By the afternoon of the fifth, Lizzy was relatively calm and excited at the prospect of the Masque. She owed her renewed peace solely to her husband. His mild chastisement for her not sharing her anxieties had struck a nerve. After making love, they had cuddled and talked for hours, Darcy effortlessly ignoring any misgivings regarding his duties to their guests. His wife was precious to him, and her peace of mind was of paramount importance. His assurance to her of this incontrovertible fact alone was enough to placate the majority of her concerns.

Although Darcy was cautious not to label her silly again, Lizzy realized that she was precisely that. Her place in his life was indelible not because of the license that legally bound them, but because of the invincible love that connected them. Simply stated, Lizzy had nothing to fear from the society of Derbyshire, or anywhere else. They belonged to each other in a love and devotion that exceeded logic. They both ended up laughing at how ridiculous they occasionally were in their vulnerability.

Darcy taught her the relatively basic steps of the waltz while still in their bedchamber, theorizing that if she could learn in this setting, then dancing while in a ball gown would be facile. If his generally well-honed ability to rationalize did not succeed as he had deduced, the unforeseen result of ending back in their bed was delightful and welcomed.

Over the next several days, Lizzy practiced with Darcy in the more appropriate location of the music room with Georgiana at the pianoforte, accompanied by both the Lathrops and the Gardiners, who happily embraced the fun. Once over her initial embarrassment at the close proximity of her partner, she found the waltz immensely enjoyable. In truth, much of her pleasure was precisely due to the closeness of Darcy, yet in no small measure was it also due to the graceful, swaying motions of the dance. 

Chapter Fifteen

Twelfth Night

January 5, 1817

Marguerite fussed over Lizzy like a mother hen, but the result was stupendous. Lizzy’s gown was a multilayered masterpiece. The dress was white satin with slightly puffed sleeves ending midway down the upper arm. The sleeves were edged in cornflower blue chenille tied in a petite bow. The same chenille edged the dress in a crossed fashion over the legs and along the hem and demi-train, exposing a white silk organdy petticoat edged with the finest Parisian lace.

Layered over the dress was a drape of midnight blue crepe edged with a braid of the blue chenille and lace. This darker overdress fastened at the left shoulder and fell across the left side of her bosom and back, pleated tightly under her breasts, and gathered under her right breast to fall in soft waves over her hips and buttocks to her knees. The bodice and back were low-cut in a V shape with an inch double frill of the Parisian lace over the shoulders. Slippers of white kid and satin elbow-high gloves completed the ensemble.

Her hair was pulled loosely to the right cascading over her shoulder in full curls secured by a bandeau of pale blue satin adorned with sprigs of honeysuckle and campanula. She wore the sapphire necklace Darcy had gifted her upon their engagement. Lizzy felt like a fairy princess!

Her husband waited in the grand foyer with bated breath. The only hint Lizzy had yielded was that he should wear blue. Darcy preferred blue anyway and, aware that Samuel and Marguerite had undoubtedly compared notes, he trusted his valet’s selection. Therefore, he stood on the marble floor wearing a dark-blue formal jacket and matching long trousers of fine wool, the pale blue waistcoat Lizzy had given him, white linen shirt, and an elaborately knotted silk cravat. Mr. Lathrop stood nearby, suppressing a laugh with difficulty, while the others loitered in the parlor.

When Lizzy materialized on the landing, resembling to Darcy’s eyes every iota the princess from a fairy tale, his breathing halted for a full minute and his heart skipped several beats. Lizzy blushed under the stunned scrutiny of her husband, loving him increasingly with each step she moved toward him. His smile was radiant and his eyes glowed. If only he knew how impossibly handsome he was when he smiled and gazed upon her in this manner, yet much of his charm was in his total ignorance of his attractiveness and allure.

He kissed the gloved hand she offered, meeting her eyes. “Mrs. Darcy, you are majestic. I am spellbound by your beauty.”

She curtseyed and beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. May I repay the compliment and say that you are an Adonis? Supremely handsome and dapper.”

“Elizabeth is here!” Georgiana exclaimed, dashing to her sister and followed closely by the others, who quickly surrounded Lizzy with gushing praise. Grinning indulgently yet conscious that this could continue for hours, Darcy rapidly called for Elizabeth’s coat and ushered her into their waiting carriage. Once settled and on their way, Darcy turned toward his wife, retrieving a small box from his pocket.

“For you, beloved. I ventured a guess, the gown a mystery of mythic proportions. Upon revelation, I warrant this bauble will accent nicely.”

The bauble was a silver brooch some two-inches in diameter in a vague sunburst design with inlaid diamonds and sapphires. Accounting it anything less than exquisite would be an insult. Lizzy was, again, overcome by Darcy’s generosity and impeccable taste. He pinned it to her left shoulder where the overdress gathered. It was perfect.

Darcy, painfully cognizant of the fact that for the next eight or so hours proper decorum would prevent him from overtly touching or kissing his lovely wife, made use of the time the ride afforded. Carefully, of course.

Melcourt Hall, home of the Cole family for close to a hundred years, was an enormous brick structure almost as imposing as Pemberley. Sir John Cole, a frail widower well into his sixties, managed his estate with a vigor and efficiency contrary to his appearance. His three sons had gradually assumed most of the responsibilities; however, Sir Cole unequivocally reigned. The eldest two sons were married and the youngest, Percy, only a few years older than Darcy, had recently become betrothed to Mr. Creswell’s eldest daughter, Laura.

This development gave Miss Creswell a certain distinction amongst her peers, several of whom gathered strategically so they could simultaneously gossip and admire her engagement ring while maintaining constant vigil on the entryway. The anticipation was elevated this year. As a high point on the Derbyshire social calendar, the Twelfth Night Ball provided the unattached participants the best chance to make a lasting impression on each other.

For the newly plighted, such as Miss Creswell and Miss Sylvia Bristow and Miss Joy Worthington, it was the final opportunity to carefully flirt, giggle, and tease. Additionally, this year’s prime topic of speculation was the revealing of the country nobody who had stolen Mr. Darcy. To state that a dozen hearts had been broken, tears shed, and pillows punched would not be an exaggeration; however, none more so than Miss Bertha Vernor, daughter of Henry and Mary Vernor.

The Vernor family had for generations been the closest to the Darcys, both in physical proximity to their lands and in relationship. Gerald Vernor was only months older than Darcy and the two boys were close all through childhood and well into their adult years, only drifting apart somewhat over the past four years since Vernor’s marriage. As often transpires after matrimony, Gerald began passing more time in Derbyshire with his wife and new son while Darcy tended toward Town. Nonetheless, the two often met, hunted, and rode together, and Darcy had hosted Gerald and his wife Harriet at Pemberley numerous times.