The Trouble with Mr. Darcy (34 page)

She fell onto the stool, head dropping against a pile of precision folded table napkins as her eyes closed in relief. Silence. Blessed silence. She inhaled vigorously, willing her heart to slow. The darkness in the closet with familiar scents of silver polish and laundered linens was calming. Her fingers played over the hard metal of her chatelaine and the grooves of the keys attached. It was a ready reminder of who she was.

Only two weeks
, she said to herself,
then they shall leave for Kent. After that hiatus, several more weeks of misery before the long, glorious months when the house is all mine.

It was a litany she repeated frequently and had done so ever since that horrid day over three years ago when Mr. Darcy brought his new bride to Darcy House. Mrs. Smyth shuddered at the memory. Her comfortable, regulated, proper life had been radically changed from that day forward. How could it have happened? It was a question she repeatedly asked herself, but no answer was forthcoming.

Up until that day, Prudence Garrett Smyth considered her life charmed. At the age of fifteen she had joined the staff of Lord and Lady Cheltham in their luxurious London Townhouse. As the daughter of a tradesman father and milliner mother, Prudence Garrett was modestly educated, reasonably accomplished, accustomed to hard work, and considered herself a class above the average maid. It was an attitude that appealed to Lady Cheltham. By the time she was twenty, Prudence was ladies’ maid to the teenage daughter of Lord and Lady Cheltham, and by twenty-three was the highest ranking upstairs maid and setting her sights on the housekeeper position.

Soon after, her stellar performance and indispensability to Lady Cheltham allowed her to marry the head groomsman, Mr. Smyth.

It was not a love match, the far older Mr. Smyth more interested in Miss Garrett’s physical attributes than her sentiments. But then she was in no particular way interested in his thoughts either. It was a union logical and business-like and they rarely conversed beyond what was essential between man and wife. Never one to dwell on the physical activities between males and females, the new Mrs. Smyth was rather startled to discover they were compatible in that realm. It was a marriage that suited them both adequately, fulfilling the only need they had from the other on those nights when they chose to come together, and making no demands for anything greater. Thankfully they had no children, a shrewd brothel madam providing Mr. Smyth with the herbs and strange devices viable to prevent an accident of that nature, and all was perfect for five years.

Then her foolish husband did the unthinkable and died. One minute he was shoveling soiled hay from a stall and the next he was lying in that very pile of straw, slain instantly from some internal seizure. At nine and twenty she was a widow whose only concern was who would warm her bed and service her body when the desires rose. Far angrier than grieved, Mrs. Smyth attended the funeral with stoic calm and then immediately returned to her duties. Lady Cheltham observed the odd behavior of her maid and falsely interpreted it as profound grief. Deciding that the best medicine for a wounded heart was change, Lady Cheltham arranged a meeting with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

The young Master of Pemberley was seeking a housekeeper for Darcy House as his current housekeeper, Miss Hughes, was ill with a wasting sickness and none of the current household maids were up to the task. He was extremely dubious due to Mrs. Smyth’s young age, but the assurances and high recommendations of Lord and Lady Cheltham, friends he trusted and valued, swayed him enough to agree to an interview. Mrs. Smyth was furious and highly insulted, but then better sense prevailed. The housekeeper of Cheltham House was only in her forties and in prime health, meaning that Mrs. Smyth was years if not decades away from gaining the prestige she craved. Furthermore, the Darcy reputation for honesty, excellent pay, virtue, propriety, discretion, isolation, and stability was too well known to ignore. Mr. Darcy, although young, was the epitome of the rigid, controlled English gentility that she admired. Finely dressed, cultured, sober, taciturn, and excessively prim, he was the classic gentleman. Moreover, it was only him and his sister, a shy creature who barely spoke, so the gossip ran.

For five years all was well, until her tranquil existence and position of respect was abruptly destroyed with the horrible inclusion of Elizabeth Bennet, now Darcy, over three years ago.

Mrs. Smyth shuddered anew, shifting restlessly on the hard stool, hand gripping the keys so hard that red ridges formed on her palm. The memory of her first introduction to the uncultured Miss Bennet, and her later humiliation in front of her entire staff at the hands of the inferior parvenu, were fresh and painful. She had not forgiven and never would. At times she considered searching for another position elsewhere, but then they would depart for Pemberley and serenity would fall, giving her the strength she needed to persevere. The urge had overwhelmed her the previous Seasons with the inclusion of an unruly child who was not cloistered in a distant chamber as he should have been. A child dining with the family, included when visitors called, and who dashed through the halls frequently being chased by a laughing Mr. Darcy! It was unbelievable and cemented her judgment that declining propriety and vulgarity had entered Darcy House along with Mrs. Darcy. How she would survive the addition of a second child to the household was nearly more than she could take. Add to that the brash Dr. Darcy with his outrageous mannerisms and attire, and her nervous condition nearly overwhelmed her reason.

Geoffrey will soon return to comfort me,
she thought with a sensuous sigh, closing her eyes and melting further into the stacks of fine linen as her body began to relax.

Vividly she remembered the day they met eight months ago while she was at the market.

The Darcys were expected any day, their journey to Europe and Kent completed, and the fact that they planned to tarry for merely a week or two before returning to Derbyshire before the birth of the second Darcy brat was the only optimistic detail she could cling to. Envisioning the noise created by an undisciplined toddler was enough to exaggerate her eye tic and cause her hands to quaver. So much so that she clumsily dropped the squash she was examining, the hard shell cracking on the stones by her feet and bursting the warm, pulpy meat into a squishy mess over her shoe and soiling two other ladies standing nearby. The ensuing clamor, with merchant demanding she pay for the ruined vegetable and the ladies loudly bemoaning their state while casting angry glares toward Mrs. Smyth, caused her ire to rise. The trembling and tic ceased, her frustration suddenly finding an immediate outlet in the bellicose retailer.

As she puffed up for a full-blown confrontation, a smooth, cultured voice intervened. “Here, my good man, accept these coins for your trouble. This should more than pay for your loss and the time to clean the mess. Ladies, I am to understand that bicarbonate of soda removes such stains leaving not a hint of the damage. Perhaps this information shall benefit when
you
next accidentally spill.”

Mrs. Smyth’s deliverer, after tossing enough coins to pay for three squashes and gifting the stunned women with engaging smiles, turned to her. “Madam,” he began, bowing and speaking in a lush undertone, “allow me.” And he knelt, producing his handkerchief with a flourish, lifted her foot, and proceeded to wipe the sticky seeds and pulp off her shoe. His fingers rested on her ankle, searing through her stocking, and he stared upwards into her captivated eyes.

“There, all better now.” He rose, holding her gaze. “Madam, if I may be so bold, you appear to be shaken. This dratted London heat.” He smiled, deep dimples appearing, and winked as if sharing an intimate jest. “My name is Geoffrey Wiseman and it would be an honor to provide a cool refreshment, if you will allow? Rumor has it that Westin’s Café serves the finest lemonade in Covent Gardens, but as a new resident I have yet to sample the beverage to discern if this is fact or fancy. Will you accompany me in discovering the truth?” His bluish-green eyes bore into Mrs. Smyth, rendering her breathless and entranced, hardly aware that she took his offered arm.

From that moment forward she was lost. In times of clarity, usually when Mr. Wiseman was away from Town for a period of time, her native skepticism would rise, wondering how Mr. Wiseman could genuinely be so perfect. Vague mistrust would rear up as she almost grasped a cunning manipulation in his precise phrases, thoughts, and actions that complimented hers and compelled her to speak frankly of matters she did to no other.

Then one glance into his mesmerizing eyes, one word uttered in his sweet voice, one brush of his full lips over her fingers, and one dimpled grin was all it took to catapult her from mature woman to swooning maiden. She could not sincerely say it was love; Mrs. Smyth was far too pragmatic to believe in such a capricious emotion. But it was unquestionably lust. After nine years without male companionship she had buried her urges deep inside, yet all it had taken was one incredibly sensual, captivating man to bring them rushing to the surface.

As a broker for a porcelain manufacturer in Manchester, Mr. Geoffrey Wiseman was required to travel, thus often away for weeks at a time. For the first three months after their meeting in Covent Gardens they saw each other sporadically, not precisely courting as neither expressed such a wish, but merely becoming acquainted. He was absent more than present initially, but as the months passed he stayed for longer periods of time in London, always sending a message to Mrs. Smyth when he arrived.

After another two months they became lovers.

Again, there were no declarations. Mrs. Smyth simply wanted the pleasure of a physical relationship without losing any of her status. The idea of giving up her post to be the wife of a tradesman, living in far away Manchester or even in London was unappealing. What could she possibly do while her husband was gone for extended periods? Live in some waterfront apartment and raise a pack of weeping, snotty children? The notion brought shivers of disgust. No, the arrangement of clandestine assignations at the modest set of rooms he rented on the fringes of Bloomsbury was adequate.

At least at first.

Despite her practical, icy disposition, she was a woman. Geoffrey’s sweetly whispered admissions of affection and subtle pleadings for her company touched a hidden region of her heart. His skill in the bedroom far surpassed the unlamented Mr. Smyth and the sensations experienced burned through her body to an addictive degree. Equally enthralling was his interest in her views, Geoffrey caring for her opinions and welcoming her conversation as no one ever had. Gradually she began to imagine more from their relationship, even if her dreams were nebulous and not pondered in the light of day.

Geoffrey pushed to visit her at Darcy House so they would have the entire night together rather than brief minutes of rapid lovemaking. Emotion overruled discretion and she allowed him in to her private apartments, aware that the act was an unforgivable breach of Mr. Darcy’s rules. In the aftermath of inexhaustible passion, he asked personal questions about the family, and she enlightened him. As winter waned into spring with the looming onslaught of the family on the horizon, Mrs. Smyth lost all scruples in her craving for the special brand of comfort that Geoffrey Wiseman so capably gave her.

It had been three weeks since she last saw him and she anticipated his return any day, as he had promised. Every prudent bone in her body screamed against permitting him entry with Mr. Darcy in residence, but she knew that she would the moment he sent word of his arrival. A mere day of excessive racket was already wearing on her and she shamelessly needed consoling from her lover. A shiver of anticipatory pleasure raced through her core, settling in her belly.
Yes, indeed I shall let him in,
she thought,
and no one will be the wiser.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Easter at Darcy House

The subsequent days passed in the usual manner for this time of year as the official London Season was soon to commence and Easter approached.

Traffic—foot, horse, and carriage—noticeably amplified as the elite members of Society relocated from their pastoral country abodes to their plush townhouses. Vendors of every type hopped into action as purchasing drastically increased with the steady influx of orders for everything from flowers and fabrics to fresh produce and meats. Covent Garden, Piccadilly, Cheapside, Adelphi, and even the smaller shopping districts met the demand with ease after decades of practice. Church ceremonies to honor Christ’s death and resurrection were held daily during Lent and Holy Week. Costers took advantage with booths selling hot cross buns, dyed hard boiled eggs, simnel cakes, flower-adorned crosses, white lilies, and palm branches lining the walkways nearby.

Couriers added to the press of bodies, busily delivering the invitations to afternoon teas, salons, and soirees. Musicians, actors, singers, and a dozen other entertainers exhausted themselves in perfecting their art while theatre owners and crewman frenetically primed for constant performances. Museums, art galleries, clubs, gardens, public rooms—every business catering to the entertainments of the ton gleefully threw open their doors, knowing a vast amount of money was to be made and prestige gained. Modistes, tailors, milliners, cobblers, and anyone else associated with providing fine garments and accoutrements worked long hours and employed additional helpers to meet the demand.