The Trouble with Mr. Darcy (4 page)

Finally they regrouped, leaving Calais for a leisurely meander toward Paris. The careful plotting by the men succeeded, the days of travel passing pleasantly with halts for rest or interesting sights to explore.

Then Paris! Georgiana’s feigned serenity disappeared as the vast city drew near, and upon crossing the first cobbled bridge spanning the Seine her giddiness equaled Lizzy’s.

“Are we there, Brother? This is Paris?”

“The outskirts. Paris proper is yet a few miles and then we must cross a quarter of the city to reach Marais.”

“How long shall it take? Will we pass the Bastille? Or the Luxembourg Palace? Or Notre Dame? Or…”

“I shall stop you there, Sister! I have no idea whether we shall pass any of those places on our way to Hôtel d’Arlatan.”

Both Lizzy and Georgiana stared at him in shock, Lizzy finding her tongue first. “Are you admitting to not knowing the precise route and layout of Paris?”

“Remember that I was last here several years ago when I traveled with Mr. Bingley. I am certain much has changed with Napoleon’s restructuring plans and now Louis XVIII continuing the project, not that I tried memorizing routes then. I can tell you that the Place de la Bastille lays within the Marais arrondissement, but where it is in relation to Hôtel d’Arlatan I do not know. In fact, I trust Uncle Malcolm on this aspect of the journey as he knows the owners.”

“So you are not fully versed on every detail of the townhouse we are to stay in, not even where is it?”

Darcy smiled at his wife’s tease. “I know it is on the Rue Andre Dolet near the Parc du Rolens Croix, that the view is reportedly incredible, and the hôtel beautiful. Beyond that I am at the mercy of guides, thus why I shall not attempt to play navigator. That is why we hired Parisian coachmen in Calais.”

“Ah, I did wonder about that,” Lizzy nodded. “Quite wise. Well, I do pray they are recent residents if the streets are under construction.”

“Paris, and actually all of France, has suffered decades of unrest. The evidence is visible still.”

He was correct in the latter statement. Buildings in partial states of repair were common, as were piles of rubble and destroyed gardens. They kept to major thoroughfares so views of poorer neighborhoods were rare, but glimpses revealed areas of filth and decay not yet touched upon. But clearly the coachman leading the way knew his job, diverting frequently from blocked avenues or unsightly obstacles, weaving in a haphazard fashion along roads laid without a pattern remotely organized.

Most of the scenery was pristine and beautiful so the lengthy ride was enjoyed immensely. Darcy pointed to certain architectural oddities or vegetation not indigenous to England, but he was ignorant to a large degree. Paris was much like London in the ancientness to the city, meaning there was little cohesiveness to the styles. Modern Greek neoclassicism stood alongside medieval Gothic, the disparity bizarre but expected. Elaborate gardens were frequent, as were gated lawns and miniature woods. The deeper into the city they went, the grander the passing surroundings until finally they crested a residential avenue lined with palatial private homes and halted before the iron gate of number eighteen, the plush mansion owned by the Marquis Dissandes de la Villatte.

The elderly marquis, an acquaintance of Colonel Fitzwilliam from the war, greeted them with warmth and hospitality. As Darcy had promised, the townhouse was beautiful, with ornate, spacious guest quarters overlooking the courtyard gardens. Every top floor window afforded stunning views of the city streets, a nearby park, and glimpses of the Seine.

Their host and hostess were courteous in every way. The food was delicious, the servants exceptional, and the accommodations superb. Their three weeks in Paris passed in a blur of fêtes, operas, museums, and sightseeing. It was not enough time to adequately view all that Paris had to offer, but eventually they bid adieu to the Marquis and Marquise Dissandes de la Villatte to embark on the second leg of their journey.

“I completely filled my journal with memories of France.” Lizzy patted the thick, leather-bound book in her lap, her eyes riveted on the disappearing Paris landscape.

“No worries,” Darcy squeezed her hand, “I have another in my trunk. Two, actually, just in case.”

“You think of everything, do you, Mr. Darcy?”

“I do try.” He grinned smugly, leaning to kiss her nose.

“Well, I am sure I will recall something I missed to add in betwixt the future delights to jot down, so thank you for your foresight and thoughtfulness.” She sighed, gazing again out the window. “I do wish we did not have to leave. Who knows when we shall be able to return, what with babies being born and all,” she concluded, rubbing her slightly rounded midsection.

“I am sure William will manage to bring you again, Lizzy, along with your children.” Georgiana tugged on Alexander’s jacket tail, the seventeen-month-old perched on his Aunt Giana’s lap with his face pressed against the window.

“Easy for you to be philosophic! You will return later this year to dwell for months, after trekking through exotic Italian locales. You must visit all the places we missed in Paris with details written and sketches drawn. I insist you do so to allay my raging jealousy.”

“Have no fear, dear sister.” Georgiana laughed. “William has purchased extra journals for me as well, and I have my paints stowed carefully for colored visual renderings. It will be as if you were there!”

“Now that peace reigns in Europe, travel is easily accomplished. I do promise to bring us back, Elizabeth. And I am sorry the trip must be truncated, but we must be home before our baby is born.”

Lizzy leaned against his side, smiling into his serious face. “Silly man! You know I jest. Well, for the most part. Indeed I wish we could tarry longer, but what would that truly accomplish? There is not enough time to see the entire world so there would forever be more. I am blessed to see what I have as it is more than I ever imagined. I thank you for that, love.”

“You are most welcome. It is my pleasure.”

“And now we are on to another adventure! What do you think of that, Alexander?”

“Go. Bye,” was his answer, adding an enthusiastic bounce.

“We shall see very high mountains in a few days, sweetling.” Darcy pulled his son onto his lap, nuzzling the soft neck. “When you spy them you will be amazed! Your Great-Aunt Mary has a lovely chateau at the base of the Alps. We shall have enormous fun.”

The Swiss estate owned by Baron Oeggl sat on the easternmost bank of Lake Genève in Switzerland near Villeneuve. Darcy had visited his Aunt Mary and her family twice in his adult life, but on both occasions he traveled to their home north of Vienna in Austria, never venturing close to the Alps. Of course, one could see the towering, perpetually snow-clad mountains from many portions of Austria and Switzerland, but the dramatic effect was lost with distance. Thus his eagerness was equally distributed between visiting family and touring the countryside.

George’s thoughts on this portion of their trip were vastly different.

Cold weather was not a friend to the man who had dwelt in India for the greater part of his life. He had anticipated his robust Englishman’s blood reasserting itself, thickening as it were, to tolerate the cooler climes of England. Certainly he had never been bothered by the chill when a youth and young man, and his transition to the heat and humidity of India had been fairly easy.
Perhaps it is old age
, he mused with chagrin. Naturally he was stubborn about it, continuing to don his preferred warm weather garments while dramatically whining about the freezing air until everyone assumed he was exaggerating. Therefore it was with surprise all around when Dr. Darcy launched into a spending frenzy in the weeks before departing England that was equally as involved as the females. He had numerous appointments with Darcy’s tailor—something else to grumble about—with a dozen thick wool suits, three overcoats, hats, sturdy boots, and woolen stockings the result! All were of the finest cut and modern style, but sported something daring or dashing about them. He was still flamboyant George, after all, and thus enjoyed the taunts received.

The temperature in Paris proved to be a bit warmer than London in March. This offered him the chance to wear the elaborate sherwanis brought along for formal events just in case, the exotic effect better than usual among strangers not immune to his charms. However, the idea of Switzerland any time of the year gave him shudders. It was not the main reason he had never visited his eldest sister, but his reluctance to trudge through snow did weigh in there to a degree.

“When did you last see your sister, George?” Lizzy asked one day as they were preparing for their holiday.

“When I was at Cambridge, two years and a bit before I completed my apprenticeship, she and her family traveled to Pemberley. I took a hiatus and spent a month at home before I needed to return.”

“And that was the last time?” Georgiana asked, turning from the trunk on the floor to stare at her uncle.

“Do not be so incredulous, Georgie. I am not a horrid brother, not really. You must remember that Mary is eleven years older than me. We were never very close, partly due to the age difference but also because Mary was unlike the rest of us.”

“How do you mean?”

“She was serious and prim, more like our father, whereas Estella, James, Alex, and I were like our mother. Carefree and adventurous. Or hellions, depending on the perspective. That was Father’s perspective to be sure. I swear the man never cracked a smile in all my growing up days.”

“He smiled often with me,” Darcy interjected. “Must have been the hellions driving him to a state of utter annoyance.”

George agreed with a hearty laugh. “Oh indeed! I am sure that was part of it! Of course, Aunt Beryl will tell you how stoic he was even as a child. I have gleaned that she and a couple of their siblings began the tortures in his youth, long before we arrived. And I do not wish to give the impression that he was harsh or unloving. Quite the contrary! He was a wonderful father, affectionate in his way, and devoted to his family and Pemberley. But he was also strict, reserved, highly disciplined, and frankly humorless. However, James did often write how altered Father was in his later years. Time mellows people, I imagine.” He sighed, somber for a moment while remembering his father, with regret that they had seen so little of each other during the final years of his life. “I rather hope this is true of Mary, although it will be delightful to see her again no matter. It has been far too long.”

“William speaks fondly of her,” Georgiana broke into the silence, “so I think you will be surprised.”

“Not to dampen what I am certain will be a wonderful reunion, but as pleasant as I have found Aunt Mary to be, it would be erroneous to intimate that she has evolved into a woman as gregarious and warm as Aunt Estella or you, Uncle. I have seen her smile and laugh, but will admit it is a rarity.” Darcy shrugged. “I admire her restraint. She is extremely intelligent and talented in numerous ways. Conversation was never boring.”

George nodded. “Yes, that sounds like my sister. Not overly demonstrative but intriguing and admirable in her accomplishments. Ah, it will be great to see her!”

“You must have missed her all these years,” Lizzy murmured sympathetically.

“I suppose I did, although it has not registered until recent years. I too have mellowed with age.” Darcy grunted at that, but George went on, “We have written to each other, but not with great frequency I am ashamed to say. Numerous reasons for that, not the least of which was the difficulty in finding me. And my busy life did not allow for regular corresponding. Traveling home was arduous, hence my visiting Pemberley so rarely, William. Diverting to Austria was simply not an easy option. Of course, under different circumstances I would have found a way, but as I said, Mary and I were not close.”

His smile was soft and slightly melancholy, but the low chuckle was devilish. He continued, “While growing up Mary could not tolerate any of us. This was a well-established fact between her and James and Estella before Alex and I were old enough to appreciate the emotion. By then we were part of the group and one of our greatest joys in life was to torture poor Mary.” He laughed, shaking his head in remembrance. “We truly were awful brats about it. No wonder she married a man who would take her thousands of miles away!”

“Do you think so?” Georgiana asked, brows lifting in amazement.

“Well, probably not. I cannot be sure, as I was too young to be aware of such intrigues as love and romance. I saved that mockery for James,” he grinned. “No, she met Baron Oeggl through the Vernors. There is some family connection, quite distant, and he was visiting during a tour of England. We go abroad and the Europeans come here. Interesting, is it not? Massive bear of a man, he was.”

“He still is,” Darcy interrupted, “or was last I saw him. Old and gray, but ‘bear’ is an apt description.”

“Apparently it was love at first sight and all that rot, although Mary was twenty and the Baron over thirty. Father was less than thrilled with the notion, but hearts prevail. Before the year was out they were wed and gone. We were eleven,” he reminisced, reverting to the long lost custom of speaking plurally with his twin, “so the party was more exciting to us than all the romantic falderal. Now I am older, a tiny bit wiser, and can regret that Mary and I were not closer. Yes, it will be lovely to see her again and meet my nieces and nephews.”