The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Chapter Fifteen 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.

The residents of Darcy House passed the days in the usual pursuits as well.

Despite his claim to applaud all forms of laziness, George wasted only two days before reconnecting with his medical colleagues. He scheduled a series of lectures for new students, his reputation as an excellent teacher and expert practitioner well known, and volunteered at the local hospitals where he was welcomed gladly. His never-waning hunger to learn improved or unique methods of diagnosing and treatments prompted him to enroll in several lectures of interest. Of course, his serious, scholarly side did not totally rule with a fair number of frivolous entertainments embraced in between.

Georgiana submerged her impatience to see Mr. Butler. It was not easy, but the delight of shopping and gossiping with the plethora of friends she had not seen in months did soothe and distract. Her prior enthusiasm for balls at Almack’s and flirtatious strolls through Hyde Park was greatly diminished, an oddity Darcy noticed but did not comment upon.

Lizzy discovered the same degree of happiness in distraction. The strange vision of Lord Orman and any residual disquiet over Mr. Wickham disappeared with a full schedule of socializing and preparing for the holiday. After three previous Seasons in Town, Mrs. Darcy was acquainted with everyone, close friends with some, and esteemed as worthy company by all, her ability to easily socialize one Darcy remained in awe of.

Darcy spent the first days with his solicitors in their maple-paneled offices. Mr. Andrew Daniels and his sons brilliantly handled Darcy’s numerous business ventures while Mr. Darcy dwelt at Pemberley during the winter months with frequent messages passing over the miles. Nevertheless, the pile of documents requiring signatures or careful perusal grew and would take some time to deal with. He relished the work, even as he strived to consolidate and streamline his affairs so as to require less personal attention in the future. Mr. Daniels’s service to the Darcy family for decades, and Mr. Darcy specifically, meant he knew his client’s wishes and was ready with a dozen propositions to discuss, contracts written, bank drafts awaiting signatures, and so on.

Mr. Daniels quietly pursued his search for information on the Marquis of Orman while Colonel Fitzwilliam’s “spies” were unreachable and doing heaven-knew-what in their intelligence hunt. There was nothing for Darcy to do other than maintain his extreme diligence. Lizzy was cautioned daily, a reminder she comprehended and obeyed to the best of her ability. Yet, as the days turned into a week since leaving Hertfordshire, even Darcy began to relax and pushed the worries aside.

Maundy Thursday dawned bright and sunny. The Holy Day set aside to commemorate the Last Supper of Christ with his apostles began the Easter events Darcy most enjoyed, his delight compounded now that Alexander was old enough to attend. Church bells resounded from a multitude of steeples as they rode to St. Marylebone Parish Church for the service. Alexander sat mesmerized throughout the foot-washing ceremony and adaptive Passover Seder, finally falling asleep in his father’s lap during the choral worship. He missed the ritualized stripping of the altar sacraments in symbolic preparation for the Good Friday mourning services, but Darcy was content to observe the solemn proceedings with his family close.

The weather for Good Friday reverted to cold and blustery with rain threatening. Lizzy opted to stay indoors with Michael rather than subjecting the infant to illness, but the ominous skies did not deter Darcy from taking a thickly coated Alexander to watch St. Sepulchre Church’s reenactment of the medieval Easter Sepulchre liturgy.

Carved sepulchres of stone and wood created for Easter commemorations were once a common fixture in ancient churches. Some were simple works of art depicting the burial place of Christ with sleeping soldiers or visiting women carved as a niche in the wall of the church. Other sepulchres, such as this one, were large, elaborate sculptures with the entire story of Christ’s burial and resurrection conveyed in detailed etchings surrounding and on the tombs. Steeped in history and a fair amount of mystery due to lost documents and the ritual being banned during the Reformation, this ceremony was a highlight whenever Darcy managed to be in London for Easter.

Darcy, Alexander, Georgiana, and George joined a large gathering observing the formal rite. Sacred hymns recounting the Passion were sung by the choir as four dark-robed, barefooted monks walked soberly down the aisle carrying a red velvet-draped cushion upon which rested a plain wooden cross with an exquisite effigy of Christ in gold. Reverently, the cross was placed beside the candle-encircled sepulchre, the monks falling to their knees and bowing before the image with foreheads touching the floor. Lifting mere inches to bestow a kiss to the sculpted feet, they then crept backwards as the waiting monks lowered to their knees and in the same humble pose approached the cross to kiss.

The assembled clergy completed that part of the ceremony, forming a ring of kneeling worshippers around the cross. It was then that the priest rose from his seat, and slowly descended the steps of the chancel and front of the nave until standing with his brothers directly before the cross. With calm deliberation he removed his traditional vestures to reveal an unadorned black cassock, his eyes never leaving the graven face of suffering as he handed the garments to a waiting monk, removed his shoes, and bent to his knees. Crawling forward, he too respectfully kissed the nailed feet of his Savior before rising and lifting the laden cross high above his head for all in the audience to see.

The heavy lid of the wooden tomb was opened and the crucifix placed inside with due pomp. Responsories were sung by the choir, sweet incense burned both inside and around the tomb, the lid closed and sealed with wax, and lastly covered with gold trimmed damask. The priest chose the first two sextons to be given the honor of guarding the sepulchre, a responsibility taken seriously and shared with other clergy in shifts until Easter morning.

“Papa, will Jesus be lonely inside the box?” Alexander asked as they left the church. It was the first words he had uttered since entering St. Sepulchre nearly an hour earlier, the boy studiously attentive to the ceremony throughout. The innocent query, asked with grave concern and a deep frown, brought instant laughter. The lighthearted response of the adults only increased Alexander’s worry and tears welled in his eyes.

“Not at all, sweetling. First off, this Jesus is pretend. It is a statue only, as the real Jesus is in Heaven, right?” Alexander nodded, although not totally convinced. Darcy hugged him tighter, kissing the crease between the toddler’s knitted brows.

Darcy tried to explain the concept of ceremony and symbolism with limited success, but Alexander’s fears were not fully allayed until George said, “Jesus is taking a nap in the box, Alexander. He is tired after being carried about. The nice men will keep him company and open the box in two days once He is rested.”

Darcy opened his mouth to refute that nonsensical explanation, but the cheery expression on Alexander’s face halted him. In the end, he realized there would be plenty of time in the future to give theological lectures!

Saturday saw Darcy House besieged, much to Mrs. Smyth’s horror. For some reason she never comprehended, the pristine dining room was converted into the official egg dyeing and painting chamber. The table was carefully draped with old linens and the fine furnishings removed to avoid damage or staining, but naturally there were a few mishaps that required harsh cleaning. Yet it was not the mess that peeved her as much as the ruckus caused by so many festive persons.

The boiling of eggs had occupied a portion of the kitchen staff’s time on Friday, those cooled eggs now added to the dozens brought by Jane Bingley, Lady Simone Fitzwilliam, Mary Daniels, Marilyn Hughes, Harriet Vernor, Julia Sitwell, Amelia Lathrop, Chloe Drury, and Alison Fitzherbert. The babies were taken to the nursery for age-appropriate play while the other children eagerly flocked the cluttered long table. Baskets of eggs sat among the bowls of paints, dye, and adhesive to decorate with the glass pieces, feathers, beads, seeds, ribbons, lace, and more. Adult supervision was essential, especially for the littler children. Artistry was encouraged, some eggs a masterpiece of precision adornment and painting while others were sadly lacking any finesse, but each an expression of individuality and definitely colorful. The fathers aided the procedure for a time, managing to decorate one or two eggs themselves, before retiring to Darcy’s billiard room and leaving the chaos to the women.

By late afternoon the last colorful egg was placed carefully into a basket awaiting Easter Day festivities and the exhausted children were returned to their respective homes. A purse-lipped Mrs. Smyth oversaw the dining room restoration, her abrupt manner noticeable to the maids and footman as indicative of her irritation, but the Darcys were unaware as they settled in for a quiet night alone.

On Easter Sunday Lizzy stood in the small dressing room attached to their bedchamber, staring out the wide window facing the backyard garden. She clipped the pearl necklace—which once belonged to her husband’s mother and was gifted to her on her first night at Pemberley as his wife—around her slender neck, followed with a pair of pearl and diamond earrings as she watched the glittering waves of water cascading over the marble rocks in the fountain. The sun was shining, bathing the grass and spring flowers with warmth and light. Fortunately the inclement weather on Good Friday had passed without a single drop of rain. Hopefully this meant the lawns and ground of Hyde Park would be relatively dry and free of fresh mud patches for naughty boys to discover.

She turned at the knock upon her door, pleased but not surprised when Darcy entered carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers.

“Happy Easter, my love,” he said, smiling as he bent for a kiss and handed her the white flowers.

“Happy Easter to you as well, dearest. Thank you. These are exquisite!” She pressed her face into the petals, breathing deeply. “So sweet,” she sighed, closing her eyes in delight. “I saw some of these at Covent Gardens earlier this week. They are quite unique.”

“The florist said they are Lilium longiflorum, a newly discovered lily bulb from a cluster of islands off the coast of China.” He shrugged. “That was all he knew and I have not had the time to delve into the topic further.”

Lizzy reached to stroke over his cheek, a gesture difficult to accomplish, as the bouquet was large and heavy for one arm. “Poor Mr. Darcy, forced to smother his unquenchable curiosity! I am surprised you were able to sleep.”

“Indeed it was a struggle, but I was able to relax with the vision of your face amid the blooms. As always my imagination failed miserably as you are engaging beyond what my dreams prefigured.” Stepping back, he swept his gaze over her gowned body with appreciation evident. “White becomes you, Mrs. Darcy. Did you acquire this gown here or before we left home?”

“It is a creation of Madame du Loire. Frankly, I am doubtful of the wisdom in wearing white when chasing children through the dewy grass and boggy ground at Hyde Park is the order of the day! Marguerite will have her hands full removing stains.”

“She is skilled. And if the dress is soiled beyond repair it shall be worth the loss to see you wearing it all day. These touches of green are for me, yes?” He ran his fingertips along the satin ribbons and accents, all in shades of darker green, smiling at her affirmative nod. “Purest white and garden green. You are a walking lily. An Easter flower lovelier than these lilies, or the callas, narcissus, pussy willows, tulips, or hydrangeas arrayed in vases throughout the house.”

“I trust you left some flowers behind for other households?” she asked with a laugh. “And hopefully one vase roomy enough for these.”

“I am certain Mr. Travers will produce the perfect container.” He offered his arm, turning toward the door when she slipped her free hand under the bend of his elbow.

“Or”—she drew closer to his side and halted his steps—“I can leave them here nicely wrapped in their moist tissues until we retire tonight whereupon we can spread them over the bed and make love amid your favorite colors.”

Her face was lifted toward his, eyes bright with promise. Darcy kissed her nose, voice husky as he teased, “Sounds delicious, my wife, but I shall repress my desires ere I see how vigorous you are after chasing children around Hyde Park all day.”

“I am certain I shall prove hardy enough to fulfill your desires,” she responded smugly, propelling him forward as she continued, “even with a day of constant activity. After saying farewell to the last of our dinner guests we shall see who is most vigorous. Yes,” she said at the grimace crossing his face, “I confess I bullied you into hosting Easter dinner here, but only because I know how important Easter is to you. I was only thinking of your happiness, my darling.”

“Ha! If that were the case you would not have invited Lord and Lady Blaisdale.”

“Well, indeed that was a misstep I hold faint misgivings of. Yet, what should I have said when Caroline heard Jane and I talking about the planned picnic at Hyde Park? She was profuse in her enthusiasm over the egg hunt and rolling. Even you would have been moved at her countenance of delight envisioning young John partaking of the festivities.”

“I agree that Caroline’s happiness at motherhood has given me pause in rethinking her marriage and general attitude, but nothing will ease my dislike of Lord Blaisdale.”

“I do not much care for him either, William. However, he is Caroline’s husband…”

“And she is Bingley’s sister. Yes, I know the arguments. For the record, Bingley barely tolerates the man, not that Lord Blaisdale condescends to socialize with them on a frequent basis. In truth, I am surprised he agreed to this invitation.”

“Perhaps he loves his wife and child more than you give him credit for. Whatever the case, there will be plenty of gentlemen for you to converse with. Leave his lordship to your uncle who relishes needling just for fun.”

Darcy flashed an evil grin, Lizzy’s laughter echoing down the corridor into the parlor where the family waited. Alexander dashed into the foyer, greeting his parents with an armful of colorful chrysanthemums.

“Mama! Papa! See my flowers for Jesus? Papa say we give flowers to God.”

Darcy scooped the toddler into his arms, flowers and all. “It is true, Son. We will pin the flowers onto the tall wooden cross we saw outside the church on Friday. Once everyone decorates the cross with fresh flowers, it will be beautiful, busting with color as a symbol of God’s life-giving nature.”

“And then they will open the box so Jesus go free?”

“The box will already be empty, Alexander,” George said, his voice dropping into a whisper. “It is like magic! The lid will be raised and, poof! Jesus will be gone!”

“Where?” Alexander asked, his eyes round with awe as George commenced a discourse on the Resurrection melding fact with fascinating hyperbole, keeping the youngster entertained during the carriage ride to church.

The fine weather held, to the delight of London’s populace. Churches were crowded, the faithful weekly worshippers vying for space amid those who only attended on Holy days. Traffic was amplified, carriages crawling at a snail’s pace as drivers struggled to find a clearer route or one not barricaded for a parade. Traditional Easter entertainments were scattered throughout the city, one not required to travel far to find a parade or dance or egg hunt or religious ceremony to honor Christ’s resurrection.

For the sake of ease and proximity to Darcy House, the Bingleys and Darcys chose the Oxford Street parade. After the interminable trek to the church and back locked inside stuffy carriages, they were overjoyed to walk the short jaunt north to the home of Captain William Henry Percy on Portman Square. There they joined Lord and Lady Matlock, longtime friends of Captain Percy and his father, Lord Beverly, and others invited to observe the parade from the comfort and prime location of Captain Percy’s parlor or walkway and steps.

Alexander was unimpressed with the waving strangers wearing elaborately decorated garments and bonnets, although the ladies kept mental notes of designs. His eyes were riveted to the horses. Some were military with full regalia worn by cavalryman and beast, while others were prized ribbon- and flower-garlanded racehorses with proud jockeys atop. In the latter case Darcy, member of the Jockey Club and a horse racing fanatic, enlightened a rapt Alexander as to name, owner, racing statistics, and so on, all of which the child absorbed while Lizzy laughed.

Both boys squealed with glee at the antics of the Morris Dancers. The dancers were dressed in costumes Elizabethan in general style but garish and accented with varying sized bells, loose scarves in a multitude of colors, and large bracelets and rings. Aided by rollicking tunes on pipe, tabor drum, fiddle, and a bagpipe, the dancers leapt and skipped from one side of the street to the next in a constant flow of movement. The bells and jewelry served a purpose other than ornamentation as each flick of the wrist or twist of a leg created a ringing note, the dancers’ seemingly random antics in fact a precision choreography with music rising in the air. In addition to that, many of the dancers held swords that they whacked together as they twirled or struck against street poles or tapped onto the cobblestones, the metallic clangs blending with the rest.

Michael clapped his hands as they passed, bouncing nonstop on Lizzy’s knees until she was sure she would have bruises! “I do believe our youngest son has an ear for music,” she yelled over the din.

“Let us pray it is not only for lively tunes most often found in pubs and disreputable dance halls,” Darcy yelled back. “A taste for sophisticated music would be preferred.”

Lizzy shook her head, glancing to where George stood clapping his hands and dancing a jig. “The influence for unsophisticated music may be too intense!”

For the four-block walk to the Grosvenor Gate to Hyde Park, Alexander was carried on George’s shoulders while Darcy held a squirming Michael, the infant refusing to sit calmly in his pram. Crowds of families were already gathered throughout the enormous park, blankets and shading canopies or pavilions haphazardly dotting the areas not designated for games.

The recognizable blue canvases belonging to the Vernors stretched between tall poles, shading the rugs spread over the damp ground on a level field preselected at the base of a knoll near the lake. Some of their friends had already arrived, the adults busily setting out food and eating utensils while the children played and formed instant friendships with every other child in the near vicinity.

Richard greeted them midway down the grass-covered slope, taking the basket of food and eggs from Georgiana’s hands as he teased, “We thought you had forgotten the way! Or been attacked by a horde of hungry egg bandits. It is a mania, I declare. Why, Oliver has eaten a dozen already!”

“I have eaten two, Father, whereas you have eaten three and would have done another if Mother had not slapped your hand.” The son of Lady Simone’s first husband, now Lord Fotherby although not appearing particularly lordly with his sallow complexion and stumped posture, smiled fondly at his stepfather before turning to greet the new arrivals and take Lizzy’s basket.

“Oliver can eat all the eggs he desires, or anything else for that matter.” Simone’s voice was light as she gazed at her stepson, only the barest hint of anxiety noticeable. Oliver despised references to his illness or public expressions of pity, bravely and stubbornly refusing to succumb to weakness. “You, however, must wait until the food is properly served,” she finished, poking her husband in the upper arm.

“Brutality, I say,” Richard said, rubbing his arm as if wounded. “The definition of a picnic is to pick at the food when one feels the urge. Back me up on this, Darcy.”

“I am not about to argue with the mandates of your wife, Cousin. You are on your own.”

“Traitor.”

“I doubt you shall starve, Richard. Harry”—Lizzy turned to Simone’s nine-year-old when they reached the picnic area—“would you please take Alexander and Ethan to join the Sitwell and Fitzherbert boys? Thank you, dear.”

“And please take Fiona as well,” Amelia Lathrop added, plopping her two-year-old into Harry’s arms. Fiona screamed and kicked her legs, poor Harry recoiling from flailing limbs while trying to hold on. “Oh bother! Let the wee tiger down, Harry boy. She can run with the laddies for a spell until Mrs. Daniels arrives with her lasses, not that my Fiona will sit and play with dolls for more than five minutes, heaven bless her.”

“Perhaps she will mellow with maturity, Amelia, especially if your baby is a girl.”

“I am guessing she will corrupt the new bairn ere she learns to crawl. Or more likely it will be a male child as filled with the devil as she is!” Amelia caressed over her belly, shaking her head as she smiled.

“We need to add a few more girls to this generation. Deborah, Claudia, Fiona, and my Abigail are vastly outnumbered.” Marilyn Hughes glanced at the pram where her baby slept. “They are doomed to be ruffians just to survive with all these boys. You two do your best to save our sweet girls from that tragedy!”

She nodded toward the expectant mothers Amelia Lathrop and Harriet Vernor, the latter touching her distended abdomen. “Third time lucky, let us pray. A baby girl would be most welcome to soften up my own ruffians. Stuart and Spencer would benefit from a female touch.”

“I daresay the future will include plenty of opportunities for female babies.”

“Are you slyly imparting momentous news, Julia?”

Julia Sitwell laughed, shaking her head vigorously. “Merciful heavens, no! Austin is not yet weaned, please God grant me a reprieve! Besides, after four boys I have accepted the fact that we can only produce male offspring, so would look for no assistance from me. I was merely pointed out that collectively we appear far from finished in creating English citizens.”

“I can promise to do all in my power to ensure the future of our great land,” Richard offered, smiling at his wife, who blushed and ducked her head. “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy are diligently attending to the task and those who are not yet married will eventually do their duty to God and country.” He nodded toward Georgiana, who through the entire exchange had been scanning the shifting sea of bodies beyond their group. “Searching for anyone in particular, Georgie?”

Georgiana started at Richard’s question, reddening at his knowing smirk, but answered calmly, “I was looking to see if the Daniels were amongst the people approaching. Not yet, but I do see Lord and Lady Blaisdale. He does stand out in the crowd to be sure.”

“Caroline is fairly easy to spot as well,” Charles said with a laugh. “The curse of being red-haired, not that you can see her hair with that ridiculous hat. Heavens! She has an entire garden on her head!”

The former Caroline Bingley, now the Countess of Blaisdale since marriage to Lord Blaisdale after a surprising and brief engagement two years ago, wore a gown of daffodil yellow—not the most flattering color for her—that was nevertheless of the latest fashion and richest fabrics with an elaborate, and enormous, Easter hat adorned with real flowers. The tranquility of spirit and softened attitude seen in smaller, private milieus since her satisfactory marriage and the birth of her son disappeared when in the public arena. Caroline’s air of superiority had only increased with her elevated rank, as had her other annoying habits. Her current costume proved the point, as did the first words out of her mouth.

“Charles, I do hope our blankets are on a flat patch of ground and the canvas generous enough to adequately cover. I cannot allow the sun to color my son’s face.” She pointedly glanced to the rosy-cheeked and tanned Ethan and Alexander, who were playing tag with the other equally brown and sweaty children, Dr. Darcy dashing among. “Nor can my fair skin tolerate these fierce rays. Jane, dear, adjust your bonnet brim before you burn. Sun-darkened skin is vulgar.”

“I have always preferred a healthy flush upon a woman’s cheeks,” Darcy interjected urbanely, “but have no fear, Caroline. We have these two large tented areas in a perfect location to observe the children during their games, and that smaller pavilion is for the babies. Will you be assisting young John hunt eggs? Several will be placed in plain view for the younger children to easily pick up.”

“Lady Blaisdale,” the Earl responded with emphasis, “will stay covered. Our nurse will lead John, although why a one-year-old needs to grab eggs off the grass is beyond my comprehension.”

“You will be pleasantly surprised then, my lord, to see how delighted even the youngest are at finding hidden eggs and watching them roll down the slope. It is a joy, I assure you.”

He smiled faintly, green eyes doubtful. “I shall take your word for it, Mrs. Darcy, and hope I am delighted by the spectacle.”

“Speaking of spectacles,” Richard murmured, nudging Darcy and grinning.

George joined them, long limbs effortlessly crossing the field in a handful of strides. “If I could bottle the mysterious elixir that bestows unlimited energy to children I would be a rich man.”

“You are a rich man.”

“True, Colonel, true. But then I would live far longer and have more stamina to enjoy those riches! Lord and Lady Blaisdale”—he bowed—“welcome to our intimate Easter gathering. We attempted to rent the entire park for ourselves but alas the crown would not comply. I see Master Clay-Powell is anxious to exhibit his dose of childish vigor.”

Caroline turned toward the trailing nurse, her face softening at the wiggling impatience of her son, who was frantically trying to escape the woman’s firm hold. Even the icy Lord Blaisdale chuckled under his breath.

“Poor dear!” Lizzy laughed, linking her arm with Caroline’s and gesturing toward the tent. “We have the babies together, Caroline. Come, let’s sit in the shade and drink our cool tea while the young ones exhaust themselves. Tell me, how long has John been walking?”

The antics of the children occupied the bulk of the afternoon. All jesting aside, the number of offspring just from the couples in some way related to Darcy and Elizabeth numbered over twenty! Oliver Pomeroy, the Earl of Fotherby, was the eldest at seventeen, and probably would not have been considered in the list of children if not for his frail, immature appearance and delight in playing the games with them. The remainder ranged from ten years to infancy, all but the tiniest joining other children in the park to partake of the varied entertainments.

Every parent, relative, and nanny lent a hand in supervising the fun and controlling the army of younglings hunting, rolling, and cracking eggs in an assortment of games. Eventually the bunnies brought as a traditional part of Easter celebrations circulated to their section, the children freshly squealing in glee at the sight of rabbits jumping and frolicking in the grass. A few found new homes, including a fluffy gray one that Alexander fell in love with and who evoked a string of babbled ba-ba-bas from Michael. Darcy was not so sure about Lizzy’s insistence that he was trying to say “bunny,” but the animal was cute and the boys so enamored that he saw no reason to deny them another pet to add to the menagerie already at Pemberley.

As the sun crept toward the horizon, tired tempers flared and irritable cries grew more prevalent. Then Deborah Daniels stopped mid-step, crumpling into a heap onto the grass soundly asleep with thumb in mouth, leaving no doubt it was time to retire to Darcy House!

The Easter week festivities of 1820 ended minutes before midnight when Darcy bid farewell to Gerald Vernor and Albert Hughes after winning the last billiards game. He joined his sleeping wife in bed, the beautiful and fragrant white lilies not put to use that night, and his sleep was not darkened by unpleasant dreams. Attentiveness to any possible threat was instinctual, so he was not lax during the week. Yet the best diligence in the world may not successfully halt a threat that comes from within.

***Geoffrey, Come tonight at ten o’clock while they are distracted by guests. I shall leave the gate unlocked. Prudence

With an evil grin marring his handsome face, the reader of the hastily scribbled note reached for the candle, applied the flame to the scrap of paper, and watched as it caught fire and burned down to ash.

It is almost too easy, and exceedingly pleasurable, he thought.

He sat back in the hard, wooden chair, eyes staring sightlessly at the roughly hewn wooden rafters of his rented rooms. Clamor from the streets bustling with Easter revelers drifted to his ears, but he paid no heed. His thoughts were consumed with weightier musings.

For too long he had been thwarted in improving his prospects and gaining the respectability he was due. His charm and education gave him an advantage for periods of time, but inevitably something went amiss. Numerous times he came close to winning fortunes while gambling or in a business proposition. His military career had crumbled and prestigious employment eluded him.

The source of all his woes traced directly to Fitzwilliam Darcy.

George Wickham grabbed the bottle of wine, lifting it into the air as if toasting. “To Darcy, my former playmate once as close as a brother. Soon you will be repaid for your envy of me and the spiteful treatment in the wake of your father’s death.”

He drank deeply while thinking of the past and the future.

While Darcy inherited Pemberley and everything that came with the estate, Wickham was purposefully thwarted and left to rot in mean conditions. Darcy seemed protected by angels, increasing in affluence and felicity, whereas Wickham grew despondent. His hatred grew exponentially with the disappointments.

After his discharge from the army, he wandered aimlessly and accepted any available job that provided for their needs. Oddly his only contentment was Lydia. She was a receptive wife, easily controllable and willing to do his bidding as long as he reaffirmed his undying love thirty times a day. Her housekeeping skills were nonexistent, but her personality did entertain and lighten his mood. Mostly she was as sexually insatiable as he, so the need to seek pleasure elsewhere did not drain their fragile finances.

Finally, he manipulated his way into a middling position of power at the inn in Devon. It was a comfortable situation and he almost forgot to be angry with Darcy.

Until he crossed paths with the Marquis of Orman.

Naturally he had heard of the duel and Orman’s humiliation. Gossip of such magnitude reaches even the dregs of society, but military personnel especially hold duels in high esteem no matter how loudly the Church cries out. Yet aside from shaking his head in disgust at Darcy escaping injury or justice once again, he dwelt upon it no further. He had no idea that Lord Orman had settled in Devon.

A purchasing trip to Newton Abbot for the annual cheese fair and a necessary visit to a local brothel led to a chance remark. His paid bed partner, a delicious young trollop not a day over sixteen, commented on the “relief in entertaining a nice gentleman whose parts work like they should, and body isn’t a mass of scars and twisted bones.” He had found the comment amusing, then intriguing as the girl continued to chatter, and finally breathlessly exciting as a wealth of possibilities flew through his devious mind.

Overnight Wickham’s resentment regenerated and he was alive with seething ire ready for an outlet. The mystery of why Devon, a part of the country he had no previous connection with, suddenly made sense. It was meant to be. Finally, he believed the fates were aligning in his favor. The threads of serenity gained in the previous months frayed beyond repair and his despair transmuted into euphoria.

Gaining an audience and earning the trust of the Marquis took months. Wickham learned patience as plot upon plot formed in his mind. Eventually, through constant persistence born of faith, he weaseled his way into Orman’s presence and a mutual partnership of hatred and revenge was forged.

That Orman was on the fringes of insanity was obvious from the outset. But this was to Wickham’s advantage. He immediately comprehended the possibility of a future beyond dealing with Darcy, and an unstable, crippled, and debilitated man of riches was a gift from God to his way of thinking. Wickham’s duplicitous nature and scheming intellect quickly laid the foundation for indispensability, embezzlement, and, if necessary, blackmail. Yes, indeed, his future was secure.

Once he dealt with Darcy, of course.

Orman simply wanted Darcy dead and did not care how it was done. Storming Pemberley with shotgun blazing was his initial idea, one that took Wickham weeks to rebut. He argued for restraint and the need to learn the man’s habits and schedule. Wickham envisioned greater possibilities and had to constantly remind the maniacal Lord of this fact. The Marquis’s salivation over Darcy being in Hertfordshire—and Wickham having free access to him—was difficult to counter, but Wickham had worked too hard for too many months to act hastily.

He watched and connived for the best solution to hurt Darcy the most and reap the best lasting benefit for him. Knowing that Pemberley was nearly as unassailable as a medieval castle, he turned his attention to London. He spent hours in surveillance of Darcy House, learning the routines of the staff and searching for any weaknesses in the regulated Darcy chain of security. He cataloged each person he saw to ensure that none of them were familiar and, in that respect, he was also fortunate since his past visits to Darcy House were rare and long ago. Mr. Travers was the only one who may remember him, but the butler was easy to avoid since he rarely left the house.

Fully aware of his power over weak-minded, foolish women, Wickham had intended to charm a maid as a possible way into the mansion. Several ideas were formulated, but Mrs. Smyth was a surprising boon. Following her to the market at Covent Gardens on that fateful day was a sheer whim, one undertaken merely to learn more of the staff’s actions. His impulsive introduction was brilliant and he was exceedingly proud of how it was working to his advantage. Once that relationship was established, his pathway to success was obvious. Finally, he had convinced Lord Orman of the plot’s victory, needing only to wait until the Season in Town.

His smile turned to one of sheer lust, groin automatically responding to his imaginings of the pleasure to come that night. Never would he have suspected that his manipulation of the housekeeper would lead to where it had. She proved to be a valuable asset in a host of ways, the bedroom a bonus he received as further indication his plan was bound to succeed. Geoffrey Wiseman’s courtship was considered respectable, so the staff members were comfortable with his occasional presence.

Jumping to his feet with a youthful vigor, he decided to splurge and dine at the Queen’s Diadem. He would dress in his best suit and order the most expensive item on the menu. With a satisfied stomach and a long night of Prudence Smyth’s enthusiasm satiating his other appetite, his strength would be at optimal levels for the momentous days ahead. Perhaps he should bring her a gift, he mused, a trinket to soften her further, although she was quite pliant after they made love and more than willing to rant against her employers. He chuckled, imagining that after a week she would be especially vociferous, providing him with the final details required to carry out his revenge. Better yet, he thought, groin tightening almost painfully, she will be wild in her rage, finding an outlet with a partner more than willing to transfer angry passion into wanton abandon.

Yes, it would be the best Easter of his life.