Darcy & Elizabeth by Linda Berdoll Page B

change.)
    He was truly grateful that he had finally made his contribution to further generations carrying the Darcy name—but of far greater importance was that his beloved Elizabeth no longer bore that burden with him. Indeed, the gods were appeased, the populace elated, and Elizabeth excused from further service to that onus to which she had obligated herself.
    ***
    In the days and weeks that followed, Darcy allowed himself to imagine what their union might have eventually become had not the joyful event come about. He held no small fear that, in time, Elizabeth might have taken umbrage at being plagued by a debt not of her own making. If, indeed, she had been thusly disposed, there was little likelihood he could have faulted her for such a leaning—he was not so certain he would have behaved with such charity had their positions been reversed. He thought he would not like to have had the albatross of a family dynasty hanging solely upon the fruitfulness of his internal organs. Hence, beyond the boundless love and undying devotion he felt for her, he was exceedingly grateful that she bore him no lingering ill will.
    Nonetheless, finding himself suddenly a father to not one, but two children was only the first of many stupefactions with which he had to contend upon his return. As was his nature, he confronted each odd twist life had presented him in his usual exacting fashion, one by one, as they arose.
    And arise they did, certain as the sun.

10
    Lady Catherine’s Pique
    When a post bearing the Darcy seal wended its way to the county Kent, it was taken on the doorstep of the manor-house by the hand of a man wearing the distinctly handsome livery of Rosings Park. It was a magnificent dwelling, and while less admirable than Pemberley, the abundance of ornamentation upon its façade persuaded all who visited of the importance of its inhabitant.
    As this post was directed to the lady of this impressive house, it was with great delicacy that it was placed upon a linen-draped silver tray and carried thusly upon the gloved fingertips of a footman through the vestibule. With elaborate ceremony the letter was surrendered unto the similarly gloved hand of the butler, Yewdell, who awaited a few steps down the foyer. From thence, the letter was carried down the corridor through the gallery and into the grand salon, gathering ever more portent as it did.
    Once inside the room, the dainty footfalls of the butler ceased. He turned, and with eyes trained dispassionately ahead, extended the tray, wordlessly presenting the missive. Directly in Yewdell’s eye-line sat an ancient red macaw (a notorious imperilment to visitors) incongruously mute save for an occasional resituating of his feathers. Hence there ensued a fierce eyeing standoff, one Yewdell refused to surrender to a cantankerous bird. This little confrontation took place in silence—a quiet absolute save for the insistent drumming of a forefinger of his mistress. So insistent was it, it stole Yewdell’s attention from the parrot. The butler did not look towards her, but remained still as a stone (excepting a barely perceptible sneer at the bird) waiting to be beckoned. Yewdell did not presume to wonder why his lady dallied. He only knew that the new velvet slippers that had arrived a size too small hurt his feet. Yet, her finger drummed on.
    Customarily, it would be a considerable folly to attempt to sketch a person’s nature merely by observing the doings of a single digit. On this occasion, however, it was not. The owner of this particular be-ringed finger was aristocratic, autocratic, and overweening. Indeed, that her finger drummed incessantly on the carved ivory scroll adorning the top of a bleached-teak walking stick seemed quite beside the point.
    In any other circumstance such a benignly annoying activity, even by a so ornately decorated finger, might not be noteworthy. But both the stick and the finger belonged to the Right Honourable Lady