Her hair was pulled loosely to the right cascading over her shoulder in full curls secured by a bandeau of pale blue satin adorned with sprigs of honeysuckle and campanula. She wore the sapphire necklace Darcy had gifted her upon their engagement. Lizzy felt like a fairy princess!
Her husband waited in the grand foyer with bated breath. The only hint Lizzy had yielded was that he should wear blue. Darcy preferred blue anyway and, aware that Samuel and Marguerite had undoubtedly compared notes, he trusted his valet’s selection. Therefore, he stood on the marble floor wearing a dark-blue formal jacket and matching long trousers of fine wool, the pale blue waistcoat Lizzy had given him, white linen shirt, and an elaborately knotted silk cravat. Mr. Lathrop stood nearby, suppressing a laugh with difficulty, while the others loitered in the parlor.
When Lizzy materialized on the landing, resembling to Darcy’s eyes every iota the princess from a fairy tale, his breathing halted for a full minute and his heart skipped several beats. Lizzy blushed under the stunned scrutiny of her husband, loving him increasingly with each step she moved toward him. His smile was radiant and his eyes glowed. If only he knew how impossibly handsome he was when he smiled and gazed upon her in this manner, yet much of his charm was in his total ignorance of his attractiveness and allure.
He kissed the gloved hand she offered, meeting her eyes. “Mrs. Darcy, you are majestic. I am spellbound by your beauty.”
She curtseyed and beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. May I repay the compliment and say that you are an Adonis? Supremely handsome and dapper.”
“Elizabeth is here!” Georgiana exclaimed, dashing to her sister and followed closely by the others, who quickly surrounded Lizzy with gushing praise. Grinning indulgently yet conscious that this could continue for hours, Darcy rapidly called for Elizabeth’s coat and ushered her into their waiting carriage. Once settled and on their way, Darcy turned toward his wife, retrieving a small box from his pocket.
“For you, beloved. I ventured a guess, the gown a mystery of mythic proportions. Upon revelation, I warrant this bauble will accent nicely.”
The bauble was a silver brooch some two-inches in diameter in a vague sunburst design with inlaid diamonds and sapphires. Accounting it anything less than exquisite would be an insult. Lizzy was, again, overcome by Darcy’s generosity and impeccable taste. He pinned it to her left shoulder where the overdress gathered. It was perfect.
Darcy, painfully cognizant of the fact that for the next eight or so hours proper decorum would prevent him from overtly touching or kissing his lovely wife, made use of the time the ride afforded. Carefully, of course.
Melcourt Hall, home of the Cole family for close to a hundred years, was an enormous brick structure almost as imposing as Pemberley. Sir John Cole, a frail widower well into his sixties, managed his estate with a vigor and efficiency contrary to his appearance. His three sons had gradually assumed most of the responsibilities; however, Sir Cole unequivocally reigned. The eldest two sons were married and the youngest, Percy, only a few years older than Darcy, had recently become betrothed to Mr. Creswell’s eldest daughter, Laura.
This development gave Miss Creswell a certain distinction amongst her peers, several of whom gathered strategically so they could simultaneously gossip and admire her engagement ring while maintaining constant vigil on the entryway. The anticipation was elevated this year. As a high point on the Derbyshire social calendar, the Twelfth Night Ball provided the unattached participants the best chance to make a lasting impression on each other.
For the newly plighted, such as Miss Creswell and Miss Sylvia Bristow and Miss Joy Worthington, it was the final opportunity to carefully flirt, giggle, and tease. Additionally, this year’s prime topic of speculation was the revealing of the country nobody who had stolen Mr. Darcy. To state that a dozen hearts had been broken, tears shed, and pillows punched would not be an exaggeration; however, none more so than Miss Bertha Vernor, daughter of Henry and Mary Vernor.
The Vernor family had for generations been the closest to the Darcys, both in physical proximity to their lands and in relationship. Gerald Vernor was only months older than Darcy and the two boys were close all through childhood and well into their adult years, only drifting apart somewhat over the past four years since Vernor’s marriage. As often transpires after matrimony, Gerald began passing more time in Derbyshire with his wife and new son while Darcy tended toward Town. Nonetheless, the two often met, hunted, and rode together, and Darcy had hosted Gerald and his wife Harriet at Pemberley numerous times.
Miss Bertha had fallen in love with her brother’s friend when she was a young girl of sixteen. It was fairly common knowledge to all except for the object of her affection who, not surprisingly, was unbelievably dense about such things and would not have been interested anyway. Still, Miss Bertha pined and hoped, counting on the intimate association between the two families to assist her. Her mother had been devastated by the news of Darcy’s marriage, railing at length to anyone willing to listen, especially her husband and son, both of whom cared too deeply for Darcy to wish for anything but his happiness. If that happiness had been acquired with Bertha, the rejoicing would have been profound, but affairs of the heart could not be controlled.
The Vernors had not yet arrived as the flibbertigibbets surrounding Miss Creswell prattled and cogitated. “I heard she refused to eat for a week!” declared Miss Nanette Stanhope.
“Ridiculous,” Miss Rose Creswell snipped. “Dear Bertha may be heartbroken, but she would never behave so foolishly.”
“Well, I think anyone who chooses to bemoan Mr. Darcy thusly is idiotic,” Miss Bristow primly stated. “Aside from Pemberley, he had nothing to offer. Altogether too dull, in my opinion.”
“Oh, pooh, Sylvia! Listen to you!” Miss Suzette Lynam sputtered with a laugh. “I recall how you nattered on and on after he spoke with you at the opera two seasons ago. ‘He has the bluest eyes, Suzie. And so tall! My neck ached from looking up at him!’” They all laughed and Miss Sylvia blushed.
“Fortunate it is then, Sylvia, that Mr. Reynolds is mere inches taller than you,” Miss Trudy Mills teased.
Miss Bristow tossed her head, “At least I am affianced. Trudy, were you not equally all aflutter when Mr. Darcy danced one set with you at the Masque two years ago?”
More laughter all around, and then Miss Greta Creswell spoke in her quiet voice, “Poor Bertha. We should not tease at her expense. She truly cared for Mr. Darcy, not that any fault can be laid at his feet for not returning her sentiments.”
Miss Joy Worthington patted Miss Greta’s hand. “Do not fret over Bertha, dear Greta. I understand that Mr. Bates has been calling recently. If she is wise, she will accept his suit.”
“Have any of you attained any specifics about the new Mrs. Darcy?” asked Miss Laura Creswell. “All my Mr. Cole knew was that she came from Hertfordshire. Not London Society at all.”
They collectively gasped and shook their heads. Miss Nanette replied, “My brother Aaron was relating that he met Mrs. Darcy in Lambton a few weeks ago.” Most of them had already heard the tale of how the eldest Mr. Stanhope had been introduce to Elizabeth at the Carriage Inn, but for the sake of a meaty story, they all affected ignorance. “He said she was pretty but rather plain, polite and friendly but seemed shy. Mr. Darcy, he said, was clearly besotted.”
Sage nods all around. “She has bewitched him, obviously,” declared Miss Suzette. “I would not have considered it possible to ensnare Mr. Darcy so, but plainly she found the way.”