Sharon Lathan - The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

“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.