Page 18 of The Scarred Duchess
“That it has. That it has.” Bennet handed his father-in-law the bundled little girl. “And what a delight she is!”
The older man shifted the edge of the blanket and loudly exhaled. He leant over, put his nose to the babe’s scalp, and inhaled. Her scent was a garden sunflower at the end of the season. Chestnut-coloured filaments radiatedabout a perfect heart-shaped face. Rosy cheeks spotted cream-coloured porcelain skin. Bow-shaped lips framed a wide mouth. The babe was a one-of-a-kind gift from the Almighty.
“She is certainly her mother’s child. Except for her hair colouring, I can confirm she is Franny’s twin.” He tickled the babe under its chin. Two eyes opened and introduced the most influential men in her life to the pairing of hazel and dusky brown—the colour of strong tea with a dollop of cream. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
“What is this beauty’s name?”
“This is Miss Elizabeth Rose Bennet.”
Just then, the tiny bundle chose to exercise her lungs. And exercise them she did! The men gladly handed off their newest treasure to the housekeeper as Mrs Hill swooped in and scooped up the child. She tutted and clucked as the library door closed.
The clink of whiskey tumblers toasted the future of the newest jewel of the county.
Baby Elizabeth’s linens were not as clean as Franny liked and repeated rashes on her three-month-old girl’s skin attested to that. Unable to find Mrs Hill, she walked through the kitchen towards the familiar sounds of scrubbing and dripping water in the laundry. Hearing voices, she stopped in the threshold and ducked back; she knew no one ever learnt of good tidings when eavesdropping but she had long distrusted the laundress’s false sincerity.
Over the sound of scrubbing, she heard the woman hissing at the scullery maid. “Sally!”
“I don’t want none of your gossip,” replied the younger girl.
“You will want to hear this.”
“No, I don’t want to hear no talk of the mistress!”
“Shh...quit your caterwauling, silly cow.”
The thud of buckets hitting the floor sounded before Sally could be heard whispering, “Let me be. I likes it here.”
“I hears the master be looking to find himself a new mistress,” crowed the laundress, “being cause the missus be from a family like ours, she can’t get him a boy.”
Stricken, Franny gasped, scarcely noticing as Mrs Hill grabbed the gossiper’s shoulder and spun her around. “Your pa will ring a peal over your head when I tell him of your poison,” the housekeeper snarled. “Get back to work and keep your hole closed!”
As Mrs Hill went to close the scullery door, Franny stepped back. She ignored the tears trailing down her cheeks.
“Is it true?” she whispered.
Mrs Hill embraced her. “Never you mind them, mistress.”
Still shaken, Franny went to her chambers, lay down, and cried into her pillows.
Seven-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy sat spellbound, watching the stable master, Mr Reynolds, work with Goliath, a beast of a stallion too young to ride. The animal, tethered to a post, fought against the ten-foot lead connecting him to the locus point in the centre of the training pen. His powerful hind legs bucked out here and there, his front forelocks digging deep divots in the packed dirt. There was beauty in his freneticdance—a dance that soon slowed as his overtures to free himself were futile. At the point where calm seemed to prevail, Mr Reynolds moved but a fraction, re-energising Goliath to repeat what Darcy knew to be the definition of insanity.
After four hours, Mr Reynolds cautiously approached the animal. Free of the tether, Goliath accepted an apple and followed the tongue-clicks of a young stable lad into his stall.
“Tomorrow, Master Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes sir.”
Thus, the next week saw the pair repeat the same exercise daily: the brother of the estate housekeeper and the mannerly young heir to the most prominent landholding family in Derbyshire together watched a magnificent stallion youngling fight against himself while unknowingly submitting to his training. There was no question who the victor would be.
Never one to praise without due cause, Mr Reynolds could not help but utter aloud his amazement. “Prime, that were!”
Darcy committed the praise to memory.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lord Matlock rose and greeted his guest and when both had drinks in hand, he pounced. “My tailor speaks highly of you.”
“I appreciate his endorsement, my lord.” Edward Gardiner handed over the papers he had extracted from his jacket. “I chose not to trust this in any other hands but ours.”
