“You, Miss Bennet, are a wit and I have decided I like you and that you are in the former category. I will allow you to judge me for yourself. I am brave enough to accept your evaluation.”
“Very well then. But I shall be brutally honest.”
“Understood.” And the curtains were thrust aside, sunlight streaming in and momentarily blinding both of them. Eyes blinked back tears, hands involuntarily rose to shade, but gradually their pupils adjusted. She had suspected that he was a military man, and he was tall, as she had ascertained. Easily in his early thirties if not a bit older, his form trim, but wide in the shoulders and chest. His eyes were deep brown, almost black, with thick lashes framing, and curly hair, black with scattered streaks of grey at the temples.
The seconds stretched as they examined each other unabashedly. Eventually, simultaneously, pleased smiles spread over their faces.
Kitty moved first, extending her fingers and curtsying fluidly. “Miss Katherine Bennet.”
He lifted her hand, bowing as he brushed soft lips lightly over her knuckles. “Miss Bennet, a pleasure. I am Major General Artois. Randall Artois.”
Chapter Twenty
While Richard dealt with the aftermath of Lady Fotherby’s imprisonment and renewed their relationship, Darcy concluded his business in London and hastened home for the Christmas holiday. Anxiousness to share the news of Richard’s happiness and engagement—an agreement the reunited lovers formalized less than a day after escaping Hampshire for the plush comfort of the Fotherby townhouse at Mayfair—was matched by an urgency to embrace his wife and son. Christmas was days away and three plus weeks without them was more than he could bear.
Despite his fretfulness, Alexander had recovered rapidly from his cold. Darcy returned to discover a fat, healthy son who greeted him with shrieks of joy and outstretched arms as he toddled across the nursery floor and fell into the strong embrace of his delighted father.
His wife, conversely, greeted him feebly from their bed. Alexander’s mild infection had transmitted to Lizzy nastily. She lay under about a dozen quilts, nose red and copiously running, chest rattling with each breath, lips chapped in a feverishly shiny face, and a hacking cough that rendered her weak and winded. It was the first incidence of such an illness with his wife and Darcy was seriously dismayed.
And furious.
But he thrust his anger at not being notified aside, and diligently assumed the task of caring for their son and nursing his wife to health. Luckily the Christmas activities planned were minor and completely arranged, all the presents purchased and wrapped, since Lizzy barely managed to stay awake while Alexander thrilled over his numerous toys. The infant’s fascination with the ribbons and paper wrap evinced a weak smile and chuckle that instantly sparked a coughing spell necessitating Darcy carrying her to bed for a hot mist breathing treatment and rest.
Dr. Darcy insisted that it was nothing more than a common cold with chest congestion and minor compared to the influenza Darcy had suffered prior to Alexander’s birth, but Darcy was not placated. He fretted, hovered, and enforced every form of therapeutic remedy he could glean from his uncle and the medical books in the library. It took nearly two weeks, but finally Lizzy recovered the greater portion of her natural vigor. Yet she continued to sleep far longer than typical, had a lingering cough, and was frequently weary enough to nap in the afternoons. Attending the Cole’s masque was out of the question, the gorgeous gown created for the occasion wrapped and stored for a future engagement.
Even with her steady improvement, Darcy worried over permanent damage to her lungs. To augment her recuperation, Darcy surprised her with a spontaneous gift of three nights basking in the curative waters at Matlock Bath. He was not a great believer in the claims of mineral spas, but even George concurred that it wouldn’t hurt.
Leaving Alexander behind for the first time since his birth was difficult, but they said their adieus, smothering him with an abundance of hugs and kisses. They began the short drive to Matlock assuaging their guilt by remembering the medicinal instigation for the short holiday.
However, within a few miles the romantic nature of their destination was secretly beginning to dawn on them!
Matlock village on the east bank of the River Derwent, some eight miles from Pemberley, was a frequent destination, as it was larger than Lambton, thus offering a handful of shops not available in the closer hamlet. And of course Rivallain, home of the Earl of Matlock, was reached via the main thoroughfare over the bridge. Matlock Bath, some miles away and on the western side of the river, nestled high within the thick-forested foothills of the craggy limestone cliffs where the warm thermal springs bubbled, was a novelty for both of them.
Lizzy brightened notably as soon as they began their ascent from the bridge. The sublime beauty of Matlock Dale with dark-blue water flowing briskly amid the blanket of yew, elm, and lime trees clothing the shore from which the humble church’s pinnacles reared was impressively picturesque. Even more stunning was the naked limestone brow of High Tor, bursting upward some three-hundred-fifty feet and casting a shadow on the river far below. Centuries of fallen fragments shaped the bed of the river, the current foaming over boulders and rubble in a constantly changing flow, the roar considerable especially now, after recent rains. It was magnificent.
Cut into the gorge in 1815, the new coach road wound through the hills and strips of meadows, giving glimpses of the continually altering terrain below. They passed numerous lodges and bathhouses nestled among the trees, dozens of meandering footpaths through the wood and brush, and the occasional mineral incrustation formed by deposits from the springs that harden and decompose until covered by moss. It was a landscape both familiar due to common Derbyshire vegetation while also utterly unique.
A final bend in the road and opening in the trees revealed the New Bath Hotel. So named simply because it was built in 1802 upon discovery of a newer and warmer spring—many years after the original lodge that was once just the Bath Hotel but was now referred to as the Old Bath Hotel—the massive white wood and brick structure of Regency design sat on a lush five-acre expanse surrounded by trees and sculptured gardens. As modern and prestigious as one could hope for in the lesser-known spa community of Matlock Bath, the hotel had a marvelous reputation for excellence. Plus, and even more important to Darcy than luxury at the moment, was the Roman-style bathing room large enough for swimming. And the waters themselves were reputedly higher in healing properties.
Lizzy smiled, turning to her husband with shining eyes. “It is beautiful, William. Thank you for thinking of this.”
He drew her close under his outstretched arm, boldly stealing a brief kiss and caressing over her cheek. “Anything to help you, dearest. I would have gone to Bath if need be, but fortunately, we are close to a spa far more private and less crowded.”
He gazed into her eyes, noting the expression of love and joy that momentarily erased all traces of her lingering infirmity, and abruptly the romantic nature of their outing washed over him. By the sudden change in her face—lips parting slightly and half-lidded eyes straying to his mouth—it was clear that the identical thought had occurred to her. Unconsciously, he bent his head, meeting her upturned mouth eagerly. Alas, the kiss was interrupted by the carriage stopping with a jolt.
Darcy frowned and Lizzy giggled. They shared a last, lingering look, communicating their need silently.
Mr. Saxton, the owner, greeted them upon arrival. Darcy’s requests, made in advance by Mr. Keith in person and with large quantities of cash exchanged, were explicit. A suite on the first floor with private parlor and additional rooms for their servants, in-room dining when possible, limitless supplies of the curative drinking water, and frequent use of the baths. Fortunately, it was the slow season for tourists, but Mr. Darcy’s eminence and wealth were more than adequate to grant the requirements asked for.
The intervening hours between settling in their comfortable and spacious if unadorned chambers and finally meeting in the basement bath were tortuous. Darcy resisted bodily tossing his wife onto the bed and ravishing her only because there were servants in and out. He also insisted she consume a full glass of the mineral water waiting in a large pitcher before they did anything. And of course, he did wish for her to rest and recuperate, thus not too
