Darcy & Elizabeth by Linda Berdoll Page A

the same mind, Elizabeth actually did so.
    Quietly, she asked, “Pray, what is the matter? Certainly it cannot be this alone.”
    He did not answer her directly, continuing to put forth the inadvertent breeding by Scimitar from whence his displeasure sprang. For the first time, he called the horse by its actual name.
    â€œScimitar was a fine battle horse. I simply cannot bear to have Boots’s lineage sullied by the inferior blood of a horse that clearly…” (here he struggled to think of some fault of that particularly handsome specimen of a horse) “…short-coupled. Yes, Scimitar was a U-necked, short-coupled nag!”
    It was unthinkable. It would not do.
    Elizabeth discreetly took her husband’s hand. It was an unusual thing for her to do when others were there to see. He took hers briefly in return—an even more remarkable act. He ran his thumb across her knuckles before placing her hand in a more sedate posture upon his forearm and allowing himself to be led up the path to return to the house. As he watched them take their leave, Edward Hardin placed his hat firmly back upon his head. He did not notice that the abuse the hat had taken revealed itself by an absurd crimp in the brim. Had he, he might have thought it fitting—his sensibilities felt a little interfered with themselves.

12
    The Private Struggle of Mr. Darcy
    Although he appeared to all the world entirely unaware of the ridiculousness of his obstinacy, Darcy was aware. He was aware to a vexatious degree. He should have been pleased, for his wife’s mare to have a foal by Scimitar. Despite his disputatious remarks to the contrary, Darcy knew that he was a fine animal—well-bred and stout of heart. He knew too that Fitzwilliam would forever regret his horse’s loss in battle. Perhaps he might even second-guess his decision to take such a fine horse with him to Belgium and into what was to be the gates of hell. Regardless, that was what he did and it was Scimitar, not he, who had died a noble death on the blood-drenched field near Quatre Bas. He had lamented that loss through the haze of laudanum and the clarity of wakefulness. Indeed, during bouts of delirium, Fitzwilliam cursed himself for that judgement. Even when his mind returned to reason, he could not quite make himself quit the subject. He told again and again how it was Scimitar who bore the brunt of the blast that delivered his own horrific wounds. His horse had been courageous, loyal, and true. A hero of the British Empire.
    That was quite the opposite in all respects of Major George Wickham.
    Yes, Wickham. For Darcy, all other botherations paled in comparison to the sordid realisation of the entirety of that . The very repugnance of the name Wickham, much less the heinousness of his deeds, was so abhorrent that Darcy could not bear to think of it. If there were a God, Wickham lay dead in some unmarked grave near Bruxelles. He prayed that was true. After his return, he had discreetly discharged emissaries to sort out the matter of whether or not George Wickham was indeed dead or alive, but their findings had been inconclusive. Although Wickham’s name was affixed to the list of those who were lost in battle, the resting place for his corpse remained unidentified. That question lying unanswered did nothing to alleviate Darcy’s general pique. It only kept it redirected.
    As time went on without his wife’s amorous embrace to console him (or at least relieve his agitation), Darcy’s temper was so compromised that had he been of a less imperturbable spirit, he might have accused himself of despondency. But he would not. For all the vexations he faced, there was much to celebrate. He was a father, Elizabeth was well, his sister was to be married, and Elizabeth’s mare was in foal. All things in his life were in order and right. He insisted that to himself repeatedly.
    His life was indeed altered, but all for the better—even his