For five years, Mrs. Smyth had been housekeeper of Darcy House, a position she valued, and it had been bliss. Mr. Darcy was frequently in Town during those years, but usually alone and so reserved that one hardly knew he was present. He rarely hosted any parties and then they were minor affairs with a small number of guests. His demands were few, mainly ones of preserving order and quiet. He was exacting and intense, not in any way foolish or to be trifled with, but since Mrs. Smyth was an excellent, scrupulous manager, they never clashed.
From the day she heard of Mr. Darcy’s shocking engagement to the country girl of no family or connections, she had sensed a dark cloud creeping inexorably over her existence. As a city girl born and bred, Mrs. Smyth considered anyone outside the regions of civilized London as suspect and on equal par with the dregs of Whitechapel or Wapping. That Mr. Darcy, a paragon of Society, would marry such a woman was beyond her comprehension. She had assumed that Miss Bingley would someday be Mrs. Darcy, or at least some lady like her. That would have been the correct course, the sensible choice, and Mrs. Smyth saw no logic to his hideous error in judgment, suspecting as many did that there must be some sort of witchcraft or trickery at work from the obviously money-seeking upstart.
Upon her first meeting of Miss Bennet, when Mr. Darcy brought his fiancée and her dowdy father to Darcy House during their engagement, Mrs. Smyth’s worst fears were realized. Miss Bennet was plain and drab, dressed in ugly gowns of no style and poor workmanship, with hair and body unadorned in any way. She smiled constantly, vulgarly showing all her teeth, was animated and noisy, and laughed incessantly. Grudgingly, Mrs. Smyth admitted that Miss Bennet carried herself with grace and that her manners were adequate, but those positives were overruled by her improper boldness and teasing informality with Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy was clearly besotted and subtly altered. He smiled too much and laughed aloud. His eyes followed her every move. And worst of all, he welcomed her impertinence and returned her banter! It was frightening to observe and Mrs. Smyth prayed daily that something or someone would intercede and break the spell. Unfortunately, that did not happen and the marriage took place. Mrs. Smyth was relieved when Mr. Darcy informed the staff that, after the wedding, he would immediately be retiring to Pemberley for the winter, not to return until late spring. She rested in the conviction that the naturally inhibited, staid, and domineering Mr. Darcy would shake off the shameful enchantment after months of forced confinement behind the walls and snow-laden landscape of Pemberley. He would recognize his vast mistake, and indeed if it was too late to reverse the blunder, surely he would rectify the damage by grinding the presumptuous nobody down into the submissive, proper wife she should be. Perhaps then, Mrs. Smyth thought, there would be hope for regaining the Darcy reputation and salvaging the future.
That hope was dashed within days of Mrs. Darcy’s first season in London. The housekeeper’s painful, disgraceful humiliation yet resounded through her mind. The subsequent weeks of bowing to Mrs. Darcy’s demands were fresh wounds that gnawed at her serenity.
All of London Society had apparently forgotten the embarrassing background of Elizabeth Darcy, but it did not sway Mrs. Smyth’s opinion. She would not forgive. Or relinquish her belief that, although Mrs. Darcy displayed a newfound class and elegance beyond what she had ever imagined possible, there was a lacking propriety and borderline crassness to the Darcy household that had not existed prior. The addition of the boisterous, coarse Dr. Darcy, surely unacceptable if not for the negative influence of Mrs. Darcy, cemented her judgment.
Numerous times after slimly escaping dismissal she had contemplated seeking employment elsewhere. But, in the end, even with the detriments, she was in an esteemed position of power in a prestigious household. Her wage was substantial, her quarters generous, and her freedom liberal. Their tenancy last spring was trying but short, the family then departing to reside the bulk of the year at Pemberley.
So Mrs. Smyth went about her business, blessedly alone in her supremacy. She had almost forgotten the past indignities, but the looming presence not only of Mrs. Darcy and Dr. Darcy but also an infant escalated her distress. Any miniscule hope that matters may have changed, that Mr. Darcy was not as dotty over his wife after a year, were shattered when the orders came through regarding the nursery. Who had ever heard of an infant sleeping within earshot of the master suite? With bells installed to wake if needed? Quarters for a nanny but no mention of a wet nurse! It was unbelievable. Too unbelievable to fully comprehend, so she assumed it was a puzzle and she was missing a piece.
Thus, her dread had risen substantially until the dratted tic occurred with alarming frequency. The arrival of Mr. Darcy’s valet and Mrs. Darcy’s maid, along with the nanny three hours ago alerted the entire household to the impending appearance of the family. Everyone was on high anticipation, the heightened energy palpable even though they went about their duties with cool efficiency.
Mrs. Smyth waited until the last possible moment, watching the carriage halt and the footman leap down to open the door. She heard the front door of the townhouse open as watchful servants descended the steps to assist with luggage and passengers. Dr. Darcy disembarked first, his skeletal limbs encased in an outlandish foreign outfit of shocking maroon, the toothy smile and piercing blue eyes sweeping over the house sending chills up the housekeeper’s spine. She involuntarily backed up a step, but he turned toward the carriage to assist Miss Darcy before spying her staring out the window.
Ah, Miss Darcy. Finally, a true lady of breeding and gentility, Mrs. Smyth thought. She noted the hereditary elegance and nobility apparent in how Miss Darcy moved, in every tilt of her head or lift of her fine-boned hands. Impeccably dressed, hair arranged flawlessly, smile understated, figure tall and gently curved, skin ivory—in all ways the image of a lady.
Next came Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Smyth sighed, her hands clenching involuntarily. Never, not once in even the remotest way, had Mrs. Smyth considered Mr. Darcy as anything other than her employer. For the same reasons that she was so appalled by his choice of bride, she never fancifully or poetically dreamed of him falling in love with his housekeeper. Leave that nonsense to the ridiculous novelists who imagine such a horrid development romantic! She knew her station in life and embraced it fully. Nevertheless, as a woman in her early thirties, she assuredly recognized a handsome man and could readily appreciate the view.
As always, his stature, masculine physique, strongly chiseled facial features, and absorbing sapphire eyes stirred her womanly instincts. It was a purely lustful response, and she knew this, instigated as much by the specimen of prime manhood before her as by her internal urges so tightly controlled. It was rare, but there were those times when she missed her husband. Or rather what he had roused in her. She sighed again, allowing the feelings to wash over her briefly as she gazed upon her master.
As quickly as they came, they disappeared. Mr. Darcy was a man of astounding presence. He wore his authority, eminence, and rank as an aura discernable to all. He was so far above her, a reality that brought no anger or bitterness but instead a sensation of peace. This is how the world was supposed to be—people keeping to where God had placed them in the proper order. Grasping beyond where one was born only brought upset and strife; it disturbed the flow and caused chaos.
The burn of suppressed passionate lust ebbed, replaced by the burn of irritation. She clenched her fists tighter, observing as Mr. Darcy turned toward the carriage, reaching in and grasping onto the extended hand and elbow of his wife. He said something, his face lighting with a smile as Mrs. Darcy came into view. Typically, Mrs. Smyth noted with a grimace, she was laughing. Her dark eyes glittered with mirth, and her full lips curved into a beaming smile displaying her teeth whitely against the crude tan of her skin and ruddiness to her cheeks. The housekeeper swept her eyes over her mistress, admitting grudgingly that she could find no fault with Mrs. Darcy’s attire or figure or hairstyle. But the shock of seeing the infant clutched against the woman’s chest was stunning.