The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Chapter Fourteen Mrs. Smyth Has a Secret

“Have you noticed how prolific and colorful the narcissus this year?”

Lizzy glanced over at her sister-in-law where she stood next to the window facing the broad, cobbled avenue of Grosvenor Square. “In truth I had not peered out the front windows this morning. I did note the buttercups on our bedchamber’s terrace. I adore spring blooms.” She paused, laying her embroidery aside to gaze contemplatively at Georgiana. “Tell me truthfully, dear sister. Are you deeply enthralled with the beauty of the Square or searching the corners for the mail carrier?”

Georgiana turned from the window and returned to her seat across from Lizzy. “Can both be true?” she asked, the hint of a blush touching her cheeks. She settled her secretaire onto her lap, dipping her quill into the embedded inkpot but then pausing above the parchment music sheet spread upon the surface. “Only a week has passed, yet it feels an eternity. This is the negative to love, I suppose?”

“The poets declare the absence shall foster fondness within the heart, as in Mr. Bayly’s Isle of Beauty. True to a degree, as a separation does cause one to dwell upon their lover with longing leading to an increasingly emotional reunion. Nevertheless, I abhor William being away from me for any length and firmly believe our relationship grows stronger with constant communion.”

“How marvelous that will be,” Georgiana said, her eyes dreamy. “I greatly desire to begin our life together.”

“Very soon you will. Did he promise to write you?”

“Yes. Uncle granted permission. Of course, it has not been long since we parted so my expectations are unfair.”

“He knew when Kitty’s wedding was to be and thus your return to London. A man in love marks these dates upon his heart. My guess is a letter at the least, and very soon.”

Georgiana sighed, and then chuckled as she shook her head. Her eyes were sparkling with humor when she met Lizzy’s gaze. “I am rather pathetic, am I not? I was fine while diverted in Hertfordshire, yet here it is a day later and I am moping as a lost puppy. I cannot focus enough to complete this sonata I started on the voyage across the Channel!”

“Missing your collaborator?” Lizzy asked with a lift to her brow.

“I believe it is more that I miss my friend, who also happens to be the man I love and an excellent musical collaborator.”

“Your own personal muse?”

“A male muse?” Georgiana laughed. “Yes, I suppose he is to a degree. Oh, Lizzy! I cannot wait for you and William to know Mr. Butler completely. He is warm and delightfully humorous. A valued friend and companion. I do miss him.”

“I am sure Mr. Butler is of a like mind and will hasten his return to you.”

Georgiana nodded, frowning slightly as she peered at the notes. “Yes, I have faith that this is true. I must be patient. Staffordshire is a distance not easily traversed for a seven-day visit or a letter. Besides, he did propose celebrating Easter with his family before returning, so surely it will be a fortnight at the least. I know how he missed home and his friends. He is undoubtedly immersed in entertainments and familial concourse.”

Lizzy cocked her head, brows knitted. “What are you not telling me, Georgie?”

Georgiana looked up in surprise and then flushed. “Oh, nothing really! I fear I am a silly, imaginative girl at times, Lizzy. Pay me no heed.”

“Nonsense! And I shall pay heed to your moods. You have a concern, clearly, and I am here to commiserate. Do you doubt Mr. Butler in some manner?”

“No, oh no, not in the slightest!” Georgiana put the secretaire aside and scooted to the sofa’s edge to reach Lizzy’s hand. “It is just”—she waved her other hand in the air, biting her lip before continuing in a halting voice—“vague feelings regarding Lord Essenton.”

“Mr. Butler’s father? In what way?”

Georgiana shrugged. “He is a stern man, Lizzy. I sensed this before Sebastian told me of their relationship. He is rather frightening, if you must know, with a disapproving air. You know how Lord Essenton feels about Sebastian’s musical studies and his, in Lord Essenton’s opinion, pointless rambles across Europe. I fear he will see our engagement as another whimsy.”

“Surely not. Taking a bride is a serious commitment. Certainly Lord Essenton will interpret Mr. Butler’s decision as a positive sign for his future settling at Whistlenell Hall?”

“I do hope so. Yet”—she paused, picking absently at her dress—“I do not think Lord Essenton fond of me. He may reject Mr. Butler’s choice.”

Lizzy was truly shocked. “You must be mistaken, my dear! How…” She shook her head, squeezing Georgiana’s hand tightly. “There is no possible way Lord Essenton could deny your excellence, Georgiana. In all ways imaginable you are a perfect choice, even if Mr. Butler was not madly in love with you. Rest your mind, my love. You are allowing your fancies to run amok. I guess your personal sensations of disapproval were merely shadows of Lord Essenton’s annoyance at Mr. Butler’s situation. Besides, Mr. Butler, if he is the caliber of man I judged him to be and you claim, would not be cowed in this matter any more than he was in pursuing his studies abroad. You have nothing to fear, I am sure of it.”

Georgiana rose to kiss Lizzy’s cheek. “Thank you, Lizzy. You always speak wisely and ease my fluttering heart.”

“Pardon the intrusion, Mrs. Darcy. Miss Darcy, this was delivered for you.”

They both started, not hearing the silent entry of the butler. Georgiana recovered and took the sealed envelope from Mr. Travers’s hand, absently thanking him as a vibrant smile spread over her face upon noting the sender. She tore the wax, moving toward the window as she read.

Lizzy grinned happily, turning her attention to Mr. Travers, who waited patiently. “Mrs. Darcy”—he bowed—“a servant from the Matlock townhouse delivered this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Travers. One moment, please.” She rapidly scanned the paper, smiling as she resumed, “Lord and Lady Matlock will be dining here tonight, as well as Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lady Simone. Could you please send word to Mrs. Smyth that I wish to speak with her and adjust the menu? At her convenience.”

He bowed and left the room, Lizzy returning her attention to Georgiana, who was rereading Mr. Butler’s letter for the third time now.

“From the silly expression on your face I presume your qualms have been allayed? Mr. Butler is in Town, probably has been waiting for days while you tarried and partied in Hertfordshire, and is aware of our arrival some twenty hours ago? The besotted man must be clairvoyant or have spies! Or have you been redirecting me when in truth you evaded William’s security forces and snuck out for a clandestine engagement last midnight?”

“You know the latter is not true,” Georgiana answered Lizzy’s tease with a giddy laugh, her eyes scanning the words. “Sadly the former is not true as yet. He wrote this two days past from Whistlenell Hall in Staffordshire. He anticipates arriving in the week after Easter. He writes cheerily and expresses nothing remiss.”

“As indeed I asserted! Are his declarations of unending love properly rendered with a wealth of poetic verse? He is a composer so I expect nothing less.”

Georgiana sighed, her cheeks rosy as she reread her beloved’s letter, lingering over every word especially the greeting to “My loveliest fiancée, Georgiana.”

“He manages sufficiently to appease my heart. And, no, I shall not share his affections, so do not ask!”

“Understood,” Lizzy agreed, laughing along with Georgiana. “I am delighted to hear he is to arrive soon. Not only because it will be lovely to meet Mr. Butler again, and under these blessed circumstances, but because I confess it is difficult to secret the news from William.”

“Oh, Lizzy! I apologize for placing you in an awkward situation! Perhaps I should speak to William myself and not wait for Mr. Butler.”

“No, dearest. I should not have spoken of it. And I do not necessarily mean that it is awkward as in feeling I am deceiving as much as I am bursting with happiness for you. I know William will be overjoyed and thus cannot wait to share with him; that is all I meant. I only pray he arrives prior to our departure to Kent.”

A worried frown creased Georgiana’s brow. “I had not thought of that. I shall inform him of your plans when I write tonight. Hopefully he can adjust his schedule to coincide as I would hate to postpone matters until later in April when you and William return.”

“I am positive all shall be well, even if we must delay our departure and enlighten William as to your engagement.”

“And not arrive on the precise day Lady Catherine expects you?” Georgiana asked with feigned horror. “Perish the thought!”

The echo of childish laughter interrupted any further discussion. Laughter was followed by a high-pitched shriek and a deep voice declaring in exaggerated ominous tones, “Run fast, tasty boy, or you shall be my breakfast!”

“Can no catch me, Uncle Goj!”

A loud roar mimicking a lion followed that bold declaration with the pounding of small and large feet growing louder by the second. Suddenly a triumphant roar and shrill yell burst forth simultaneously, two bodies barreling through the open parlor door. George rose to his full height, a red-faced and giggling Alexander dangling upside down across his shoulder.

“Greetings, ladies! I rescued this imp from the boredom of tracing the alphabet”—he shivered dramatically—“and now we are here to enliven the stuffiness of sewing. I believe a walk to the Park is the prescribed remedy. Michael is asleep, Mrs. Darcy, so I am here to rescue you.”

“I was not aware I needed rescuing, but a walk does sound lovely. I want to inspect the narcissus I hear are especially colorful this spring.”

George lowered Alexander to the floor head first, tickling as he rolled him onto his back. The toddler giggled breathlessly, squirming and wiggling until free from his uncle’s clutches whereupon he dashed to his mother.

“Nanny Lisa says I go with Uncle Goj and do letters later. We go see ducks, Mama, please?”

“I think feeding the poor starving ducks of Hyde Park a marvelous idea, sweetling.”

“Mrs. Darcy, you wished to see me?”

George turned, grinning broadly at Mrs. Smyth, who avoided his eyes and visibly winced when he boomed, “Good day, Mrs. Smyth! How are you this fine morning?”

“Quite well, Dr. Darcy. Thank you. Mrs. Dar…”

“Have you done something different to your hair, Mrs. Smyth?”

“Not at all, sir,” she answered primly.

“Hmm… I do not recall curls escaping your cap. Most lovely, I daresay. It becomes you. Ah! Look at how she blushes so delightfully! Do I detect the look of a woman in love? Is my heart to be devastated at your affection turned toward a secret amour?”

“George, do not tease Mrs. Smyth so shamelessly,” Lizzy said with a laugh, George bowing contritely with a hand over his heart.

“I do apologize, Mrs. Smyth. I fear my wits and good manners have escaped me in the overwhelming awe of so much beauty in one room.”

“Indeed,” the housekeeper coldly intoned, her face neutral except for a glimmer of supreme dislike directed toward George’s back when he turned away.

“What causes the rosiness to your cheeks, Georgie? Are all the women surrounding me falling in love?”

“Do not be ridiculous, Uncle. I may be forced to conclude that it is not beauty that scatters your wits but rather senility weakening your diagnostic skills! What a pity if we are required to hire a nurse to keep the drool away from your brilliant green and gold tunic.”

“If she is exceptionally comely I welcome the idea.” He wiggled his brows, a crooked grin flashing. “And is this suit not astounding? A package from India was awaiting me. Nimesh and Sasi, Jharna’s sons, keep me properly garbed, thank the Maker, as I would never wish to draw undue attention from outdated attire.” He winked, grabbed an apple off the tea tray, and tossed it into the air. It was caught deftly with one hand followed by a huge bite.

Mrs. Smyth stood ramrod straight, her pinched lips the only outward indication of her disgust as she listened to Mrs. Darcy’s dinner requests. Her responses were clipped but correctly rendered, her curtsy a bit stiff but adequate, and she left the parlor with her disdain well concealed. She did not look back and walked at a stately pace down the long corridor toward the kitchen. Each step took her further and further away from the voices and laughter pervading the parlor. Then, just as she reached the door to the housekeeper’s pantry located near the kitchen and the nervous twitch behind her left eye began to slacken as the noises fell to a dim murmur, another shrill, childish laugh pierced the relative hush followed by a loud, braying whoop. Her teeth clenched and the tic restarted at full force. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with her chatelaine to find the correct key and she barely managed to retain her dignity as she ducked into the insulated closet.

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.