Intentions and Mishaps, page 2
Elizabeth closed her eyes, moaning ever so lightly as a frisson of pleasure swept over her. The scent of him, familiar and comforting, surrounded her, further enticing her.
A gentle tapping at the door shattered their bliss, and they stepped apart hastily, Elizabeth smoothing her gown while Darcy exhaled in frustration. His jaw tightened for an instant before he schooled his features to mask his disappointed hopes.
Opening the door, Darcy saw Georgiana standing there, her countenance a mix of curiosity and thinly concealed amusement. Barely holding back a smirk, her tone remained deliberately innocent. “I thought we were meant to be preparing for dinner.”
Darcy cast her a look of long-suffering patience, though he managed a hint of a smile. “We are,” he replied, stepping aside to allow Elizabeth to precede him. As Elizabeth passed, her cheeks rather flushed, Georgiana’s gaze lingered on her brother and sister-in-law, though she said nothing further.
As they all dispersed to their respective chambers, Mr. Darcy, with every appearance of studied composure, reflected privately that the next occasion upon which he might enjoy his wife’s company uninterrupted would require far more diligent contrivance.
PART TWO
There is nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream.”
— Thomas Moore
FEBRUARY 14, 18__ – THAT MORNING
With so many calls on Mrs. Darcy’s time, with this being her first London season, the newlyweds found their days spent largely apart. Breakfasts together had become a rarity since their arrival in town, and this day was no exception. Was it any wonder they cherished their quiet moments alone at night?
Heavy curtains in Elizabeth’s sitting room had been drawn back to allow in what little natural light could be had from the February morning sky. The fire crackled, the light scent of lavender lingering in the air. Elizabeth sat near the window, her embroidery hoop in hand, though she had yet to make a single stitch. Her busy mind wandered, filling with anticipation for the day ahead.
A light tap at the door drew her from her reverie. “Come in,” she called out, setting the hoop aside.
Georgiana entered the room, her steps light and purposeful, with a posy of winter flowers in her hands.
“Good morning, Georgiana,” Elizabeth said, greeting her with a smile. How she dearly loved her new sister—her angelic countenance and grace always reminding Elizabeth of her eldest sister, Jane. Georgiana’s pastel-colored muslin gown, with delicate embroidery at the cuffs and hem, added an understated elegance, while the pale ribbons at her waist and in her hair completed the picture of youthful refinement.
Georgiana returned the encouraging gesture and crossed the room, placing the flowers in a delicate vase on the table near Elizabeth’s chair. “I hope I am not intruding upon your tranquil solitude.”
“Not at all.” Elizabeth gestured for her to sit. “What a lovely surprise! Thank you for the flowers—how brave they are to bloom in such chilly weather.”
Georgiana seated herself on the settee and smoothed her skirt. “They seem determined to flourish despite everything. A trait I greatly admire.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “A most fitting sentiment.”
There was a brief, companionable silence as the two women sat together.
Georgiana cleared her throat softly. “I wanted to let you know I will stay at Matlock House tonight. Aunt invited me, and I thought it might...” She paused, glancing at Elizabeth for reassurance. “It might give you and my brother a rare chance to be entirely on your own.”
Elizabeth raised an amused brow. “A thoughtful gesture, indeed,” she said.
Georgiana blushed. “I only supposed... well... it seemed considerate, in view of the occasion.”
Elizabeth reached for her teacup. “It is a very kind conjecture.”
Noticing her lapse in etiquette, owing to her preoccupation, no doubt, Elizabeth asked, “Would you care for some tea? I can call for a fresh pot if you would prefer it piping hot.”
Georgiana, ever gracious, shook her head. “No, thank you, Elizabeth. Please, do not trouble yourself on my account. I am quite content.”
Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, then turned her attention back to her own cup.
Georgiana leaned forward slightly, unable to fully suppress her curiosity. “I suppose you and my brother have something special planned?”
Elizabeth’s composed countenance never faltered as she cradled the delicate porcelain cup—the citrusy fragrance of the tea pleasing her senses. She took a slow sip before replying, “I suppose you will just have to wait and see.”
Georgiana sighed, both satisfied and frustrated by Elizabeth’s deflection. It was clear she would learn no secrets, though Elizabeth’s unspoken excitement was unmistakable.
Accepting defeat, Georgiana redirected the conversation. “Lady Ellen has planned a small dinner party—something simple, followed by music in the parlor. I am looking forward to it, though I think my uncle will insist I play at least three pieces before he lets me rest.”
“He does have a fondness for your playing.”
“Yes, though I suspect he enjoys showing off that his niece is more accomplished than any pianist in town.” Georgiana’s tone was resigned, but her expression betrayed her affection for her uncle. “Although I can never deny him whenever he asks me to exhibit.”
Elizabeth reached out and squeezed Georgiana’s hand. “You have always been so kind-hearted. Your brother and I are both so fortunate to have you in our lives.”
Georgiana’s cheeks flushed, but soon gave way to genuine joy. “And I am fortunate to have you as a sister,” she replied.
A comfortable silence settled between them once more until Georgiana rose and headed for the door.
“I will leave you to your morning... though I am quite sure your afternoon and evening will be much more interesting.”
Elizabeth laughed. “We shall see.”
Georgiana gave a parting smile before closing the door gently behind her. The room fell still again. Elizabeth turned her eyes back to the window, her heart light with anticipation.
Whatever the day holds, one thing is certain—it will be unforgettable.
Mr. Darcy’s day started on what could only be described as a very unenviable note. Indeed, the butler, Mr. Hargrove—a man with a dignified bearing, and who had served the Darcys faithfully since his youth, first as a footman at Pemberley—had entered Darcy’s study with a note atop a highly polished silver salver.
Recognizing the missive’s embossed emblem, he seized it directly, suspecting it was a final confirmation of the dinner plans he had made for Elizabeth and himself at the private establishment. He could not have been more mistaken. What he read surely caused his temper to rise but there was nothing to be done, for the Prince Regent himself had secured the entire establishment for his own pleasure. Effectively, his desire superseded everyone else’s. The Prince’s reputation preceded him—an appetite for amusement so insatiable that even the finest establishments were mere pawns in his lavish schemes. Darcy had once been content to observe such indulgences from a distance, but today, he was caught in the wake of royal caprice.
Of course, it would be the Prince Regent, Darcy reasoned with a mixture of resignation and irritation. The man who suffered so little regard for the pleasures of others in comparison with his own. What chance did a husband’s ardent intentions stand in the face of such truths?
While Darcy had wanted very much to treat his wife to a scrumptious feast at the establishment, there was nothing else to do with so little time but arrange for his own cook to prepare dinner at his home. With his butler standing there, as if awaiting his master’s instructions, Darcy apprised him of the last-minute change in plans and directed the butler to meet with his cook to prepare a worthy feast instead. Assured that between his butler and his cook, they would know exactly what was to be done, Darcy turned his attention to what he considered a more pressing matter.
Darcy paced the floor. Elizabeth’s gift should have arrived by now. Not wanting to delegate the task of visiting the jeweler to learn the cause of the delay, he set off himself. Just as he was about to enter his carriage, he caught sight of his neighbor, Mrs. Angelina Davenport—a recent widow and a former close friend of his late mother, Lady Anne Darcy. He had known Mrs. Davenport nearly his entire life and had greatly admired her late husband, Mr. John Davenport.
Although pressed for time, it would have been too rude to ignore her as she hurried to greet him. Instead, Darcy proceeded directly to his neighbor. She greeted him in the usual way, but there was something decidedly different about her on that particular day.
Darcy said, “Mrs. Davenport, you are looking very well today. I trust you are in good health.”
“Yes, I am indeed, Mr. Darcy. I daresay I have not been in such good spirits in months, not since I lost my dear husband, Mr. Davenport.” She placed her gloved hand to her bosom. “Why, you will never believe what he did for me. I can scarcely believe it myself.”
“I trust you will not mind sharing all the specifics that led to such joy,” Darcy said.
The elegant woman said, “Words can hardly do my joy justice. I had much better show you instead.” With that, she brushed aside the fur scarf she had donned over her coat and placed her hand close to the exquisite brooch.
It was all Darcy could do to maintain every appearance of composure. How such a delivery intended for one townhouse found its way to another is beyond comprehension.
Yet Darcy knew that berating anyone for the error would not recover what had already slipped out of reach.
Mrs. Davenport cried, “Is this not the loveliest, most wonderful gift a husband can bestow upon his wife? And the inscription on the back has the most touching words a man can cite—sentiments straight from his heart. The delivery boy from the jeweler brought it to the house this very morning. I can only suppose my late husband made all the arrangements before he fell ill and departed this earth. Shall I tell you what it says?”
Before he could reply, Mrs. Davenport commenced her recitation. Darcy did not have to listen to a word she said, for they were imprinted in his heart. Still, he listened, silently reciting the sentiment along with her:
To my wife, Mrs. D., truly the love of my life.
Darcy knew he ought to say something—words to acknowledge her joy at receiving such a meaningful gift posthumously from her beloved husband—but he could not. How could he when he realized the one-of-a-kind brooch he had designed and commissioned, especially for his wife, had been mistakenly delivered to his neighbor’s residence?
Making matters worse, there was nothing to be done about it, at least not at that time. Later, he would take up the matter with the merchant, but as the mistake had not been Mrs. Davenport’s making, he was powerless to rob her of her joy, effectively stripping her late husband of his borrowed feathers.
It would not do.
His heart clenched as he watched her fingers brush the delicate filigree. The brooch had been designed for Elizabeth’s touch, not another’s. And yet, there it sat, gleaming against Mrs. Davenport’s coat.
Finding his voice, Darcy said, “What a thoughtful gift indeed, Mrs. Davenport. No doubt, it must mean the world to you to be reminded of the eternal bond you share with the late Mr. Davenport—one that surely extends beyond the bounds of time.”
“Thank you so much for your kind words, Mr. Darcy. I always said you were a fine, upstanding gentleman and one who would make some fortunate young lady an excellent husband. By the bye, how is your lovely wife? No doubt you have something incredibly special in mind for her for today, for it is St. Valentine’s Day.”
She chuckled in spite of herself. “Oh, I know this day can mean so little to so many, but you are not just anyone. Not that I have to remind you, knowing your character as well as I do.”
“Mrs. Darcy is doing very well,” he began. “And as for this being St. Valentine’s Day, yes, I am very aware, and my greatest wish is that what I have planned for my wife brings her as much joy as your late husband’s gift has brought you.”
Moments later, the two parted, with Mrs. Davenport making her way to her carriage and Darcy dismissing his driver entirely. There would have been no point in going to the jeweler as he had planned, not even to procure a different piece of jewelry for Elizabeth. It was too late to commission another, and he did not dare present his wife with another family heirloom on such an occasion as this.
No, he would have to come up with another plan and he would have to do so quickly.
What am I to do?
As Darcy stepped into his townhouse, the frustration clouding his expression faded. An idea, uncertain yet compelling, had taken shape. Without a second thought, he proceeded directly to his library—a renewed sense of purpose guiding his steps.
He crossed paths with that of Mr. Winters, his valet of close to a decade, whose sharp, steady eyes and precisely groomed appearance mirrored his disciplined nature. Winters evidenced an air of professionalism, marked by loyalty forged over years of trust. Tall and lean, he moved with the composed dignity of a man well-acquainted with his master’s affairs. He had been entrusted with one of the most delicate tasks of the day.
“Is everything going according to plan?” Darcy asked, his voice carefully measured but betraying a bit of unease.
“Yes, sir,” his valet replied with calm certainty.
Darcy’s brow softened, though his mind still raced. “The roses—?”
“Delivered as expected and arranged according to your instructions,” the valet affirmed with a slight bow, his composure unwavering despite the peculiar nature of the task.
“Good man.” Darcy’s hand briefly tapped the valet’s shoulder—a rare gesture of appreciation that spoke volumes. He resumed his path toward the library, each step lighter than the last.
Once alone amidst the familiar sanctuary of his library, Darcy inhaled deeply, the scents of leather-bound books and polished wood calming him. As he exhaled, the weightiness of earlier setbacks eased slightly while he pondered his next move. This was not just about salvaging an itinerary—it was about creating something unforgettable for Elizabeth. The roses were but one piece of a much larger scheme, yet knowing that part had fallen into place was enough to spark a cautious hope within him that the evening might unfold as he wished.
In another part of the townhouse, Elizabeth encountered her own setback. Not wanting to draw attention to her plans for her husband, she had made her way below stairs for a private discussion with the head footman, Mr. Thomas. A lanky man with a composed yet commanding presence, Mr. Thomas’s stature alone made it necessary for the two to take a seat in the presently unoccupied butler’s office. His grave expression gave Elizabeth pause—surely something was amiss.
“Pray, all is well with the arrangements at the venue,” Elizabeth said, doing her best to keep her voice calm.
Mr. Thomas shook his head. “I am afraid there has been a problem with the decorations, Mrs. Darcy.”
“Problems?” Elizabeth’s heart sank. “Please do not keep me in suspense.”
“Well, as you know, the usual florist was not able to fulfill the request on his own. After scouring the city for assistance, he managed to secure an alternative arrangement—but the carriage delivering the flowers overturned while headed to the venue.” He hesitated before continuing, “I regret to inform you that the flowers were completely ruined. I examined them myself, and I could not, in good conscience, allow any of them to be used.”
Elizabeth’s mind raced at the news, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. “That is most unfortunate,” she said slowly. “But surely all is not lost?”
A reassuring smile crossed Mr. Thomas’s face. “Indeed, it is not. After consulting with the venue attendants, we arranged garlands of ivy and clusters of soft white heather. In addition, candles were placed inside glass lanterns throughout to add a warm, inviting glow.”
Elizabeth exhaled, grateful for his initiative. “It is simpler than what was intended, but it retains a sense of modest elegance.”
She nodded. “You have done well, Mr. Thomas. I could not have asked for better judgment on the matter.”
She gathered her composure, determined to let nothing spoil the day. “Pray, you and I shall meet with no more misfortunes. I cannot say it enough how important this day is to me. Thank you for being such a dependable steward.” Elizabeth turned to leave, but halting her steps, look back at him. “That reminds me—all is well with the carriage you hired, I trust?”
“It is indeed. The coachman will be ready at precisely the hour you requested, and it will be decorated exactly as you specified.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thomas.”
He bowed deeply and murmured politely, “Your servant, madam.”
Elizabeth’s mind wandered to the romantic setup she had envisioned—something more intimate than any formal outing they had ever experienced. A secluded pavilion draped in soft fabrics that swayed ever so slightly, with the scent of roses lingering in the air. With so much else to consider, her disappointment over the absence of roses would surely abate.
In lieu of one of her husband’s, the hired carriage was meant to be a special treat. The private carriage for two would be outfitted with plush velvet cushions, soft wool blankets to ward off the chill, along with a basket, which included fresh pastries packed alongside mulled wine, its rich spices of cinnamon and clove promising a taste of warmth even in the cool evening air. She had instructed that the lamps within be lit dimly, creating a soft, golden glow—a perfect haven for two lovers in love.
Her mind drifted to the carriage ride itself.
I can already picture it—the way his eyes will soften when he espies the thoughtful touches—the blankets I chose, rich with memories of past intimacies by the fire at Pemberley, the flickering glow of the lanterns casting golden light across our hands as Fitzwilliam takes mine in his own and raises it to his lips. Our own little world, she silently waxed poetic.
