Darcy & Elizabeth (22 page)

Waif

At the age of six and ten, Sally Frances Arbuthnot's manner had not altered from the courteous demeanour and modest attitude of her childhood. Although she seldom minced words, she was never truly rude. But she had an odd inflection to her speech owing to a haphazard upbringing and a travelling nature, which upon occasion would inspire a listener to reckon from just what part of England she hailed. Upon this subject, she was unusually curt.

“I was born in hell and raised in purgatory,” said she, with a snap and a dismissive shrug of her shoulder which allowed no room for further discussion.

She could just as easily have said it was Seven Dials from whence she came. It was spelt differently but there was not a hair's-breadth difference in their drift.

Born on the wrong side of the vestry in the bowels of perdition to an indifferent mother and a tempestuous father, Sally's beginnings were more than a little ignominious. Inasmuch as those were her beginnings, it did not bode well that her upbringing would improve her straits. The general improvidence of her birth was mitigated by one happy occurrence. For the two features that haunted a happy outcome for her eventual handsomeness (prominent ears and florid complexion) in her babyhood were ultimately out-distanced with each passing year. Indeed, it may have been tardy, but fate had eventually levelled its smile upon Sally. Hence, in the mere bud of young womanhood she was rendered quite a pretty little snip of a girl. Yet, overwhelmed as she had been with the daily tribulations of endeavouring to remain alive, she did not immediately understand the implication of that favour.

What distinguished Sally Frances Arbuthnot from the mass of teeming humanity struggling for existence in the East End was that she refused to allow her past to define her future.

***

On a street where working men rarely did work, washer-women never had clothes-lines, and pick-pockets were considered skilled workers, Nell Arbuthnot was considered by her neighbours an upstanding citizen in that she struggled to do an honest day's work. There were so few men of wages about, she had achieved an additional modicum of respect because of her son's occupation. He was Seaman Archie Arbuthnot, the Royal Navy's most venerable servant, brave attendant of the ninety-gun dreadnought, Galatea.

Nell, however, was not particularly happy about her granddaughter's mother's distinction.

“Worthless wanton whore of the devil” was a frequently heard impeachment.

It may have been an overstatement, but it was hard to argue the facts.

Sally's mother, heavy with another's man's child, had decamped without ceremony and seemingly little thought to her and her little sister, Sue. Both were far too young to be forced into pitched battles with life's atrocities, but that mattered not. The specific brutality life chose to throw in their path was the loss of their mother. But had she merely died, that would have been a kindness compared to the bewildering fact of outright abandonment.

Indeed, she had simply vanished—no kiss upon their foreheads, no word of good-bye. Sally had been barely old enough to remember her as merely a flash of red hair and the odour of gin.

Her parents had not been officially united in holy matrimony, but they presented a near enough semblance of it for him to beat her without fear of a visit by the constabulary. Sally knew that her mother's name was Abigail, but her image was lost forever—as was her father's. Although rough hands and stagnant breath was all she truly recalled of him, she knew his name well—Archie Arbuthnot. Not only did she know his name, but
who
he was. This was a given in that she and her young sister, Sue, were left in Archie's mother's care by default.

She had a single recollection she cherished. That memory was of her beloved brother, John Christie. He was but a half-brother, born to her mother long before she came to Archie's bed. Nevertheless, from those first lonely nights with Nell when she nestled next to her sister and struggled to find warmth beneath a tatty counterpane, Sally's mind's eye desperately sought a sustaining comfort. When at last she slept, it was of her brother she dreamt.

John Christie was not of Archie's loins and that fact was a hopeless carbuncle on the posterior of Archie's manly pride. Archibald Arbuthnot was but one of the many men who were of the mind that the measure of one's virility could be determined by the production of male offspring. Poor Abigail had the misfortune of presenting him with two daughters after bearing a son by another man. (This, of course, had informed Archie and the world at large that his potency was compromised.) Indeed, he was not at all happy to allow his wages to feed the personification of another man's virility. This affront was made clear unequivocally to one and all, but he never quite drove John off. John was a good earner on the streets. (So long as he was, Archie was not inclined to question just how he came about his contribution to the family's keep.) Regardless, Archie's displeasure was not compleatly appeased. When he took to drink (which was not infrequently), his rage was vented first on the woman who did not bear him a son and second on the son whom he did not beget. By the time he got around to punishing his detested daughters for their sin of gender, sometimes he was too spent to do much more than curse. Regrettably, oftentimes he was not.

It was Archie's misfortune that he could look upon John with nothing but a jaundiced eye. For the boy who was not his son evidenced a form of manhood foreign to their neighbourhood. Indeed, he was but a long-legged rail of a boy, but John Christie shook an upraised fist in the face of the hulking Archie Arbuthnot as if daring him to thrash him. Upon occasion, Archie did. Upon others, Archie simply fell face-forward upon the bed, wholly insensible to the world and all its contemptible inhabitants.

Once Archie snuffled and snored, Abigail came forward and with her son took to setting upended bits and pieces to right. Sally and Sue always sat in numbing fear whilst John and Abigail went about making their alterations. As the little girls were far too young to be other than unlearnt about the sheer depth of drunken repose, they sat with their hands steepled, praying that this noise would not awaken Archie. When the table and benches were again at the ready, Abigail sat down to partake of a bit of drink on her own. John looked upon his mother's form with glum acceptance. Thus, his eyes took on a glazed expression, as if only then did he see true defeat. History told him that she would not stop until she was in no greater possession of her senses than Archie.

Sally recollected her brother turning away from their mother's ruin and to them, hiding beneath the bed. His countenance was etched in her memory as surely as if it had been but days rather than years. His eyes had been wide—but not with fear, for he was long past that. His expression begged them to come to him. Humbly, stealthily, like lost little whipped pups, they crawled from their sanctuary and scampered to him. Whilst their mother found considerable interest in the amber liquid before her, his sisters clung to John's legs as he stirred the ashes of the fire back to life. When they were comfortably situated, he had sung lullabies. Summoning a ridiculous falsetto, he sang the silly little ditties, the sillier the better. He sang first one, then another until they sang all they knew and then they started over again.

Although her brother had been well aware that their lot was preordained, it would take a number of years for Sally to have that wisdom. But her time on the street explained to her that weathering poverty demanded copious amounts of spirits. Copious amounts of spirits begat violence. It was a maddeningly sorrowful circle from which few had the wherewithal to liberate themselves. Her brother was brave and good but was as powerless to save them from their destiny as was she. Their only hope was for the morrow. For the sun would rise on a new day and Archie would be back to sea—this her brother promised. And Archie did return to his ship, and as John had promised, all was good again.

Then one day it was not.

It had been an abrupt departure. There was no foreshadowing or omen. One day her brother was watching her mother stirring pottage in their lodgings on Buck's Row, the next both were gone. Gone like ghosts.

Nell managed to fend for herself through a steady mending business. That small leverage against want was obliterated the morning she found Sally and Sue sitting patiently upon her stoop. One mouth to feed on her scant income was doable; three looked to be a catastrophe. Still, when faced with her duty, pragmatic Nell shouldered the responsibility with little more than a shrug of her bony shoulders and watched helplessly as the careful balance that she had kept between want and need was upended. Indeed, within months after inheriting her granddaughters, privation crept into their simple lodgings like a noxious tenant. Young as they were, they recognised the storm-clouds building. Archie's ship would soon return to port.

Despite his intemperate ways, Nell did not suffer Abigail's carousing behind Archie's back with much tolerance. She had made it her business to stop by their lodgings just to raise an occasional objection. Early morn or late, invariably, she would only find Abigail's son, John, looking after the little girls. When confronted over her faithlessness, Abigail had protested her innocence offering a long, winding account as to why she was so often out all night. Nell was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she knew a bald-faced lie when she heard it. Hence, she was not only well aware that her son's wife had a penchant for libations and adultery, she was quite witting that she was also high in the belly again—and not by Archie.

“She's got another's bye-blow up the spout, she do.”

His beloved mother or not, Nell still had fully meant to lay low when Archie reappeared. She could see him then, sea locker perched on his shoulder and his hat cocked at a dangerously acute angle—thus announcing he was expecting forthwith to be rewarded by his woman's faithful embrace (few male libidos bore a year at sea with any part of impassivity). At one time, Nell rejoiced that her son returned from sea. Once he had been a source of pride, bringing her trinkets from faraway lands. Now that it was she who would answer to his temper, her heart grew cold at the thought of him.

Even the neighbours knew that after Archie was released from his ship only to learn that his wife had taken surreptitious leave (and wags snickering that she left heavy with another man's child) he would need someone not only to cook his meals, but to endure the rage of his injured pride. It would to be a precipitous fall in spirits. Seven Dials was thick with wives, mothers, and daughters beaten more commonly thrice a day as thrice a week. Archie thrashing his mother, therefore, would not be an uncommon occurrence.

Late that night the old woman stole away in the dark. She did not, however, take her leave alone.

She took Sally and Sue with her.

There was little time to devise a plan, leaving it light on design and heavy on risk. Nell had but a few coins to her name and the street and all its plagues were to be only a bare improvement from the sting of Archie's belt. Nell was not a prideful woman, but she refused to allow herself to be beaten by her own son. If it had been another man, she might have poisoned his food, but she could not, in all good conscience, murder her own blood. Hence, without a roof over their head, the little family huddled together that first night for warmth, their toes tucked beneath them lest the rats take interest. Making their way along the dusty walkboards the next day, the unhappy situation was apparent. When once they were merely amongst the poor, now they would abide in the absolute bowels of hell. It was the one place that Archie would not venture to find them.

Nell did locate one small room downwind from the knacker's, but it was cheap and they could not quibble with the amenities.

“What's that smell?” asked little Sue, curling her nose.

“It's the knacker. What d'yer think?” Nell answered impatiently. “We don't got money fer no inn.”

“The knacker?” Sue repeated, peering round the corner. “Isn't that where the dead animals go—”

Nell grabbed her by the nape of the neck and slammed the door, refusing to answer further. Sally and Sue exchanged sidelong looks and Nell shook her head at their sensibilities.

“It won't be no bother till come summer,” she assured them.

Nell found ways to make what little resources she had profitable. Work was plenty if one's sensibilities were not easily bruised. Mothers were taken to the straw regularly, and when they were not, there were plenty of dead in want of lying out. Be it bringing in the newly arrived or washing the dearly departed, nothing was beneath her. Truth be known, she had far fewer qualms over ushering out the dead—they were at last at peace. She saw it far more unkind to smack the bottom of an infant to force his first breath of life, knowing as she did what lay ahead for him.

Times were hard and getting harder.

Sally forgave her mother for taking leave; she was a weak soul and had her reasons. But what Sally could not forgive was that her mother took her brother with her. Her inconsolability knew no bounds, but she could not fault him. He, good son, had done as their mother bid. Perhaps, she told herself, she would have done the same. It was but the work of ten days for her to find them gone and realise they were not to return. The recognition of that injurious truth made her wail long after the fact. She wailed until she was sick.

“Hush, girl,” Nell told her. “Yer'll soon ferget.”

She hushed, but she did not forget. It was promised to her that the years would fade her recollections. They did not. Time was not a friend. Her brother's face remained so bright in her memory that it eventually was indistinguishable from the halo that surrounded it. Indeed, these intervening years inflated her regard for him from childish adoration to unadulterated veneration.

The Weir

There were no hillsides in Derbyshire lovelier than those within the ten-mile perimeter surrounding Pemberley. And in that no countryside, in his estimation, was half so beautiful as Derbyshire; Darcy saw his home as Eden on earth.

He fancied that he had crossed every dale, picked his way through every wood, and forded every crossing of every brook at some point in his life—either on foot or upon horseback. Even the lake had not escaped his forays. He had whiled away many a youthful afternoon lazing in the sun with one eye in serious contemplation of the cork bobbing suggestively at the end of his fishing line. But it was his particular pleasure to mount Blackjack and descend the half-mile eminence upon which Pemberley house stood, skirt the lake, and cross the valley. By giving the big horse a bit of his heel, they easily took the steep hill that bore the ruins of an ancient hunting tower. It was not the prettiest of peaks, for it was bereft of trees—no more than a craggy escarpment—but of spectacularly good vantage. There he would dismount and allow his horse to graze the upland slope whilst he purveyed all the land and people under his charge. Such a preference of vistas was neither for the purpose of humility or ego—it was merely a reminder of who he was.

He had shown Pemberley's fairest prospects to Elizabeth within the first days of their marriage. He recalled those excursions most particularly—and not merely because they often ended in pleasures connubial in nature (those recollections he kept pocketed in a separate, more exalted, region of his mind). His other memories were not so satisfying, for they involved his feeble attempt to contain his unadulterated pride and his eagerness in sharing Pemberley's beauty with her. He would have preferred to have remained more composed. He feared that his countenance must have veritably beamed with boyish pride whilst he led her about. To her credit, she had seemed genuinely pleased—not with the grandiosity of it all—but with the natural loveliness of the park. She was most particularly taken with the watercourse as it cascaded and pooled into weirs before the bank surrendered to a profusion of willows. Hence, that had been a favoured destination when they rode.

The weirs had never piqued his particular fancy. True, when the season had been unusually wet, the waterfalls were pleasing. They had been designed with that in mind, but then little within Pemberley's park was put in place without thought to its overall beauty. But the weirs' essential duty was not decoration—they were merely a means to regulate the water. The discernment inherent to his sensibilities did not override the pragmatism necessary for the orderly operation of an estate the size of Pemberley. Hence, it was seldom that he allowed even the delicate lily pads adorning the still backwaters to beguile him. To Elizabeth, however, it was as if the weirs were situated so prettily for no other reason than her pleasure.

It would be the first outing they had embarked upon since the one that had begun with the most romantic of intentions and ended so abruptly. This time fortune shone. It was dissimilar in all ways. Elizabeth had no doubt that she was fit to ride. It was pertinent to her enjoyment of their day to know that her husband could not, in all good conscience, issue any reservations on the venture. She smiled to herself when she bethought the tactfully impish conversation they had had in that regard.

It was an exceptionally handsome day to ride. Elizabeth was so excited to be in the saddle and happy to fit into her habit that she all but skipped down the lane to the stables. Darcy had preceded her, for it was necessary to select an alternate mount for her. Boots was nearing her time to foal. Elizabeth was well aware of the alteration in which horse she would ride. However, her good humour was compromised when she recognised the horse saddled and waiting for her. It was the brown mare, Lady—a horse nearly as ancient as the hunting tower. Lady was the very horse Darcy had thought suitable to put her on when she first began to ride. She found the horse too indolent even as a beginner and was most unamused to see that his opinion of her proficiency had progressed so little.

“This horse was not to my liking when first we rode, Mr. Darcy,” she said pointedly.

He ignored the complaint and legged her up. It was quite apparent to Elizabeth that there were no wiles her husband would not employ in order to have his will be done. But as they set out, she saw it to be too fine a day to remain in ill-humour.

Darcy allowed Blackjack to have his head and, because it was the direction most often taken, the big horse lumbered up the steep incline to the ruins. So steep was the rise, even Blackjack became lathered by the time they reached the ridge. Had Blackjack been less indefatigable, Lady would still not have kept up. So slow was the horse's progress, Elizabeth considered dismounting and pulling the mare up the hill herself. By the time they made the peak, Darcy had already stopt and dismounted. Elizabeth did dismount, but would not allow Darcy's solicitous loosening of Lady's girth.

“Lady should be retired to the pasture from which you obtained her. Be certain that when Boots has foaled, you will not be so undoubtful of your winning,” said she.

An expression overspread his countenance that bespoke his competitive spirit was not chastened by her censure. Indeed, he did not attempt to conceal his satisfaction, nor did he hesitate to fib.

“I am sure I was quite unaware we were competing,” said he.

With that, she made a move as if to switch him with her crop—and then thought better of it. She knew he would not step aside or attempt evasion in any manner. It was not in his nature to capitulate to even so small a thing as his wife's teasing swat. Instead, she watched as he walked to the edge of the precipice and rested one boot upon a protruding boulder. His right hand still held his crop, it settling on his thigh as he absentmindedly flicked the leather strap against the top of his boot. Such was a true indication that he was lost in thought. Even then he stood remarkably erect, his shoulders seemingly incapable of any pose other than majestic. It was a sight that elicited a sigh from his wife of a humbler origin.

For her, imposing peaks, broad shoulders, and the odour of oiled leather was a potent aphrodisiac. Indeed, her own breath became so short that she was glad they were atop this peak where the breeze kept her husband from hearing her. She chastened herself for such inclinations by reminding herself that she was no hoyden, but a sedate married woman. It would be insupportable to disturb so blissful a sight. Yet her breath did not obey her admonitions. With every slap of his crop against his boot, her breath became more fevered and she began to reconsider what she would and would not disturb.
Al fresco
conjugal rites were not out of the question. Upon infrequent occasion in times past, they had engaged in discreet disportment. She went so far as to take a step in his direction. She meant to press her bosom against his broad back and wrap her arms about his waist. But atop this hill with absolutely no arboreal veil, even she could not entertain such a notion.

Yet her sensual thoughts refused to be subdued. But her tack altered.

She walked purposely to her mare, grasped the reins, and did not wait for Darcy to leg her up. By sheer will (and with an audible groan), she grasped the pommel and heaved herself onto the saddle. He was still lost to his thoughts and only realised that she had mounted when he heard the scuffling of Lady's hooves. He stood and looked at Elizabeth quizzically. She spoke not, but gave her horse a decisive kick. Lady had barely responded ere he beckoned his horse. As she had a clear advantage, rather than striding towards Blackjack, he put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The horse started at the sound and looked in his master's direction. Forsaking the grass, he cantered towards Darcy, who then grasped the reins and leapt atop him with remarkable agility. Not waiting to take a bearing on her lead, he encouraged Blackjack with a small clicking noise and a nudge in the flanks. Instinct overtook Blackjack and he commenced the chase.

This race was not, however, hotly contested, for the pursuer was no less in want of capture than was the pursued (Elizabeth saw that the sole benefit of having so ancient an animal beneath her). Indeed, beneath the brow of the hill lay a meandering stream. The downhill being far less bothersome than the uphill (and with the promise of a cool drink), Lady made good time. Elizabeth drew to a stop beside the stream and once again loosed her horse. The day was not oppressively hot, but it was warm and the exercise did little to alleviate her ardour. She walked towards the edge of the pool that had accumulated below the weir. She took off her gloves as she strode towards it and dropped them carelessly to the ground. She made great work of not noticing that Darcy arrived almost as quickly as had she. She did observe that he did not immediately alight, but watched her intently. She abruptly sat upon the river bank and commenced tugging at her boots.

“What do you propose to do?” said Darcy—it was not truly a question.

“I propose to cool my feet,” said she.

“I must advise you that beck is spring-fed—the water can be quite cold.”

If he thought such an admonition would deter her, she was quite certain he would soon learn better, for her feet were already bare and she had begun to tentatively wade into the clear water.

“It is deceptively deep,” he added.

“Certainly not. It is so clear that I can see the river stones lining the bottom.”

“Beware of the moss.”

This he said as he dismounted. He sat down, pulling off his gloves and dropping them into the upturned crown of his hat, which he then sat neatly next to his feet. Although he doffed his jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and tugged loose his neckcloth, he did not seem inclined to pull off his boots after her example.

“Pray, join me. This water is quite refreshing.”

“I will do no such thing,” he said somewhat gruffly. “Splashing about is the work of children.”

At that she threw her head back and laughed—then deliberately kicked water in his direction. It fell far short of its mark, however, and she was certain she detected a smile encroaching upon his sober countenance.

“Come,” she inveigled, “there is no one about.”

“Elizabeth, that there is no one about to witness an act of frivolity does not render it any less objectionable.”

She sniffed at his obstinacy, but he did not hear her for the babbling of the water. Recent rains had caused the water to cascade over the top of the weir with more force than usual, but the swirling water felt good against the calves of her legs. She attempted to venture deeper, but had difficulty keeping the tail of her dress above the water.

“Mind not to venture too far—there is a drop-off when you near the spring.”

“You have swum here!” she accused.

“In my youth,” he sniffed.

As she was nearly midstream and the water was not yet at her knees, she was inclined to believe him oversolicitous. “I can see the bottom—look, there is a fish! A carp!”

Her squeal of delight disintegrated into one of dismay with the utmost rapidity when the slick moss of which he had warned her caused her to lose her footing. She abandoned gripping her skirt and fell flat on her rump with a rude splash, but had no time for indignation before she immediately slid off the ledge upon which she stood. She fell directly into the spring that disappeared beneath the overhanging limbs of several willows. She came to the surface sputtering and shrieking but found quite expeditiously that she had only to put her feet down and realise that she was not, indeed, drowning. Once she had reinstated her footing, she could hear her husband's laughter. Was her dignity not abused enough by such an unladylike plunge, it was to her husband's amusement. Fie upon him! Could he not be gentlemanly enough to offer her his hand?

All this happened in less time than the telling and she slogged her way to a limb that protruded from the water. A sizable turtle sat quietly sunning itself there until her approach sent him scrambling beneath the water's surface. She drew herself from the water quite under her own power ignoring the displaced reptile—it would just have to fend for itself as did she—moreover, it was a far better swimmer.

“That looks to be a snapping turtle,” Darcy warned.

Instinctively, she looked to see where it had gone before recollecting herself. With great deliberation and compleat lack of notice of her husband, she endeavoured to re-pin her hair before unbuttoning her spencer, wringing it of water, and draping it across two small branches to dry. Belatedly, she saw her bonnet floating in a gentle circle mid-most of the pond and gave an inward shrug. It looked to be a compleat loss. Then she commenced to wring what water she could from various sections of her skirt. At least her boots were safe on dry ground. She glanced in their direction, wondering how she was going to manage to get back to the other side. It was then that she realised that her husband no longer sat where he had. It escaped her notice, however, that several items of his apparel lay in an orderly fashion where he had been sitting. This oversight came about because her attention was compromised by a slapping sound against the water behind her, which gave her a start. She pulled her toes from the water, fearing that the turtle had come back to reclaim his perch.

Thereupon, a tug substantial enough to unseat her was inflicted upon her person, the perpetrator of this outrage being her heretofore neglectful husband. She, however, was not immediately aware of the identity of her tormentor, for she was compleatly upended. The water was not all that deep, but it was sizable enough for another thorough dunking.

Well aware she had not been dunked by means of vengeful wildlife when she surfaced, she faced another dilemma. Although in that spot the water came no higher than chest-high at its deepest, that was by his measure, not hers. Hence, her endeavours to exact the same indignity upon her husband were largely unfruitful. In order to dunk him she had to both rise above and overpower him—neither of which she was equipped to do. Indeed, even had she not worn stays, her skirt and petticoat were substantial impediments. They did manage to thrash about long enough for both to tire—Darcy trying to float whilst his wife clung to his neck.