She had not conceived as a consequence of the Duke’s attack, and the overwhelming relief she felt was a sharp reminder of how great her husband’s charity was. She could not help but confront him, for until she knew she had not, the idea had not entered her mind that she might have.
‘You did not, Rosemary,’ he said; ‘that is all that need concern us.’
‘But, Fitzwilliam,’ she cried, ‘what if I had? What if I had borne his son?’
Darcy set down his book and sighed. ‘Mary, I did consider the matter. I had no intentions of keeping it a secret from any of the family. Any child you conceived might as well have been a daughter, and then I would have treated her as my own; if a son, I would have done what I could for him. Pemberley is not entailed. I probably would have left the estates to our child, should such a person come to exist, and persuade - the other -to seek his inclinations, naturally with my support. In every other respect he would have been as my own.’
Rosemary stared. ‘You thought this through very throroughly, didn’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he said calmly, ‘it was a great step to make, for that and - other reasons.’
‘Other reasons?’ He coloured and looked down. Rosemary frowned.
‘Why, what oth - ’ Mary, has love brought either of us any lasting happiness? His voice echoed in her ears and she understood. How funny - in a terrible, dreadful way. It was so inconceivable. Cousin Fitzwilliam - Mr Darcy - oh, whoever he was, that he should suffer the pangs of romantic love? Impossible, surely. And yet not. It explained everything, his quieter, graver demeanour, his detachment and occasional sadness- ‘I am sorry, so sorry,’ she said.
He dropped his eyes. ‘It is nothing, really.’
She frowned at him. ‘But - if your heart was attached, how could you? Fitzwilliam, that was wrong - ’
His head jerked up, eyes flashing. ‘You do not understand,’ he said sharply, and she flinched. His voice gentled. ‘I’m sorry, but I - I do not care to speak of it. Needless to say there was no understanding, no - anything. Nothing at all. It was not us, just I.’
‘Oh.’ What had he said? Not I, to be sure. And he was afraid of being alone. Sympathy welled up and she clasped his hand; he looked away. ‘Do I know her?’
‘Yes.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘Rosemary, I would really rather not speak of it - if you don’t mind. It’s better not - to think about it. You know.’
‘Yes.’ She touched his hand one more time and withdrew, only glancing back once, to see him staring pensively out the window, chin resting on his interlocked fingers.
-----
They attended the third wedding in as many months. Rosemary kept a close eye on her husband, who behind his veneer of elegant composure looked positively desolate.
‘I, Georgiana, take thee, Stephen, to my wedded husband - ’
She could not help herself and began crying silently. If anyone deserved happiness it was Georgiana, and Lord Aldborough simply adored her. They would be happy, she was certain of it. Georgiana was beautiful, for quite possibly the first time in her life she was not outshone by her brother, and she had grown into the strongly-marked features she shared with him, they were no longer that little bit unbalanced. Dark eyes shining, she kissed her husband enthusiastically. Darcy looked faintly ill.
‘Congratulations,’ Rosemary said cheerfully, ‘I hope you are both very happy.’ She looked at her cousin and, lowering her voice, added, ‘She had better be if you wish to keep your head. You are a good man, but she is something special. Take care of her, will you?’
Aldborough laughed softly. ‘Of course. Thank you for the warning - sister. Is that on your own behalf’s or Darcy’s?’
‘Both,’ she said, smiling back. ‘He is - ’ Whatever wifely instincts she possessed kicked in at that moment, and she shook her head and said no more. It had struck her that her primary loyalty must be to him, and if their intimacy made his feelings easier for her to perceive, that was no reason to inform others. He would be horrified if he thought himself that transparent. And Georgiana could not bear it if she thought for an instant that she had made her beloved brother unhappy. Of course, he was not unhappy, as such, but there was certainly something -
‘Oh, Fitzwilliam!’ Georgiana cried, and held her brother tightly, pressing her face into his neck in imitation of her childhood habit. ‘I love you so much, I don’t know how I shall bear it without you - ’ She swallowed and gave up the fight, sobbing softly into his shoulder.
‘Oh, hush,’ he chided her gently, ‘you shall be happy, and I am not fifteen miles away.’ He did not sound half-convinced himself, and Rosemary could see that not all the tears shed were Georgiana’s.
‘If you ever want me, Georgiana, you know, you have only to ask, and you are - always welcome - ’ His voice caught and he rested his cheek against her fair hair, eyes tightly closed.
‘I know,’ Georgiana said, still clinging to him. ‘Fitzwilliam, take care of yourself.’
‘I will, I promise. Don’t forget who - ’ He drew a deep breath, and detached himself, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her forehead. ‘Remember who you are, dearest.’
‘I will.’ She sniffled, and took her husband’s arm.
‘Goodbye. Oh!’ She ran forward, embracing her brother again and raining kisses on his cheek. Darcy laughed unsteadily, wrapped his arms about her tightly.
‘You really must go, my dear, the horses - ’
‘I love you, you know that?’ she said earnestly, and he nodded, letting her go, and not daring to speak anymore - except to pleasantly deliver the expected threats to his new brother. After the newlywed couple departed, Rosemary took her husband’s arm and said lightly,
‘There is something very bittersweet about weddings, don’t you think?’
Rosemary had not been to Pemberley for years, not since her grandmother’s nephew, George Darcy, was alive. He had been a fine man, very handsome, and she had enjoyed her visits as she had been close to all her Willoughby relatives. She had not been of an age or disposition to pay much mind to the grounds or the house, but now she leaned forward eagerly as they went over the last incline and looked down.
Pemberley spread out before them, lit up by the last remnants of sunlight, the woods sprawling out through the valley. It was not at all what she had expected, and seemed subtly different from her memories. There had been follies about, very picturesque and dramatic, that she had played on and about; but they were gone. Also it seemed the woods and stream were rather more prominent than she recalled.
Rosemary glanced at her husband, and smiled. She knew that he loved Pemberley, with characteristic single-mindedness - there were no halves with him. He spoke of it with the same passion that another man might speak of the object of his desire, a beautiful mistress or beloved wife. He stared down, his lips slightly parted and his eyes smiling brilliantly although his expression remained severe. Rosemary turned back to the sight before her, as the carriage rattled on. It was almost too lovely, too - she had no words, too much. It did not seem quite earthly. She had preferred it with the small idiosyncrasies, the follies and statues and all those little touches that had spoken of variance and imperfection. This Pemberley was so perfectly blended between nature and artifice, she could find no flaw, and so beautiful she could almost not bear it. She felt a pale, tired imitation of herself, utterly incapable of managing the overwhelming presence and beauty that was Pemberley. And yet - beautiful and sublime - she was almost transported at the same time, into a sort of peculiar joy and pleasure.
It was all very strange. Rosemary cast her strange mood off, and looked at her husband. He was happier than she had ever seen him.
‘Welcome home,’ he said easily, helping her out of the carriage.
Rosemary looked up at the house and swallowed. It was a fine, soaring building, not as grand and splendid as she had expected - as Darcy could afford to make it - and again she felt that blend of awe and anxiety.
‘It is lovely, beyond words,’ she said sincerely, looking around.
There was no great pomp, the servants went about their duties quietly and efficiently, but she could not miss the contentment pervading the place, nor the pleasure lighting up Mrs Reynolds’s face when she set eyes on her master.
‘She has yet to realise I am no longer four,’ Darcy had said ruefully, and that was apparent immediately by the distinctly maternal manner she took with him, fussing over the weather, his clothing, whether or not he had eaten properly - Rosemary could hardly keep from laughing at it, they were so utterly delightful together.
Later that evening, Rosemary said idly, ‘What happened to the follies?’
Darcy glanced up from his book. He looked very peaceful, no longer as volatile as he had been in London. She missed that, a little. It had reminded her of James. He had been a gentleman as well, of far more recent affluence, of course. His estate had shown the signs of that, the buildings had been modern, there had been eccentric additions and variations;-he had cut down a small stand of trees on a whim. One never knew what would happen next with him. She had always been a steadying influence on him, but Darcy needed no steadying. One need only look at Pemberley to see that. She felt rather melancholy as her husband replied, ‘I tore them down.’
‘Whatever for? Did not your father like them?’
‘Yes,’ he said, laughing a little, ‘but I do not feel obliged to agree with my father on every matter. I thought they were rather pretentious, actually.’
‘Fitzwilliam!’
‘Father did not build them, it was some ancestor five or six generations back,’ Darcy said hurriedly. ‘I would not speak of my father in such a manner, I am certain he would not mind my changing things a little. They were very out of place at Pemberley, fashion without purpose.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Rosemary did not dare say she felt as out of place in the wild, perfect beauty of Pemberley as one of those dear, whimsical follies, fashionable and purposeless. She shivered. What would James think? She had not thought of him so often for five years at least.
-----
She settled into life at Pemberley easily enough, far more easily than she had expected. It was so orderly, she found her ways easily assimilated into the greater way of things at Pemberley. She liked the colour yellow and promptly found her favourite room decorated in that shade, courtesy of Mrs Reynolds (with Darcy as co-conspirator, naturally). They did so much to accomodate her that she was determined to return the favour, to be an exemplary mistress of Pemberley and wife to Darcy, in every possible respect.
They had been at Pemberley two months, living contentedly and peacefully. Rosemary did not see her husband a great deal - she had had no idea he took such a great personal interest in affairs of the estate, but free of the passionate, possessive sort of love that might have placed a greater claim on his time, she did not mind terribly, fond of him as she was. There was much to do, and discover. Morever he was so still and quiet that she often failed to notice him when he was present.
It was particularly embarrassing when she happened across a fine painting of a darkly handsome woman with a small boy on her lap. He was a startlingly beautiful child, and the painter had been very talented, catching even the smallest details, the nervous grasp of the boy’s small fingers on his mother’s dress, the slightly haughty tilt of her chin. ‘A Madonna?’ Rosemary said aloud, and was startled by a sudden laugh. She stifled a shriek and glanced over her shoulder.
‘Oh, Fitzwilliam,’ she said in relief, ‘it is only you.’
‘Yes,’ he said, with a crooked smile, ‘only I. I beg your pardon, I should not have laughed.’
Rosemary turned back to the painting, caught by the little boy’s intense blue eyes as he stared out of the frame. She shivered a little. ‘It is a lovely painting,’ she remarked. ‘A mother and son, I am certain. Why should it not be a Madonna?’
‘Well,’ he said, biting down on his lip, ‘because it is my mother and I.’
‘Oh!’ She blushed fiercely, and looked more carefully at it. Yes, she had seen that detached, introspective expression on her husband’s face often enough; and the woman looked a great deal like him. She had thought, perhaps, that the model for it was a relation of some sort, certainly with those chilly good looks one of the Fitzwilliam clan. ‘Rather presumptuous of me, then.’
‘You did not know, it is quite all right.’ He looked intently at her. Rosemary sighed, thinking that it was difficult enough to be watched by one Fitzwilliam, three was rather excessive. ‘Are you well, my dear?’
She started and glanced up. ‘Of course,’ she said instantly. ‘Why did you think not?’
‘You have been ill every morning this week, and yesterday you nearly fainted, in the middle of the day.’
‘Oh, I think that I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. Do you remember that dinner at Lady Meredith’s? I remember thinking that the partridges were done very ill.’
‘There were no partridges, Rosemary,’ he said gently.
‘Oh, well, whatever it was then, I don’t recall.’ Her gaze was irresistibly drawn to the painting once more. ‘Is that the only picture you have of your mother?’
‘My uncle has the others.’
Rosemary glanced up at the wall. Another dark, strikingly handsome lady looked down. ‘Who is this? She looks rather like.’
‘My grandmother, Lady Alexandra. Her mother was a Fitzwilliam.’
‘Oh, I had thought she was the red-haired one in Georgiana’s room.’
‘That is my great-grandmother, for whom she and my father were named.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She glanced down at the letter in his hand. ‘Is there something you wish to speak to me about?’
‘Ah, nothing in particular.’ He smiled uncertainly and took his leave of her. The next day, as her maid was dressing her, the girl tentatively asked,
‘Your ladyship, have you noticed . . .?’ She gestured at the stays, which had in the last few weeks grown quite uncomfortable.
‘Have I noticed what, Amelia?’
‘You are - you have - you are not quite so slender, my lady, as when you first came.’
Rosemary laughed at this. ‘Too many dinner parties, I’m afraid. I shall have to take greater care.’
The French girl actually stamped her foot and muttered something too rapid for Rosemary to catch.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The English are very silly,’ Amélie pronounced, and pulled the stays tighter with a vengeful jerk. Rosemary squeaked.
-----
‘Perhaps I should speak to Mrs Reynolds,’ said Rosemary.
‘Oh, what about?’ Darcy cut his meat neatly into small squares. She watched with some interest. Every day at every dinner he cut his food in exactly the same way. He was without a doubt a creature of habit.
‘I have been ill again, surely not all the food I’ve eaten at other people’s houses can be bad. It must be our own.’
‘Ah - ’ said Darcy quickly, ‘Perhaps it isn’t the food and you are ill? You could tell her your, er, symptoms, and she might be able to help. She has a great deal of, er, practical experience with this sort of thing.’
Rosemary sighed. ‘You are probably right. If it isn’t the food, I wouldn’t want to offend her.’
‘Indeed not.’ With a distinctly relieved expression, he applied himself to his food once more.
‘I am sorry I am such terrible company, Fitzwilliam. I do not care for being ill.’
He bit his lip down, but she thought she caught the hint of a dimple in his cheek, and she gave him a sharp look. ‘It must be dreadful,’ he said hastily. ‘I remember when Mother - well, Mrs Reynolds can tell you about that.’
‘About what?’ She looked at him curiously, and he shook his head.
‘She would know more about it than I, really. Tell her about everything, she is very sensible.’ His face was now very composed, but she knew him well enough to recognise what he had once ruefully called his ‘Lady Catherine grimace.’ It was his usual way when he did not dare show his true feelings. He was acting very strangely these days, almost giddy. Most unlike himself. Perhaps he was not well either?
February 1813
Rosemary stared at the housekeeper, one hand automatically flying to her stomach. ‘That is impossible!’ she cried.
Mrs Reynolds looked vastly amused. ‘Apparently not, your ladyship.’
‘Surely it is too soon?’ She sat down heavily, struggling to comprehend it all.
‘You have been married over four months, your ladyship,’ Mrs Reynolds said, glancing away. ‘It is quite normal.’
‘But we did not - ‘ Rosemary turned scarlet and looked down awkwardly. Were their circumstances different, she might have called the other woman a friend. But she was the Lady Rosemary, mistress of the house, and Mrs Reynolds was the spinster housekeeper. It would be vastly improper to mention what went on behind closed doors, certainly. Rosemary blushed again and again. At nine-and-twenty she was hardly a innocent young girl, she understood what men were like. For all his austerity she had believed Darcy would be the same. So, when she deemed herself ready to approach her husband, she had not the slightest idea that it would take hours of rational persuasion and a great deal of wine to convince him. Such occasions remained very rare and very awkward, as he was no more attracted to her than he was to a Gainsborough painting.
She thought back. If she was about six weeks along, as Mrs Reynolds speculated, it must be - oh, yes. So it had been long enough, just barely. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, still flushed. ‘I should tell Mr Darcy.’
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Reynolds, colouring slightly, ‘I believe - it is very highly probable, ma’am - he probably knows already.’
Rosemary started. ‘How would he know? Did Amelia - ’
‘His mother conceived seven times between Mr Darcy and Miss Darcy that was,’ Mrs Reynolds said delicately. ‘He saw the signs often enough.’
Rosemary remembered his repeated questions, which at the time had only rather irritated her, and blushed yet again. ‘Oh, I see.’ She frowned. ‘Why did he not tell me?’ she wondered aloud, and Mrs Reynolds cleared her throat.
‘I believe he thought, your ladyship, that the, er, announcement, was your prerogative.’
Rosemary gave her a sharp look. She had no doubt but that Darcy had confided in his housekeeper - he did not maintain distinctions quite as he ought. ‘I see,’ she said.
The months of Rosemary’s pregnancy passed without incident. She felt she looked ridiculous - she had always been a slender, ethereal woman, and remained so but for her protruding belly - and for the first half of the time was more temperamental than she had ever been in her life. Darcy prudently spent most of his time on the estate or locked in the library after she lashed out at him several times too many. (Fond as he was of her, he was not about to let her dictate the manner in which he carved his meat. Nor - though he did not consider himself a vain man - did he let her near him with scissors when she declared his hair too long.) Then she became unnervingly serene. Darcy ventured out of the library, and the servants regained their customary good cheer, which somehow no longer seemed quite so grating. (Why must everyone here be so cheerful all - the - time? she demanded of no-one in particular on one of her more unpleasant mornings.)
Georgiana, who had conceived a month earlier than Rosemary (to her brother’s mixed joy and fear), was a great comfort, writing long and witty letters about the horrors of her own confinement and how much she looked forward to being a mother. Her son was born in September and christened Darcy Stephen Alexander Willoughby. Rosemary privately thought it a rather unwieldy name for such a small creature, but then, he was only ever known as ‘Stephen.’ Within a few weeks he was a lovely, charming little boy (and, according to his uncle and the family portraits, the very image of his mother at the same age). It was October, three weeks past when Rosemary had been assured the time would come, when her water broke and she stared blankly at the floor.
The labour, considering the mother’s slight build and the baby’s size, was not terribly difficult. It was only five hours before Anne Catherine Rosemary Darcy entered the world, and the exhausted Rosemary received her daughter in her arms. She was very like other babies, loud and red, with a full array of toes and fingers. Soft, downy golden hair covered her head, and Rosemary laughed in weary delight as Anne began suckling on her breast.
Anne had fallen asleep when the midwife remembered Darcy, still pacing outside. Rosemary could just hear her say, ‘Mr Darcy, you have a daughter’ before he dashed into the room and stood quite still, staring wordlessly at her. The midwife gently put Anne in his arms, and he automatically adjusted his stance slightly to hold her head up. The midwife smiled and said, ‘I see you have done this before, sir.’ Darcy ignored her and gazed down in utter fascination at his daughter.
‘She looks like you,’ Rosemary said sleepily. Another man might have done the expected and protested; not so he. Darcy reverently brushed one finger over the fine light hair and laughed softly.
‘Yes, she does.’