Love Then Begins (21 page)

We certainly don’t need all of those foot warmers for church,” Elizabeth snapped as yet another box was shoved into the carriage. “Why with all the people who will be pressing through the door to gawk at us we will melt away and swoon!”

“Well, his lordship is not allowed to sit with us,” Holly calmly said.

She was met with a frown from her cousin and a startled look from Miss Darcy.

“It’s all very well for you to frown at me so, but despite Mr Darcy’s assuredly generous donation for the family pew, nothing can induce me to share that confined space with my husband. He can sit at the back, else he will fidget us all to death.”

Mrs Darcy gave her a crooked smile. “Still,” she said, “the ones in the carriage are enough. No extras!”

The foot warmers situated, the Darcys and their guests took their places in the family pew, with the exception of Lord Baugham who, with strong encouragement from his lady, decided to opt for a little more leg room in the rear. Unfortunately for him, the sanctuary was packed to the rafters and no such room was to be found. Equally unfortunately for the entire congregation was the fact that the rector was prepared to take full advantage of the unprecedented attendance of the day. The prayer of invocation lasted an age, and more than once during its course his lordship, marvelling at the man’s stamina, had to fight the urge to pull out his pocket watch and check the time. Next, Mrs Darcy was solemnly presented to the congregation on her husband’s arm, she knelt by the altar and was blessed by the reverend’s shaking hand, a needless bit of pageantry in his lordship’s mind, because each and every one of those she was now being presented to had seen Mrs Darcy either in church or in town, had called upon or been paid a visit by her in the two months since she arrived in Derbyshire. This was followed by a halting speech from the mayor of the town, who appeared determined to avoid any verbal slip ups by pronouncing each and every word with grave deliberation.

After that came a seemingly endless sermon, followed by a receiving line on the outside of the church that lasted until mid afternoon. By the time the carriage approached Pemberley once again, Lord Baugham was so on edge from the hours of inactivity, everyone in the vehicle could see the wisdom of her ladyship’s earlier judgement as he was, in fact, in danger of fidgeting them all to the point of distraction.

The day continued in the Grand Hall at Pemberley House, where Mr and Mrs Darcy were expected to stand for hours, attended by Miss Darcy to their right and Lord and Lady Baugham positioned even further down as ornament to lend suitable pomp and circumstance to the occasion while the respectable—and not so respectable—people of Lambton and nearby villages and estates as well as some curious dignitaries from as far away as the town of Buxton, filed past, exchanging congratulations, pleasantries and awkward greetings. The crowd was rewarded for its patience and persistence by the great table in the next room, filled with enough food and drink to feed the whole town. The reverent silence of the first half hour soon gave way to chatter and laughter as the guests took the opportunity to socialise and eat before making their way out into the cold winter air again.

Pemberley was highly suited to receptions on such a grand scale. Old carpets had been laid out to protect floors and valuable rugs, candles burned in every chandelier and candlestick to light up the wainscoted walls and dark portraits of generations of Darcys sternly overlooking the proceeding as they always had. They approved, no doubt, of the sober procession filing by, paying homage to and inspecting their betters. Mr and Mrs Darcy seemed to fit right in with what these ancestors expected and it all went by in a dignified fashion.

Lord and Lady Baugham played their due part in the event, catching few names, but as always, most of those filing past could be well pigeon holed by what they wore, how they walked, whom they looked at and what they said and how. As a consequence Holly concluded that most of those she observed were local gentry at most and estate labourers at least. It did not take long, however, before Lord Baugham tired of the parade of humanity before him and began to snap with his fingers behind his back. Mr Darcy never moved and paid each attendant a precisely equal amount of attention whereas Mrs Darcy never seemed to grow weary of smiling and looking happy to see all and sundry.

Holly escaped for a moment alone to rest her feet in one of the smaller salons. She could still hear the careful patter of the guests’ steps filing by in the grand hall just behind her as she rubbed her aching toes and sore heels. There was a sudden creak from a door opening in one of the panels and her cousin popped in.

“You lucky thing!” she said and reached for a glass of wine. “At least you don’t have an aching hand!”

Holly smiled. “Do you want me to rub it for you? Or should I have a bowl of snow brought in for you to cool it in?”

Elizabeth sighed. “I think a glass of wine is all the luxury I have time for at the moment.”

She slumped down on a chair and looked around. “This is a nice little room,” she said. “A perfect girlish hiding place.”

“We will make good use of it when this day is over,” Holly agreed.

But then Elizabeth stood up again, shook out her sleeves and dress, mournfully parted from her glass of wine and disappeared again with a rueful smile through the same panel door. Holly sat a while, rolling her glass between her hands and resting before she too stole away.

Clusters of people were everywhere, in the house and on the grounds. Indoors they picked through the remnants of the great refreshment table, availed themselves of the staff’s never-ending round of tours of the public rooms, or sat on the strategically placed benches in the great hall to visit with friends and neighbours and drink the Darcy’s excellent and plentiful offerings of wine and ale.

Outdoors there were sleigh rides and skating on the frozen pond, formal gardens—magnificent even when dusted with snow—to trample, children’s snowball fights to watch and fire pits placed here and there to gather around to visit with friends and neighbours and continue to drink the Darcy’s excellent and plentiful offerings of wine and ale. Mr and Mrs Darcy, Miss Darcy and Lord and Lady Baugham moved among the various groupings to smile and socialise. Her husband was in his element, Holly noted, all ease and charm and witty remarks, though he would periodically pull her round a corner or behind the shrubberies for a kiss “to fortify myself against the next tedious performance of his charming lordship”. She did not necessarily believe his complaints, he seemed to be enjoying himself well enough, but neither did she mind the kisses, so she played along.

Gradually, as if by some unspoken summons, the guests began to leave off their varied pursuits around the house and grounds and drift toward the south lawn around sunset. The bonfire was stoked until it grew to monstrous proportions, a makeshift curtain had been strung between the ice-packed fountain and a nearby tree, and several kegs and casks had been hauled over so there need be no cessation of celebrations by those observing the promised new play by the Lambton Mummers. Holly saw Elizabeth and Miss Darcy sitting in a place of honour at the front of the crowd and they beckoned her to join them. Weaving her way between the packed bodies, she sat on the bench that had been carried out of the great hall, grateful for the fur robes that were brought for them as well. Across the lawn, she saw her husband, standing with a group of townsmen, a mug in his hand, laughing and talking boisterously. He had a look about him that made her wonder just how many mugs he had gone through that frigid day. It was cold and it would be even colder as the sun took its hasty leave and she gratefully accepted a cup of steaming mulled wine to aid her through the promised play. A promised play that had seldom met with so much suspicion, she thought.

Then, just as automatically as they had gathered, the crowd suddenly grew hushed and an air of anticipation descended as movements could be seen behind the curtain. Mr Morris, the innkeeper, came out to face a sea of expectant faces, clad in a black cape with a swath of purple silk wrapped around his head, pointing a twisted hawthorn cudgel against the sky in a grand gesture to start off this highpoint of the day.

“Mr and Mrs Darcy, ladies, gentlemen, my lord, my lady, and all the good people of Derbyshire,” he said formally, bowing to each in turn, “allow me to introduce a tale of mystery. A tale of intrigue,” at that, Holly shot a glance toward Elizabeth. Mystery and intrigue in a morality play? Elizabeth shrugged with a smile and turned back to the show.

“A tale of good!” The crowd erupted in cheers.

“A tale of evil!” The crowd erupted in boos and snake-like hissing.

“Of life! Of death! Of love! Of deceit!”

As the throng reacted to each proclamation in turn, Holly grew more worried. This was beginning to sound like every other mummers’ play she had seen. The innkeeper swept his cape aside, revealing a loincloth designed to look like some sort of animal skin, and wearing only that and his purple turban, thus began the play:

“The Garden of Paradise! The perfect state of humanity as created by our Lord! Where Adam’s brother, Bert the orchard keeper, lives with his son, Percy. On the day of Percy’s wedding.”

This was greeted with oohs, aahs and catcalls. After waiting for silence to resume, he paused another dramatic beat before beginning:

“Come prick up your ears and attend Sirs, a while
I’l tell ye a tale that shall make ye to smile
’Tis a faithful description of the Tree of Life
so pleasing to every maid, widow and wife!”

Bert the orchard keeper, known otherwise to the townsfolk as Mr Harris the village clerk, then came from behind the curtain amid cheers and whistles, wearing a similar loincloth. He twirled around and shook his headgear—a monstrous contraption with leaves and fruit around an old straw hat—while Mr Morris continued his declamation in a conspiratorial tone.

“This tree universal most countries produce
but till eighteen years’ growth ‘tis not much fit for use
Then nine or ten inches, for it seldom grows higher
and that’s sure as much as the heart can desire.”

Mr Morris gave a bow to the cheering crowd and retired to the left while Mr Harris nervously looked around for his cue.

“Go on then!” someone shouted from the crowd, “where’s the trunk?”

With one nervous look at the party of quality, Mr Harris swallowed and took his pose.

“Oh Percy, my son,” he called haltingly to the curtain, “come out, for today is your wedding day! Bring your young bride that we may celebrate with wine and dancing.

“Oh feast we all now, ‘fore the day turns to night
Then relish her after, a husband’s full right.
Her fruit you will taste, her well you will dig
If the orchardman’s son carries more than a twig.”

Holly’s eyes grew wide as she tried to catch her husband’s attention across the way, but he was laughing as exuberantly as his companions. Then, relinquishing his usual doctor’s role to play Percy, Adam’s newlywed nephew, Mr Derek strode out from behind the curtain, wrapped in an elaborate cloak. Beside him came a stout man, wearing practically nothing, but certainly with enough costume gathered in strategic places to make it perfectly clear to the audience that this was Percy’s happy bride.

“Mr Pennyweather!” Elizabeth gasped. Holly gave her a glance but Elizabeth was clearly stunned. “Oh! He’s . . . sexton!”

“I believe,” she heard Mr Darcy close to her ear in a tightly controlled voice, “our sexton might never quite hear the end of this.”

Holly could do nothing but stare at the grotesque apparition before her. A morality play . . . It seemed this play was intent on showing morality by a distinct lack of it! Nevertheless, she was astounded that Mr Pennyweather could stand the frigid temperatures, until she realised that both men could scarcely stand at all, having obviously fortified themselves against the cold while awaiting their cue. Mr Pennyweather stumbled forward, inspiring belly laughter from the male observers and catty comments from the female.

“Like a stalk in the autumn if it should seem dead,”
he nevertheless managed in a high, squeaky voice while supporting himself on one empty barrel and then making his way back to Mr Derek,

“or like the willow, hang drooping its head,
If a female’s the gardener its nature is such
That it shoots up its length at her delicate touch.”

He made a few awkward conjuring motions with his hands, gallantly maintaining his balance all the while, and then Percy withdrew his cape to gasps of wonder and awe. The audience stood in appreciative silence at the sight of the grotesquely engorged, papier-mâché member that was tied with a string around his waist in the shape of a tree—leaves, branches and all—but so strategically placed it left no room for anything but the lewdest interpretation.

The roaring laughter was broken by a man who called out from the rear, “Don’t worry da’ling! I’ll get the tree saw out to rub it down properly for ye!” Raucous laughter, jeering and more catcalls followed, as Mr Derek strutted around the lawn, giving one and all an appreciative look at all his glory with bawdy gyrations and well-aimed thrusts at the awestruck crowd.

“Ye ladies who long for a sight of this tree,
Take this invitation – come hither to me;
I have it just now in the height of perfection,
Adapted for handling and fit for injection.”