The Darcys in Venice – Part 12

“And so another New Year begins,” Darcy said thoughtfully gazing out at the Grand Canal. Large flakes of snow were gently falling, and decorating the iron railings above the water. A little ice tinkled about the edges, but the canals were not frozen, and light from the candelabra in the palazzo opposite reflected in the dark water. “A fine snowy night to greet 1817.”

Elizabeth shivered a little and drew her furred wrap around herself, on the divan where she was seated by a noble fire in the gilded marble fireplace. “I do think Venice is prettier in winter than any other time,” she confessed, “but it is cold: do come in and shut the door.”

Darcy closed the long glass doors. “Willingly,” he agreed, “I won’t withstand the pleasures of this fine fire, and you.”

She smiled at him. “You choose wisely. Let us be warm together.”

“Do you know, Elizabeth, we are in a fair way to be able to enjoy this New Year’s Eve all by our two selves? Such a quiet night, and we can make our own private toast.”

“I can think of nothing I would like better. And now that the children are in bed, and we’ve had our proper New Year’s dinner…”

“La Festiva of San Silvestro, it’s called,” he reminded her. “And I liked the meal, did you not? A bit rustic.”

“Yes, pork and lentils might be country food at home. But here they signify the richness of life, and that is worth celebrating.”

“And we need not have a rustic drink – we might open one of the bottles of wine Lord Byron was good enough to send us, that his monkish friends on the island of San Lazzaro have been cultivating for centuries.”

“Oh, yes! That will be a toast worth having.”

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were enjoying their first glass by the fire, with a small collation of olives, cheeses and cured meats, when their peace was disturbed. The salon door was flung open and Lady Catherine de Bourgh stomped in, wearing a long velvet retiring gown.

“Aunt Catherine,” Darcy said, not very warmly. “What are you doing up so late? It is nearly midnight.”

“I know it is,” she said grimly, “and I know what night it is. I am afraid that some raucous celebrations are about to begin and disturb my dearly needed repose.”

“Why, Lady Catherine, I don’t see why that should be expected,” Elizabeth protested. “It’s true a few of the servants have gone out to a party, but we gave permission, expecting them to come home quietly.”

The older lady snorted. “You are far too indulgent with your servants. Who ever heard of such a thing. They should all be locked in by now, and decency observed, as it is in England.”

“We do allow them the occasional holiday,” said Darcy dryly, “and I can assure you they will not make any disturbance on their return.”

“Very well. And do you expect no other disturbance? I tell you, Darcy, I am feeling my age, with this pernicious winter chill, and am aching in every bone: I must have peace and quiet.”

“You shall have them, Aunt. We will be retiring ourselves shortly as well.”

She lifted an imperious finger. “Stop! I do not want to know these details. What I am concerned about, Mrs. Darcy, is your sister.”

“Lydia? Why, she…” Elizabeth stopped, recollecting that Lydia had flitted out several hours ago with a party of young women she had met at Lord Byron’s rented portion of the Palazzo Mocenigo.

“You do not know where she is, do you? Yet I’ll take my oath she is with those hussies of Byron’s, and will come careering in drunk and noisy.”

“Fortunately her bedchamber is at the other end of our quarters from yours, so hopefully you will slumber undisturbed, aunt.”

“Or more likely she will not even come in until dawn, I would not put it past that baggage. Well, I shall seek my bed and hope for the best.”

“That will be best, Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth assured her.

Just then sounds of violent banging were heard from the street door.

“Who can that be, at such an hour – “ exclaimed Elizabeth.

“I will see,” Darcy rose but before he could reach the door he was faced by the entrance of a man both familiar and inebriated. “Good God – it is Wickham!”

It was. He looked around tipsily, and made for Elizabeth. “Dear Mrs. Darcy,” he said, “I have come home.”

“Home!” exclaimed Darcy. “This is not your home.”

“Oh? But surely, my little wife is here? This is where I left her, I know.”

“Mrs. Wickham has gone out,” replied Darcy, tight-lipped, “and you may as well take yourself off, for you will not find her here.”

“Where is she then?”

“Off doing no good with a gaggle of trollops, you may be sure,” snorted Lady Catherine.

“Darcy! Is that true? My wife has run off?”

“Well, for the night, certainly. That much is true.”

“Why ever would she leave me,” he wailed, growing maudlin.

“Really, Mr. Wickham, is that not an extraordinary question, when you yourself left her for an opera singer, some months ago?” demanded Elizabeth indignantly.

“Oh, that’s all over. La Grassini has gone off and taken all her jewelry with her. I always have the most cursed luck.”

“That ruby parure?” Elizabeth could not help asking.

“Everything. Guiseppina turned me out for another, whom she considers younger and handsomer; and I have nothing. I must find my dear little Lydia, and we shall go home to England at once, damned if we don’t.”

“Well, that would be a hopeful turn of events,” Darcy observed, “and I daresay she will appear in a few hours. Whether she will consent to take you back, I cannot say.”

“She is his wife – she must go, it is her duty,” Lady Catherine proclaimed, though Elizabeth looked skeptical.

“You may as well go to bed as you intended, Aunt Catherine, and allow matters to play out as they will,” Darcy told her.

“And you will keep things quiet?”

“Silent as the tomb.”

“Oh, very well.” Lady Catherine left the room, and Wickham turned his eye to the table.

“Is that all there is to eat?” he asked. “I tell you I am starving.”

“There is some pork and lentils, but I do not wish to disturb the servants so late,” Elizabeth told him.

“Oh don’t bother, I know where the kitchen is and will go help myself. Relieve you of my company, no?”

“There is that,” Darcy agreed, and sank back on the sofa beside his wife. They looked at each other distractedly.

“A quiet New Year’s Eve, indeed. Who could have believed it,” murmured Lizzy.

“And it’s not done yet – I hear someone coming through the garden. Must be those girls.”

It was Lydia, calling noisy farewells over her shoulder to her companions of the evening as she boisterously came through the glass doors, wrapped in Lizzy’s velvet opera cape.

“What! You two still up?” she exclaimed. “And midnight already sounded – can you hear the bells?”

“We can hear them,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, aren’t you going to wish me Happy New Year? Not very civil of you, I’ve been with much friendlier people than you tonight, I can tell you. There were some lovely Italian gentlemen and we had such a time, you can’t think!”

“And there’s someone  waiting for you here,” Mr. Darcy put in.

“For me? Who is it? A gentleman?”

“Hardly that,” Darcy replied, as Wickham appeared from the kitchen, waving a joint of pork.

Lydia did not hesitate. “Wickham!” she screeched, scuttling down the hall and flinging herself in his arms, so that the pork connected with the opera cloak.

“Ah, you’re glad to see me then.”

“If you’ve got rid of that fat opera singer, I am.”

“To be sure I have. You don’t know how I’ve missed my little wife.”

“Well then come to my room and show me how much.”

“See if I don’t,” and he lifted her up into his arms and carried her off, both shrieking with laughter.

The door had barely slammed behind them when Lady Catherine reappeared.

“What did I tell you,” she complained. “I knew I would not get a single wink of sleep in this infamous house.”

“Go to bed, Aunt Catherine,” said Darcy wearily.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!