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
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
