Fitzwilliam slapped the back of his little cousin’s head as he entered the room behind him.
Volume One
Fitzwilliam Darcy
A Gentleman
1815
His years are young, but his experience old;
His head unmellow’d, but his judgment ripe;
And in a word (for far behind his worth)
Come all the praise that I now bestow,
He is complete in feature and mind,
With all good grace to grace
A gentleman.
Chapter 1
It was now a full two months after their wedding, and a sunny, crisp winter morning to boot. The newly wedded Elizabeth Darcy, née Bennet, was making a concerted effort to look out the window at the beautiful winter expanse below and not turn her gaze immediately upon waking to her magnificent husband as he slept, admiring his strong jaw line and his long eyelashes. He was, to her eyes, simply put, beautiful.
She would stare at him all day if he had not whispered to her during a performance of “The Magic Flute” that her gazes were unsettling to him and that she really must stop. But then, of course, his own eyes had been dark with longing as he squeezed her hand and kissed it during his reprimand, so how serious could he really be?
She decided to compromise and just gaze at him when he couldn’t possibly be aware, like in the morning, when she always awoke before him, or perhaps when she watched him ride his horse from the stables, or maybe at breakfast as he read the daily reports from his estate manager.
All right, I think I’ve been very good and deserve my reward. I can allow myself another quarter hour to watch him again. She rolled over to lie on her stomach facing him. My heavens, he’s so handsome. What a wondrous gift you have given me, dear Lord. Whatever could I have done to deserve this much happiness?
“Elizabeth?” He said her name softly, his eyes still closed.
She pulled up the sheets to just beneath her eyes, which were sparkling with anticipation.
“Elizabeth,” he repeated, “are you watching me again?”
They were both lying on their stomachs, each facing the other, both bathed by the same streaming sunlight. She knew if she kept very still and didn’t answer him, he would open those beautiful eyes. She just had to be patient. Just wait a moment longer… just a moment… aaahhh!
And suddenly, his one visible eye popped opened, and she giggled, still hiding her face up to her lashes. “Good morning, husband,” she whispered, closing her eyes tightly, giddy with the knowledge that she would soon receive the first of her morning kisses. She puckered her lips.
After what seemed like an eternity she felt a soft kiss on her forehead and then on her nose and finally on her lips. “Good morning, beautiful one,” he said dreamily. His morning beard stubble tickled her, and she rubbed her face quickly. He raised himself up on his elbow and pushed her hair back from her forehead. “Did you sleep well, little angel?”
“Yes, very well. And you?”
“Like an earl.” He laid his head back down very near her face, their noses almost touching.
“Is that good or bad?” she whispered.
“I don’t really know. I am too tired this morning to care, and too happy.” He reached for her and pulled her close. “You were very enthusiastic last night, Lizzy.”
She blushed and buried her head in his neck. “William! Please have a care! You’ll embarrass me!”
“Why? How could I? It’s just us here. No one listening, no one to hear our enthusiasms.” He softly kissed her mouth and stared into her sweet face. She was all sweetness and delicate femininity, with beautiful eyes, rosebud pink lips, and a quick mind that kept him always on his toes.
He reached down and began to tickle her sides. “And besides,” he whispered, “young lady, if you would be a little quieter, you wouldn’t have to be so embarrassed.” His tickling intensified as they tussled, both laughing, tears streaming down her cheeks. He held her fast around her waist and pulled her closer to prevent her tumbling from the bed.
She squealed, giggled, and squirmed, and as he laughed at her excitement, he found himself becoming excited in a wonderfully different way. Unfortunately, however, in their gyrations, her hand had mistakenly grabbed the bellpull.
She broke from his grasp and raised herself up, turning toward him with her pillow high above her head ready to strike, naked as the day she was born. Almost too late, she heard the doorknob turn, signaling the imminent arrival of her husband’s valet. She lunged for the floor.
“You rang for me, Mr. Darcy?” Raising one eyebrow was the only outward evidence that Darcy’s valet Bradford was aware of the bloodcurdling shriek that had greeted his entrance. Well, there was that and the flutter of the bed cover and a thud that was heard on the side of the bed not within his view.
Darcy, lying alone in the middle of the massive antique structure, smiled broadly. “The devil you say. No, Bradford, I didn’t ring for you.” He rested his clasped hands casually behind his head, looking very smug and quite cheerful, closing his eyes and grinning when a disembodied and very heartfelt “ouch!” was heard from the floor beside him.
“Well, this is quite the quandary, is it not? Perhaps Mrs. Darcy rang for you. She was here only a moment ago.” Bradford discreetly turned his gaze away and toward the ceiling. Darcy lifted up the sheets to peer within. “Hello?” he called to his legs and feet. There were muffled pleas and giggles as the covers began to slowly be pulled off the edge of the bed.
Darcy waited for a while and then grabbed them back with a jerk, tucking them neatly around himself. Phantom murmured threats and muffled indignation could be heard, along with stifled laughter. A pillow sailed up from the floor, which he easily deflected. “No, no I don’t see her anywhere. Perhaps she’s out riding.” He leaned his body over the mattress, off the far side of the bed, and looked down toward the floor. “Why, Mrs. Darcy, wherever have you been? By any chance did you ring for Bradford?”
Lizzy reached up and pinched his nose very hard, causing Darcy to yelp and laugh. “No, no, I don’t believe she needs you either,” he offered rather nasally, rubbing the injured protuberance as if to put it back into place. “You may go, Bradford; sorry to have bothered you.”
“Very good, sir.” Bradford bowed and closed the door. As he walked back down the hall, he allowed his mouth the smile that had more and more invaded his very professional demeanor. Shaking his head, he laughed softly. Was I ever that young or that in love?
Life had certainly changed at stately old Pemberley since the newlyweds had taken up residence. He thought fondly back to when he had begun working for Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, and the lad’s transformation from callow young Corinthian to somber estate owner and now to besotted bridegroom.
Mr. George Darcy had passed away after a brief illness, in the early evening hours of 17 April, 1806. His son, Fitzwilliam, was named his heir, inheriting at barely twenty-one years of age the single largest privately held estate in all of Derbyshire, as well as being named co-guardian to Georgiana, his nine-year-old sister. Overnight, young Darcy seemed to age, to mature, to toughen; he soon became obsessed with responsibility, with achievement and success.
A natural leader, he astounded men twice his age, and this when he was still little more than an adolescent. Now he moved among a new circle of acquaintances bringing about new interests—viewpoints more conservative than the young. Darcy gradually abandoned the ideas and pursuits of youth as well as the follies and mistakes that would have been his by right to make, and became more appreciative of class and privilege. He rarely relaxed and was seldom carefree, still naïve enough to believe a serious demeanor more befitting his station in life than frivolous laughter. Time and responsibility were sedating his youth.